warning: MDNI 18+, smut, threesome, oral (m!receiving), teasing, overstimulation, polyamory relationship, not proofread, might have a few mistakes lol I wrote this with a high fever LMAO, also my first time writing a threesome so go easy on me.
Bruce is sitting on your couch, you are on your knees in front of him while Clark is standing behind you. The heat radiating from both of them is starting to feel like physical weight. And suddenly, it feels like your living room is way too small to fit both of your boyfriends inside.
“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to do something about this problem I have?” Bruce asks you, pointing down to where his hard cock which is almost touching his lower stomach.
“How about you solve his little problem while I make you feel good, mhm sweetheart?” Clark offers with a big smile on his face. You physically feel the heat rise inside your body, and the need to be between them grows almost instantly.
You slowly lower your head while keeping eye contact with Bruce. His legs part a little wider for you, and his breath hitches at the sight in front of you.
Wrapping one firm hand around the base of his cock while your other hand is stroking him gently. His one hand immediately tangles inside your hair, and he pushes your head lower gently. You swirl your tongue around his sensitive tip while you keep looking at him with your hungry graze. Slowly, you start taking him inch by inch. A low and ragged groan escapes his throat as soon as he feels his whole length inside your mouth. With a steady rhythm, you start sucking him while stroking him at the same time.
“Look at her, isn’t she just beautiful?” you hear Clark say behind you.
“So fucking beautiful.” Bruce groans and rests his head against the back of the couch while your mouth is still working on his cock.
Clark, who is now on his knees, has his hands resting on each side of your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, and you feel his cock slowly entering your wet pussy from behind. A low groan escapes from him as he feels your warm walls stretch around him.
“Don’t stop baby, keep sucking.” Bruce utters under his breath as soon as he notices you stopping.
And you try your best to focus on Bruce, but fuck, Clark is hitting all the right angles behind you which makes it harder for you to stay focused.
“Focus on Bruce, sweetheart. Not on me.”
Both of your holes are feeling full, your pussy stretching tight, and you clench around his cock. At the same time, you feel Bruce’s tip softly gently touch the back of your throat. The wet and heavy sounds of suction echo blend together with the sounds of the collision of skin and hips. The feeling of having four pairs of hands everywhere on your body at once makes you feel so intense.
“Look at us. Taking us so well.” Bruce vocalizes.
At that moment, the heat of the room is at its peak when all you can hear is the grunts and moans of both men. The low, and oh so sexy groans escaping from them is enough to make your legs feel a little uneasy.
“mhmmm fuck.” you mumble. Clark is hitting all the right angles from behind you which makes you roll your eyes back so hard that for a moment it feels like your eyes are facing the parietal region of your skull.
You stop your head movements for a moment and just let yourself feel the way Clark is sending deep thrusts inside your pussy.
“Oh? A little sensitive there, aren’t you?” Clark says with a grin on his face, and his fingertips start tracing up and down your spine. The contact alone makes you ache your back inward, skin flushed, and brain switched off. His hands immediately travel down to your thighs, keeping them open for him to keep sending deep thrusts inside, and preventing them from closing.
Bruce, on the other hand, starts feeling annoyed at how good Clark makes you feel to the point your mouth isn’t working around his cock anymore. All he can feel right now is how your drool is pooling at the base of his cock and around his balls.
“Need my help, love?” you hear him whisper right next to your ear. “Let me guide you through this, what do you say?”
You only nod once before Bruce's hand that is tangled in your hair starts moving your head up and down his cock again. The feeling makes him open his mouth, and only a hitched breath escapes from him.
“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me.” Bruce whispers, his voice hoarse.
Bruce lets his head fall back, and he closes his eyes. The pleasure makes him feel euphoric, and god, he swears he can feel the exact moment where oxytocin and dopamine are released in his bloodstream.
There is no wonder why they call oxytocin the love hormone, because right now all he feels is relaxation, trust, and the reduction of stress. And most importantly, he feels loved in ways that almost feels like a sin. Because not only is he loved and wanted by one person… but he’s loved and wanted by two.
“So good,” a soft whine leaves from Clark. “I love you both.”
“I love you both even more.” Bruce replies with his eyes closed.
And you wish you could reply, but it’s literally impossible for you. After all, you still have Bruce’s big cock inside your mouth. So instead, all they can hear is a wet moan from you with closely following a whimper.
Eventually, you feel a familiar knot form in your lower stomach which automatically makes you clench around Clark.
“Hmph– you’re so tight.” a sob follows right after from Clark.
“Isn’t it too early to cum, sweetheart?” Bruce questions.
“I don’t think so, baby. Look at her, I think she hmph- deserves to cum.” Clark argues with a grunt following right after.
Bruce, Clark, and you are breathing heavily in the low dimmed room which smells like sex.
“Alright, then make a mess all over Clark, mh?”
A shockwave of pleasure washes over you while Clark was midthrust. You cum almost hard enough to push his cock out of you.
Only a few seconds later, you feel the warm release of Bruce taking over your tastingbuds, and you swallow every single drop of him, not daring it to go to waste.
Clark sends in a few thrusts inside your swollen pussy until he finally cums inside you. You remove your lips from Bruce’s cock, and let your head rest on his thigh.
“Fuck.” Bruce sighs at what just happened. It sure is not the first time you three slept together. After all, you’re in a polyamory relationship. But god, everytime feels like one step closer to heaven.
“So… is anyone hungry?” Clark asks as he slowly removes himself from your pussy.
DOUBLE ENTITY FUCK ME UP. DOUBLE ENTITY SAVE ME. MORE DOUBLE ENTITY IMMEDIATELY PLEASE. MORE PLEASE ASAP MORE DOUBLE ENTITY YES PLEASE.
part 1.
the bite mark heals wrong on purpose.
he lets it scar into the borrowed skin, a puckered crescent on the side of his throat that pulls when he turns his head. he touches it constantly. pressing his fingers into the ridge of it while he stalks through corridors, tracing the shape of your jaw in the tissue, remembering the crunch of your teeth through false muscle and the spray of black. the startled, furious blaze of your eyes as you spat a piece of him onto the floor.
what a mate you would make.
the thought keeps circling, lodging deeper with every orbit. your scent is fading from his skin. it's been weeks since the pinning, since the biting, since you carved an exit through his walls and vanished. the fading is a torment.
he presses his nose into his own forearm where the last trace lingers and breathes until there's nothing left. then he follows you.
across levels. through corridors. past the territories of lesser things that scatter when they feel him coming because he's meaner than usual. sharper. a predator with an itch under his skin that won't settle.
he killed a smiler last week for crossing his path at the wrong moment. tore it apart with an efficiency that was closer to irritation than hunger, and stood in the aftermath thinking about how your hands would look covered in the same black viscera. how your teeth would look buried in the throat of something that deserved it.
how you'd snarl at him over the kill, blood on your chin, daring him to come closer.
he wants to claim you so badly his form flickers when he thinks about it. the human suit rippling at the edges, destabilised by a want so vast it can't fit inside a borrowed body.
he imagines the weight of you beneath him. the clicking going soft. the purr breaking open into gentle surrender. the moment you'd stop fighting and let him in and the sound you'd make (that sound, the one he's never heard but can feel the shape of, the frequency that means yours, i'm yours, take me) and the imagining makes him grind his teeth so hard the false jaw creaks.
you've been avoiding level 0. he can tell. you're staying on the upper levels, keeping to territories he doesn't fully control, running your patrols through corridors where his influence thins. smart. strategic.
the fawn has learned where the wolf sleeps and is keeping her distance. and every day the distance lasts, the itch gets worse.
patient. he needs to be patient. he has three thousand years of patience.
the patience is wearing thin.
and then you get hurt.
he feels it before he sees it. a spike in the ambient frequency of level 4. your frequency, hot and bright and suddenly wrong. jagged. the clean hum of your power stuttering like a light about to blow.
he moves. fast. faster than he's moved in centuries, tearing through level transitions with a force that peels the walls behind him.
he finds you in a wide room with cracked ceiling tiles and two howlers circling your body. you're on your feet, barely, your human shape shredded and flickering. black blood (yours, not theirs) is pooling beneath you, dripping from a wound in your side where one of them caught you with a claw.
three wanderers are huddled behind you. you're shielding them. of course you're shielding them. injured and outnumbered and still putting your failing body between fragile humans and the things trying to eat them.
one of the howlers lunges. you catch it mid-air, your real teeth tearing through its shoulder, but the second one hits you from behind and you go down. your scream is layered in frequencies that crack the ceiling tiles above you and the sound, the sound of you in pain, reaches him at the doorway, and something inside him snaps so completely the human suit tears apart into ribbons.
the face dissolves. the borrowed skin, the careful muscles, the crooked grin, all of it shedding off him in strips as his true form erupts through the seams. vast and dark and jagged and furious. old fury. the kind that predates the concept of anger. the kind that lives in the marrow of a thing that has never, in three thousand years, felt protective of another living creature. white-hot, all-consuming, murderous rage.
he hits the first howler so hard it separates into two pieces against the far wall.
the second one wheels on him, snarling, and it's bigger than him. not stronger but bigger, all limbs and teeth and frantic desperate violence, and the fight is real. a genuine challenge. the howler catches his flank with a claw that tears through his true form, and the pain is exquisite but he doesn't slow down. he drives the thing into the floor with the weight of his full power, and it screams, thrashing, its jaws snapping at the place where his throat would be if he had one in this shape.
and then you're there. at his side. snarling, clicking that rapid threat-rattle, your human shape barely clinging to your frame. you latch onto the howler's back with your real teeth and rip. a long strip of the thing's hide tearing free in your jaws. the howler screams again, twisting, trying to reach you, and the momentary distraction is enough.
he pins the thing flat and tears through its core and the howler comes apart beneath him in a shower of dark matter and dying sound.
silence. the fight took less than a minute. the room is wrecked, ceiling half-collapsed, the floor slick with black.
the wanderers are gone. fled during the chaos. smart.
you're on the floor.
he turns and finds you curled on the cracked tile, shivering. your human shape is in pieces, flickering in and out, your true form bleeding through at the edges, too weak to hold the mask. the wound in your side is leaking bright, hot frequency into the air, your power guttering like a candle in wind.
you're spent. burned through your reserves fighting two howlers except you're young, your power is still growing, and you burned too bright too fast and now the tank is empty.
he approaches slowly. his true form folding down, condensing, the vast dark edges pulling in until he's manageable. still not human. he doesn't have the energy to rebuild the suit right now and doesn't care to. he moves close. crouches beside you. extends something that could be a hand if hands had too many joints and wraps it around you, careful, gathering your shaking form against his chest.
you flinch. a weak snarl vibrates through your body, but the teeth behind it have no force. you're trembling. the clicking in your throat has gone thin and rapid. not threat now. pain. fear. the sound of something young and hurt that doesn't know how to ask for help.
he lifts you. holds you against his cooling form and stands. you weigh nothing to him. you weigh everything to him.
backrooms bend around him and the corridors shorten, the exits realigning and he carries you home.
the nest is new. he built it after the bite. after the decision. after the word mine settled into his frequency and stayed. soft walls. low warm light. piled blankets and a temperature he's adjusted to run warmer than his default because you run hot.
he built it for two, and he laid the foundations thinking about you, imagining your scent soaking into the fabric, imagining your warmth pressed into the space beside his. a home. for a mate he hadn't claimed yet. presumptuous. he didn't care then. doesn't care now.
he lays you down in the centre of it. you curl into the warmth and a small sound leaves your throat, involuntary and exhausted, the hum of a creature recognising comfort even through pain. he starts rebuilding the human suit. pulling the face back together piece by piece. sandy hair. blue eyes. lean frame. it takes longer than usual. the fight drained him too. but he wants the human shape for this. wants hands that can hold you gently. a mouth that can press against your skin without tearing it.
the suit settles. he lies down beside you in the nest. presses close. his borrowed chest against your shaking back, his arm curving around your waist, and he clicks.
not the want-click. not the mating trill. a different frequency. older, softer. the sound an entity makes for injured young. he didn't know he knew it. didn't know it was in his repertoire. but it pours out of him, this low rhythmic clicking interspersed with soft chirring coos, pressed against the back of your neck. safe. here. rest. safe. i'm here. nothing will touch you.
you're not sleeping. entities don't sleep. but your body enters a stasis. a deep restorative stillness that draws the remaining power inward, concentrating it around the wound, beginning the slow work of rebuilding. your frequency dims to a whisper. your human shape stabilises into a thin, translucent hold.
so young. burning so bright and now so dim. he watches the light of you flicker and gutter and something in his chest (a feeling he didn't know he had, a feeling that has no business existing in the oldest predator alive) aches.
he clicks. coos. his borrowed nose nudging against your jaw. his mouth pressing against the skin behind your ear, making soothing sounds that vibrate through your skull and into the stasis.
he pulls the blankets tighter around you. adjusts the temperature of the nest warmer. checks the wound. it's knitting, slowly, the torn edges drawing together. good. you're healing. you're going to be fine. you're going to be fine because he will personally tear apart anything in this place that tries to hurt you again, starting with himself if necessary.
he's fussing. he's aware he's fussing. he doesn't stop. his hand smoothing your hair back from your face. his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. running his thumb over your brow the way he's seen wanderers do for each other.
tender, clumsy gestures copied from the creatures you love, repurposed for you.
and then, slowly, gradually, in a way that makes him itch, you curl into him.
your body turning toward his. your face pressing into the hollow of his throat. your arms winding around his torso and holding on. soft, needy sounds leaving your throat. the low keening hum of a creature in pain recognising warmth, recognising safety, letting itself be held for the first time.
your clicking has changed register. gone slow and rhythmic. a comfort-frequency. a sound you've never made for him. a sound you've never made for anyone.
he wraps both arms around you and pulls you flush against his chest and tucks his chin over your head and closes his eyes. the purr starts. low and deep and steady, rolling through both your bodies. your clicking syncs to it. two frequencies finding each other in the dark and locking in. harmonising.
he holds you while you heal. doesn't move. doesn't shift. barely breathes. his nose pressed into your hair, filling his lungs with your scent, and you're clutching him in your half-aware state, your fingers curled in the fabric of his borrowed shirt, your face buried in his throat where the scar from your teeth sits raised and permanent. you nuzzle the scar in your stasis. rub your cheek against the ridge of it. scent-marking the wound you made.
his eyes sting. he didn't know the suit could do that.
hours pass. your frequency brightens. the wound knits. your human shape solidifies and the translucence fades and your grip on his shirt tightens and he feels the moment consciousness returns because your whole body goes rigid.
one second you're soft and clinging and making comfort sounds against his throat. the next you're a coiled spring. you tense. process. assess. and before he can speak you've flipped your weight, thrown a leg over his hips, and straddled him.
your hands close around his throat. tight. your eyes blazing. your teeth, the real ones, bared behind lips that have forgotten how to be human.
he looks up at you. your hair wild. your eyes burning. your fingers digging into the false skin of his neck with a pressure that would crush a human windpipe. pinned beneath you, his hands open at his sides, his expression calm and warm and infuriatingly amused.
he chuckles. a low, fond, rolling sound. "unruly."
"where am I?" your voice is hard, layered in threat-harmonics that make the nest blankets vibrate.
"our nest."
the word our hits you like a slap. your snarl peels back further, inhuman teeth fully extended, clicking rapid and sharp. "your nest. where are the wanderers? what did you—"
"they ran. they're fine. and it's our nest." his hands come up, slowly, carefully, and settle on your hips. his thumbs tracing circles through the fabric. "I built it for two."
you snarl down at him. every line of your body screaming threat, your hands clenching his throat, your true form pressing against the edges of the human shape.
he chuckles again. his head tilting back against the blankets. his eyes tracing your face with open, greedy admiration. "you're so pretty when you're angry. you know that? all teeth and clicking. you almost died tonight and the first thing you do is try to strangle me." his thumbs press into the curve of your hips. "I like you so much."
"let me go—"
but you're not leaving. your hands are on his throat and your thighs are clenched around his waist and you're growling but the growl has a tremor in it, something shaky and unsteady underneath the fury, because you remember.
you remember the stasis. you remember his clicking, his cooing, the soothing sounds pressed into the back of your neck. you remember curling into him. nuzzling his scar. making that sound, that soft keening comfort-sound, that you've never made for anyone.
"you held me," you say accusingly. horrified.
his mouth twitches. "you held me back."
and the truth of it silences you for a beat. your grip on his throat loosens. your eyes flicker.
he moves. fast. his hands leave your hips and fold around your wrists and he draws them away from his throat and rolls you, tucking you into the blankets, curling his body around yours with a strength that isn't aggressive but is older, absolute.
you snarl and snap your teeth at his jaw and he lets you, lets the bite graze his chin, and wraps you tighter.
"you're not at full power." murmured into your hair. his arm banded across your waist, holding you flush against his chest. "you burned through your reserves fighting two howlers by yourself, which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and incredibly brave, and we'll discuss it later. right now you're running at half capacity. you're spent. and if you keep struggling you're going to put yourself under again, and to avoid that, i'll have to pin you properly and neither of us will enjoy that."
you snarl.
"okay, i'd enjoy it."
you bite his collarbone. through the shirt. he hisses a breath and his arm tightens and a clicking trill rolls through his chest. the want-sound, involuntary, because your teeth are on him and his body doesn't distinguish between violence and foreplay where you're concerned.
but the bite is gentle. that's the thing that makes his breathing stutter.
you bit down and held but you're not tearing. you're pressing your teeth into the meat of his shoulder and holding. your jaw locked, your eyes closed. growling. the growl vibrating through his collarbone and into his chest. and then your body softens, fractionally, grudgingly, and you're leaning into him. your face buried in his throat. your legs tangling with his. the growl thinning into a low, continuous rumble that's closer to purring than either of you would admit.
he sighs, long and slow and aching. pulls you closer. his hand cradling the back of your skull. his nose in your hair, breathing you in.
"there you go," he whispers. "easy."
you growl louder in protest. your hips grind against his. friction and warmth and the unmistakable heat of arousal bleeding through both borrowed skins. his jaw clenches, his arm tightening around your waist.
you're doing it again. the fighting-while-pressing-closer thing. snarling at him while rubbing against him. biting his shoulder while tangling your legs through his. every sound you make says enemy and every movement you make says closer.
two predators wrapped around each other in a nest built for mating, grinding together in borrowed bodies, clicking and purring and scenting each other's throats while pretending this is still a fight. his borrowed cock is hard against your hip and your body is hot and damp where you press against his thigh and neither of you is acknowledging it.
he runs his nose along your jaw. you tilt your head. involuntary. giving him access to your throat and then catching yourself and jerking back. he clicks softly, soothingly, nuzzling into the space you offered for half a second.
"you're healing faster like this," he murmurs against your jaw. "nesting and contact speeds the recovery. your frequency syncs to mine and the resonance compounds and you rebuild faster." a pause. the grin pressed against your skin. "that's why you should stay. it's purely medical."
"you're full of shit." muffled against his collarbone where your face is buried.
"i'm full of concern for your wellbeing," he says lightly.
"you're full of shit and I can feel your cock against my hip."
he hums, grinning. "that's also concern."
you bite his shoulder again. harder this time. he groans. the clicking in his throat becomes ragged and he rolls his hips against yours before he can stop himself, and the friction pulls a sound from you. a high, sharp, hungry sound that you swallow immediately but too late because he heard it. he always hears it.
"stubborn thing," he breathes fondly. "so stubborn. snarling at the one who carried you home and built you a nest and held you for six hours while you healed."
you chew on his jaw. "I didn't ask for any of that."
"you nuzzled my scar in your sleep."
silence. your clicking goes rapid and embarrassed.
"I was unconscious."
"you were in stasis. entities don't lose awareness in stasis. you knew exactly where you were and you chose to stay."
more silence. your face presses harder into his throat. hiding. your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on.
he runs his hand down your spine slowly, tracing each vertebra through the borrowed skin. you arch into the touch despite yourself, your body chasing his hand, and a low whimper escapes before you can choke it.
"stay," he says quietly now, the cockiness thinning into something bare. "stay and heal. let me take care of you."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need it. i'm not asking if you need it." his hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "i'm asking if you'll let me."
you're quiet. your breathing is unsteady, hips still pressed against his thigh and the heat between you hasn't cooled. you're trembling from the effort of wanting and fighting the wanting for some reason he doesn't yet know at the same time.
"you can't keep me here," you say, smaller now.
"i'm not keeping you. the exits are open. you can leave whenever you want."
and you both know you're not leaving. not yet. not with his scent in your lungs and his warmth around you and your wound still knitting. your body syncing to his frequency with every breath.
you squirm, testing his hold. his arm tightens. you squirm harder, growling, and he sighs, rolling you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. his weight settles over your back, hips pressing you flat into the blankets, pinning you with his body. his chest against your shoulder blades. his mouth at your ear.
"stay." firm. warm. the cocky edge creeping back in. "stay and heal. or—" his hips press down and the hard length of him grinds against the curve of your ass through the borrowed clothes and your breath catches. your fingers claw the blankets. "or I mount you right now, and I should warn you..." his lips brush the shell of your ear, his purr rolling through your spine. "the mating cycle, once it starts, is not going to be gentle. and it's not going to be short. you'll be under me for days. so if you'd prefer to heal first—" a kiss behind your ear, soft and tender. "i'd recommend staying still."
you go still, flat on your stomach, his weight on your back. his mouth brushes your ear. his hard cock presses against you through layers of borrowed fabric. and the sound you make, low and grinding and frustrated, is the sound of a creature that wants very badly to call his bluff and is just wise enough not to.
"fine." gritted out, your face pressed into the blankets. "fine. i'll stay."
"good girl."
you snarl. he grins against your neck. rolls off you, slowly, drawing out the drag of his body against yours, and settles on his side beside you. you stay on your stomach for a long moment, breathing hard. your fingers slowly unclenching from the blankets. then you turn your head and look at him with one furious, burning eye.
he's propped on his elbow. watching you with that infuriating, adoring, patient expression. he reaches out and brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone.
"such a stubborn, pretty thing," he murmurs, leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. your forehead. the bridge of your nose. the corner of your scowling mouth. soft and hungry, lingering, each kiss tasting you, breathing you in, his lips warm against your skin.
you don't pull away. your scowl softens by fractions. your eyes closing as his mouth traces the line of your brow.
his lips find the curve of your shoulder blade. he pushes the borrowed shirt aside and presses a kiss there. then another between your shoulders. then a trail of them down your spine, slow and warm, his mouth learning the shape of your back while his hand rests gentle on the curve of your waist.
you make a sound, low and needy. the clicking in your throat has gone slow and rhythmic. the comfort frequency. the safe sound. and he hears it, his eyes closing and his mouth presses harder against your skin, his purr filling the nest.
"stubborn," he whispers against the small of your back. "vicious. impossible. the most beautiful thing i've ever seen." another kiss. "you almost died tonight and you're still snarling at me."
"'m not snarling," you mumble into the blankets. your body lax now. warm and loose, heavy with exhaustion. your hand reaching back blindly until it finds his forearm and your fingers curling around it, holding on.
"you're absolutely snarling." his mouth curves against your warm skin. "it's my favourite sound in the world."
your grip on his arm tightens. he moves back up, settling behind you. wraps himself around your body and tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply, and you let him. you let him hold you while you heal, your two frequencies locking together in the dark.
ours, he thinks, his nose in your hair, his arm around your waist. his mate. fierce and stubborn, healing in his arms.
okay now double entity bb and companion. entity entity enemies to forever lovers… meet cute of you got too close to my territory and i almost tipped ur body apart teehee :p but now we are locked forever together ❤️
he's the oldest thing in the backrooms. he knows that. has known it for millennia, alone in his corridors, drifting through levels in a form no human mind could hold. apex. unchallenged. the top of a food chain that never needed a second link.
and then you show up.
you're new. that's the first thing he registers. the startling, impossible newness of you.
entities don't just appear. the backrooms births them slow, growing them in the dark like fungus, layering consciousness over time until the walls spit out a hound or a skin-stealer or a faceling. he's watched it happen a thousand times. it can take years.
you took months, and you came out wrong. wrong in the sense that you're too much, too fast, too bright. a frequency the backrooms has never produced before, burning hot against the edges of his territory like a fresh wound.
one day you weren't there and the next his borders are vibrating with a signal he can't identify, and when he investigates he finds a trail of dead lesser entities with their forms shredded across three levels. the kills are clean. purposeful. a warning posted in viscera.
but you're clumsy about it. that's the infuriating part.
he follows the trail and finds you stumbling through a corridor like a newborn fawn on legs you haven't finished learning, tripping over your own power. bumping into walls. your human shape flickering in and out because you can't hold it steady yet, your true form bleeding through at the edges every time you lose focus.
you're a baby. a catastrophically powerful baby who has been alive for approximately five minutes, and is already causing him constant, relentless, skull-splitting headaches.
because you're growing. visibly. daily. the frequency you emit gets louder every week. the lesser entities that used to test your borders stop testing.
he watches you tear through a pack of hounds on level 3 with a brutality that makes his own hunting instinct prick, and your form is steadier than it was a month ago, your movements surer, the clumsiness burning off in real time.
you're learning faster than anything he's ever seen. at this rate you'll be the second most powerful thing in the backrooms soon and the trajectory beyond that is deeply, disturbingly interesting.
and you're wearing a human shape. a good one. better than it should be for a creature your age. not the sloppy mimicry lesser entities use to lure prey, all wrong proportions and uncanny smiles. yours is crafted. detailed. beautiful in a way that makes him stop and stare, which he has never done for anything in his entire ancient existence.
he's the original shapeshifter, and there's finally someone around who can challenge his craftsmanship.
you're crouched over a group of wanderers when he finds you next, shielding them, guiding them toward a safe level. your body between them and a thing with too many legs that was stalking the corridor. and as he watches from behind a wall, you turn and face the creature and your true form bleeds through, vast and blinding and furious despite its youth, and the thing disintegrates.
and then you turn back to the wanderers and your face is soft again. human. kind. you touch the smallest one on the shoulder and point them toward the exit, watching them leave with tenderness. real tenderness. you feel tenderness for these fragile sparks with their seventy-year lifespans and their breakable bodies. you protect them with a ferocity that makes his corridors hum.
why? you're an entity. you're a predator. you're growing into one of the most dangerous things these walls have ever produced, and you're coddling humans.
he doesn't understand you. he wants to understand you. the wanting is a new sensation and he doesn't trust it.
so he tries to approach, and you snarl at him.
full-body, frequency-shaking, the-walls-leaning-away-from-you snarl. your human shape cracks at the edges and he catches a glimpse of what's underneath, and his form stutters because you are powerful. young and clumsy, still learning but powerful, growing stronger by the day in a way that shouldn't be possible for a newborn. the force rolling off you makes his skin prickle in ways he didn't know he could prickle.
"stay away from me."
your voice is layered in harmonics that say i will rip you apart if you take another step, and he believes you might try. he takes another step anyway because he's an ancient idiot, and also because the threat is doing things to him he doesn't have vocabulary for.
you vanish. slip between levels with that clumsy new grace you're developing. half liquid, half stumble. gone before he can blink.
he stands in the empty corridor vibrating with adrenaline and arousal and annoyance in equal measure.
his body is doing a thing it's never done. not for the hounds, not for the facelings, not for any of the entities he has encountered over millennia, including the ones he could, technically, mate with. he's existed alongside other entities for eons and felt nothing. no pull. no heat. no interest in their forms or their frequencies. they were features of the landscape. irrelevant.
you snarled at him and his whole body lit up.
this is a problem.
so he chases you. as predators do. across levels, through corridors, between the cracks in the walls. you're infuriatingly good at evading him. better every time, your control of the exits improving daily, your ability to mask your scent trail developing at a rate that drives him genuinely insane.
and sometimes (this is the part that makes him want to tear wallpaper off the ceiling) you play.
you let him get close. close enough that he can taste your frequency in the air, that electric sweetness that's become a fixation. close enough that he thinks this time, this time i'll catch her. and then you twist away at the last second and the burst of speed is just a fraction faster than necessary. not evasion. performance. a taunt.
you look over your shoulder and he swears, he swears, the corner of your mouth twitches before you disappear.
you're playing chase with him. and the playing is somehow worse than the evading because the evading was survival and the playing is choice. you're choosing to stay near. choosing to let him close. choosing to dance at the edge of his reach and dart away laughing in frequencies he feels in his marrow.
he's equal parts aroused and furious, and the two feelings have blurred into a single vibrating state he can't shake.
and you're killing things along the way. lesser entities that made the mistake of targeting wanderers in your territory. he watches you tear through them with brutal efficiency that's refining itself daily. the fawn finding its legs, the stumble turning into a sprint.
you're magnificent. you're getting more magnificent every week, and the growth curve is staggering. you fight with a ferocity that has no right to exist in a creature your age, defending humans that could never defend themselves. the contradiction of it (the violence and the gentleness living in the same body) makes him pace, itching with urge to—
he manages to catch you once. pins you against a wall with his full weight, true form pressing against yours, and the contact is electric.
your frequencies clash and tangle, the walls cracking around you. he holds you there, straining, using every advantage his age gives him, and demands answers. what are you. where did you come from. why do you protect them. why won't you TALK to him. he's been here for millennia. he's the first thing the walls ever made. the least you could do is have a conversation.
you scowl at him with flat, cold eyes. and then you twist. your form bends in a direction his can't follow, a trick you must have learned this week because you couldn't do that last time. and you're gone. sliding through his grip like mercury.
his hands are tingling where your skin touched his. your scent is all over him. sweet and electric, layered with that warm undertone that shouldn't exist in an entity, the note underneath the power that smells like... he doesn't know.
he doesn't have a reference point. he's never smelled anything like it. new, like you. dizzying and addictive. he buries his face in his own arm where your frequency lingers and breathes deep, greedy, rolling the scent through his senses until his form shudders with it. he wants to press his face against the source. against the crook of your neck. against the pulse point you built into that pretty human throat. he wants to taste the skin there. find out if the scent translates to flavour.
he roars. the whole of level 0 shakes. three levels away, you hear it. the corner of your mouth twitches.
fine. fine. if you're so fond of the little humans, he can adapt. he starts letting wanderers pass through level 0 unharmed. it goes against every instinct but he does it, because he's noticed that you follow them. you shadow wanderer groups through the backrooms and where they go, you go, and if he makes level 0 safe enough, maybe you'll follow them in.
it works. you trail a group through his corridors and he feels you cross the threshold, and his whole level sings. you're on his territory now. his home turf. every wall, every floor, every flickering light answering to him.
and this time he comes prepared.
he builds a human shape. studies the wanderers the way you study them, maps the features, constructs a face from the best pieces he can find. sandy-haired. blue-eyed. lean. angular jaw. crooked grin.
he puts on the suit and examines himself. rolls the shoulders. tests the smirk in a reflective surface. decides it's very good. if you're so fond of the human form, if you chose to wear one before you'd even finished learning to hold your own edges, then he'll meet you there.
he can play along. he can play along better.
he finds you on level 0 in a corridor that bends only for him. you're crouched beside a sleeping wanderer, adjusting a makeshift blanket over their shoulders with those careful hands.
you look up when his footsteps register and your whole body goes taut, ready to bolt, ready to fight. and then you see him, and surprise flickers across your human face, real and unguarded, because you were expecting the true form, the ancient vast thing that chases you through walls.
you were not expecting a boy with blue eyes and a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, radiating the energy of a creature that has spent three millennia being the most dangerous thing around.
he tilts his head. the grin widens. the suit ripples at the edges, barely held, seams visible if you look too long. he doesn't care. he wears the imperfection openly.
"like it?" drawled. cocky. testing the shape of human arrogance on a borrowed tongue. his eyes raking over your human form with a slow, appreciative drag that he makes sure you catch. "built it just for you. figured if my pretty little territory invader is going to keep slipping through my fingers, the least I can do is look good while she does it."
your eyes narrow. your body is still coiled to run but there's a beat, one beat, where your gaze tracks from his face to his shoulders to the lean line of his waist.
he watches you look. lets you. shifts his weight against the doorframe so the borrowed muscles move under the borrowed shirt because he is ancient and powerful and also, apparently, not above peacocking for a newborn entity he's been chasing for months.
"it's sloppy," you conclude flatly. your human voice carrying undertones that strokes down his spine.
"it's my first try." he pushes off the wall. takes a step toward you. "i'll take notes." another step. his eyes dropping to your mouth. back up. "you know, for a creature who's been alive for five minutes, you're the most infuriating thing i've encountered in three thousand years. won't talk to me. won't fight me properly. just keeps scurrying through my walls helping humans—" he says the word with a fondness that surprises him, "and smelling like that."
you openly bristle. "smelling like what?"
"like i want to put my mouth on your throat and stay there."
and then he's moving and you're moving and the chase through level 0 is different this time because he knows these halls and the halls know him.
every exit you aim for seals shut a second before you reach it. he's herding you. corralling you. using the corridors like a net, and you're fast but he's home, and for the first time your new tricks can't save you.
he catches you at a dead end that didn't exist thirty seconds ago. pins you against the wall with the human body and you snarl, that full-frequency, form-cracking snarl, and he leans into it. absorbs the force of it, head tilting curiously.
his hands on your wrists. his weight pressing you flat. his borrowed hips pinning yours against the wallpaper and the contact...
through the human suits, through the false skin, the frequency of you pouring into the frequency of him. he can feel your power. younger and rawer than his, burning hot where his runs cold, and the clash of temperatures sends a shudder through both of you.
"got you," he breathes, his face inches from yours. eyes pale blue and half-lidded. that crooked grin. "my slippery, pretty thing. finally."
you bare your teeth. your human shape is flickering, your true form pressing against the suit's edges, and the glimpses he catches make his grip tighten. you're beautiful in both skins. the human one with its crafted warmth. the real one with its blazing, raw, impossible power.
"you're so fond of your little humans." murmured. his borrowed nose tracing the line of your jaw. "so gentle with them. so patient. and with me you're all claws and snarling." his lips brush your cheekbone. his scent washing over you at close range. old, cold, vast, the deep mineral smell of something that has existed for a long, long time. and underneath it, a musk you haven't encountered in any other entity. rich and dark and ancient. it fills your lungs and your pupils dilate. "it's not fair. I built a whole face for you."
"i'm not interested in conversation," you hiss, and underneath the hiss, a clicking.
rapid and sharp, rattling in the back of your borrowed throat. a threat display in a register that predates language. sub-vocal. primal.
his pupils blow wide, and a purr rolls through his chest in answer. deep and involuntary, resonating through the wall behind you. through the floor, through the false bones of both your suits.
his body responding to your threat with a mating call.
"no?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, tilts his head. that slow predatory angle. his eyes dark, his grin sharpening. "what are you interested in? because i've been chasing you for months and you keep running but you don't run fast enough and we both know you could. so either you're slower than I think—" he leans in, his mouth at your ear, his voice dropping to a register that makes the lights pulse, "or you like being caught by me."
your frequency spikes. he feels it lance through him, hot and sharp. and he grins against your ear because that was a reaction, a real one, and it tasted like wanting.
"that's what I thought."
a low chirr rolls from the base of your throat. involuntary. you clamp down on it immediately but he heard it, felt the vibration press against his collarbone where his chest meets yours. a responsive sound. the vocal equivalent of leaning in. and his purr deepens into a rolling, possessive rumble that makes the plaster behind your head crack.
you twist in his grip. testing. your wrists straining against his hands and your hips shifting against his and the friction sends a bolt of heat through both of you that neither can hide.
his jaw tightens and your breath catches. but you're still trying to escape, still snarling, still clicking that rapid threat-rattle. the trying has changed shape though. the struggling is pressing you harder against him instead of pulling you away. your body arching into the contact even as your mouth promises violence. and he knows it. reads the dissonance between your sounds and your movements.
"there you go," he murmurs, low. his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists. "fighting so hard. snarling so pretty for me, but pressing closer the whole time." his hips roll against yours, slow and pinning, and a sound escapes you that isn't a snarl and isn't a threat. a high, thin, shaking note that makes his purr stutter and restart louder. "you feel that? that's what you do to me. three thousand years and nobody's made me make this sound. just you. just my pretty, infuriating, impossible—"
he nuzzles your throat. can't help it. can't stop himself. the scent is right there, concentrated at the juncture of jaw and neck, and he presses his borrowed nose into the soft skin and inhales until his whole form vibrates.
a clicking starts in his own throat. rapid, rhythmic, a staccato pulse that means want, want, want in a frequency older than the walls. his mouth follows, lips parting against your pulse, tongue grazing the skin. tasting.
and the taste is. god. better than the scent. richer. layered. the flavour of new power and old warmth and the electric sweetness underneath.
he groans against your throat. the groan cracks into a purr cracks into a clicking trill that no human mouth should produce, and the sound of it vibrating against your pulse and makes your back arch off the wall. involuntary.
your hips press against his, grinding, and both of you gasp. for one second, neither of you is performing. just two ancient things locked together in borrowed skins, clicking and purring in frequencies that make the corridor lights swing on their fixtures.
and you can feel him now. his scent flooding your senses at close range, that deep cold mineral musk that fills your head and makes your thoughts go liquid.
you hate how good it is. how your body responds to it, leaning into the source before you can stop yourself, your nose pressing into the crook of his neck to chase the smell and the clicking in your throat softening from threat into something dangerously close to curiosity.
he smells like the walls. like the deep places. like permanence. and against him, pressed this close, his borrowed body hard and cool and vibrating with that rolling purr. it feels good. it feels so good. and the goodness is a betrayal of every snarl you've ever aimed at him, and you can feel your resistance dissolving in the heat between your bodies.
he feels it too. feels the shift. the snarl going breathy. the clicking losing its sharp edge. your nose in his neck, breathing him in, and the intimacy of it, you smelling him, voluntarily, seeking his scent the way he's been desperately seeking yours, makes his whole form tremble with possessive hunger.
"that's it," he whispers urgently against your pulse. "i'm right here. i've been right here, little one."
"shut up," you breathe into his throat, but your lips graze the skin as you say it, and his hips jerk forward. a clicking trill pours out of him that he couldn't suppress if he tried.
his mouth traces the line of your throat. half kiss, half territorial claim. his purr is constant now, layered, harmonic, and he can feel yours answering. vibrating against his chest through the false skin. an echo. a response. two predators locked in a feedback loop of sound and scent. his canines lengthen for half a second, grazing the tendon in your neck, before he pulls them back.
"you taste even better than you smell." mumbled into your skin. his hands tightening on your wrists. his hips rolling against yours, slow, grinding. his purr deepening as yours answers. "do you have any idea what you do to me? three thousand years of nothing. no one. and then you stumble out of the walls on your fawn legs with your pretty face, and your impossible power. now I can't think about anything except—" his teeth graze your throat again, sharper this time, the mask slipping, "this. right here. the taste of you. let me have one more. just one more. I need—"
and you let him closer.
your wrists go slack in his grip. your head tips back against the wall, baring more throat. the gesture is submission in the language of predators. an offering. a door cracking open. the sight of it makes his vision swim with greed.
he presses in. his mouth opens wider against the exposed column of your neck, tongue flat against your pulse, tasting the frequency of you directly from the source. and your purr is loud now. loud and unguarded and rolling through both of your borrowed bodies and your free hand (he didn't notice your wrist slipping his grip) comes up and tangles in his borrowed hair, tugs, and the sound he makes against your throat is broken and animal.
your mouth finds the side of his neck. his breath catches. your lips part against the false skin, and he feels your tongue trace his pulse point, curious, testing, tasting him the way he's tasting you, and his whole body goes rigid with want.
your breath is hot against his throat. your teeth graze the tendon. he shudders and tilts his head to give you access and the vulnerability of it is staggering. the oldest predator alive, baring his throat to the newest, purring so hard his suit is cracking at the seams.
"yes," he breathes, eyes shut, his hand cradling the back of your skull now, holding you against his neck. "yes, go on, taste me, i'm yours to—"
you bite him.
you lunge forward and sink your teeth, your real teeth, the ones that don't belong to the human face, into the side of his borrowed throat. deep. through the false skin and the false muscle and into the absence underneath. black blood sprays across your mouth. across the wallpaper. across the floor.
a chunk of his fake throat tears free in your jaws and you spit it sideways, and the blood is on your lips and your chin and running down your own borrowed neck in dark rivulets.
and he laughs.
head thrown back, throat open and ruined and pouring black, laughing with a sound that shakes the corridor lights loose from the ceiling. laughing because the pain is extraordinary and the violence is extraordinary and YOU are extraordinary.
you just tore a piece out of the oldest thing in the backrooms with your brand-new teeth. your eyes are blazing with fury and arousal. your mouth is painted black with his blood and your purr is still going, still vibrating in your chest, mixing with the snarl, mixing with the clicking.
you wanted him. you let him close. you tasted his throat and then you ripped it open, and the duality of it, the curiosity and the savagery, the purring and the biting, is the most beautiful thing he's witnessed in three thousand years of seeing nothing worth looking at.
"oh," he manages, between laughs, blood dripping down his chest. his voice ragged and delighted and wrecked. "oh, you're going to be fun."
you shove him off while he's laughing. bolt. disappear through a crack between levels that he didn't know existed, which means you carved it yourself, just now, on the fly, ripping a new exit through HIS level with the brute force of your growing power. and that fact alone makes his ruined throat purr harder than the blood should allow.
he stands in the empty corridor, bleeding and grinning, licking the residual taste of you off his lips.
your scent all over his skin, your teeth-marks open and wet and pouring black down the front of his borrowed shirt. your blood on his tongue, sharp and sweet and electric and new. and underneath the pain and the blood: the ghost of your purr.
the memory of your nose pressed into his neck. the fraction of a second where your tongue traced his pulse and the curiosity in the touch was tender. you tasted him. you wanted to taste him. and then you tore him open because the wanting scared you and violence is the only language you trust.
the wound is already closing. the suit rebuilding. the black blood sinks into the carpet and the walls absorb the spatter and the corridor cleans itself because level 0 is good at keeping his secrets.
he touches the healing wound. presses his fingers into the tender new skin where your jaw clamped down. it's going to scar. he's going to let it scar. the oldest entity in the backrooms, wearing a bite mark from a newborn like a trophy.
and standing there in the empty corridor with your taste on his tongue and your mark on his throat, the decision crystallises.
he's going to claim you. not catch. not chase. not kill. claim.
you're going to be his. his territory. his mate. the thing that shares his levels and his nest and the vast dark silence that has been his only companion for three thousand years.
you with your brand-new teeth and your fawn legs and your tender human hands and your clicking threat-rattle and that one moment, that one devastating moment, where you pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in and your purr went soft, and your body went still and you wanted him.
before the fear kicked in. before the teeth followed. for one fraction of a second you wanted him and he felt it in every frequency he possesses.
he heard you.
he pushes off the wall, rolls his shoulders. fixes the suit's collar where your teeth destroyed it. runs his tongue along his bottom lip one more time, chasing the last trace of your taste.
and goes after you at once.
you're fast. you're getting faster every day. you carved your own exit through his home level with raw power that shouldn't exist in a creature your age.
he doesn't care. he has time. he has millennia of patience and your scent in his lungs and the taste of you on his tongue and a bite mark on his throat that proves you got close enough to touch. and he has the memory of your purr. that one small, involuntary, answering sound that you made against his chest before the fear swallowed it.
you can run. you can snarl. you can tear his throat out as many times as you like. he'll heal. he'll follow. he'll keep coming until the snarling softens and the purr comes back and you let him close enough to answer it with his own.
the hunt isn't a hunt anymore. it's a courtship.
mine, he thinks. the word settling into his frequency like roots into soil.
pairing: ormund hightower x targaryen-niece!reader (reader is alicent's daughter but no major descriptions given except hair)
warnings: dead dove do not eat. dark fic. non con. dub con. incest. (they're second cousins as reader is alicent's daughter) aged up characters. reader is twenty. faux incest. (reader was raised by ormund) . heavy manipulation. coercion. psychological abuse. alluding to grooming? (more so reader is brought up to think her targaryen heritage is shameful and also to follow the faith of the seven - no implication of him wanting reader as a child). drugging with aphrodisiacs. dacraphylia. choking kink (kinda). smut. virginty checking. murder and blood at the start. more book canon rhaenyra taking king's landing. reader thinks team black is evil but is brainwashed into believing so. 18+ MDNI
a/n: if you read the warnings and go ewww, no. leave and block me. if you read this, and go eww but yes pls, come and show me some love. this is almost 7k words guys but please enjoy. barely proofread im sorry guys it was so long and im tired.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.
There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.
But these are all assumptions you make.
You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.
Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.
Generous. Oh, kind.
These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.
A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.
For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.
Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.
You wonder how he’s changed.
Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?
You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.
Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.
We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.
You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.
Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.
Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.
Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.
You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.
They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.
Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.
That is for the Gods to decide.
Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.
“Eat,” he commands.
You don’t look up, shaking your head.
“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”
Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.
“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.
You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.
“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.
But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.
“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”
These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.
“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.
Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.
The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.
Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.
They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.
There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.
But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.
All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.
He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.
“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.
You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.
He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.
“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”
Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.
He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.
“Up.”
The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.
“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”
In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.
But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.
You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.
Ormund and his men are alone.
It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.
You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.
You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.
You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.
“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.
They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.
Ormund.
You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—
You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.
“My Lord, I—”
“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.
“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”
“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”
“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”
His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.
Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.
It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.
You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.
The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.
“Keep still.”
You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.
Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—
You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.
“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.
You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.
“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.
“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“
His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”
It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.
“You did good.”
—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.
“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.
You do.
“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”
You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.
“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.
So close you could kiss him.
Your body goes rigid at the thought.
It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.
“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.
“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”
“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.
“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.
His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”
A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.
Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.
You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.
They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.
Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.
Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.
He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.
“I thought you were trying to sleep?”
You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.
“Hmm?”
You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”
“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.
“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.
“You barely drank the last.”
You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.
You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.
“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.
You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.
Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.
“Amused?”
Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”
His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”
You hum, tilting your head to the side.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.
Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.
“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.
The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.
He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.
You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.
“Breathe.”
You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.
“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”
“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”
“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”
“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.
His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.
“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.
Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.
You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.
What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.
He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.
A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.
Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.
“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.
“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”
He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.
Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.
“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”
“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.
The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.
The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.
“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”
How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.
“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”
Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.
Incestuous savages.
It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.
Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.
Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.
“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”
Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.
The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.
“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.
His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.
“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.
He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”
Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.
“I could save you.”
He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.
You don’t want to die.
“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.
“My girl.”
The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.
You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.
His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.
It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.
He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.
“Let me help you.”
He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.
What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.
Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?
Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?
Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.
You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.
Better to not look. Better not to think.
You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.
He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.
“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”
You shake your head.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”
Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.
“Do you think I want to do this?”
“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”
He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.
“Let’s get this off.”
You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.
You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.
But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.
He was right, he’s always right.
Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.
“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”
Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.
Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.
His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.
It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.
He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.
“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.
“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”
—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.
In. Out.
In and then out.
Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.
“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.
“It feels—”
“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”
You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.
It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.
“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”
“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”
His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.
“Please, what?”
“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Please, sire.”
You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”
“My good girl.”
Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.
—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.
Then relief.
A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.
It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.
“You feel better, don’t you.”
He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.
You nod, and your eyes close for a second.
“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”
And you think that’s it, the end of it.
But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.
“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”
You open your mouth to speak, to protest—
“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”
Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.
Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.
Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.
pairing: brendan bennett franklin x f!reader, background bobby franklin x f!reader
wc: 9.9k+
summary: brendan bennett franklin falls in love with his twin brother's girlfriend at sixteen and never quite stops.
contents/warnings: twins au, unrequited love (?), pining, jealousy between siblings, parental infidelity/divorce (referenced), sexual fantasies, masturbation, guilt && self-loathing, social isolation/alienation, touch aversion/sensory issues (undiagnosed neurodivergence), feelings of brokenness around sexuality && attraction, heterosexuality-adjacent distress, emotional anguish, one instance of homophobic slur (from a bully), heavy angst.
notes: i've created many characters in my time. brendan/bb might genuinely be amongst my absolute favourites i've ever written. i've very purposefully kept this highly unedited to try and capture the raw nature of his feelings. i've also been writing this nonstop all day, so any mistakes are my own. might have also cried but that's neither here nor there. enjoy.
✶ better bobby series.
private property of brendan bennett franklin.
do not read. i mean it, bobby.
1985–1990.
september 3, 1985
new girl transferred today. junior, like us. you walked into homeroom twelve minutes late with your bag strap sliding off your shoulder and sat down in the empty desk by the window and i forgot what mr. hendricks was saying. i still don't remember. it might have been about the civil war. it might have been about literally anything. you glanced out of the window, sunlight golden on you, and opened your notebook. i missed twenty minutes of american history.
this is probably not important enough to write down.
i'm not sure why i did.
september 8, 1985
i have three friends. bobby, terrence, and the library.
i'm not popular. i'm the thing that happens to popular when you drain all the charisma out of it and replace it with advanced calculus and the inability to make eye contact. bobby got the face AND the personality. i got the face and a brain that won't stop noticing details nobody asked for and a body that flinches when people touch it without warning.
identical twins. completely different experiences of being alive.
bobby walks into a room and the room lights up around him. i walk into a room and can't figure out where to stand. people talk and i miss the cues. the pauses where i'm supposed to laugh, the shifts in tone that signal a joke, the invisible dance of human interaction that everyone else learned naturally, and i'm still studying from the outside like a foreign language i can read but can't speak.
most people forget i'm in the room. teachers mix us up. girls look through me to find him. i've been called "bobby's brother" so many times it might as well be printed on my birth certificate.
i envy him sometimes. the effortlessness of it. the way connection comes to him like breathing. for me every conversation is a translation exercise: hear the words, decode the meaning, calculate the appropriate response, deliver it, check the face for signs i got it wrong. and it's so exhausting.
the library doesn't require any of it. the library doesn't care if i'm awkward.
september 11, 1985
her name is—
actually, i don't think i should write your name in this. just in case bobby finds it despite the very clear warning on the cover. i know you. that's enough.
bobby talked to you first because bobby talks to everyone first. you were sitting alone at lunch and he just walked over and sat down and said something that made you laugh (this startled, bright, involuntary sound) and by the time i got to the table you were already part of the group.
terrence likes you. bobby likes you. everybody likes you. you're warm in a way i don't have a word for. not loud-warm. just warm.
you said hi to me and i said hi back and that was the entire interaction.
i've been replaying it for three hours.
september 17, 1985
you sat next to me in calculus today. not because you had to. the desk was open and you chose it from three others, and sat down and smiled at me. you said, "hey, benny" like we've known each other for years.
benny.
nobody calls me benny.
september 29, 1985
you asked me to help you with calc after school. we sat at the kitchen table for an hour and a half and you leaned into my shoulder while i walked you through derivatives. your hair smelled like vanilla and you looked at me like i'd performed a miracle when you finally got it right.
nobody looks at me like that. bobby gets those looks. terrence gets those looks. i get the polite nod. the strained, patient smile. the "oh, you're bobby's brother" face that i've learned to expect.
you looked at me like i was a person who knew things you wanted to know. like the knowing mattered. like i was someone and not just adjacent to my twin.
i am in so much trouble.
october 14, 1985
you call me brendan. full name. sometimes benny when you're teasing. never BB, which is what everyone else calls me. never "the other twin." never "bobby's brother."
brendan.
i could live off the way you say it for a very long time.
october 22, 1985
kyle weber called me a freak in the hallway today. not the first time. i was carrying a stack of AP textbooks and he shoulder-checked me and they went everywhere and he laughed and said, "watch it, freak." i was on my knees picking up books and trying to disappear into the linoleum.
and then you appeared out of nowhere. i don't know where you came from. one second i was alone on the floor and the next you were crouching beside me, stacking my books, and then you stood up and turned to kyle. you said something so quiet i couldn't hear it and his face went white. paper white. he looked at you and then at me and then he stalked away and he hasn't spoken to me since.
i asked you what you said to him. you handed me my books and shrugged. "i told him if he touches you again i'll make sure the whole school knows he cried during the sex ed video in freshman year."
"...did he?"
"oh, absolutely. terrence told me. the power of information, benny."
and you linked your arm through mine and walked me to class.
people touch me and i flinch. always have. bobby's arm around my shoulder makes my skin crawl. terrence's back-slaps make me clench my jaw. casual contact (a stranger's elbow on the bus, a classmate brushing past in the hallway) registers in my body as a low-grade alarm.
i don't know why. i've never known why. my skin has always been too loud for other people's hands.
you linked your arm through mine and i didn't flinch. i didn't tense. i didn't have to override the instinct because the instinct wasn't there. your touch landed on my skin and my whole nervous system went quiet. warm. calm. like coming inside after hours in the cold and standing next to a fire and feeling the tightness in your muscles release one strand at a time.
you're protective of me. you took one look at the quiet twin who can't make eye contact and decided he was yours to defend and nobody asked you to and you did it anyway.
i have never felt warm the way i feel warm when you do this. like the warmth isn't just temperature but a person. like i've been standing outside in the cold my whole life and you opened the door to a warm house.
november 2, 1985
you found me in the library during a free period. everyone else was at the pep rally. i was reading and you sat down across from me and said "i don't really do pep rallies" and opened your own book and we sat there in silence for an hour.
i've never been quiet with another person and had it feel like a gift before.
silence with other people feels like a failure. like i'm supposed to be filling the space and i can't find the right thing to fill it with. every pause is a question i'm getting wrong. with you the silence felt like a room we were sharing on purpose.
the noise in my head (the constant humming calculation of how to be a person in front of other people) it stops when you're near. just stops. like a machine powering down. and underneath the silence there's this calm i don't have a name for. this sense that i can stop performing and just exist and you won't find the existing strange or off-putting.
when you left you squeezed my shoulder and said, "this was nice, benny."
i put my forehead on the table and stayed there for a while.
november 9, 1985
a thing i've never told anyone:
i hate being touched, and i am desperate to be touched. both at the same time. all the time.
other people's hands on me feel like static. wrong pressure, wrong temperature. i pull away from hugs. i stiffen under friendly arms. mom stopped trying to hold my hand when i was eleven because i kept pulling free without meaning to and the hurt on her face was worse than the contact.
but when you touch me (your hand on my arm, your head on my shoulder, your fingers fixing my collar) my body does the opposite thing. it leans. toward you. into you. like i've been cold for sixteen years and you're the first source of heat and the relief of it is so overwhelming i could cry.
i want more. always more. every touch you give me i hoard and replay and it's never enough. i want your hand in my hair. your arms around my waist. your forehead against mine. i want to be held by you until the static stops and it only stops with you and i don't understand why.
i don't think i need to understand why. i just need more.
november 15, 1985
i can see it happening. you and bobby. the way you orbit each other is starting to change shape.
the group hangs out and i watch your eyes find him across the room. i watch his find you. there's a gravity forming between you two that everyone can feel and nobody's named yet but they will. terrence already calls you bobby's girl behind your back and you're not, not yet, but the "yet" is so, so heavy.
you light up when he walks in. i know that brightness because i feel it when you walk in and i have to look away before anyone sees.
you're going to end up with bobby. everyone in this school can see the shape of it forming. bobby and the new girl. the twin everybody notices and the girl everybody likes.
i'm being dramatic. it's only been two months. i barely know you.
except i do. i know you hate the crusts on sandwiches but eat them anyway because wasting food makes you feel guilty. i know you hum when you're concentrating and you don't realise you're doing it and the song is never one i recognise. i know you bite your bottom lip when you're nervous and the left side harder than the right.
i know you. i've been paying attention since september.
i need to stop.
december 19, 1985
christmas party at terrence's. you wore a red sweater too big for you and had a stupid reindeer pin on your collar. bobby was doing his thing. arm around you, charming and bright, making the room laugh. i watched you lean into him. two bodies learning how to fit together.
you found me hiding in the kitchen and bumped your hip against mine with a crooked smile. "you're hiding."
"i'm making a drink."
"you're hiding. come back out. i miss you."
you said i miss you and i'd been in the other room for ten minutes.
you dragged me back by my sleeve and sat me down next to you and kept your hand on my knee for the rest of the night. i don't think you noticed you were doing it.
i noticed nothing else.
january 9, 1986
i've started dreading the question. the one bobby and terrence throw around like a football. "so when are you gonna get a girlfriend, bennett?" bobby grins when he says it. means it lovingly. doesn't know the answer is a slow knife.
terrence is worse. "bro there are girls literally lining up for the bobby franklin face and you're just... sitting there. reading. with that face. it's criminal!"
i laugh it off. they laugh. everyone laughs. good old brendan. hopeless with girls. still a virgin. probably going to be a virgin forever because he can't string two sentences together in front of a pretty girl.
except that's not it. that's not it at all.
something is wrong with me.
i can't find anyone attractive. i've tried. jenny park is objectively beautiful and when she talked to me at lunch i felt nothing. matt from chem lab is objectively beautiful and when he sat next to me i felt nothing. the magazine under bobby's bed that he thinks i don't know about—nothing.
my body doesn't respond to people. it doesn't want anyone. i look at classmates the way i look at furniture. vague acknowledgment that they exist. no heat. no pull. no interest.
except you.
you walk into a room and every nerve ending in my body lights up. you touch my arm and my skin hums for an hour. you lean into my shoulder and i stop breathing. you, exclusively. only you. like my body was made with a single setting and the setting is you and there's no alternative use.
i don't know what this means. i don't know if this is normal.
i'm really scared it isn't.
march 8, 1986
bobby asked you out today.
he told me first. came into my room and sat on my bed and said "i'm gonna ask her" and his voice was trying to hide the fact he was scared. going casual, going loose, like if he holds the words lightly enough they won't be able to hurt him. and i knew what he was really asking. because dad is still fresh. the cheating. the years of lies, mom finding out, the divorce that split the house in half.
bobby was fourteen when he decided love was the thing that wrecks you. swore he'd never open that door. never let anyone close enough to do what dad did to mom.
and now he wants to try. for you.
he deserves this. after everything dad did, after watching his ability to trust get gutted by a man who was supposed to teach him how to love, bobby deserves someone who makes him brave enough to try.
i told him to go for it. meant it.
he came back an hour later. grinning so wide his face couldn't hold it. you said yes.
of course you said yes. you've been saying yes to bobby since the day you sat down at our lunch table.
i hugged him. told him congratulations. meant it.
went to my room. closed the door. sat on the floor with my back against the bed and stared at the wall until my eyes ached.
march 22, 1986
movies. bobby and you, me and terrence. your first group outing as a couple.
bobby had his arm around you. you had your head on his shoulder. you shared popcorn. your leg was pressed against mine the whole film. probably because the seats were small. i didn't move.
i should have moved.
april 5, 1986
you had a fight with your mom. showed up at our house at 10 pm, crying. bobby wasn't home.
you stood on the porch and i opened the door and your face crumpled and you blurted out, "is it ok if i just sit with you for a while?"
i made you tea. you talked and i listened. after an hour you ran out of words and leaned sideways and put your head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
you slept for two hours. your hand curled in the fabric of my shirt. your breathing slow and deep. i sat perfectly still. did not adjust my position even when my arm went completely numb. i would have let my arm fall off before disturbing you.
bobby came home at midnight. "thanks for taking care of my girl, man."
my girl.
the dent where your head rested stayed warm for a long time after you left.
april 12, 1986
short entry.
you fixed the collar of my shirt in the hallway today. just reached up and folded it down. your knuckles brushing my neck. "there. can't have you walking around looking rumpled, benny."
i can still feel your knuckles. four hours later. a stripe of contact burned into the side of my throat.
june 18, 1986
pool party at terrence's. you were in a bikini.
i'm not going to describe it. i'm going to acknowledge that you were in a bikini and that i spent four hours in a california swimming pool and was never warm. because all my blood had relocated to the problem of not looking at you and the secondary problem growing in my swim trunks from the failure of the first problem.
you asked me to put sunscreen on your back. i did it. my hands were steady. nobody watching could have told that the inside of my head was a five-alarm fire.
"thanks, benny." and you went back to the pool and bobby threw you in. you screamed and laughed and i excused myself to the bathroom and put my head between my knees.
august 30, 1986
senior year. last year of being in the same building as you every day.
bobby and you are solid. you're good together. he opens up around you in ways he doesn't with anyone else. you soften him. you make his edges less defensive. when he's with you, bobby is almost the person he'd be if dad hadn't shattered his faith that the people who love you will stay.
i want to be selfless about this. the good brother. the one who steps aside and means it.
i'm not that person.
i love you. i love you and it's getting worse. it was supposed to fade. crushes fade. this isn't fading. this is setting foundations, pouring concrete into the ground floor of my chest and building upward.
september 14, 1986
bobby made a joke today at dinner. mom was asking about girls at school and bobby grinned and elbowed me and said, "bennett here is saving himself. for what, we're not sure. science, probably."
everyone laughed. mom. bobby. even terrence, who was over for dinner.
i laughed too. good old brendan. the virgin. the nerd. probably going to lose it to a textbook.
i went upstairs and sat on my bed and thought: there is something seriously wrong with me. because i'm seventeen and i've never kissed anyone and i don't WANT to kiss anyone. i look at every other person in my school and my body is silent. flat. dead. no heat, no curiosity, no pull. and then you walk into a room and i can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips and my mouth goes dry and i want to put my hands on you so badly my joints ache with it.
it's only you. it has only ever been you. and the exclusivity of it terrifies me because what if this is broken? what if i'm wired wrong? what if the reason i can't want anyone else is because something in me got stuck, got fixed in place the day you sat down in homeroom, and it will never unstick?
what if i'm going to want you, only you, for the rest of my life?
what if i already know the answer?
october 31, 1986
halloween. you dressed as an alien. green face paint, antennae that kept falling sideways. you asked me what i was and i said "a serial killer, they look like everyone else" and you laughed so hard you doubled over and grabbed my arm.
"brendan that's the funniest thing you've ever said. you have to say that to everyone who asks."
so i did, and people laughed. because you told me to deliver the line and so i did and the fact that people laughed at my joke felt good but the fact that you gave me the joke felt like being handed a lit candle in a dark room.
you fixed my hair at one point. reached up and pushed a strand off my forehead. casual. meaningless to you. your fingertips grazed my temple and i can still feel it hours later. a warm line where your hand was.
november 8, 1986
some senior from the baseball team cornered me after school. not kyle, a new one. shoved me into the lockers and called me a faggot because apparently reading in public is a sexual orientation now.
i didn't tell anyone. didn't need to.
you found out anyway. i don't know how. terrence, probably.
you didn't say anything to me about it, but two days later the senior apologised. to my face. in the hallway. with stiff, terrified demeanour. an angel of wrath had informed him of the consequences of future behaviour.
i asked you what you did.
"nothing." you were doing your homework, not looking at me. "he just had a change of heart."
"a change of heart."
"people grow, benny."
you're terrifying when you want to be, and i'm so in love with you i could die.
november 21, 1986
a guy at terrence's party wouldn't leave you alone. i don't know his name. some friend of a friend from out of town. he kept touching your arm after you pulled away. kept leaning into your space. you smiled politely and shifted sideways, and he followed.
bobby was across the room with a group of guys smoking something he shouldn't be and didn't see it. and you did that thing you do. that swallowing thing. that "it's fine, i can handle it" thing, and i watched your shoulders tighten, your smile going strained, and my vision narrowed.
i don't remember crossing the room. i don't remember what i said.
i remember his face. the way his expression shifted when he looked at me. i'm used to people looking through me, looking past me. this was different. this was a person looking at me and seeing a locked door they did not want to open.
i don't know what i said. that should scare me. it doesn't.
you found me in the kitchen after. leaned against the counter next to me. didn't ask what happened. just knocked your shoulder against mine and said "my hero" in that teasing, soft voice and i felt the anger drain out of me so fast it left me lightheaded.
but it's still in there. i felt it. a cold, patient, completely calm willingness to do damage if anyone puts their hands on you again. it doesn't feel like rage. rage is hot and loud. that's bobby's territory.
this is different. this is a door i didn't know i had, and behind it is a version of me that would do very quiet, very permanent things to protect you.
i don't know what to do with that information. so i'm putting it here.
december 1, 1986
i hate this
why can't i just be normal
everyone around me is dating. kissing. losing their virginity in backseats and bedrooms and talking about it at lunch like it's a rite of passage i keep failing to reach.
and i sit there and i listen and i feel nothing. no envy for the act itself. only this hollow awareness that i'm watching a movie everyone else is in and i'm still in the audience.
bobby asked me last week if i'd kissed anyone yet. gentle about it, for once. no joke. just "hey man, you doing okay? you know it's fine if you haven't, right?" and the kindness of it made it worse because he was being a good brother and i couldn't tell him the truth.
the truth is that there is one person i want to kiss until my lips go raw, and she's dating you and every other mouth on earth repulses me and i don't know why i'm built this way. i can't talk to anyone about it because the answer ("i'm not attracted to anyone except my twin brother's girlfriend") sounds like a confession that would get me committed.
what is wrong with me? genuinely. is this a disorder? is there a name for wanting one person so completely that everyone else might as well be furniture?
is this what love is or is this what obsession is and how do you tell the difference when you're eighteen and you've never been touched before
december 24, 1986
christmas eve dinner. you gave me a book. wrapped in paper you decorated yourself. little silver stars drawn by hand all over the blue.
"i saw it and thought of you."
six words. i saw it and thought of you. six words now living inside my chest cavity.
it was a first edition of a book i mentioned wanting three months ago. in passing. once. you remembered.
i held on to the wrapping paper after. folded the stars inside a textbook. i'll keep them.
february 1, 1987
i woke up at 3 am from a dream about you and i can't go back to sleep.
i'm not going to write down what happened. i'm not going to describe the way you looked or the sounds you made or what i was doing to you when you
no.
cold shower. stood under the water until my teeth chattered. didn't help. i can still feel the ghost of your body against mine. my brain invented the weight of you, the heat, the way you would arch into me if i
STOP.
this is just biology. i'm eighteen. this is normal.
it's not normal. nothing about how i want you is normal. the depth of it, the weight. i didn't dream about a body. i dreamed about YOUR body. your curves. the pitch of your laugh gone breathless. the way you'd say my name, not bobby's, mine, brendan, with your hands in my hair.
i want you so badly i can't breathe and i have no right to and the wanting is going to eat me alive.
february 14, 1987
valentine's day. bobby gave you a necklace. you nearly cried and kissed him and terrence heckled you both.
i watched from the kitchen doorway.
i didn't get you anything. getting you a valentine would be insane.
march 15, 1987
you told me today that you think i'm going to change the world.
we were sitting on the back porch. just us. you were eating an apple and reading over my harvard application essay and you put it down and looked at me and said seriously, "brendan, this is incredible. you're going to get in and then you're going to change the world and i'm going to tell everyone i knew you when you do."
and i thought: you know me now. you're the only person who knows me now.
may 14, 1987
bonfire at the beach. bobby and terrence went to get more wood. you were sitting next to me. close. your knee touching mine. the fire was low and orange and the light was painting your skin gold, catching the shadows in the dip of your collarbone, the curve of your neck.
and all i could think was: your throat. the soft patch below your ear where your jaw meets your neck. if i leaned over, if i put my mouth there. just my lips. how you would taste. salt and warmth and the lingering smoke from the fire. how your pulse would feel against my tongue. how your breath would catch.
i sat next to you with the dying fire and the crashing waves and bobby's laugh carrying from down the beach and i thought about putting my mouth on your throat for forty-five straight minutes.
you leaned your head on my shoulder. "i love nights like this."
"yeah," i said.
the fire burned to embers. i could still feel your pulse in my imagination. beating against a mouth i will never put there.
may 28, 1987
you held my hand today. just for a second. we were crossing a parking lot and a car came too fast around the corner and you grabbed my hand and pulled me back and then you didn't let go for the whole walk to the truck. just your fingers laced through mine. swinging between us. you were talking about finals and i was listening and your hand was in mine and it was a tuesday and i would sell my soul to feel this on a wednesday.
june 1, 1987
i want to touch you so badly my hands hurt
not ONLY sexually. i want to brush the hair off your face. i want to hold your hand in the car. i want to fall asleep with your head on my chest. i want the casual touches. the ones bobby gets without asking for them, the hand on the arm, the head on the shoulder, the absent fingers tracing patterns on skin while watching tv.
i want to be allowed to touch you the way he's allowed. not stolen moments dressed up as friendship. real ones. with intent. with honesty.
god i'm so fucking pathetic
june 9, 1987
graduation. we did it. senior year, done.
you found me in the crowd after. pushed through bobby and terrence and your parents and my mom and everyone else and grabbed me in a hug so tight my cap fell off. "WE DID IT BENNY" screamed directly into my ear with enough force to cause permanent hearing damage.
i hugged you tight and you laughed and your gown was billowing in the wind, and your hair was in my face. i could feel your ribs expanding with laughter against my arms and for ten seconds the world was only this. you in my arms. laughing.
bobby got the kiss. terrence got the secret handshake. i got the scream and the spin and i would trade everything i own for a lifetime supply of being the person you run to first.
july 4, 1987
sparklers at the beach. you were sitting next to me in the sand. our shoulders touching. the sky exploding in gold and red above us.
you turned to me, sparkler in hand, gold light on your face. "are you happy, benny?"
"yeah. i'm happy."
and right then i was. the wanting was still there, bedrock-deep, permanent. but for ten minutes it was quiet enough to hear the waves over it.
you put your head on my shoulder. i put my cheek on your hair.
i am never going to love anyone else. i know this the way i know chemical formulas. fact. fixed. tested and proven across every variable.
you are the only constant in my universe.
august 7, 1987
acceptance letter came. harvard. full ride.
you were the second person i showed. bobby first, because brotherhood, but you were right behind him. you took the letter and read it, your hands were shaking and you looked up at me and your eyes were full. you threw your arms around my neck and squeezed so hard i couldn't breathe.
"i knew it," you whispered wetly into my collar. "i knew it. i told you. i told you, benny."
and underneath the pride and the joy, so clear i could taste it... sadness. that's really far away. that's the other side of the country. and you didn't say it but your arms tightened and you held on longer than you needed to and i could feel the grief of it in your grip.
bobby grinned and hugged me. terrence lifted me off the ground cheering loudly. mom cried.
you held my hand under the table at dinner that night. three straight hours. nobody saw. your thumb tracing circles on my palm while everyone talked about the bright, impossible future.
i'm going to remember your thumb on my palm long after i've forgotten the letter.
august 28, 1987
last night before harvard.
you came over. just you. bobby was working late and terrence had a gig down at santa cruz. you knocked on my door and held up a wrapped package and decalred, "before you go."
it was a mixtape, but not just a mixtape. the case was hand-decorated with tiny drawings. inside jokes, all of them. a stick figure at a desk labeled "nerd at work." a tiny calculus equation with a heart instead of an equals sign. a drawing of me with ridiculous oversized glasses. on the spine, in your handwriting: "for benny. so you don't forget us."
i turned it over. on the back you'd written every track title and next to each one a note.
track 3 — this is the one i was humming during the calc final that made you glare at me.
track 7 — for driving at night with the windows down.
track 12 — listen to this one when you miss home. and by home i mean me.
and by home i mean me.
i stared at it for so long you got nervous. "is it stupid? it's stupid. you probably have a walkman with actual good music and this is—"
"it's perfect."
you looked at me. i looked at you. the room was very quiet and very small. you were very close and i could have kissed you. the distance between your mouth and mine was six inches and i could have closed it and everything would have changed.
i didn't. because i couldn't do that to bobby. i couldn't.
"i'm really going to miss you, benny."
"i'll call every week."
"you better."
i listened to the tape in bed that night with headphones on. track 12. over and over and over. your voice in the liner notes. and by home i mean me.
i held the case against my chest and closed my eyes, pretending your hand was there instead.
september 2, 1987
you hugged me at the truck. held on for a long time. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt.
"every week, brendan. if you forget about me—"
"i won't forget about you."
too fast, too serious, too much truth packed into a sentence that was supposed to be light. you pulled back and looked at me and your eyes were searching my face for something.
i don't know if you found it.
you kissed my cheek. close enough that if i'd turned my head half an inch your lips would have been on mine.
i didn't turn my head.
i got in the truck. bobby drove. i watched you in the side mirror, standing in the driveway with your arms wrapped around yourself, getting smaller and smaller.
september 18, 1987
i thought distance would help.
three thousand miles between your body and mine. no more shoulder-touches. no more vanilla smell. no more knee-against-knee in dark movie theaters. the theory was sound: remove the stimulus, reduce the response. basic conditioning.
the theory is wrong.
i miss you like an organ. like something was cut out of me at the airport and i'm walking around with the wound still open. i reach for the phone every hour. i play the mixtape until the ribbon starts to wear. i sit in lectures surrounded by brilliant, interesting people and i feel nothing. flat. grey.
here's what's strange though. i'm getting better at the other thing. the people thing.
harvard is full of people like me. the ones who read too much and talk too little and know the periodic table better than their classmates' names. for the first time in my life "quiet and intense" isn't the wrong setting. it's the default. i can hold a conversation in a study group without running the translation the whole time. i can sit in a dining hall and not feel like i'm performing personhood for an audience that isn't buying it.
i'm finding myself here, in small ways. figuring out which parts of my strangeness are flaws and which are just features nobody had a use for in santa clara.
but you remain the eye of the storm. the one quiet place where everything inside me unwinds.
harvard is teaching me how to exist around other people. you taught me that existing around another person could feel like rest instead of labour. and no amount of social growth, no amount of learning to make small talk in a dining hall, will ever replicate what you give me just by being near.
the silence that isn't empty. the touch that doesn't sting. the calm.
i am homesick for a person, not a place.
october 3, 1987
a girl in my organic chemistry study group asked me out. claire. smart. funny. objectively attractive.
i said yes because i'm supposed to say yes. because normal people say yes. because bobby would say yes and terrence would say yes, and this is what nineteen-year-olds do.
we got coffee. she was kind. she laughed at my poor jokes. she touched my hand across the table.
i felt nothing. absolutely nothing. like pressing my palm against a wall and waiting for warmth that never comes.
she leaned in to kiss me at the end and i let her and her mouth was on mine and all i could think was: wrong. wrong lips. wrong pressure. wrong taste. wrong person. WRONG.
i pulled away and said i was sorry and walked home. stood in the shower and scrubbed my mouth raw, and felt sick with how much i wanted it to have been you.
october 19, 1987
you called tonight. bobby was at work and you were bored and you called. we talked for two hours. my roommate left after twenty minutes because apparently i was "smiling weird."
you told me about your week. clark's being terrible. terrence's band. the stray cat on your porch. you told me everything and i held the phone with my eyes closed and you were there. in my ear. telling me about a cat like it was the most important news in the world.
"i miss you, benny." soft. sleepy.
"i miss you too."
the safest true thing i've ever said. because i miss you is allowed. i miss you lives in the acceptable zone. i miss you is what a friend says.
i miss you the way a lung misses air. i miss you so much i have rearranged my entire week around the possibility that you might call again.
but "i miss you too" is what i said.
november 12, 1987
there's a guy in my anatomy class. david. he's been friendly. eating lunch together, studying. today he put his hand on my knee under the table and looked at me with a question in his eyes.
nothing. nothing nothing nothing. i am broken or i am built wrong or i am simply, irrevocably, yours in a way that excludes every other human being on this planet regardless of what they look like or what's between their legs.
i told him i was flattered. i meant it. i am flattered that anyone wants someone like me.
i just can't want them back. the machinery only runs for you. i've tested it now. both genders. kind people, attractive people, people who deserved better than the hollow version of me sitting across from them. and every single time the same flat nothing. the same grey wall.
then you call and the wall dissolves and every colour rushes back in, and i think: oh. there i am. i was here the whole time. i just only exist when you're nearby.
distance was supposed to fix this. i was supposed to get better.
i'm not getting better. i'm getting worse. three thousand miles and i am worse.
november 26, 1987
thanksgiving. came home. you saw me in the doorway and your face lit up. you ran at me and jumped and i caught you. your arms locked around my neck, your face buried in my shoulder. you were laughing and squeezing me so tight i couldn't breathe.
i could have held you like that until the sun burned itself out.
bobby was right behind me. you let go of me and hugged him and kissed him and you stood in the hallway with your foreheads together and i carried my bag upstairs.
you run at me. you kiss him. the running is enthusiastic and warm and genuine. the kissing is intimate and private and his.
i want the kiss. i'd burn for the kiss.
and i hate myself for wanting it because bobby is my brother and he's happy and he deserves this after dad.
he deserves this more than me.
december 3, 1987
i think loving you is going to kill me.
i wish i could take my heart out and set it aside. put it in a jar on a shelf. come back for it when it's safe. but it's never going to be safe, is it? there's no version of my life where loving you is safe. there's only the version where i carry it and i'm going to carry it till my heart stops.
february 14, 1988
valentine's day. i mailed you a book. astronomy. because you said once, in october, that you wished you knew more about constellations. the note said: "saw this, thought you'd like it — B." casual. friendly.
you called to thank me. "brendan bennett franklin, you're the sweetest person alive."
i sat on my dorm room floor with the phone cord wrapped around my finger and thought: i am not sweet. i am a liar. i bought you a valentine and called it casual and you believed me because you don't see me. you look right at me with those warm eyes and you see a friend. a brother. a good person.
you don't see the thing underneath that wants to kiss you until neither of us can stand.
april 16, 1988
a girl at a party. i don't remember her name. i was a little drunk and she was pretty and i thought: just try. just try to be normal. to want someone attainable. someone who isn't your brother's girlfriend.
we went to her room. she kissed me and took her shirt off and i looked at her and felt... revulsion. not at her. at the wrongness of it. at my own body's flat refusal to participate in anything that wasn't you. i made an excuse. left. walked home in the cold.
the distance was supposed to make this better. the new people, the new context. a fresh start without you in every room.
but you're in every room. you're in the phone on my desk and the mixtape in my walkman and the book on my shelf with the silver stars on the wrapping paper that i kept like a goddamn shrine. you're in the way i scan every crowd for your face. you're in the hollow feeling when i don't find it.
what is wrong with me? what is fundamentally, structurally wrong with me that i can't want anyone who isn't you?
i sat on my bathroom floor and put my head in my hands and asked myself if this is what the rest of my life looks like. a series of empty rooms with the wrong people in them. a body that only responds to one person. a lock with one key and the key belongs to my brother's girlfriend.
yes. that's what it looks like. i know the answer already. i've always known.
april 30, 1988
i made a list today. of reasons to stop.
she's bobby's girlfriend.
bobby is my twin.
bobby loves her.
she loves bobby.
i am betraying him with every thought i have about her.
i am betraying HER with every thought i have about her because she trusts me and i'm lying to her.
i am twenty years old and i have never had a normal sexual or romantic interaction with another human being because my body won't cooperate with anyone who isn't her.
this is not love. this is fixation. i'm sick. i'm sick in the head.
if she knew what i think about when i hear her voice on the phone she would never speak to me again.
i am a bad person.
i stared at the list for a long time. each point is factually accurate. logically sound. irrefutable.
you called an hour later and called out happily, "benny, tell me about your day" and the list caught fire and burned to ash before you finished the sentence.
i am a bad person who loves a good person and the loving makes me worse.
may 19, 1988
my roommate has a girlfriend. they have sex in our room while i'm at the library and they think i don't know. i know because the sheets are different when i come back and the room smells like sweat and perfume and he's got that dazed, satisfied grin.
i looked at him last night (happy, spent, normal) and thought: why can't i be like that? why can't i want someone who wants me back? someone available. someone whose last name isn't franklin.
tried again in my head. conjured up every attractive person i've met at harvard. ran through them one by one, tried to imagine kissing them, touching them. like flipping through a catalogue of locked doors.
and then i thought about your hands in my hair and my whole body responded so violently i had to excuse myself to the bathroom.
why am i like this
why am i like this why am i like this why am i like this
three thousand miles. eighteen months of distance. dozens of kind, attractive, available people and my body is a locked room with your name on the door and no other key fits and i have tried every key and they all feel like violations.
i'm so tired of trying and failing and trying and failing and coming back to the same truth every single time:
it's you. it was always you. it will only ever be you.
and i can never, ever have you.
june 7, 1988
summer. home again.
bobby and you have been together two years and the cracks are starting to show. you don't talk about it. that's your flaw, the swallowing. the folding up of hurt into small squares and tucking them away.
i see it though. the way you wait for bobby to call and he doesn't. the way you make plans and he forgets. the way you press your lips together for one second when you're disappointed before the smile goes back on. nobody else catches it.
i catch it every time.
i hate him for it. my twin. who i love more than anyone except you. i hate him for having the thing i would dismantle myself to have and treating it like it'll always be there.
you won't always be there. patience has a floor and one day you'll hit it.
i can't say this to him. he'll hear what it really is. jealousy dressed up as concern.
july 22, 1988
you came over while bobby was at work. back porch. popsicles. you were telling me about a movie and your lips were stained red and a drop ran down your wrist and you licked it off and i—
i need to stop writing these down
"you're staring, benny."
"you have popsicle on your chin."
you wiped it off, laughing.
you don't know. you genuinely don't know what your mouth does to me, what your hands do to me, what the sound of my name in your voice does to me.
if you knew, you'd stop coming over. you'd stop touching my arm and leaning into me and putting your head on my shoulder. and losing those things would end me faster than never having had them.
good old brendan. safe brendan. bobby's quiet brother who helps with calculus and always has a book.
the mask stays on.
august 3, 1988
you fell asleep on my bed today while i was studying. lying on your stomach with one arm hanging off the edge and your face turned toward me and your mouth open and you were drooling on my pillow.
drooling. on my pillow.
the love i feel for you hit me so hard i couldn't move for half an hour.
august 15, 1988
please let me stop loving her
please. whoever is listening. let me stop.
let me wake up one morning and feel nothing when she says my name. let the hugs feel like hugs instead of slow immolation. let me sit next to her without mapping every centimetre between our bodies. let me be the friend she thinks i am instead of the liar i know i am.
i don't want this anymore. it hurts too much. please, it hurts. three years and it's only getting deeper and i can't
i can't switch it off. i don't know how. i don't think there is a how.
i think this is just what i am now. a boy who loves a girl who loves his brother.
september 6, 1988
back at harvard. unpacking. found one of your hair ties tangled in my clean laundry. you must have left it when you were over last.
i put it on my wrist. wore it all day. took it off before bed and put it on the nightstand and looked at it and thought: this is the closest thing i have to wearing a ring from you.
a hair tie. on a nightstand. in a dorm room in harvard.
september 22, 1988
i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be happy please i just want to be happy
bad day.
october 10, 1988
you called at 1 am. crying. fighting with bobby. your voice thick and wet.
"i don't know what to do, benny. i love him so much and he won't let me in."
and i sat on my dorm room bed with the phone pressed to my ear until it ached and told you:
"you're the strongest person i know."
and you said: "why can't he just say it, brendan? why can't he just say he loves me?"
i love you. i love you. i love you. three words bobby can't get past his teeth and i can't get past my conscience.
"he loves you. he's just scared."
"i know."
"give him time."
"i always give him time."
and i wanted to say: stop giving him time. stop waiting. he's wasting you. he's burning daylight with a girl made of sunlight and he doesn't even see it.
i said: "you deserve someone who says it."
long pause. your breathing slowing.
"thanks, benny. you always know what to say."
i don't know what to say. i know what not to say. there's a vast, dark, freezing difference.
march 30, 1989
spring break. you picked me up from the airport. standing at arrivals in a sundress holding a sign that said NERD in huge letters.
you dropped the sign and ran and i caught you and your laugh was in my ear and the sundress was thin and your body was warm against mine.
you drove us home. windows down. radio on. singing badly. your hand squeezing my arm at a red light.
i would burn harvard to the ground for this. for your hand on my arm, shaking me because you were so happy to see me. for the wind in your hair. for your voice saying my name like it's your favourite word.
i would give up everything. the degree. the future. the carefully constructed life three thousand miles away.
i would give up all of it for one day where you're mine.
one day. and then i'd give you back. i'd carry the memory for the rest of my life and it would be enough.
it would have to be.
HE FUCKING FORGOT, 1989
bobby forgot your birthday.
you didn't tell me. you wouldn't. i found out because terrence called me, and said "dude, bobby got too high and forgot" and his voice was tight with the anger he rarely shows.
i called you from the payphone in the hallway and said happy birthday and you said "thanks, benny" in that voice. that bright, fine, everything's-fine voice that i can see through like glass. and i heard the crack underneath it and the love hit me and the rage hit me in the same breath.
i called bobby after, and i don't raise my voice. i have raised my voice maybe five times in my life. but i said his name in a way that made him go quiet immediately on the other end and i said "you forgot her birthday" and the silence that followed was long and guilty.
"shit," he said. "shit, benny, i—"
"call her. right now. and if you ever do this again—"
i didn't finish the sentence. didn't need to. bobby heard what was underneath it. heard the edge i keep so carefully hidden, the cold thing that lives behind the shyness, and for a second i think he heard the OTHER thing, too.
the reason the anger was so hot, the reason it came so fast, the reason his twin brother was calling from three thousand miles away trembling with fury over a forgotten birthday that wasn't his to remember.
he called you. sent flowers the next day, took you out for dinner. you forgave him because you always forgive him.
i sat in the phone booth for ten minutes after with my head against the glass. my hands were shaking. not from anger. from how close i'd come to saying too much. from the size of the feeling pressing against my ribs. from the knowledge that i would burn my relationship with my brother to the ground to protect you from pain and the fact that this doesn't make me a good person.
it makes me a dangerous one.
may 2, 1989
your voice on the phone tonight, laughing about a terrible customer at clark's, imitating his voice, making me laugh until my stomach hurt.
i pressed the phone so hard against my ear it left a red mark and i thought: i don't want to die without having kissed you. i don't care about anything else. the degree. the career. the future. i just don't want to die without knowing what your mouth tastes like.
that's all.
june 14, 1989
you were lying on a blanket in the back yard. reading. the sun was on your legs and your feet were bare and you was chewing on a pen cap. your hair was pulled up and the back of your neck was exposed.
i sat on the porch steps and watched the back of your neck for twenty minutes.
twenty minutes. the back of your neck.
i am beyond help.
july 4, 1989
short one.
sparklers again. your shoulder against mine. same beach. same sand. same sky.
different year. same ache. same shape. same boy sitting in the dark loving the same girl who doesn't know.
happy fourth of july.
september 20, 1989
second year of pre-med. my hands shake from caffeine. i forgot to eat yesterday.
you called. i picked up on the first ring. i will always pick up on the first ring.
"brendan bennett franklin. eat something, drink water, and go to bed."
"i have a paper—"
"go. to. bed. if you sound this wrecked tomorrow i'm driving down myself."
i ate a sandwich. drank water. went to bed. fell asleep holding the phone.
you mailed me a care package last month. my favourite snacks. a note that said: "don't die. i need you."
i folded the note and put it in my wallet. i'll probably be buried with it.
november 23, 1989
thanksgiving. you saw me in the kitchen and your face did the light-up. the full-body brightening.
my hair is longer, brushing my ears and curling at the nape. you reached up and pushed it back from my forehead. your fingers dragged across my scalp and my whole body went rigid.
"look at you. all grown up and scholarly." you tugged a strand behind my ear. "very handsome, benny."
i said "thanks" to the refrigerator. my ears were burning.
bobby came in. you kissed him. i excused myself.
i sat on my bed and pressed my hand to my scalp where your fingers had been and breathed in through my nose for a count of four, and out through my mouth for a count of four for ten minutes because my heart rate would not come down.
handsome. you said handsome. you touched my hair and called me handsome.
next three lifetimes. i'm carrying this.
january 6, 1990
i had a dream about you. i'm going to write it down because i have to put it somewhere that doesn't judge me.
you were in my dorm room. sitting on my bed. and you said "benny, come here" and i went. you put your hands on my face and kissed me and i could feel it. the pressure of your mouth. the warmth of your breath. your lips parting and your tongue finding mine and the small sound you made when i pulled you closer.
and then you were under me. your legs wrapped around my waist. i was inside you. and you were saying my name. not bobby's, mine, brendan. over and over while your nails dragged down my back and your head fell back and i could feel you around me, tight and warm and perfect. every time you said brendan i went deeper and you arched into me.
i woke up so hard it hurt. sheets ruined.
i lay in the dark and put my hand around myself and thought about you beneath me and came in under a minute with a pained groan, and felt like the worst person alive.
you trust me completely. and i'm lying in the dark getting off to dreams about being inside you.
i'm sick
i'm not sick. i'm in love. but from here they feel the same.
march 2, 1990
your voice on the phone last night, sleepy and warm: "night, benny. love you."
casual. friendly. the way you say it to terrence. the way you say it to your friends.
i hung up and pressed the phone against my chest and stared at the ceiling.
love you. you say it so easily. like the words are light. like they cost nothing.
for me they cost everything.
march 15, 1990
you visited for my birthday. flew out alone. bobby couldn't make it.
you were standing outside my dorm with a bakery box and a toothy grin. "happy birthday, benny! it's lopsided because TSA manhandled it."
three days. you slept in my roommate's bed. wore my harvard sweater because you forgot to pack layers, too used to cali heat. it was too big on you. sleeves past your fingertips. collar slipping off one shoulder. bare legs. padding around my room.
i very nearly put my fist through a wall.
we stayed up until 4 am. lying in the dark on separate beds. your voice floating across the room. you told me things you haven't told bobby. things about your childhood. your fears. you talk to me differently than you talk to him. with bobby you're warm but with me you're open. like i'm the one place you can put things down.
"you're my favourite person." half asleep. murmured. "don't tell bobby."
i won't tell bobby. i won't tell anyone. i will take that sentence and compress it into a diamond and keep it in my chest forever.
on the last morning you hugged me at the airport. held on. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt and i breathed you in. vanilla and that warm unnamed you scent. stored it. another moment that belongs to me in all the wrong ways.
"come home soon."
i'm always coming home. you're there. there is no other reason needed.
april 27, 1990
you called me crying last night. bobby again. another fight. another door closed in your face.
and i sat on my bed and held the phone and listened and said the right things and the kind things and the things a good friend says. but underneath every word was this screaming, roaring, monstrous want to say: LEAVE HIM. LEAVE HIM AND LOVE ME. I WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO YOU. I WOULD NEVER FORGET YOUR BIRTHDAY. I WOULD NEVER MAKE YOU CRY. I WOULD SAY I LOVE YOU EVERY SINGLE MORNING BEFORE YOU FINISHED OPENING YOUR EYES.
i said: "he's an idiot but he'll come around. give him time."
i'm such a coward
i am such a fucking coward
may 15, 1990
two entries in quick succession because i need to put this somewhere before it eats through my chest.
i came home for the weekend. you were at the house. bobby was at work. you were in the kitchen making lunch and you turned and saw me and made that sound (that little happy gasp) and threw yourself at me.
and i held you. my face in your hair. your body against mine. and you pulled back and looked at me with those eyes, and put your hand on my cheek, and said worriedly, "you look tired, benny. are they working you too hard?"
and your hand was on my face. your palm on my cheek. your thumb brushing the skin under my eye. and you were close enough to kiss. and i could feel my pulse in my throat and my fingertips and the backs of my knees and i was drowning in the scent of you, vanilla and warmth and clean laundry. my hands were on your waist and yours was on my face and the kitchen was empty and quiet, and i could have leaned forward two inches and—
bobby's truck pulled into the driveway.
you dropped your hand. smiled. went to greet him.
two inches. i was two inches from ruining everything and saving everything, and i don't know which it would have been and i'll never know. i stood in the empty kitchen and pressed my hand to the cheek you touched and breathed through my teeth until my heart rate dropped.
june 3, 1990
i love my brother. i love bobby since we were born seven minutes apart and he came out screaming and i came out quiet. i love him for his warmth. his courage. the way he tried to shield me from dad even when we were too small to name what was happening. how he always stood up for me, always tried to understand me even when he never could.
but when it comes to you.
when it comes to you i hate him too.
i hate that he has what i want. i hate that he doesn't always value it. i hate that he gets to hold your hand and kiss you and fall asleep with your head on his chest but doesn't understand what a miracle that is because he's never stood on the other side of it watching.
i hate myself for hating him. he didn't steal you. he asked and you said yes and i never opened my mouth. the silence was my choice. every single day i choose it and every day it gets heavier.
i love him. i hate him. i love you. i can't have you.
four facts. a box with no door.
july 14, 1990
i've gotten better at being a person.
three years of harvard and i can navigate a party without wanting to leave within five minutes. i can make friends. i can read a room without running the translation in real time. the machinery is smoother now. the performance takes less effort.
but it's still a performance. everywhere except with you.
you're the only place where i don't have to translate. the only person whose presence makes the noise in my head go quiet instead of louder. everyone else, even the people i've grown to love at harvard, requires a version of me. you just require me. the real one. the strange one. the one who needs silence and can't handle being touched by anyone except you ,and notices too many details, and feels everything at the wrong volume.
you've never once asked me to be different. you've never once made me feel like the way i'm wired is a problem to be solved. you just sit with me in the quiet and let me be strange and call me benny. hold my hand and everything inside me goes still.
the eye of the storm. every time. the one calm place in a world that's always too loud.
july 28, 1990
if i could have one day.
one day where you wake up next to me. where you reach for me in the dark. where you say brendan in the voice i've only heard in dreams. where i can put my hands on your face and say it out loud, in daylight, without shame, without the weight of brotherhood crushing the words before they leave my mouth.
one day where the "i miss you benny" becomes "i love you brendan." where the hugs don't end because you're pulling away to go back to him. where i can press my mouth to the skin on your throat i've imagined ten thousand times. where your hands are in my hair because you want them there.
just one day.
and then i'd give you back, and carry it forever.
i am twenty years old. pre-med at harvard. full ride. a life that looks like everything a person could want.
and every night i fall asleep missing a girl who sleeps in my brother's bed. and every morning the missing is the same size. the same depth. the same fixed point that everything else orbits.
i don't know how to stop.
i don't think i'm supposed to.
[undated, late 1990]
i love you
i love you
i'm in love with you
i've been in love with you since september 3rd, 1985, homeroom, twelve minutes late, window seat
i love you and i can't say it and the not saying is killing me, it is actually, physically, killing me
i love you more than he does. i love you better. i would never make you cry, i would never forget, i would never close a door in your face
no. that's not fair. he loves you. he does. he just doesn't know how. and i do know how and i can't and that's
i love you
i love you and i'm so tired of not saying it
i love you and i've never kissed anyone who wasn't wrong
i love you and you call me benny and it's the closest i'll ever get to hearing my name in your mouth the way i need to hear it
i love you and i tried to stop and i can't stop
i love you and i don't want anyone else and i've tried and i will never want anyone else
i love you and you held my hand under the table and i almost told you then
i love you and you slept on my shoulder and i memorised your breathing
i love you and you made me a mixtape and wrote "and by home i mean me" and i have listened to track 12 four hundred times
i love you and i am so afraid you'll find this notebook
i love you and i am so afraid you won't
i love you and bobby is my brother and i love him and i hate him and i love you and i can't
i love you i love you i love you i love you
i should write it down. the real way. once. clearly. not crossed out.
for every time i didn't say it but should have. for every hug where i held on too long and you didn't notice. for every time you fell asleep on my shoulder and i sat perfectly still and memorised the pattern of your breathing. for the mixtape and the silver stars and the way you said and by home i mean me.
for every phone call at 1 am when your voice was the only warm thing in my whole life. for every time you ran at me in an airport. for every time you touched my hair and called me handsome, and i said thanks to the refrigerator because looking at you while you said it would have ended me. for the parking lot where you held my hand. for the two inches in the kitchen. for the dream where you said my name. for the popsicle on your wrist. for your head on my shoulder at every bonfire. for your palm on my cheek and your thumb under my eye and the truck pulling into the driveway.
for the hair tie on my nightstand. for the book with the silver stars i still keep pressed flat inside a textbook. for the three thousand miles that were supposed to fix me and only proved that i am unfixable.
i love you.
i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you.
i love you and i should have said it in the kitchen when your hand was on my face. i love you and i should have said it in my dorm room when you were wearing my sweater and the collar was slipping off your shoulder. i love you and i should have said it at graduation when you screamed in my ear. i love you and i should have said it at the bonfire when you asked if i was happy.
i love you and i have never once been brave enough to say it and writing it down is the closest i will ever come and even now, even in a notebook nobody will read, the words feel too large for the page.
they feel too large for my hands. they feel too large for my chest which has been holding them for five years and is so full the seams are splitting and i am so tired. i am so tired of carrying this. i am so tired of being good and quiet and safe while the love sits behind my teeth and rots there because i will not let it out.
i love you. there. for every time i didn't.
i lo
[the entry ends here. the last two letters trail off the line, the pen stroke dragging sideways across the page before stopping. the ink on this page and the one before it is warped and buckled. the paper has dried stiff and rippled in places, the way paper does when it gets wet and dries again. the distortion is heaviest around the final lines, where the ink has bled and feathered outward, blurring the words at their edges. it is not water damage.]
summary. rumors of the bond between you and your twin-brother daeron begin to swirl amongst oldtown, your uncle, ormund, does not appreciate it one bit and decides to confront you about it
word count. 7.1k
warnings. mdni, dead dove do not eat, targtower reader, dub-con, ormund is a hypocrite, oral (f receiving), set pre-dance, english is not my first language!
a/n. family tree by ethel cain. go listen to it!
highly inspired by this post.
The bone comb slides through your hair, smooth as silk.
In the polished silver of the looking glass, the long strands caught the morning light filtering through the high arched windows, gleaming a pale, shimmering silver-white. Around you, your handmaidens fluttered like a flock of nervous sparrows, whispering their soft awes and marveling at the plain view of your Valyrian ancestry.
You had been in Oldtown for almost as long as you could remember yourself.
The Red Keep of King’s Landing was nothing but a collection of half-faded memories. The faces of your lady mother, Queen Alicent, and your other siblings—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—were remembered only in fleeting glimpses, through a sort of thick and hazy mist. You knew they all much resembled yourself in looks, with the same pale eyes and silver-gold locks.
But they were distant princes and princesses of a court you barely knew.
The only other person who resembled you so closely, but one whom you knew all too well and held dear to your heart, was your twin brother, Daeron.
The maesters at the Citadel loved to recount the tale of your quickening to the young acolytes. It was said that when he came wailing into the world from Alicent’s blood-slicked womb, the Grand Maester had no idea there was another.
The old man had wiped his brow, thinking the labor done, and only when he saw the Queen’s birthing was still taking place, her screams echoing through the chamber anew, did he realize a second babe lay within.
Alas, you were no less welcome, appreciated, or celebrated than your brother.
So when the time came for Daeron to be sent south to the Honeywine to serve as a squire for your mother’s family, the Hightowers, it had been decided that it would be best if you went along too.
That is how, for most of your life, even as a princess of the Crown, you have called Oldtown your home, raised amidst the scent of salt, tar, and the tolling of the bells from the Starry Sept.
“It is so beautiful, my princess,” Miriam spoke softly, her voice hushed with the reverence usually reserved for the Mother’s altar. She gently carded the bejeweled golden comb through the long strands of your hair. “Like pale moonlight on the water, or the morning mists on the morrow…”
Through the silvered mirror, you could see her eyes wide in awe, and you could feel the extreme caution of her touch. Her fingers did their work ever so gently—not daring to snag a single knot or cause the slightest pain to the princess.
“Thank you, Miriam,” you replied with a gentle, practiced smile. You were much used to being showered in compliments by the household, and equally used to replying to them with the appropriate courtly courtesy.
“Which dress, princess?” another of your maids, Cathy, chirped up. The other girls helped her hold up two different garments, their faces eager for your choice.
Your eyes followed the trail of the first; a gorgeous, sweeping gown made of quality red silk from the Free Cities, flowing like fresh-spilled blood and intricately embroidered with black thread along the bodice.
The other was a gown of Hightower green, fashioned from the softest Myrish wool, its collar carefully decorated with seven-pointed stars stitched in silver thread.
It was a silent, but obviously heavy choice—the colors of your father’s house against the colors of your mother’s kin.
Before you could make your choice or offer a reply, two rapid, thudding knocks sounded on the door. Before any of your maids could bid entrance, the heavy oak thing was creaking violently on its iron hinges, banging hard against the dressed stone wall as it all but flew open.
The girls around you instinctively flocked closer to one another, forming a kind of protective half-circle with their bodies, their eyes cast down toward the rushes on the floor. One of the household servants entered first, his eyes fixed stiffly ahead of him, not daring to spare any of the women the slightest glance.
“The Lord Hightower, my princess,” he announced, his voice tight with formality.
Before you could catch your footing, find a robe, or even question what was happening, your uncle was already stepping foot inside your private chambers.
You were wearing nothing but your thin linen shift, and the maids seemed to notice your state of undress as they nervously began jittering their fingers, shifting from foot to foot.
Ormund stepped into your room as he stepped into any other room in the city—like he owned the very stones beneath his boots (because in truth he did).
He was wearing a simple but finely cut doublet of dark green velvet, the color he preferred frequenting the most, slashed with silver satin. His sharp grey gaze swept across the flock of trembling girls once before settling entirely on you.
“Uncle—” you began, straightening your back and lifting your chin, attempting to summon the dignity of a Crown princess while clad only in your night-smock. Miriam took a hasty step backward from your side.
“Leave us.” he commanded the maids, his voice a low, resonant baritone that left absolutely no room for disobedience.
You could see almost all of them squirming under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and strong, unyielding jawline inspired absolute reverence and fear in many a young maiden in Oldtown. Alas, you were not just one of many; you were blood of the dragon.
Your jaw tightened quietly. “Your princess commands you to stay.” you firmly countered, your voice ringing clear against the stone walls.
The girls seemed paralyzed. Entirely confused, frozen in place, caught in a web of divided loyalties. They looked between their princess and their Lord, not entirely certain whose orders they should be following.
You thought Ormund’s eyes would flash with fury at the defiance, but instead, what you found on his face was a dark amusement. A sly, mocking grin threatened to spread across his features at your antics.
“Your Lord commands you to leave us at once.” he repeated. His voice carried a tone of absolute authority, carrying no hint of the amusement that danced in his eyes.
At the sheer severity of his command, the girls finally broke. They scampered out of the door one by one like frightened mice, nodding their heads in hurried acknowledgment and leaving you alone with your uncle.
A sharp sense of quiet betrayal began to unfurl within your chest.
These are my girls, you thought bitterly. They should be loyal to me. They should be listening to my commands, not his.
The only comfort, the only thing you would look upon later with a touch of gratitude, was Miriam.
Just before stepping foot through the heavy oak door, the girl looked back, her ashamed eyes searching yours for an answer, a silent plea for forgiveness. You nodded ever so slightly, letting her know she was dismissed, and the girl quickly took her leave. At least someone in this castle still recognized your royal authority.
The door creaked shut behind them as a household guard pulled it closed from the hallway, and the servant stepped outside, leaving a heavy silence in the room.
You turned your back on your uncle, returning to your vanity.
It was a magnificent piece imported from Lannisport, a gorgeous bone-white wood crafted with intricate star designs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
It had been a gift for your fifth nameday, and you had been in love with it ever since, even if for the first five years it had been far too grand for a child to use.
Your fingers picked up the bone brush Miriam had dropped and continued the work; alas, your movements were far less gentle and much more forceful than the maid's. You yanked the bristles through your silver-white hair, your eyes fiercely refusing to meet Ormund’s in the reflection.
Once again, you could hear him shuffle his boots against the rushes, and a soft air of laughter escaped him at your stubborn antics.
“Is this how you greet the Lord of Oldtown?” he began, stepping closer to where you sat in front of your vanity, his shadow falling over your shoulder. You still refused to meet his gaze or give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Have I not raised you with better manners, niece? A princess of the crown should know how to behave appropriately in front of Great Lords. Hm, tell me, what would your lady mother say to this?”
“I would not know, my Lord,” you countered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every syllable. “I have not exactly been privy to my lady mother’s thoughts or her presence. After all, I was raised here in Oldtown.”
His thick eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Yet still… she is the Queen… and you her daughter, a princess of the royal blood.”
“A toothless princess, or so it would seem,” you muttered bitterly. “When not even my own handmaidens seem to follow my commands.”
Ormund let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He stepped directly behind you, placing a firm, calloused hand upon your bare shoulder, his fingers slowly caressing the pale skin.
A sudden prickle of goosebumps rose along your flesh at the unbidden contact. He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips pressed against the delicate, pale shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine.
You watched it all through the silvered glass of the vanity—his sharp, predatory gaze watching you like a deer through the reflection.
“Ormund.” you began, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the bone hairbrush tighter.
“Uncle.” he corrected softly, his voice a low, commanding murmur against your skin.
He shifted his lips down to the crook of your neck, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into the hollow there.
“What are you—” You tensed, attempting to wrench yourself around to break free from his suffocating proximity, but his hands on your shoulders kept you firmly locked in place.
“Is it true that Tessarion has mated with Starfyre?” he questioned suddenly, as if to catch you off guard, an accusatory glint entering his grey eyes as he spoke of your magnificent beast.
Starfyre had been your very own hatchling, born from a precious clutch laid by Dreamfyre herself. He was a breathtaking vision, clad in shimmering silver-white scales that caught the light like polished armor, with wings that glittered like crushed diamonds when he took to the sky.
Though he was already considerably larger than Tessarion, Starfyre carried himself with a fierce, regal majesty— his long, serpentine neck beautifully akin to Prince Daemon’s dread mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
“What—” Your brows furrowed in sheer bewilderment. “What? Yes, it is true… they are dragons, Uncle. They nested together in the outer pits—what did you expect them to do?”
He shushed you quietly, raising a sharp finger to cut off any word or attempt to speak. Not that you had any defense to offer… nor any way to justify the ways of your beast. Dragons were creatures born of fire and blood, and you possessed no true, godlike power over them, despite the grand illusions of Targaryen superiority that the smallfolk and highborn alike reverently believed in.
“The most concerning of… rumors have reached my ears, sweet niece… and this unfortunate discovery has only sharpened them.” He announced, straightening his spine, before reaching down and taking a single lock of your snow-white hair between his thick, calloused fingers and slowly coiling it around his digit like a pale ribbon.
“Rumors…” You parroted, attempting to turn your head to face him. But his heavy hand tightened upon your shoulders, staying your movement. His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath your thin linen shift, but you bit down the wince threatening to escape you. You swallowed hard instead, forcing your voice to remain level. “Words are wind, uncle.”
“Words are wind. Indeed.” he hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes remaining locked onto the strand of pale hair wrapped around his finger. “Alas— even the foulest wind carries a scent. And the most rumors have at least a crumb of truth buried within them. Or would you care to differ?”
“I—I do not know what you mean.” You stammered. A cold sweat began to break across your brow then, even as goosebumps rose along your arms.
It was a queer, conflicting sensation—the dragon blood in your veins made your core feel flush and hot with ancestral fire, yet Ormund's unexpected intrusion left you shivering with an icy dread.
“Oh, stop playing the fool!” He snapped at last and the suddenness of it made you physically recoil from his touch. His voice boomed against the high, vaulted stone ceiling of the chamber like a heavy war drum. It was a sound thick with agitation, sharp and aggressive.
“Ormund—” You pushed yourself to your feet, standing up to face him. Your voice shook—far shakier than a princess of the blood royal should ever sound—and you hated yourself for the weakness of it.
You needed to be strong. You needed the iron will of your house. Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would never waver or tremble before a man's anger, you thought.
“You will stay silent and listen to me.” Ormund jabbed a thick thumb toward his own chest, his gesture sharp, almost manic. The raw authority in his command left you with little choice but to obey.
Your knees felt weak, and you sank back down with a dull thud onto your wooden stool.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a long, slow breath as if mentally gathering his patience before exhaling it into the quiet room. When he spoke again, his voice came out far steadier, though the quiet malice in it sent a renewed chill down your spine.
“Oldtown is the seat of the Faith, niece, as all the folk in the Seven Kingdom know. It is no place for unholy and sinful people.” He began, his tone unyielding. “The mere fact that you carry the blood of the dragon does not exempt you from the laws of gods and men, nor does it shield you from the judgment of the Seven. Not you nor your brother.”
What in the names of the gods was he talking about? Your mind raced. Desperately searching for meaning, but you could simply not fathom his intent. Still… you had learned your lesson well enough this morning; you knew better than to speak back and stoke his fury.
“You think the eyes of the Hightower do not see?” He finally spat, a look of pure disgust twisting his features. “You think I and everyone else in this castle do not see how you and Daeron look at each other? How you touch one another?”
At those words, you felt your heart drop like a stone into a well.
Daeron was your twin. He was your other half, the right part of your own soul. He understood you as no lord, lady, or maester ever could. You had shared a womb; you had been cradled together in the same nursery. It was only natural that you felt entirely comfortable in his presence. That you laughed at his jests and relished the warmth of his embrace. He was your brother, by the grace of the Seven.
“He is my brother.” You stated, standing your ground. You were proud of the sudden firmness and steadiness that returned to your voice.
Finally, the blood of the dragon was answering, and you were gaining back your footing.
“Your brother, yes…” Ormund spoke the words with a soft, mocking sneer. “And the lot of you—my royal cousin’s kin—have notoriously queer customs indeed. The abominations of Old Valyria may fly about free in King’s Landing, but Oldtown and the Faith do not tolerate such queerness.”
A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “You are out of your mind, uncle.” Through the silver looking glass, you watched as another dark storm of fury began to coil behind his eyes at the audacity.
“Out of my mind, she says.” Ormund sneered, a strange, ugly twist curling his lips. Before you could gather your senses or summon your dragon-pride, his hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around your forearm like an iron manacle, gripping the flesh so fiercely that a sharp gasp of pain caught in your throat. By sheer, unyielding strength, he dragged you to your feet, jerking you forward until you stood scarce an inch from his chest.
“Yet it is you, and your whore of a half-sister with her bastards, and your rogue of an uncle who bring abomination into the realm.” He hissed, his breath hot against your face. “And my own cousin is no better… wedding her two children to one another like beasts in a paddock.”
Any other man would have lost his head for such words. It was high treason, spoken aloud in the light of day, but here in the Hightower, Ormund was king in all but name. What defense did you have? Who would believe the word of a lonely princess over the Lord of Oldtown?
“She brings nothing but shame to the Seven and the name of House Hightower.” He spat.
You writhed against his grasp, trying to twist your arm free, but his hold only tightened, his fingers bruising the pale skin. “You are hurting me!” You cried out, squirming in his grip.
Ormund merely cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes with a cold, mocking amusement, as if your protests were nothing more than the theatrics of a spoiled child.
“Come,” he said, pulling at you. But you dug your heels into the rushes, your body locking in place. He let out a dark, raspy snort. “Move your feet, niece, or by the Smith, you will make me drag you across the stone.”
You opened your mouth to scream, to protest, but he was already hauling you toward the far end of the chamber. Your bare feet stumbled clumsily over the floorboards, tangling together as his iron grip remained locked upon your forearm. He pushed you roughly into the secluded alcove of the solar, where the handmaidens had prepared your morning bath.
It was meant to be your sanctuary before the day's dressing, a quiet ritual interrupted by his brute intrusion.
The great tub was fashioned from fine, polished oak. Wide and deep, its rim decorated with simple, carved waves. When first poured, the water had been scalding hot—a heat that would leave any ordinary mortal blistered and weeping, but to the ancient blood of Old Valyria, it was a comfort.
Now, however, the thick blankets of steam had faded into the high ceiling. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as he shoved you toward the lip of the tub, finally releasing his bruising hold on your arm.
“Undress.” He commanded.
Your head whipped around with sudden, fierce indignation. “What?” The word stumbled from your lips, breathless and broken.
Ormund sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, deeply displeased at having to repeat himself. “I said,” he began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register, “undress.”
He nodded toward the water, his grey eyes fixed on you as you stood frozen, refusing to comply. “You reek of dragon.” He spat. “I assume you went riding at first light?”
“Last evening.” You clarified, your teeth chattering slightly despite the heat of the room.
He hummed, a low, rumbling sound. “And you did not think to bathe afterward?”
“I did.” you said defensively.
“And yet you still smell of those… wretched beasts.” He spat the word beasts with a charring venom, as if the very thought of the dragons fouled his tongue. “Why must you be so difficult at every turn?”
With a heavy sigh, he whirled you around. Before you could leap away, his thick fingers caught the collar of your linen shift. With one brutal downward jerk, he pulled the sheer material down your arms. You reached towards the garment, desperately trying to catch the fabric, but his hands were too strong, his movements too practiced and unyielding.
You felt the linen slip from your body, pooling around your thighs and ankles in a breathless rush. The cool morning air hit the bare skin of your belly like a sudden winter storm. Instantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, curling inward in a desperate attempt to shield your nakedness from his searching eyes.
“No… no…” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick. He reached down, catching your wrists and pulling your arms away from your body by force. “You will not deny me this, sweet niece.”
You turned your head away in profound shame, your cheeks burning. Under the chill of the solar, the rosy points of your breasts hardened, and a fresh wave of goosebumps broke across your skin.
Ormund stepped closer, entering your space until the heavy green velvet of his doublet brushed against your bare flesh.
He brought a rough hand up to your face, his fingers cupping your chin with a firm, unescapable grip, forcing your head back up. You hated the treacherous instinct of your own body—how you naturally leaned into the warmth of his hand for a fleeting second—but you hated what came next even more. Through the coarse cloth of his breeches, you felt the rigid, swelling hardness of his manhood pressing aggressively into the soft flesh of your thigh.
“You must understand,” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of sweet wine and incense as he leaned over you. “I do not blame you for what you cannot control. You cannot help it, poor child. This savageness… it is bred into your very bones. It is in the blood of the dragon. You are stained by it. Dirty. It is a disease.”
A hot liquid welled in your eye, spilling over your lashes. You felt stripped of all your royal dignity—embarrassed, ashamed, and consumed by a helpless, raging fury. Your teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ticked.
“But do not fret, sweet niece,” he murmured. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wet track on your cheek, tasting the salt of your tear. “I will cure you of it. I will be your guiding light, and free you from this monstrous burden.” A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face.
“Now. Get into the water.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle, yet it carried the absolute weight of a battlefield command. Once a general, always a general.
With no stones left to throw and no shields to raise, you had no choice but to comply.
Lifting one trembling leg and then the other over the rim of the wooden tub, you descended into the water. Most of the vapor had long since vanished, and the water had cooled to a dull, bearable warmth. As the ripples closed around your chest, you were only glad for the dark water, fore it did something to shield your naked form from his hungry, predatory gaze.
Ormund hummed in low contentment. For a single, fleeting moment, as he turned his back to you, your heart unclenched. A desperate, foolish hope flickered in your chest that he might finally leave you to your privacy.
He did not.
Instead, he marched with heavy, deliberate steps over to the cedar cabinet where your handmaidens stored the various scented waters, crushed herbs, and rare oils meant for the bath.
He pulled the drawer open with a forceful, impatient tug that made the wood groan. Instinctively, you drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight ball within the water, trying to minimize what he could see.
From the safety of the tub, you could only see his broad back and the dark chestnut curls of his hair as he bent his head over the drawer, examining the glass phials nestled inside.
“Which one shall it be…” you heard him murmur under his breath.
He lifted a slender glass tube to his nose, pulling the stopper to sniff the contents. A low hum of approval escaped him. “They received the new Lyseni order I made for you. Good.”
You sank deeper into the water, until it lapped just beneath your chin, wishing the oak tub would swallow you whole.
He rummaged through the collection for a few moments more. In the quiet clinking of glass, you almost found a strange, twisted peace inside the intimacy of the act. Then, his fingers closed around his prize.
“Aha.”
When he turned back around, he held a glass phial filled with a thick, pinkish-orange liquid that gleamed like a captured sunset in his large hand. He slammed the wooden drawer shut with his free hand, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.
“This will do perfectly.” he murmured.
As he walked back to the edge of the tub, you could see the dark dilation of his pupils, the tight clenching of his free fist at his side. You knew that look. This was not the first time he had looked at you so, nor was it the first time he had forced his way into your sacred spaces. Far from it.
You and Ormund had done things in the shadows of the Hightower that the Seven would make you repent for every single day for the rest of your lives. The septons would call it an abomination, a wicked stain upon your soul. Yet, staring up at him, a treacherous warmth began to bloom in your belly. You hated how much you wanted him in these quiet hours. You lusted for his touch, desired his strength, and craved the very danger he represented.
The worst part of it—the part you loathed most of all—was how quickly the guilt began to evaporate once the lust settled into your blood. The betraying slickness between your thighs had been there from the very moment his iron grip had clamped onto your forearm.
Let him think you are afraid, the dragon blood whispered inside you. You were far too proud, far too much a princess of the realm, to ever admit how much his rough handling truly pleased you.
“A special Lyseni bathing oil,” Ormund explained, kneeling down upon the heavy stone floor beside the wooden tub. Even on his knees, his towering frame loomed over you, leaving him almost a head taller than your sunken form in the bath. “It is exceptionally strong, but it leaves behind a pleasant, gentle aroma. Rosemary and sharp lemon—concocted from a special batch originally meant for a wealthy Magister’s wife.”
You merely hummed in quiet acknowledgment of his words, your eyes tracking his movements. With a sharp pop, he loosened the cork stopper with his teeth, tilting the glass phial so the oily, sunset-colored liquid began to drip lazily into the water around you.
The scent hit the air instantly, thick and intoxicating. The sharp, bright aroma of lemons mixed with the earthy, pine-like fragrance of the rosemary herbs, completely overtaking your senses.
Ormund closed his eyes, inhaling the rising steam deeply. The harsh lines of his brow finally unfurled in pure pleasure. “There now.” he whispered, his eyes opening to pin you with a heavy gaze. “This will rid you of that dreadful dragon stench.”
Your muscles gradually uncoiled as the sweet, sharp vapors of the Lyseni oil worked their way into your senses, eliciting a soft, involuntary sound of contentment from your throat.
Through hooded eyes, you saw a surge of possessive satisfaction cross Ormund’s dark gaze. He rolled the heavy velvet sleeves of his doublet up past his thick, hair-darkened forearms, reaching for a dry linen washcloth before dipping it into the scented water.
He wrung the cloth once with his thick, powerful fingers. You watched the warm water cascade down his digits, back into the tub in heavy droplets, hating how effortlessly your mind trailed to darker, more treasonous thoughts about those very hands.
Beneath the opaque, oil-slicked surface of the bath, your thighs squeezed together. You breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the dark water that shielded your body's betrayal from his sight; you knew precisely how smug he would be if he caught even a glimpse of the effect he still held over you.
He brought the wet linen to your skin, tracing your collarbones with a strange, quiet reverence. He began to scrub away the nonexistent dirt and the invisible scent of the dragon, working with a meticulous precision.
He handled you as though you were his most prized treasure—like a man polishing a sacred family heirloom, or the dark, rippled edges of Vigilance— the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Hightower.
The only other time you had ever witnessed your uncle display such haunting gentleness was when he cleaned that very blade.
You remembered the story Daeron had told you, fresh from the courtyard. Ormund had just taken a rebel lord's head, the steel dripping with crimson, and your twin brother had been too young, too trembling, to know how to properly wipe the Valyrian steel clean. Despite Daeron's high position as his squire, Ormund had not cursed him. Instead, he had taken the oil and the rag, showing the boy personally.
“A squire does not serve because the knight is incapable,” Ormund had told your twin that day, his voice steady over the dead man's blood. “He assists so the knight may look to the horizon, where the heavier duties lie.”
Now, those same hands traced the pale skin of your arms, sliding over your shoulders and down your back. Gently, silently, his knuckles nudged your knees apart, smoothing the cloth over your chest.
In the heavy, lemon-scented silence of the alcove, your mind drifted to forbidden shores.
You found yourself imagining a world where the two of you were wed in the Starry Sept, a world where you would legally become the Lady of Oldtown. You imagined your belly swelling with his highborn seed, envisioning a dozen children—some with the dark chestnut curls of the Hightowers, others with the striking silver-white hair of the dragon—running and shrieking through the echoing corridors of the castle.
But even as the thought bloomed, a bitter taste rose in your mouth. You knew it was nothing more than a fool's dream. An ugly, poisonous fruit that presented itself as sweet, only to choke you the moment you bit into its flesh.
Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would sooner see Oldtown reduced to ash before allowing such a scandalous match. And Ormund, for all his dark lusts, would never disgrace his house or his standing in the eyes of the realm by taking his royal niece to wife.
And besides, the Lord of the Hightower already had three trueborn children of his own to secure his lineage.
With a low hum of approval, finally pleased with his work, Ormund tossed the sodden rag onto the floor. It hit the dark stone with a heavy, wet squelch, the spilled water staining the grey masonry an even deeper, bruised shade of black.
He leaned closer, his shadow completely consuming you.
His bare hand, still damp from the water, caressed your collarbone before trailing down, down, down…
His fingertips tracing the curve of your breast and the slope of your waist, until finally they settled over your sweet mound. Your breath hitched as he gripped your cunt. You hated how instinctively your hips arched into his palm, the bathwater sloshing softly against the wooden tub.
He began to trace his fingers along the sensitive folds of your cunt. He was teasing you—deliberately rolling the tender flesh between his fingertips, his thumb pinching and applying a slow, agonizing pressure to the bud of it.
“Do you let him touch you like this?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “Do you let him look at you, hm? Do you give him this right?”
You shook your head blindly, your silver hair dragging wetly across your shoulders.
“Words, niece,” he commanded softly, his grip tightening just enough to demand total submission. “I require words.”
“No.” you managed to choke out, the syllable catching in your throat.
“I need to hear it plain.” Ormund murmured, his eyes flashing with a savage, predatory glint as he watched the burning crimson rush to your cheeks. “Do you let Daeron into your bed? Into your cunt?”
The shame of it washed over you in a suffocating wave. To be pinned beneath his hold, naked and defenseless in the water, while he spoke the name of your twin brother—it felt entirely depraved, a twisted game born of the dark shadows in his mind.
Yet, beneath all the humiliation, that treacherous lust in your blood stirred, confusing your senses until the line between fury and desire blurred entirely.
“No—I do not let Daeron touch me,” you managed to whisper, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sheer intensity of his fingers working you apart overwhelmed you. “Only… only you.”
He laughed at that—a genuine, unrestrained bark of amusement leaving him, though the tension between you was anything but light. Pressing deeper, he joined two more fingers with the first, curling them inside your slick heat in a heavy, beckoning motion.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs parting wider as your head thudded back against the rim of the wooden basin.
“Maybe you are not so unmanageable after all,” he hummed, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of your chest. “Spoiled, without a doubt. But not entirely beyond locking into place.”
Your chest tightened at his words, a strange, hollow warmth blooming inside you despite the insult. You bit your lip so hard the taste of copper threatened to burst forth, your knuckles turning white as your hand gripped the edge of the tub for dear life.
Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your straining fingers. With his free hand, he reached out, interlocking his thick, calloused digits with your own, anchoring you to him.
He brought your laced hands up to his lips, pressing a cold, lingering kiss onto the back of your hand, all while his gaze remained locked onto yours. He searched your violet eyes for any sign of true distress or displeasure. He found none.
For a time, the chamber held only the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers moving within you, slightly muffled by the water, the gentle sloshing of the bath, and occasionally your own heavy, breathless heavy sighs.
The damp white baby hairs clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and the rising mist of the bath, the bottom of your locks completely drenched.
Unable to bear the distance any longer, you leaned forward blindly, catching his lips with your own.
He groaned as your lips crashed with his own, his wine-laced breath mingling with your own. His free hand tangling into your silver locks tils your head, pulling you flush against the wood of the basin until you were facing him entirely within the cramped confines of the tub.
Your mouths clashed in a desperate rhythm as your tongue intruded past his mouth, beneath the water his fingers quickened. He moved faster, driving deeper as your inner walls constricted around his hand, your pleasure threatening to spill over the precipice.
Ormund always knew when you were reaching your peak. Your body grew restless, shifting against his touch and you became squirmy, your hand blindly clamping down on the wrist that wrought such havoc upon you.
“Yield to it, niece.” he whispered against your bruised lips, his voice a commanding growl that left no room for retreat. “Let me see it.”
With a breathless, unrestrained cry, you obeyed his command and let go, the world spinning away into a blinding haze of colors as he held you through the wave.
Only when the tremors finally subsided and he deemed the deed finished did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving you to slump back weakly against the curved wood of the basin, completely undone.
Ormund rose to his feet, exhaling a heavy breath as his hands moved down to adjust the tight laces of his breeches. But before he could take a single step away from the water, three rapid, echoing knocks thudded against the heavy oak door.
He froze, a dark groan of frustration escaping him, as the blood in your veins instantly turned to ice.
If anyone were to find you in this scandalous compromise with the Lord of Oldtown, you would be absolutely doomed.
A princess of the Blood Royal caught in such a depraved state would bring ruin to the realm and shame to the High Tower. Yet, to your absolute horror, Ormund did not falter. He did not hide. Instead, he cleared his throat and called out to the door with a booming, careless command:
“Come in!”
“Ormund!” you hissed in a frantic, terrified whisper.
You scrambled to stand up in the oak tub, desperately looking around for a linen robe or a dry sheet to cover your nakedness, for there was no denying he was inside your private chambers.
But the bottom of the basin was slick with the Lyseni oils. Your foot slipped on the smooth wood, and you stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as you barely caught yourself on the damp rim of the tub. The water sloshed dangerously against the sides.
Ormund marched with long, confident strides to the other end of the solar.
With a rough, heavy yank, he pulled the thick brocade privacy curtain shut, cutting off the alcove from the rest of the room. Thank the Gods, you thought, pressing your back against the wood. He was reckless, but he was not utterly insane.
You heard the heavy oak door creak open at that exact same moment, followed by the soft shuffle of boots upon the floor rushes. You caught your breath, freezing like a hunted doe, trying to keep the water completely still so it wouldn't make a single sound.
Your blood ran instantly cold when you heard the first word spoken from the solar.
“Uncle.” It was Daeron’s voice.
You all but shrank into the water, wishing you could disappear into the copper depths. Your naked form left you feeling utterly vulnerable, stripped of every ounce of your royal dignity.
“Nephew.” Ormund acknowledged curtly. You heard the heavy thud of his boots as he shifted closer to the doorway to block the boy's path.
Daeron cleared his throat. You could not see him through the heavy curtain, but you could picture him perfectly: clad in the deep green fabrics of your mother's house, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen worked in silver thread upon his leather belt. His pale brows would be creaked in confusion, his young face puzzled as to why the Lord of Oldtown was standing in his sister’s private solar. Alone. The reality of it stung like a whip.
“I wish not to… intrude, my Lord,” Daeron said, his voice carrying the polite, practiced cadence of a well-bred squire. “But the Septon has been awaiting your presence at the Starry Sept for almost the entire morning.”
He had easily slipped into the dutiful role expected of him, and you hated how natural it sounded.
“Ah,” Ormund managed, his tone dripping with a feigned nonchalance, as if the holy matters of the city had completely slipped his mind. “Indeed. The hours slip away far too treacherously.”
“I kept him company in the courtyard and assured him that you had urgent, pressing matters of the estate to attend to.” Daeron explained, trying to look out for his master.
Ormund cut him off by placing a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.
It was a hand that was still completely drenched in the bathwater—slick with the sweet, musk-scented evidence of your recent release. You heard the distinct, wet slap of his palm against the fine velvet of Daeron's doublet.
The droplets clung to the fabric, immediately soaking into the cloth and staining his squire's garment with the very nectar Ormund had coaxed from your body only moments before.
You burned red with a sickening, paralyzing embarrassment. Gods, you thought, closing your eyes in agony. Your own twin brother was standing a mere few feet away, unwittingly bearing the scent of your sin upon his clothes.
“Thank you, Daeron,” Ormund said, and you could hear the smug, insufferable smirk in his voice. “You are a most dutiful squire. You will make a great knight one day, I am certain of it. You might even surpass your uncle Gwayne one day…”
You knew the Lord's arrogance wasn't born from a genuine desire to compliment the boy, but rather from the thrilling, twisted pleasure of the secret he held right behind the curtain.
“Uncle—is everything alright?” Daeron wondered aloud. You heard a slight shift in his footsteps, as if he were tilting his head to peer over Ormund’s broad shoulder, trying to catch sight of your vanity.
But Ormund kept him firmly locked in place, his grip unyielding. “Of course everything is alright, boy. Why would it not be?”
Ormund countered the question without an inch of doubt, lying straight through his teeth while his royal niece sat naked, shivering, and thoroughly ruined just on the other side of the silk hanging.
“Now, be a good squire and ride ahead to tell the Septon I am arriving.” Ormund patted the boy's cheek with an affectionate, patronizing hand, sending him off.
Daeron opened his mouth one last time, squinting a pale brow. His lips formed a shape as if to call out your name, wondering where his sister had vanished to on this morrow, but under the heavy gaze of his Lord, he relented.
“As you command, my Lord.”
The heavy oak door banged shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud.
An invisible weight lifted from your chest, and you finally managed to let your shoulders drop, exhaling a long, shaky breath that you had been holding for what felt like an eternity.
You stood up from the tub, the cooled water cascading down your pale thighs and clinging to your skin as Ormund drew back the privacy curtain.
He stepped into the alcove, his dark eyes sweeping over your dripping form one last time. His gaze was entirely silent, unreadable, and devoid of the warmth that had filled it moments before.
He gave you a single, curt nod of his head, turning on his heel without a word. The heavy door opened and closed once more, leaving you alone in the quiet solar—aching, profoundly confused, and shivering in the sudden cold.
the thought of playfighting with bb 🤤🤤🤤 he seems so serious about attacking entities and it’s such a job for him that i think he’d adoreee getting all silly and touchy with companion 🙏 and imagining it after he’s been chasing her too !!!
the first time you shove him he doesn’t move. obviously.
you put both hands on his chest and push and he just stands there, blinking at you with that confused furrow. because you’ve applied force to him, and the force was not effective and he’s now concerned you might be malfunctioning.
“fight me,” you demand.
“…no?”
“BB. fight me.”
“I don’t want to fight you.” genuinely distressed now. his eyes scan you for injuries, for signs of possession, for any reason his beloved might be requesting combat. “are you—is something—“
and you have to explain. it takes a minute. you have to walk an ancient predator through the concept of roughhousing. play. physical affection disguised as aggression. like pack animals.
you shove him again for emphasis and bb’s hands come up automatically to catch your wrists and you grin at him, and go “see? like that” and something clicks behind the blue eyes.
and then he loves it.
because you’re so cute. that’s the core of it, really. you’re slapping at his chest and biting his arm, squirming in his grip like you could actually get free if you tried hard enough and you can’t (you absolutely can’t) he could hold you still with one hand and a passing thought. but your face is scrunched up with real effort, and you’re growling at him, you’re actually growling, and his chest is so full of adoration he could choke on it.
you catch on fast that you can weaponise this.
you learn where the line is between play and play, and you get mean with it on purpose.
you bite harder. you scratch. you lean up and hiss something sharp against his ear, a taunt, a challenge, and you feel it happen… the shift. that low rumble replacing the purr. the frequency dropping from amused to older and heavier, the vibration changing texture in his chest. and the loving softness melts off his expression like frost off a window and underneath it is that predator shine, that flat black-edged stare, the grin pulling too wide.
there you are, you think, and it thrills you. every time.
you two wrestle through the nest like animals. blankets everywhere. pillows destroyed. he lets you win for a few seconds at a time, lets you pin his wrist or straddle his chest, crow about your victory snugly before he flips you like you weigh nothing and pins you flat with both wrists above your head, his body heavy on yours. his face is inches away. and the mockery on his tongue is soft, that low, amused murmur: “oh, you almost had me that time. so close. very scary.”
and you lift your chin. wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely trapped. and you stretch up and press the softest, sweetest kiss to his mouth. barely a brush. just your lips on his and the grin dissolves and the black bleeds out of his eyes and BB flooding back in, all warmth and want. that needy, desperate rush of tenderness crashing through the predator like a wave through a sandcastle.
his grip on your wrists goes slack. his breath stutters. his whole body softens against yours because you kissed him and the kissing is always his undoing, every single time, the gentleness after the roughness short-circuiting every ancient instinct he has. because you’re his love, and your mouth makes all the loving, protective instincts flare to life.
and in that half-second of melted composure you twist free. roll out from under him. hit the floor running top speed.
you’re through the apartment door and sprinting down the corridor barefoot, cackling before he’s even lifted his head, and behind you there’s a beat of silence, just one, and then that low, dark chuckle rolling down the hallway after you like smoke. pleased. impressed. delighted.
“oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “oh, that was good.”
his footsteps start. slow. unhurried. that casual lethal stroll.
you’re not going to make it far. you never do. but the chase is the whole point and you both know it, and somewhere in the nest behind you there’s a pile of destroyed blankets and a dent where you were pinned and this, this, this stupid silly reckless game of bite and shove and run and catch…. this is the happiest he’s ever been.
not the quiet adoration or the worship. this. you choosing to play with the thing in the dark. you teaching it that teeth can be gentle and fighting can be a love language and the corridor doesn’t always have to end in fear and death.
he’s going to catch you in about thirty seconds and the catching is going to involve pinning you to the nearest wall and kissing you until your knees give out, then he’s going to carry you back to the nest like his greatest prize.
pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader
wc: 9.1k 💀
summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader.
notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.
✶ better bobby series.
“I found something for you.”
BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.
“It was in one of the lower hallways,” he explains, watching for your reaction. “Near a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thought—” He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. “I thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.”
You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked.
It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.
“Thank you, BB.”
He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.
“You do? You like it?”
You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”
The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
You hold out for months.
That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew.
You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.
You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.
His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well.
There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.
So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.
For months after the first kiss. Just that.
“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair.
You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.
“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.
“What about?”
You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”
BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.
“Do you miss it?”
You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.
“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”
BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.
“Tell me about before,” he says softly.
Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.
Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body.
Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.
Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.
The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after.
The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.
You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now.
You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.
That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.
You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.
“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kept knocking.”
You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”
BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.
“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”
You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.
You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.
You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone.
Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it.
You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.
And you didn't leave.
That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you.
You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream.
You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it.
The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.
Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.
BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.
“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”
You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.
That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.
None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.
“Baby?”
BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully.
You nod. “Of course.”
He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”
Your chest tightens. “BB—”
“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”
He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands.
“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out.
You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.
“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”
He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.
That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.
You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—
Grief. You feel grief.
Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.
The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.
You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.
Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest.
That girl was going home. That girl was holding on.
This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up.
It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too.
The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory.
A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore.
Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.
BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.
You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.
You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.
“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.
BB goes still.
“You—”
“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”
The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold.
The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.
You kiss him the next day.
He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin.
BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.
“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.
BB stops talking.
His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats.
“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”
You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.
BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.
You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.
Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him.
His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.
The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.
BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much.
His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.
The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.
You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.
You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.
“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.
BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.
“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”
You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”
“Do… do you mean—”
“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."
BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.
“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.
You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.
“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.
He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.
“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”
His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.
“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”
Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.
“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”
“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”
He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”
He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers.
His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.
“I don't know how to. I've never—”
“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”
He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.
“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”
His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.
“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”
His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.
“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”
Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.
“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”
He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.
“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”
His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.
BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.
“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”
He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.
“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”
BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.
“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”
You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”
BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.
“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”
Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”
BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”
His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.
“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”
He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.
“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”
His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.
“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”
His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.
BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.
You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.
Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.
“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”
You come. Hard.
Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him.
He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.
“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”
His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.
BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.
“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”
He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.
“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”
You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”
He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.
“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”
You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”
“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”
“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”
He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”
His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.
You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.
BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.
“More?” he asks, barely audible.
You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”
His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.
“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”
“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”
He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.
You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.
BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.
“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”
He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.
He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.
“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.
BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.
He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.
The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.
The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.
“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”
“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”
You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you.
You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.
“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”
You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours.
His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.
“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”
He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.
You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.
“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”
You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.
“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.
“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”
He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.
“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”
He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.
“BB. Let me see.”
He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”
BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.
“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”
The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers.
His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.
His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control.
“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.
You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.
“Stay with me,” you say.
He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.
“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."
Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.
“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”
His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.
“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”
His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.
You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.
The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third.
“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”
The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will.
By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”
Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.
BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.
He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.
And he peers down. At your stomach.
You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.
You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.
BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted.
“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”
He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.
“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”
His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit.
He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.
Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now.
You’ve never heard the purr going louder.
“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.
BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.
His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.
“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”
You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.
You nod anyway.
BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.
He fucks you until you black out.
You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.
When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.
You stir. He notices immediately.
“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”
“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”
He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.
“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”
Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”
He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.
“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”
You should be terrified.
But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.
You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.
an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby(bb)
wc: 16.3k 🚬
contents/warnings: emotional manipulation, emotional neglect in a past relationship, internalised self-blame, discussions of infidelity, grief and loss, emotional dependency, body horror, strong violence, psychological horror, fear of abandonment, existential/cosmic horror, angstttttt.
notes: Strap in. This one is gonna be uh... fun! (thank you so much for your ongoing support btw, love you guys lots!!!).
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
You move before the thought finishes forming.
Your arms lock around BB from behind, tight around his waist, your hands fisting in the torn fabric of his shirt. Your face presses into the space between his shoulder blades, breathing hard. His body stands rigid under your grip, every muscle locked, the whole of him vibrating with a fury so potent you can feel it sinking into your own body.
He's burning hot for once. Hotter than you've ever felt him before, the cool skin scorched away by whatever he's become in the last however-many-hours, and the heat radiates through his tattered shirt and into your cheek, your palms, and the insides of your wrists where your pulse hammers against his spine.
“Stop,” you plead into his back. Into the ruined fabric, that hum that's pouring off him like radiation. “BB, stop. Don't hurt him.”
Bobby is kicking, his feet scrabbling against the wall behind him, his sneakers leaving black marks on the plaster, hands clawing at BB's wrist with a frantic, oxygen-starved desperation.
His face is darkening now, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. The sounds coming from his throat are wet and crushed. Because they're sounds of a body being denied the thing it needs most, but BB's hand doesn't loosen. It’s a closed system, a vice with a pulse rate of zero.
“He doesn't belong here.” BB's voice is gravel and sub-bass, the human register shredded, the words coming from somewhere beneath his chest. “This is my territory. You’re my—”
“You promised me.”
Your voice breaks on the word. Cracks open, raw and wet, and you press your forehead harder into his back, feeling the vibration of him against your skull and your arms tighten around his waist further. You hold on the way you held on in the meadow, in the nest you’ve shared.
“You promised you wouldn't hurt me, BB. And this—” Your voice drops, shaking. “This would.”
BB goes still.
The fury doesn't leave. You can still feel it, coiled, massive, a thing with its own gravity sitting inside his ribcage, pressing outward against the seams of him. But the stillness settles over it like a lid over a flame. His breathing—the breathing he doesn't need, the breathing that's been coming in ragged, animal bursts—slows. His shoulders drop by a degree, and the heat recedes, fractionally, from scalding to merely unbearable.
His hand opens.
Bobby drops down.
He hits the floor hard, knees first, then hands. Then he's on all fours, gasping, dragging air into his lungs in long, shuddering, tearing inhales that sound like they're being pulled through a crushed straw. The colour rushes back into his face all at once, from white to red, the blood flooding back into tissue that was seconds from permanent damage.
Kat is on the floor beside him in an instant, her hands frantic on his shoulders, his face, checking his throat, his pulse, and she's saying his name (Bobby, Bobby, breathe, look at me, breathe) and Bobby is coughing and gasping, his eyes streaming. The red marks on his throat are already darkening into bruises that will look, by tomorrow, like a handprint painted in purple and black.
You let go of BB, stepping back.
One step. Two. Putting distance between your body and his, and BB turns to face you, his hand lifting instinctively, reaching for your face, any part of you he can touch to confirm you're whole, and you step back again.
His hand halts mid-air.
You've seen BB confused many times before. You've seen him curious, amused, predatory, ancient, tender, wrecked with wanting. But you’ve never seen BB wounded.
His hand hangs in the space between you, reaching for a face that pulled away, and his eyes—still black around the edges, the warmth fighting its way back to the surface through the damage and the fury—registering the distance you've put between your bodies. Reading the enormity of your retreat with a precision that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
You stepped back from him.
You. The person who named him. The person who leaned into his forehead kisses and fell asleep against his cool chest and taught him to dance in a kitchen he built for you. You stepped back, and the distance is a sentence he can read, and the sentence says I don't trust you right now.
His hand drops to his side.
“What the fuck.”
Bobby. On the floor. Coughing, gasping, one hand on his throat and the other braced against the floorboards, and he's staring up at BB with an expression that’s blown past fear and into something else.
Incomprehension, horror, the cognitive whiteout of a man looking at his own face on a body that just tried to kill him.
“What the actual fuck,” Bobby says again, louder this time.
The choking has left his voice shredded, hoarse, each word dragged across damaged vocal cords. He gets to his knees. Kat's hand grips his arm, trying to hold him down, but he shakes her off and gets to his feet, his legs unsteady but his eyes are locked on BB. His jaw pulses, hands fisted at his sides, and he’s staring at his own face and finding a stranger peering back.
“That's me.” Bobby's voice is climbing, ragged with disbelief. “That's—that's my face. That's my face. Why does it have my face?”
BB's jaw tightens. The ancient thing flickers behind his eyes. A flash of contempt, of possessiveness, of the territorial fury that just had Bobby pinned three feet off the ground.
He looks at Bobby the way you'd look at a counterfeit of yourself. A draft. A rough sketch someone made before the final version.
“Answer me!” Bobby surges forward even as Kat scrambles to grab his arm. He shakes her off again without looking. “What are you? What the fuck are you?”
“BB.” You say it before you can stop yourself, before the anger and the hurt and the betrayal can seal your throat. The instinct to name him, to give him the dignity of the identity he let you choose for him, is still there underneath everything else. “His name is BB.”
Bobby stares at you both. The information moves across his face in parts. Confusion first, then processing, then a slow, horrible understanding that reorganises his features into something you've never seen on him. An emotion beyond anger, beyond hurt.
“BB. That BB? What kind of name even is that?” Bobby demands.
BB’s nostrils flare. “It stands for Better Bobby.”
Suffocating silence folds over the room. Kat’s mouth pops open in your peripheral, and you suck in a breath of your own.
“Better Bobby.” The real Bobby laughs. A short, ugly sound that's closer to a bark than a laugh, the kind of noise a person makes when the absurdity of their situation has exceeded their capacity for rational response. He barks out another laugh, then, “Better Bobby. Are you kidding me?”
BB's lip curls, a flash of teeth appearing. “I didn't choose the name for your benefit.”
“No, you just chose my face. You stole my face and my—and my—”
Bobby's gaze cuts to you, then back to BB. The calculation happening behind his eyes is visible, mechanical, each variable slotting into place with an almost audible click, and you can see the exact moment the picture completes because Bobby’s expression doesn't crumble; it hardens. Sets. His jaw locks and his eyes go bright and hot, the hurt underneath the anger so vast it makes the anger look like a puddle on an ocean.
“You've been down here,” Bobby begins, his voice pitching quiet. The dangerous quiet. The one that comes right before the blade. “This whole time. Down here with that.” He points at BB accusingly without looking at him. “With some thing wearing my face. A cheap copy—”
BB snarls. Low. A sound that makes the fractured windows rattle. “I'm not a copy—”
“—while I sat in a basement for seven months talking to a fucking wall, thinking you were dead." Bobby's voice cracks open, choking. "While the cops thought I killed you. The tapes went blank, and your face disappeared, and everyone forgot you existed. I thought I was going crazy because I was the only person left who remembered what you looked like—”
He's shaking. Full body vibration.
His hands tremble at his sides, and his jaw is trembling, and the chain at his throat is shimmering with movement. He’s a man coming apart at every joint because the grief and the fury are feeding each other in a loop that's spinning too fast to control, only amplifying the hurt beneath.
Each word comes out hotter than the last, each breath shorter, and Kat is standing behind him with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide like she’s never seen Bobby like this because Bobby doesn't do this.
Bobby deflects; he bites. Bobby is the one who turns his pain into a joke or a weapon. But Bobby doesn't break. Except he's breaking. Right now. In a pink house on Level 974, looking at his own face on a monster and the woman he loves standing between them.
“Terrence forgot you.” Bobby's voice cracks on the name. Pure pain that sinks between your ribs. “Terrence. Our best friend, remember him? The only person who believed me when the whole neighbourhood decided I was a killer. He sat with me in bars and told people to back off and drove me home when I couldn't drive, and he was the last one—the last person besides me who still said your name. And then one day I said it, and he looked at me like I was speaking a different language. Like the word didn't mean anything. Like you were—like you'd never—”
He presses the heel of his hand into his eye. The old gesture. The grinding-the-tears-back gesture, brutal and effective. “I watched him forget you. In real time. I said your name and I watched it fall out of his head and he looked at me with this—this pity, like I was talking about someone who never existed. And I wanted to grab him and shake him. Scream she was real, she was REAL, I loved her, and she was real—”
Bobby sucks in a breath so hard his whole body jerks with it.
“Eighteen months,” Bobby croaks out hoarsely, the shaking getting worse. “I nearly died waiting for you. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. I sat in that basement until my back seized up and I couldn't stand straight, and even then I went back. I kept going back, and you're here. You've been here this whole time. Completely fine. With him. Letting him—wearing my face while he—”
Bobby can't finish the sentence. His hand comes up and covers his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut, and the sound Bobby makes behind his palm is tiny and wrecked. You shouldn't be hearing it, but you can't stop hearing it.
“Bobby—” Kat whispers, reaching for him.
“Don't touch me.” He shakes his head, opening his eyes.
And the expression on his face is the one from the doorway, the one you never saw because you were the one walking away. The expression of a man watching the person he loves leave and being unable to say the thing that would make them stay. Except now it's worse because you didn't leave. You were taken. And what took you gave you a version of him that does all the things he couldn't.
Then, in a dazed whisper, “Did you fuck him?”
The question lands like a grenade. Kat visibly flinches. BB goes rigid in your line of sight, and you feel numb shock slacken your expression.
“Bobby,” Kat says sharply. “This isn’t the time—”
“Did you fuck him?” Bobby's voice cracks, splitting, the words coming out jagged and shaky because he can't control himself. “This thing that stole my face—did you let it touch you? Did you let it—” He gestures at BB, at you, at the space between your bodies. “Were you playing Barbie and Ken down here with my—with a goddamn copy of me while everyone back home thought you were—”
He stops, pressing both hands over his face. His shoulders heave. Once. Twice. The sound he's holding back is massive, and he still won't let it out. He won't. Because he’s Bobby Franklin, and he doesn’t cry in front of people, not even now, not even here, when the girl he spent seven months talking to through concrete is standing five feet away next to the thing that kept her.
“They all thought I killed you. Our neighbours. Our friends. Clark. Strangers on the street. They'd look at me, and I could see it. He did it. The boyfriend did it.” Through his hands. Muffled, reedy, barely controlled. “Months of that. Of carrying that and going to the store every night, sitting on the floor and talking to you because it was the only thing—the only thing—that kept me—” His hands drop. His face is red and wet, ruined. “And you were here. Did you even try to go home?”
The room vibrates. The hum, the tension, the emotional charge of three people and two entities standing in a space too small for the volume of pain it generates.
You stare at Bobby's wrecked face, those bright, glassy eyes, his shaking hands. The man who loved you and couldn't say it and sat on concrete for seven months saying it to a wall instead. The man who grunted at your goodbye. The man who let you stand in a doorway feeling invisible. The man who came through the wall to find you.
“You moved on too,” you say lastly.
Quiet. Cold. The voice the Backrooms gifted to you. The flat, unmoved, survival-voice, the one that doesn't shake because it can't afford to do so.
Bobby's mouth opens. Closes. His features spasm like you’ve struck him despite the distance between you.
“You moved on too, Bobby. You're standing here with her—” you gesture at Kat, who shrinks back— “shielding her with your body, doing all the things you stopped doing for me. And I'm supposed to—what? Feel guilty? Because I survived? Because I found something down here that you couldn't be bothered to give me up there?”
“That's not—”
“You left first.” The words tear out of you before you can weigh them, before the part of you that knows this isn't entirely fair either can catch up to the part of you that’s been carrying this for months and is finally, finally letting it spill. “You left me in that apartment, Bobby. You left me standing in doorways waiting for you to look up. You left me lying next to you in bed wondering if I was still visible. And I don't know why. I've never known why. I loved you more than anything I've ever—”
Your voice fractures, words catching in your windpipe. You press your knuckle against your mouth, mouth wobbling, try your hardest to breathe through it.
“I loved you,” you repeat, steadier, lower. Your anger holding the grief upright the way a spine holds a body. “More than anything. And I didn't need to hear it. I never needed you to say the words, that’s the thing. But I used to feel it. In how you touched me and kissed me and held me. In how you looked at me in the morning. And then you stopped. You just… stopped. And it wasn't sudden. It was slow. So slow I didn't even notice it happening until I was already standing in it. This—this absence. Where you used to be. And I tried to talk to you about it, and you said don't be dramatic, and we're fine. I tried again, and you turned up the TV. I stood there in the kitchen watching the back of your head, and I thought—”
You choke on the words. Your eyes burn, but the tears won't come because the anger has dried them at the source.
“I thought maybe this is what love becomes. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm asking for too much. And I made myself smaller and smaller and smaller to fit inside whatever you were still willing to give me, and it was never enough. I didn't know why and you wouldn't tell me—”
“I was scared.” Bobby. Raw. Stripped to the bone. “I was so scared of how much I—”
“I don't care.” Flat. Final. Your voice hardens despite the thickness of your voice. “I don't care that you were scared. I was scared too. I was scared every single day that you were going to wake up and decide you didn't want me anymore and instead of telling me that. Instead of saying I'm terrified and I don't know how to love you without losing myself… you just stopped. You made me feel so alone. I used to talk to the walls at Clark's store because the walls were better company than you were.”
You suck in a ragged breath. It shakes on the way in, steadies on the way out. Bobby’s peering at you wide-eyed, his mouth parted, tension between you thrumming. You exhale, chuckling shakily, pained.
“And the worst part, Bobby?” you pose, not waiting for a response. “The worst part is it took me disappearing for you to care. It took me falling through a wall and vanishing from the face of the earth for you to sit down and say the things you should have said when I was standing right in front of you. You had me. I was right there. Every day. For years. And you couldn't be brave enough to tell me you loved me or hold me like you needed me. But the second I'm gone—the second you can't have me anymore—suddenly you're on a concrete floor pouring your heart out to a wall. Suddenly you remember how to feel.”
Bobby flinches. Full body, his blue eyes bright and shining. Like you've hit him again.
“And you want to know the thing that really kills me?” Your voice is shaking now, the anger fracturing, the grief bleeding through the cracks again. “I was working the late shift alone. In that basement. Alone, Bobby. Because you stopped coming. You used to come keep me company, and you stopped. I was down there by myself, sorting inventory, and that's where it happened. That's where the wall took me. And if you'd been there… if you'd just walked through that door one more time, if you'd come to the store instead of staying on that couch…”
You shake your head, glancing down. BB jerks, like he’s fighting an urge to reach for you, to comfort you somehow. “I wouldn't have been alone when it happened,” you go on, lifting your head again. “I might not have been standing in front of that wall at all. You want to know who's to blame for me being here? It's not the Backrooms. It's not BB. It's the fact that the man I loved couldn't be bothered to keep me company like he used to.”
The silence that follows is absolute. Suffocating. The hum drops to its lowest register.
Bobby stares at you. His face is open in a way you've never seen before. No armour, no grin, no deflection. Just Bobby. The raw, messy human underneath all the performance. And the expression on that face is not anger. It's devastation.
Because he’s just heard the exact truth he's been telling himself for eighteen months spoken aloud by the person he failed, confirmed, verified, stamped and sealed.
Kat stands behind him, her arms heavy at her sides, face tight with an attempt to hold her composure. She’s just learned the full dimensions of the wound she's been dressing for over a year and finally understands it goes deeper than she knew.
BB watches you with an expression you can't read. His black-edged eyes roam over your face, cataloguing the anger, the grief, the terrible release of words held back for so long. His hand twitches at his side again. The instinct—to reach, to touch, to soothe—still running underneath the barrier you imposed.
“Come with me,” BB urges, his words low. His hand lifts again, reaching for your elbow. “You don't have to stay here. Let me take you—”
“Don't touch me.”
BB's hand freezes midair.
“You're no better.”
You watch the impact of your words jolt through him. The way BB’s whole body registers it, a flinch that travels from his face through his shoulders to his hands. He absorbs it the way Entity X absorbs damage, except this doesn't regenerate. This is a cut that stays.
“You—” BB starts, his brows furrowing. His confusion is genuine, nothing performed in it. There’s no curious tilt he does when encountering new concepts, but real confusion, the bewildered processing of a being trying to understand what went wrong.
“Did you know?” you bite out.
You ask it quietly, peering at his face. Bobby's face. The face that heard you through a wall and chose to want you, that built you a kitchen and kissed your forehead and promised you things and held you while you cried.
“Did you know Bobby was out there? For months. Did you know he was looking for me? Sitting in that basement, talking through the wall. Did you hear him, BB? Did you hear him saying he loved me while you were holding me and telling me it was all his fault?”
BB's expression goes smooth.
The warmth and confusion drain, followed by wounded bewilderment. What's left is closed. Perfectly, terribly closed. The face flattening into something that's neither Bobby nor BB but something older, something that predates both of them.
You laugh. A short, bitter sound, no joy in it.
“Yeah,” you exhale. Shaking now, because anger can't hold your grief forever, the frame is buckling, and you can feel the tears starting to press against the backs of your eyes like a tide against a wall. “That's exactly what I thought.”
The room is quiet.
Bobby is on the floor with Kat's hand on his shoulder and bruises darkening on his throat. BB stands in front of you with a closed-off face and a frozen hand, the ruins of every tender moment you've shared settling around him like a ring of ash. Mr Kitty lingers in the corner, his dark shape motionless, his blank face oriented toward the centre of the room with the patient, unhurried attention.
“I need time,” you say, your voice thin. “I need… to think. I can't—I can't be in this room right now.”
You spin on your heels, walking toward the staircase, your bare feet on the floorboards. You clutch your notebook against your chest, your shoulders set in a rigid line, your chin up, and your eyes burning, but you don’t cry.
You will not cry. You’ll walk through this door and find a corner of this level that doesn't contain Bobby or BB or Kat or anyone else, and you’ll sit down and breathe.
You’ll figure out what is left of you underneath all of this wreckage.
BB moves after you. You hear it more so than see it. The shift in air pressure, the displacement, his body orienting toward yours the way it always does, the magnetic pull that has governed his movements since the first day. His footstep on the floorboard behind you.
Mr. Kitty steps into his path.
The tall dark shape moves from the corner to the centre of the room in a single fluid motion, interposing itself between BB and the door, between BB and you. Mr Kitty doesn't speak. Simply stands there. Immense, faceless, filling the doorway with the calm, absolute certainty that informs everyone, silently, that no one is getting past him.
BB snarls.
The sound fills the room, saturating it. Harsh, emotional, stripped of the controlled fury from earlier. This isn't the predator defending his territory. But something hurt and desperate, unable to reach the only thing that makes the hurt bearable, and the snarl carries all of it—the confusion, the desperation, the agony of watching you walk away from him and being told he doesn’t get to follow.
“Get out of my way.”
BB's voice is low. Vibrating. The hum in the walls responding to him, the floorboards creaking around you, the cracked windows rattling in their frames. The power coming off him is palpable. A pressure change, a density in the air, the room bending around the force of an entity that’s existed for longer than these walls have stood.
Mr. Kitty doesn't move.
The house begins to vibrate.
A deep, foundational tremor that runs through the floor and up through the walls and into the ceiling. The scones on the counter rattle. A crack appears in the plaster above the kitchen doorway. Two forces pressing against each other. BB's vast, ancient fury and Mr. Kitty's quiet, absolute sovereignty over this level, this house, this ground.
Mr. Kitty may not be as old. May not carry the same raw, limitless power that BB channels from the Backrooms itself, but Level 974 is his. The pink walls and the Hello Kitty figurines and the golden light.
His domain, his territory, his rules.
And in this space, on this ground, Mr Kitty doesn’t yield.
The vibration deepens. The figurines on the shelf chatter against each other. Bobby grabs Kat and pulls her toward the corner, away from the two entities locked in their silent standoff.
“Enough.”
Your voice. From the doorway, looking over your shoulder at the room. At BB, rigid and his mouth snarling, at Mr Kitty, immovable and calm, at the house shaking around them.
“Stop it. Both of you. Right now.”
BB's eyes are black, wild, fixed on Mr. Kitty's faceless head with a fury that has nowhere to go.
You look at BB.
It's the look that stops him. Your eyes on him, meeting his, and the expression in them—cold, hurt, closed, the warmth he's spent months earning withdrawn behind a wall he can't charm or claw his way through. You look at him the way you looked at Bobby in Santa Clara, in the doorway, in the kitchen, during all those conversations he refused to have.
“Leave me alone,” you say coldly. “I mean it, BB. Leave me alone.”
The vibration cuts out.
The house settles around you into eerie silence, the figurines stilling. The crack in the plaster stays but doesn't spread further.
BB's snarl dies in his throat, not released but swallowed, pushed down into whatever deep place he stores the things he can't process. His fury collapses inward, his features rearranging not into Bobby's easy mask but into something fragile and deeply, fundamentally lost.
Because he’s just been told by the only person who matters to him that he’s not wanted here.
Mr. Kitty steps aside.
You walk through the door, up the stairs that don’t make a single creak, and don’t look back.
BB does not follow.
The bedroom is pink.
Every surface of it. The walls, the ceiling, the bedframe, even the dresser with its rows of small ceramic figurines. All Hello Kitty, some with bows, others with tiny painted expressions of vacant, cheerful contentment that feel deeply wrong in a place where nothing should be cheerful.
The bed is covered with a pink duvet and pink pillows, a stuffed Hello Kitty the size of a small child propped against the headboard. You’re sitting on the edge of said bed in this aggressively pink room, clutching a pillow to your chest and crying so quietly your body barely moves.
You washed your face in the bathroom with shaking hands. The soap smelled like strawberries, which is either a kindness or a coincidence and in the Backrooms you've stopped trying to tell the difference. You scrubbed the tear-tracks and the grime and the black residue of Entity X's blood from your skin, and you looked at yourself in the mirror, but the face peering back at you was thinner than you remembered. Sharper. Older in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with the kind of living you've been doing down here.
You looked at your own face, and you didn't recognise the expression on it, and then you did, and that was somehow worse.
You press the pillow into your chest, tears soaking into the fabric, leaving dark spots as you wipe them with the back of your hand.
A plate appears on the bedside table.
Cookies. Round, golden, slightly uneven. Arranged in a careful circle on a pink ceramic plate with a Hello Kitty border.
You didn't hear Mr. Kitty enter. You never do.
He's simply there, filling the corner of the room, his dark shape folded into a crouch that brings his smooth, featureless head level with the top of the dresser. His long arms drape over his knees. The posture is oddly casual for something that nearly went to war with a fellow ancient entity an hour ago.
You glance at the cookies. A wet, exhausted laugh escapes you. Because there's a faceless being the height of a doorframe crouched in a pink bedroom offering you baked goods, and this is your life now, apparently.
Are you feeling better, little one?
His voice settles into your skull with that warm, furred pressure, gentle and unhurried. Little one. He's been calling you that since the third time BB brought you to 974, and the tenderness of it used to make you bristle. You're not little, not a child, not something to be diminished with a pet name, but you've come to understand that little is relative.
To Mr. Kitty, everything is little. The Backrooms are little. Time is little. The enormous, life-destroying pain you're feeling right now is little. Not because it doesn't matter but because it exists within a framework so vast that even devastation is a passing thing for him.
“No,” you answer honestly. “I feel awful.”
Mr Kitty's head inclines. A slow, measured tilt that you've learned to read as acknowledgement. He doesn't offer comfort. He doesn't say it'll be okay or this too shall pass or any of the empty phrases that people deploy when they can see someone hurting and don't know what else to do.
“Have you ever experienced anything like this?” you ask, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “This mess. This kind of—”
You gesture vaguely at the room, at yourself.
No.
A pause.
I'm not human.
You stare at him. His blank face gives nothing back. The delivery is so flat, so matter-of-fact, so completely devoid of inflection that it takes your exhausted brain a second to register that the seven-foot faceless entity crouched in a bedroom full of Hello Kitty memorabilia has just delivered the driest possible response to your question.
You snort wetly despite yourself, wiping your nose.
“Is everyone okay? Out there?”
The humans are safe. They've eaten. I've provided almond water. It helps with the psychological effects of prolonged exposure. The mind frays here. Theirs will fray faster than yours did. A pause. The blank head angles slightly, as if consulting a source of information you can't perceive. The older man… he was located. But he refused to come with my guidance. He's making his way back toward the entry point on Level 2. Alive, as far as I'm aware. Frightened. But alive.
“Thank you.” The words come out thin. Insufficient. You're thanking a being older than human civilisation for babysitting your kinda-boyfriend and his new girlfriend while tracking down your former employer through an interdimensional nightmare. “For all of this. For letting us—”
You're welcome in this house. You've always been welcome.
Your fingers dig into the pillow. “What about BB?”
Mr. Kitty's head tilts again. The angle is different this time, sharper, more deliberate.
The Backrooms are in disarray. An observation, not a complaint. Entity X's presence has had an unusual cascading effect. Smilers are ranging further. Skin-stealers have been reported on levels they typically avoid. Another pause. His faceless head angles toward the window, toward the levels that stretch below and above and in every impossible direction. Your boy is clearing up the mess.
Your boy. Indulgent, slightly bemused. You don’t correct him, not even now.
Entity X seems to have an unusual ability to affect other entities. Amplifying their aggression. Destabilising their territorial patterns. As if its presence is contagious. An emotional frequency that spreads through the hum, agitating everything it touches.
You think about Entity X. About the burning yellow eyes that never looked away. About the argument it played through the walls to lure you out. Why that conversation? Why your argument, specifically?
Why did it know what Bobby sounded like when he was shutting you out? The questions stack up in your head the way the entries stack in your notebook. Pattern without explanation. You can feel the shape of it, the edges pressing against the inside of your skull, but the centre won't resolve.
“Why me?” you ask, peering at Mr Kitty. “Why does it want me?”
Mr Kitty is silent for a long moment. His blank head angles toward you with that sharper tilt. As if he's reading something written on you in a frequency only he can perceive.
I have a theory. Measured. Careful. But theories without sufficient evidence are just stories. And stories can be dangerous in a place that listens and can make them a reality.
“Tell me.”
When you're ready to hear it, little one. When the answer won't do more harm than the question.
The deflection is gentle but absolute, and you know better than to push. Mr Kitty doesn't withhold out of cruelty. If he's not telling you, it's because the telling carries a weight he doesn't think you can hold right now.
You file it away. Another entry in the private section of the notebook. Another question with no answer.
“Has it—is it gone?”
Retreated. Very suddenly. For reasons I can't determine. Mr Kitty's face tilts back toward you. That concerns me more than its presence did. An entity of that power doesn't retreat without cause. It either ran into an unexpected problem, or it decided to wait for a better opportunity.
The words settle on your shoulders.
You sit for a moment longer. The pink room. The cookies. The faceless being in the corner, patient and still. The faint sound of voices from the living room floats over. Low, murmured, too indistinct to make out words. Bobby's voice. Kat's voice. Talking about you, probably. Talking about what comes next. Discussing whatever people do when the world has ended, and they're sitting in a pink house eating scones and trying to pretend their worldview hasn’t just shattered.
You reach for a cookie. Bite into it. It's good. Buttery, slightly sweet, with a texture that's almost right. The Backrooms' version of homemade, close enough that your tongue can't argue.
“I can't hide here forever,” you mumble, chewing. Your voice is scraped raw, and the cookie is doing nothing to fix that, but it's doing something for the rest of you. The simple, animal act of eating, of taking a thing and putting it in your body, of fuelling the machine. “Even though I want to.”
Mr Kitty says nothing. His blank face radiates with the particular silence that means I agree, and I'm glad you arrived there yourself.
You stand, pressing your palms against your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. In. Out. The way you breathe before entering a new level, before turning a corner in an unmapped corridor, or opening a door whose other side you can't predict.
The survival breath. The steadying edge you didn’t have back in the real world and only developed here. The willingness not to run away and hide.
You wipe your face one final time. Set the pillow down. Pick up the notebook from the bedside table where you placed it beside the cookies, pressing it against your chest. The weight of it is familiar, grounding, the only possession you have that still feels like yours.
“Thank you, Mr. Kitty.”
Eat another cookie before you go. You’ll need it.
You do as he instructs, then open the bedroom door. You walk down the short hallway of Mr. Kitty's house, past the framed Hello Kitty prints and down the stairs, stepping into the living room.
Bobby and Kat are sitting at the kitchen table.
Their heads are bowed. Close together. Kat's hand is on Bobby's forearm, and Bobby's other hand is pressed flat against the table, fingers splayed, bracing himself.
They're speaking in low voices. You catch the edge of a word. Your name, maybe. Or something that used to be your name before it became something else.
Bobby spots you first.
He stands immediately, like the sight of you alone gave him an electric shock. The chair scrapes the floor. His face is a mess of competing expressions: relief, tension, the careful, wary hope as eh drinks you in. The bruises on his throat have deepened. Dark purple against his tanned skin, four finger-marks and a thumb-mark, BB's handprint developing like a collar on his neck.
You catch the flicker across Kat's face, brief and involuntary. The subtle tightening around her eyes, the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth.
She was saying something to Bobby, and you interrupted it, and the hurt of being interrupted is tangled up with the hurt of being here at all, of sitting in a nightmare for a man who’s looking at another woman with that expression. That searching, desperate, is-she-okay expression that Kat has probably been working for months to earn, and you just walked in and collected without trying.
You see it. You look away from it.
You wrap your arms around yourself. One hand on each elbow, holding yourself together.
“You need to leave,” you tell them flatly. “Both of you. Right now. The Backrooms aren't safe for humans. They were never safe, but right now they're worse. Entity X destabilised everything. Every entity on every level is more aggressive than it should be and you don't have the training or the knowledge to survive that.”
“I'm not leavin' without you.” Bobby. Immediate. Jaw set, chin up, the Bobby-stubbornness that looks like courage and has always been, underneath, a different kind of fear. “I didn't come through a wall, walk through hell and get choked out by my own doppelganger to leave you down here alone. No way in hell.”
You level him with a flat look. The one you learned living here. A part of you wants to remind Bobby that he tore into you less than an hour ago, but he's calmer now. Past the initial, ugly shock.
Bobby surprises you by holding that look.
For a moment that stretches into two, then three. Then his jaw flutters, his gaze dropping, and you see it: the fight leaving him. Not because he agrees, or wants to, but because the woman standing in front of him is not the woman he lost.
The woman he lost was standing in a doorway with her keys and her heart in her eyes, waiting to be seen. The woman standing in front of him now has a notebook and a survival instinct, and she's not waiting for anything.
“BB,” you call out.
The air shifts. Between one breath and the next, there’s a displacement, and the pressure changes in your sinuses.
BB stands at the edge of the living room like he's been there the whole time, like he materialised from the wall, which he probably did. He's more put together than the last time you saw him. His face reset, the fissures sealed, the eyes back to Bobby's blue with only a thin ring of darkness at the outer edges. The black blood is gone. The torn shirt is the same, but he's cleaned the rest, reassembled the human costume with great care.
He looks at you and his whole body orients again. That magnetic pull, that compass-needle pivot, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet, his chin lifting, his eyes searching your face with a hope so raw it makes your heart ache.
Because you called him. And the part of BB that lives underneath the fury and the ancient power and the territorial instinct—the part that learned to kiss you in a kitchen and asked am I doing it right and pressed his lips to your forehead because you taught him that tenderness—that part heard his name in your voice and came running. And he’s standing in front of you now, practically vibrating with a desperate, transparent hope that calling means forgiving.
It doesn't. He can see that too. The hope flickers. Dims. Holds, just barely, at the edges.
“I need you to take Bobby and Kat out,” you tell him calmly. The survival voice. “Back to the real world. Through the wall in Clark's basement.”
BB's expression morphs. A crease appears between his brows, a tightening at the corners of his mouth. He glances at Bobby, at Kat, and the glance carries a weight that isn't quite hostility. Closer to resignation.
“I can't,” he says.
“BB—”
“The path is gone.” He says it plainly, without the smooth, closed expression he wore when you asked if he knew Bobby was looking for you. “Entity X destroyed sections of Level 0 during the fight. The corridors between here and the adjacent entry point to the storage basement on Level 0 are collapsed. The hum no longer reaches those sections. They've been severed from the level entirely.”
You can feel everyone staring at BB as you absorb his words.
“Then find another way,” you say. “There are other exits. Other entry points. You've said—”
“The only feasible exit I can guarantee right now is the M.E.G. outpost.” BB's eyes are on you. Only you. Bobby might as well be furniture. “The one on the far side of Level 4. But the direct path from here is gone. We'll have to go through the Poolrooms, and cut across to Level 4 through the threshold at the deep end. From there it's a straight corridor to the outpost, but that corridor runs through a section of Level 4 that's been unstable since the cascade.” He pauses, weighing his words. “The Poolrooms should be passable. Level 4 is the risk. Entities might shelter there because the layout gives them cover. Under normal conditions it's manageable. Right now, with the aggression spike, it'll be hostile.”
You run the route in your head.
Level 974 to the transitional stairwell. Through the Poolrooms, warm chlorinated water and blue tile, a level you've mapped partially, three pages of the notebook dedicated to its spanning layout and the way sound carries across the surface.
You know the Poolrooms. BB took you there multiple times. You used them in the past for hygiene and a change of scenery both.
The water was warm, and the light was washed-out blue, and nothing lived in it that wanted to hurt you, at least not then.
From the deep end threshold into Level 4. The endless office complex, the one that looks like every corporate building you've ever been in hollowed out and stretched to infinity. Dark. Echoing. Full of cubicles and conference rooms and hallways that dead-end without warning.
You've only been there once, briefly, and your notes on it are thin at best.
Half a page, a rough sketch, a warning symbol in the margin.
“How far?” you ask.
“Through the Poolrooms, it's distance without danger. Level 4 is the gauntlet. Maybe an hour on foot, if the path holds without shifting and nothing's nesting in the corridor.” BB's expression goes tense, focused. “I'll clear what I can ahead of you. You navigate.”
“Wait, who's M.E.G.? What’s Poolrooms?” Kat’s voice floats over from the table, cautious but steady. “What even is that?”
“Research group,” you reply, turning to her. It's the first time you've spoken to her directly without anger in your voice, and you can feel the shift, the effort of treating her like a person instead of a scapegoat to your jealousy. “Explorers. They study this place. Map it. They've been operating down here for… I don't know how long. But they're organised. They have resources.” You pause. “I think they can be trusted. It might be the safest option.”
Kat nods, quick and decisive. The relief on her face is visible. Not at the thought of leaving you behind, or at winning some unspoken competition, but at the prospect of a plan. A structure. An exit with a name and a direction and people on the other side who might know what they're doing.
Kat is a practical woman in an impractical situation; you can tell as much, and the offer of practicality is the first solid ground she's stood on since she climbed through a wall in Clark's basement.
“Fine,” Bobby says quickly, his voice rough. “M.E.G. Great. Let's go.” He pushes off the table. “All of us.”
You inhale deeply. “Bobby.”
“I said I'm not leaving without you.” Louder. More determined. The Bobby-edge again, the blade under the casual, except there's no casual left. It's all blade now, all sharp. “I'll go with Kat. But I'm not walking through some—some exit and leaving you in this place. I'm not.”
BB's lips peel back. A flash of teeth behind the Bobby-mask, involuntary, predatory, the territorial snarl surfacing before he can catch it.
The sight of Bobby refusing to leave you, refusing to relinquish, insisting on staying close to the thing BB considers his triggers something primal in the entity underneath.
He catches it at once, swallowing over it. His lips close over his teeth, jaw clenching painfully. He doesn't speak. Just stares at Bobby with the flat, unblinking intensity that tells you he’s choosing, with considerable effort, not to put Bobby through another wall.
Bobby, to his credit, ignores him. Pointedly and aggressively, with that specific brand of human stubbornness. Bobby will not look at BB. Will not address BB. Only pretend that the thing wearing his face is not standing six feet away radiating enough barely-contained fury to crack plaster.
This is Bobby's version of control: the refused glance, the turned shoulder, the full-body declaration that you do not exist to me deployed by a man who’s terrified and is handling it the only way he knows how.
BB turns to you.
His expression changes immediately. The snarl evaporates. The territorial fury, banked. What replaces it is… you haven't seen this expression on him before. Grim. Drawn.
“The Backrooms are more dangerous than they've been in—” He pauses, choosing a unit of measurement you'll understand. “A very long time. Entity X's effect on the other entities hasn't fully dissipated. Level 4 will be a problem. The interior section between the threshold and the outpost is normally dead space. Empty offices, dead lights, nothing worth hunting in. Right now it's contested. Things are sheltering in the cubicle rows and conference rooms because the layout gives them cover, and they're angrier than they should be.” He twists his head, and you hear a crack follow the near reptile movement. “I'll move ahead. Clear what I can. You bring them through behind me. Move only when you’re certain, and stay together.”
You look at him. Really look, for the first time since earlier. Past the anger, and the betrayal, past the closed-off face and the too smooth expression and the omission that restructured everything between you. You look at BB, and you see—
He's thinner somehow.
The word isn't right, but it's the closest you have.
The Bobby-suit fits differently. Looser. The cheekbones more prominent, the jaw more defined, the chain at his rebuilt throat sitting lower against collarbones that press closer to the surface than they used to. He looks worn in a way that has nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with consumption.
And you understand, then, that the fight with Entity X and the sustained lockdown and the perimeter patrols and all the emotional turmoil earlier have been drawing from a reserve that isn't infinite.
As if even ancient things have a fuel line and his is running lower than you've ever seen it.
You choke the worry back. Push it down. Below the anger and the hurt, into a place where the things you can't afford to feel right now go to wait.
“Fine,” you say. “The M.E.G. outpost. Through the Poolrooms, across Level 4.”
You turn to Bobby and Kat. Bobby is standing by the table with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched rigid, staring at a random spot just past BB’s shoulder.
“Grab anything useful,” you instruct. “The almond water Mr. Kitty gave you if there's any left. Take that, don't spill it. Anything you can carry that isn't too heavy.” You glance at Bobby, stopping him in his tracks when he tries to approach you, his mouth open. “We're leaving right now. Not in ten minutes. Not after another argument. Now. Every second we stay is a second Entity X might come back and cause more damage.”
Bobby sucks in a breath, but the argument dies on his tongue. You watch it happen. He could spit back a thousand arguments, but you’re the one speaking and he hears the authority earned through months of exploration, notebooks, and close calls.
He doesn't trust the Backrooms. He doesn't trust BB. But somewhere underneath the hurt and the anger and a thousand unspoken things, Bobby Franklin still trusts you.
He grabs the water from the table without a word, shoving it in his jean pocket. His camera is gone—left on the floor in the junction room on Level 0, the first camera Bobby has ever abandoned—and his hands look wrong without it. Empty. Painfully exposed. Like a man missing a limb he didn't know was prosthetic until it was gone.
Kat gathers the remaining almond water, tucking what food she can into her hoodie pockets. Practical. Quick.
“Let's go,” you say.
You don't look at BB or at Bobby when you say it. You look at the door, at the path beyond it, at the route in your head that threads from 974 through the transitional stairwells to the Poolrooms and across Level 4 to the outpost, and you start walking.
They follow.
“Stay close to me at all times. Don't touch the walls and don’t trust any voices you might hear.”
Your voice rings flat. Instructional. Bobby and Kat fall into step behind you. Bobby first, Kat behind him, the formation you established at the threshold of Level 974 and haven't had to explain because the hierarchy asserted itself the moment you started walking.
You lead. They follow.
The notebook is open in your hand, a pen gripped in your other, and you're annotating as you move. Small marks in the margins, corrections, new landmarks added to half-finished maps.
The stairwell between 974 and the Poolrooms is narrower than you remember. The lights are different. Dimmer. The hum is carrying a frequency you've never heard before. A low, dissonant undertone, like a second voice buried beneath the first, and you don't like it.
Something skitters in the walls.
The sound is dry and rapid, claws or teeth or something with too many joints moving through a space between surfaces, and it tracks your group for three corridors before fading into the deeper dark.
Bobby's breathing changes behind you. Faster. Controlled, but faster. He's holding it together for now, jaw locked, hands fisted, the physical performance of calm layered over a body that is screaming at him to run.
Kat grabs the back of his shirt, her knuckles blanching from how hard she grips. He doesn't shake her off.
The stairwell descends, the air changing the lower you go. Warmer, carrying a chemical sweetness that prickles in your nose and coats the back of your throat. Chlorine.
The smell of it hits your chest like a memory: public pools in the valley, summer afternoons, the way the chemical tang used to cling to your hair for days. Except this chlorine is wrong. Too sweet, too warm. Like the Backrooms took the concept of a swimming pool and replicated it from the smell up, getting the details slightly off.
“What is that?” Kat wonders from behind Bobby, her voice raspy.
“Chlorine,” you answer. “We're close to the Poolrooms.”
“Right. The Poolrooms."
You don't answer. The stairwell opens up, and Level 37 unfolds in front of you.
Water. Everywhere. Still, warm, impossibly blue; a type of blue that doesn't exist in nature, that sits somewhere between swimming pool and bioluminescence, casting its light upward onto tiled walls and low ceilings and pillars that descend into the water at regular intervals.
The room is vast, the ceiling dipping low. The combination creates a sort of compression. Intimate and infinite at the same time, the sense of a space that goes on forever in a room you can almost touch the top of. The water is clear to the bottom. The tiles beneath it are white, clean, pristine, stretching into a distance that the blue light eventually swallows.
No sound except the dripping water. The gentlest possible lapping against tile, rhythmic, hypnotic, the sound of a surface that is barely being disturbed by something you can't see. The hum is different here. Softer, rounded, the dissonant undertone from the stairwell dissolved into sound almost musical.
The Poolrooms absorb aggression the way water absorbs heat. BB was right. Nothing agitated shelters here.
“Jesus Christ,” Bobby says quietly, staring at the water with wide-eyed awe.
You wade in first, and the water is mercifully warm. Body temperature, lapping at your ankles, then your calves, then your knees as the floor descends in a gentle gradient. Your bare feet find purchase on the tiles below.
You've been here before and know the depth map. There’s shallow sections that hug the walls, and the deeper channels between the pillars which intercut with the point near the centre. That’s where the floor drops and the water reaches your waist, the blue light intensifying until the whole room looks like the inside of a sapphire.
Bobby and Kat follow behind you. Slower, less sure.
Kat gasps when the water reaches her thighs. Bobby is silent, wading after you without a word. He scans the surface, the pillars, the low ceiling, and you can see him searching for threats the way you used to. With that raw, untrained hypervigilance you had in the beginning when you could tell something was wrong but didn’t have the vocabulary to describe what.
You navigate by the pillars. Third from the left, then straight, then angled right toward the far wall where the tiles change colour. White to grey to a faint, barely-visible green that marks the deep-end threshold.
BB showed you this path. BB walked it with you, his hand at your back, his cool skin a contrast to the warm water.
And BB's presence now is a pressure at the edges.
You can't see him. Haven't seen him since you left 974. But you can feel the evidence of his passage all the same. A corridor that should have been obstructed, clear. A sound in the distance that starts hostile and cuts out abruptly.
Then a silence that follows when something deadly, fast and ancient has moved through a space and left nothing alive behind it.
He's ahead of you, running interference, clearing the route the way he said he would. And even through the hurt, the reliability of it—the kept promise, the maintained commitment to your safety—swells a lump in your throat you can’t quite swallow over.
Behind you, Kat mumbles something, a joke maybe, chuckling weakly even when Bobby doesn’t join in. His reply is swallowed by water churning around your waist.
“How long did it take?”
You say it without turning around. Your voice carries across the water, bouncing gently off the tiled walls, and the acoustics of the Poolrooms give it a quality that sounds almost peaceful, almost conversational.
Bobby's wading pauses. A half-step. Then he catches up. “What?”
“Before you slept with her.”
Behind Bobby, Kat makes a small, indignant sound, an inhale that she catches in her throat, and then silence again. Just the three of you wading through water in a room that shouldn't exist.
You wait for the usual: the blade, the joke, the easy redirect, maybe even anger. But he surprises you again.
“Fifteen months.” The damaged vocal cords give the words a rough, scraped quality. “After you disappeared. Not after—not after the store. Not after Clark kicked me out. Months after that. She'd been...” He trails off, water sloshing around his hips. “Kat was just there. Every day. And I was—I wasn't okay. I wasn't anything close to okay, and I thought I’d never see you again. And one night I just—” He pauses, breath catching in his chest, refusing to look at you or at Kat while he speaks. “Fifteen months. It took fifteen months.”
Your stomach turns. A slow, visceral roll, nausea that has nothing to do with the chlorine and everything to do with the number.
Fifteen months of absence before the body you loved pressed itself against someone else.
Fifteen months of grief before the hands that used to find the small of your back in a crowd found someone else's waist in the dark.
You do the math. You can't help it. The inventory brain, the cataloguing brain, calculating: he thought you were dead. Everyone had forgotten you. The tapes were blank. Fifteen months is a long time when grieving. Fifteen months of believing the person you love is gone is a long time.
The math doesn't help. Not even a little bit. The pain blooming in your chest is too blinding and too scalding to lean on logic right now.
You nod. Once. Keep wading, your teeth sunk into your cheek to stop yourself from being petty, trying your hardest to understand.
“Did you?” Bobby asks. His voice is different now, quieter, stripped of the combative edge from earlier, carrying instead a fragility that doesn't suit his face. “BB. Did you—with him?”
“No.”
Bobby exhales. A breath he's been holding since Mr Kitty’s house, maybe longer, released through his nose in a long, shuddering stream. The relief on his face is naked and immediate, and you can see it from the corner of your eye even without turning to look at him.
“I taught him to kiss,” you admit, still staring straight ahead. At the pillars, at the blue, at the threshold approaching in the distance. “But it took months. He didn't… he'd never touched anyone. Never been touched. I taught him to dance first. Then the kiss.”
Bobby lets out a soft, bitten scoff. Air pushed through his teeth, his head turning away, and you brace for the quip, for Bobby's deflection mechanism deploying against the image of his own face learning to kiss from the woman he loves.
But the scoff dies without becoming a sentence. It lacks heat., and it lacks edge. It's just a sound a man makes when he's hearing something that hurts in a way his defences can't react against.
When you glance at him, Bobby's face is sad. Not angry like earlier, just sad.
The anger burned out somewhere in the Poolrooms, extinguished by the tranquil water and the washed light, and what's left is just Bobby. Heartbroken. Worn to the bone by grief and stress. Looking at you in the blue glow with his eyes full and his jaw loose, his whole face creased with emotion Bobby Franklin has spent his entire adult life refusing to let sit on his features unchecked.
He opens his mouth. His lips form the beginning of a word—your name, maybe, or something else, something that's been sitting behind his teeth for eighteen months waiting for you to be close enough to hear it—but you turn away. Keep walking.
The water parts around your waist and the threshold is ten metres ahead, and you keep walking because if you stop, if you let Bobby say whatever he's about to say with that face in this blue light, you will not be able to handle it.
You're not going to have this talk with him now, while Kat is right there.
“We're close,” you say instead. “The threshold is at the deep end. Keep your heads up.”
Level 4 is wrong.
The threshold deposits you in a corridor that looks like every office building you've ever been in.
Fluorescent-lit, drop-ceiling, grey carpet, cubicle partitions stretching into a distance that the lights don't fully reach. It should be mundane. It should be the most boring level in the Backrooms. An infinite corporate complex, all right angles and fire exits that don't actually exit and conference rooms with whiteboards still carrying the ghosts of meetings that never happened.
You've seen it before. Your notes describe it as low-threat, low-entity, dead space.
Your notes are wrong.
The lights flicker. Every third tube is dead, creating pockets of darkness between the lit sections, and the darkness is too deep. A dense, weighted thing. The cubicle rows stretch to the left and right, and the partitions are higher than you remember. Head-height, blocking sightlines, creating corridors within corridors, and the air smells like old paper and burnt plastic.
“Stay behind me,” you whisper, your heart rate picking up even as you fight to keep your tone level. “Single file. Don’t speak above a whisper.”
Your feet carry you through the cubicle rows. Past desks with dead monitors and phones with their receivers off the hook, and coffee cups with something growing in them that you don't look at closely. The carpet muffles your steps. Bobby and Kat are ghosts behind you. Silent, moving when you move, stopping when you stop, their breathing controlled, shallow, and terrified.
There’s sudden movement in the cubicle row to your left.
You freeze. Hand up, the signal you developed on Level 1 with BB, palm flat, fingers spread, stop now. Bobby and Kat stop at once.
The movement continues, a shape passing behind the partition, visible through the gap between the top of the cubicle wall and the drop ceiling. Tall. Hunched. Moving with a liquid, boneless gait that doesn't match any anatomy you've catalogued. It passes through the row parallel to yours, separated by one partition, close enough that you can hear the sound it makes. A wet, clicking respiration, each breath accompanied by a small pop, like a joint dislocating and relocating with every inhale.
It passes, the clicking fading into the background as it goes. You count to thirty before you move again.
Two more corridors follow. You pass a conference room with the door ajar, and inside you spot something that looks like skin draped over a chair. Smooth, pale, and gently rising and falling with a respiration you can see from the doorway. You steer them around it. Wide. Bobby's eyes find it through the gap, and his face goes grey while Kat presses her face into his shoulder and doesn't look.
The evidence of BB is everywhere.
A corridor that ends in a smear of black against the wall. Fresh, wet, still dripping. A fire exit door buckled inward from a force applied on the other side, the metal warped around a handprint that's too large to be human. A section of cubicles reduced to kindling, the partitions shattered, the desks overturned, and in the centre of the wreckage a shape. Crumpled and motionless, its limbs arranged at angles that suggest it was alive when it was rearranged and is not alive now.
You don't let Bobby and Kat see this one. You route them around the long way, through a break room with a vending machine that hums with a frequency that makes your ears ring.
The M.E.G. outpost is close. You can feel it.
A shift in the hum, a thinning of the air that means a threshold is near. The levels get permeable around outposts, BB told you once. The boundaries soften.
You round the corner into a wider corridor—open-plan, the cubicles giving way to a broad hallway with glass-walled offices on either side—and you see the equipment. Monitors. Cables. A mounted camera fixed to the wall at head height, its red recording light blinking steadily. Sensor arrays bolted to the ceiling tiles. Data collection equipment arranged along the corridor walls with the organised, labelled precision of people who’ve been here a long time and plan to stay.
“M.E.G.,” you say, exhaling. The relief that pangs your chest is almost physical. A loosening in your shoulders, a softening in the grip of your hand on the notebook. “We made it. This is their monitoring station. The outpost should be just ahead. We just need to—”
The hands come from behind you.
Three sets. Gloved. They grab your arms, your shoulders, the back of your neck, practised and coordinated.
You're yanked backwards off your feet, and the notebook hits the floor, your spine slamming against a body wearing tactical gear, a muffled voice barking something clipped into a radio, and the hands are everywhere. On your wrists, pinning your arms, dragging you sideways toward a section of corridor you haven't mapped.
These aren't M.E.G.
The gear is different. Same black from the first attack, not yellow. No patches, no insignia, no identification. The faces behind the balaclavas are blank and professional, and they are not studying you. They’re collecting you, the way you'd collect a sample they failed to collect the first time around.
Bobby's scream rips through the corridor.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—GET OFF—”
He's fighting. You can hear it behind you, the sounds of a man throwing himself at something larger and better-armed, the crack of a fist against body armour, the grunt of impact. Bobby's voice, raw and shredded and operating on pure adrenaline, screaming obscenities that echo off the walls while someone restrains him.
“Leave them,” one of the agents says into the radio, his voice clipped, indifferent. “The woman is the objective. Leave the other two for the others, it’ll buy us some time.”
For the others. The words register with a cold, clinical clarity. Leave Bobby and Kat in a Level 4 corridor swarming with agitated entities and walk away. Leave them to die. Leave them as discarded variables in whatever equation these people are solving, the irrelevant remainder, the human wreckage.
Your rage swells to near blinding.
A sudden, massive, tidal expansion in your chest, filling every cavity, pressing against your ribs and your throat and the backs of your eyes.
The agent's hand is on your arm, and the grip is iron and Bobby is screaming. Kat is somewhere behind you shouting, and these people are going to leave them here to die. And the anger is so total, so complete, so enormous that it bypasses your brain entirely and becomes a physical thing, a vibration, a frequency—
The hands holding you fall off.
You stumble forward. The grip just… released. You spin, expecting to see BB, expecting the displaced air and the black eyes and the sound of the hum—
The agent who was holding you is staring at his hands. What's left of them anyway. His gloves end at the wrist, and below the wrist there is nothing. Smooth and cauterised, the flesh sealed as if the hands were never there to begin with.
He hasn't started screaming yet. The shock is still travelling from his eyes to his brain to his vocal cords.
You turn.
Entity X is standing in the corridor behind you.
The fluorescent lights are red again. That deep, arterial crimson that transforms the office corridor into a living organism. Red light pulses, filling the hallway from floor to ceiling, its matte, leathery skin absorbing the crimson until it looks like the corridor itself has grown a body. The featureless face is smooth and wrong, but then the eyes peel open again at your presence, and the burning yellow fixes on you at once.
On you. Only you. As always.
You stumble backwards, your heel catching a cable on the floor. You barely keep your feet.
Entity X is three metres away, and it reaches for you—the arm extending, elongating, the joints clicking with a sound like knuckles cracking in an empty room—and its chest produces a noise.
Low. Gurgling. A wet, clicking sound that lives somewhere between a purr and the settling of bones, repetitive and rhythmic and deeply, fundamentally wrong in a way that your brain can’t place.
It's a sound without analogue. A sound that a body makes when it has no face to express what it's feeling and must channel everything through the mechanics of its torso, and the sound is fixated. Directed at you.
The audio equivalent of the eyes that never leave.
“Get away from me.” Your voice comes out harder than you expect. Sharper. The fear is there. Your heart is slamming, your palms are slick with sweat, your legs trembling beneath you, but your anger is louder. The rage that swelled in your chest hasn't receded. It's sitting right behind your teeth, and when you speak it comes out as a command, not a plea. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
Entity X cocks its head.
The motion is slow. Curious. The massive featureless head tilts to one side with an almost canine quality. It’s almost the same tilt BB does, just wrong, and for one terrible second the gesture looks interested. Like it heard you. Understood what you meant. Like your anger registered as something other than a feeble attempt at resistance, and the fury in your voice is a thing it recognises, that it wants.
The agents regroup behind you. Three of them. The handless one is on the floor, in shock. The others raise weapons. Compact and military-grade, and open fire.
Entity X doesn't look at them.
The bullets hit its torso and sink into the matte skin like stones into mud, and Entity X's arm sweeps sideways, casual and unhurried, the way you'd brush a fly, and the agent closest to it comes apart.
Messily. The one behind him fares worse. The sounds are wet, almost mechanical and over very quickly, leaving nothing but puddles of gore on the floor.
Entity X does all of it without moving its eyes from you once. Bored. Performing violence with the same disinterested efficiency that a human swats insects. The agents are not a threat, not an obstacle, not even a distraction.
Entity X silences them and returns its full focus on you, and the clicking sound continues in its chest, steady, rhythmic, almost gentle.
BB arrives like a thunder crack.
The air splits around you, the pressure wave alone knocking you sideways. Kat hits the floor rolling, and Bobby staggers into the glass wall of an office.
BB hits Entity X at full force, and the two of them crash through the corridor wall and into the space beyond. Cubicles disintegrate around them, ceiling tiles raining down, and the fluorescent tubes shatter in cascading waves as two things too large for this hallway tear it apart around each other.
BB's hand finds your shoulder. Between one collision and the next, between heartbeats. He's there, beside you, in front of you, his black eyes wild and his damaged face cracking, his grip on your shoulder bruising.
“The outpost. Go. Now.”
You run, reaching for Bobby blindly.
Bobby is already moving, Kat's hand in his, pulling her along, his legs unsteady but functional, his face a mask of focused terror.
You grab the notebook from the floor as you pass it, scrambling on your hands and knees. The three of you sprint down the corridor toward the monitoring equipment, toward the thinning in the air that means exit.
You spot them in the distance first.
Yellow suits and masks on. Four of them, clustered at the far end of the corridor around a section of wall that looks slightly different. Smoother, carrying a faint shimmer that you recognise as the visual signature of a no-clip point.
M.E.G. operatives. Real ones, in their trademark gear, and they're waving at you, frantic, urgent, beckoning you forward with the full-body gestures as the fight behind you intensifies.
Bobby's hand closes around your wrist, pulling you forward, and you're running together, his callused fingers locked on your pulse point.
For about three seconds, it's the parking lot at Clark's store, it's the apartment doorway, it's every moment he should have reached for you and didn't. Except now he's reaching, his hand is on you, now he's pulling you toward safety with a bruising grip that says I’m not letting go—
Entity X's hand closes around Bobby's torso.
The grab is sudden and massive, an arm extending from the wreckage of the corridor behind you, reaching over your head, the joints clicking in rapid succession as it unfolds to its full, telescoping length.
The clawed fingers close around Bobby's ribcage and lift. His hand tears from your wrist. His feet leave the ground. His body rises—up, up, Entity X hoisting him like he weighs nothing, his legs kicking, arms flailing, his face contorted with a terror so complete it erases everything else.
Entity X holds Bobby in the air and looks at you.
The burning yellow eyes, fixed. The clicking purr in its chest, steady. Holding Bobby in one hand the way you'd hold up a lantern, displaying him, presenting him, showing you the man in its grip and watching your face to see what you'll do.
“Let him go!” You slam your fists against Entity X's arm—the matte skin fever-hot and yielding and horrifyingly close to organic—and the contact sends a jolt through your system that feels like recognition, like touching a live wire, like something in Entity X's body responding to something in yours. “Let him go, put him down—”
Entity X peers down at you, his head tilting. Curious. Reading. The same interested quality from before. Your hands are on its arm, and it's letting you hit it, absorbing the blows with the patient stillness of a thing that wants to see how far the anger goes.
It throws Bobby.
A casual, underhanded toss, its wrist flicking, the arm releasing, Bobby's body sailing through the air of the corridor and hitting the wall near the no-clip point with a sound that empties your lungs. He crumples. Slides down the wall. You lurch towards him, but Entity X’s clawed hand closes over your throat, yanking you back toward it.
Kat's scream is a bright, piercing thing that cuts through the red light and the clicking, and the M.E.G. operatives move. Two of them grab Bobby under the arms, a third seizing Kat, who was running toward him, dragging them toward the shimmer in the wall.
Bobby is dazed.
His head rolls to one side, his eyes unfocused, blood from a gash above his eyebrow streaming down the side of his face. But he's fighting.
Even concussed, even barely conscious, his hands are grabbing at the M.E.G. operative's jacket, his body lurching back toward the corridor, back toward you, and his mouth is forming your name.
You can see it, can read it on his lips, the shape of the word you taught him to say in a hallway in high school in your junior year, and his eyes find yours through the blood and the chaos and the red light and for one second the corridor contracts to the width of that gaze.
You and Bobby. Looking at each other across a distance that is about to become permanent.
The M.E.G. operatives haul him through. Bobby's reaching hand—the same hand that dropped a camera for you, that grabbed your wrist, that used to find the small of your back in a crowd and cup your face before he kissed you—disappears through the shimmer, still reaching. Kat follows, and the wall smooths over again. The no-clip point seals.
They're gone.
Entity X stands behind you. The clicking sound in its chest shifts, lowering, a frequency that almost sounds satisfied. It adjusts its grip on you.
BB's fist connects with the side of Entity X's torso.
The impact sends the massive red body sideways, slamming into the corridor wall with enough force to buckle the drywall and shatter every remaining light tube within a fifty-foot radius.
The red light dies, plunging the space into darkness lit only by Entity X's yellow eyes and the faint, colourless glow leaking through the cracks in BB's ruined face.
BB's hand finds your shoulder.
The world folds.
The displacement dumps you onto the grass of Level 14, and the impact is soft, yielding, the earth absorbing you the way the Poolrooms absorb sound.
You land on your hands and knees, and the grass is cool and damp against your palms, and you gasp. Pull air in through your teeth. Your lungs are burning. Your ribs ache from the displacement, from the running, from the screaming, from the hours or minutes or however long it's been since you ate a cookie in the pink bedroom and walked into the worst day of your life.
BB is beside you. On his knees. His hands on your arms, your shoulders, running over you with that focused, diagnostic urgency. He’s checking for injuries, for broken things he can fix with his hands, because the broken things he can't fix are piling up faster than he can count.
His fingers press against your ribs. Your wrists. His eyes search your face with a desperation that’s stripped away the last of the Bobby-mask. What's looking at you is BB, just BB, the cracks in his face leaking that pale light, his jaw pulsing, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“You're not hurt,” he says. Half-statement, half-question, his hands lingering on your shoulders. “Tell me you're not hurt.”
You shake your head because you can't speak yet.
The breath is still caught somewhere between your diaphragm and your throat, snagged on the adrenaline. On the afterimage of Bobby's reaching hand disappearing through the wall, and the sound of Entity X's clicking purr.
You fall back onto the grass, press your palms over your eyes, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The stream somewhere behind you moves over its stones with the gentle, trickling sound while golden light drips over your shaking hands.
It takes minutes. Several.
The shaking subsides in stages. Hands first, then arms, then the deep tremor in your core that's been running since since the red light, since the first time you heard Entity X's clicking in the corridor and knew, with a certainty that bypassed logic, that it was coming for you.
The shaking stops, your breathing evening out. Your hands drop from your face, and the meadow is still there. All of it. The tall grass, the fallen log, the amber sky that never changes. BB sits across from you with his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them and his face wearing the careful, watchful expression.
You rub your face. Drag your fingers across your eyes, your cheekbones, the tight muscles at your jaw. Working off the edge. Pressing the panic down into the place where it can be stored and processed later, when BB isn't watching, when the aftershocks have enough room to shake without an audience.
“Entity X is gone,” BB says quietly after another moment, testing. His voice is low and rough, stripped of its usual easy warmth. “They retreated. Again. Whatever he wanted—” He looks troubled, genuinely so. “Bobby and Kat are through. The M.E.G. have them. They're out of the Backrooms.”
You nod, staring blankly at the grass between your knees.
“You did it.” Softer now. Almost gentle. The voice from the kitchen, from the dance, from the mornings he'd say hey, baby and the world would shrink to the width of his full mouth. “You got them through. They're safe because of you. And I can—I'll rebuild. The apartment. The sublevel. I'll find Entity X and after I've dealt with it, we can—”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
BB falls silent.
A bird, the same small brown bird, or one just like it, lands on the branch above the fallen log and tips its head and watches you with one bright black eye.
“About Bobby.” Your voice is calm. Scraped clean of anger, clean of accusation. Just the question, unadorned, sitting in the air between you. “You heard him. Through the wall, same as me. For months. You heard him looking for me. You knew he loved me. You knew he was sitting three inches away from the entry point, saying the things I needed to hear.” You look at BB. His face, Bobby's face, the face you touched and kissed and studied in firelight and fluorescent light and the blue glow of the Poolrooms. “Why didn't you tell me, BB?”
BB is quiet for a long time. The bird chirps a few times in the tree above. The amber light paints his cracked and healing face, and the tense silence between you fills with the full weight of every answer he could give and the inadequacy of all of them.
“I heard how lonely you were.” Picking through the words the way you'd pick through wreckage, testing each one before putting weight on it. “Before you came through. When you were alone in the basement, on the late shifts. I heard what loneliness sounded like in your voice. And when you were here—when you cried, when you talked about him, when you said he stopped seeing me—I thought—” He falters, shifting in such an shy, human way you almost soften. “I thought we were the same. That our loneliness was the same. Mine and yours. And that I could—”
“That's not what I asked,” you intone coolly.
BB flinches. His fingers curl against his forearms, pressing into the fabric of his ruined shirt as he ducks his head lower.
“BB. Tell me the truth.”
BB's face visibly contorts with pain, his features rearranging around an admission he's been carrying for months the way you carried your anger. Not smoothing over. Not closing off. Just hurting.
“I knew you still loved him,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His eyes fix on the grass, unable to look at you. “I could hear it. Every time you said his name. Every time you cried about him. Every time you talked about the apartment, the mornings you shared, the way he used to look at you. You never stopped loving him. And I—” His voice thins, fraying. “I thought if you knew he was looking, if you knew he was right there, you'd leave. You'd go back through the wall and I'd—”
He stops, swallowing thickly. The sound is audible. The borrowed mechanism of a throat that doesn't need to swallow performing the gesture anyway because the emotion behind it is real even if the body isn't.
“I know it was selfish,” he adds in a hushed whisper.
You gaze at him blankly for what feels like a small eternity.
“You didn't just withhold it.” Your voice is steady, but your hands are shaking again. Anger and grief coiling together so tightly you can't separate them, can't feel where one ends and the other begins. “You used my loneliness. You heard me at my lowest, and you leaned into it. You built a life around my isolation because as long as I was isolated, as long as I didn't know there was something to go back to, I'd stay. With you. That's not love, BB. That's keeping.”
BB's head snaps up. His eyes are bright and wounded, but the expression on his face is gutted. Sheer hollowed-out devastation of hearing the worst possible interpretation of the best thing he ever did and recognising, with a clarity that makes his whole face crumble, that the interpretation isn't wrong.
“But it's what you did.” Quiet. Final. “Regardless of what you meant. Regardless of how well you meant it. That is exactly what you did. You heard a woman crying about being invisible, and instead of telling her she was being looked for, you made yourself the only thing she could see.”
The amber light falls on his struck face, and the cracks in it have stopped leaking, the damage from the fight slowly closing, and the face that's left is Bobby's, wearing an expression he never wore.
Raw and open, and so deeply, completely sorry that the air around it seems to bend.
“You were happy,” he says quietly. Almost to himself. Like he's testing the memory against the accusation, holding them up side by side to see if they can coexist. “You started smiling again. Laughing. When we walked through the Poolrooms the first time, you laughed at something I said and the sound—” His voice catches. “The sound was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I thought—I thought I was fixing it. The loneliness. The pain. I thought if I could just—keep you safe, keep you close, give you everything he didn't—you wouldn't need to go back. You wouldn't want to. And that would be enough.”
Your eyes burn, tears pressing forward, hot and insistent, and you clench your jaw against them.
Because you can hear his sincerity. The genuine, unperformed, unhuman sincerity. He heard you cry through concrete and decided, with the full weight of its ancient and limited understanding, that the solution to your pain was its presence.
BB didn't think he was trapping you. BB thought he was saving you.
The distinction doesn't make it okay. The distinction makes it worse because it means the thing that hurt you was trying, with every tool it had, to love you well. And its best tool was deception.
“You should have told me.” Tears are falling now, and you don't wipe them. “You should have given me the information. All of it. And then you should have let me choose. Even if the choice was leaving. Even if the choice was him. You should have let it be my choice, BB. That's what love does. It doesn't decide for the other person. It doesn't curate the options to guarantee the outcome you want. It gives them everything, and it lets them choose, and it survives the choosing, even if the choice breaks it.”
BB says nothing. His eyes fix on yours, and his expression is accepting. Terrible, slow, grinding acceptance. The kind that arrives not all at once but in layers, each one heavier than the last, pressing down on whatever passes for his heart.
“I didn't want to lose you,” he whispers, his voice catching. “I'm sorry. I—I didn't want to lose you.”
You sit across from the being who built you a kitchen and taught itself to kiss and pressed its mouth to your forehead every morning so it could lie to you with every tender gesture because the truth would have set you free and freedom was the one thing it couldn't give.
You breathe in, glancing up at the sky. At those breathtaking gradients of gold and amber, laced with violet at the edges. The sky that never changes, the eternal late afternoon of a level called Paradise that exists inside a place that shouldn't exist at all.
You look back at BB.
“Do you know why I stayed?” you ask softly. “In the beginning. When I found out you weren't actually Bobby. Do you know why I didn't run?”
BB's face tightens, and the pain that crosses it is visible, bright hot.
“Because of the face,” he says, low and pained. The words dragged out of him like splinters from beneath the skin. “Because I look like him. Because you love him. Because you wanted him—always him, always Bobby—and I was close enough.”
Your eyes fill. The tears spill over fresh, tracking down your cheeks, and you stand. Cross the distance between you. Close it. Three feet. Two. One. Until you're standing in front of him and he's looking up at you from the grass with Bobby's blue eyes and BB's anguish and the meadow light on both of you.
You touch his face.
Your fingertips on his cheekbone. The line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door that happened to someone else's body. Your thumb traces the corner of his mouth. That corner where the grin starts, the lopsided one, the one that's his and not Bobby's.
BB makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
A vibration that starts in his chest and comes through his throat as something between a sigh and a moan. His eyes close and his head turns into your palm, nuzzling closer. Desperate, pressing his face into your hand the way he did the first time you touched him. The sound he's making is continuous, a keening that he can't seem to stop, and his hand comes up and covers yours on his cheek and holds it there, feeling him shake.
“It was never about the face,” you choke out, your voice breaking. The tears fall freely now, and you let them. “It was you. Just you, BB. The way you listened. The way you learned me. The way you held me like I was the first thing you'd ever wanted to hold. The way you asked am I doing it right after kissing me, and the answer was always yes. It was always just you.”
BB's eyes crack open. Wet. Bobby's blue, glassy with a moisture that shouldn't be there, that his body doesn't produce, that has no biological mechanism to explain it… and yet. His lashes are dark and clumped, his eyes full and the expression in them is so devastated, so completely and utterly undone, that you have to look away.
You pull your hand back.
BB makes another sound. Louder. A moan that cracks open midway through and becomes something raw and guttural, a noise that comes from the place beneath the face, beneath the voice, from whatever vast and ancient thing lives at the core of him and is now experiencing, for the first time in its incomprehensible existence, the human agony of being left by the person it loves.
“No,” he breathes. “Please. No, no.”
You lower your head. “Take me to the M.E.G. outpost.”
“Please.” His hand reaches for yours but catches only air. You've stepped back and his fingers close on nothing and his face—Bobby's face, BB's face, the face that learned to smile because you smiled first—contorts. “Don't. Don't leave. You can't—I'll fix it. I'll tell you everything, I'll never keep anything from you again, I'll—”
“BB.”
“—the apartment, I'll make it better. I'll find Entity X and end it, and you'll be safe. You'll be safe forever, I can keep you safe, please, I can—”
You can barely speak. “BB. Stop.”
He stops, his mouth trembling. The word he was forming dies on his tongue. His eyes rest on you, wide and wet, terrified.
“All that's waiting out there is a life that hurt you,” he blurts out, desperate. The words tumble, tripping over each other. BB, who is rarely inarticulate, is now struggling to assemble sentences fast enough to change the outcome. “Illness and old age and people who forgot you and—and a man who didn't see you until you were gone. That's what's on the other side of the wall. You’ll d-die. I… no. Please, no. Not you, not you.”
Your heart is ripping apart. A physical sensation of something in your chest being torn in two directions at once, the fibres separating, the tissue rending.
He's right. He's right about all of it. The world on the other side of the wall is the one that hurt you. The one that made you invisible. The one that let you stand in doorways waiting to be loved and answered with grunts and cold sheets and blank tapes that erased your face. There is nothing on the other side of the wall that is gentle the way BB is gentle, nothing that listens the way he listens, nothing that will press its mouth to your forehead every morning and hold you through the night and learn your name syllable by syllable.
But it's your life. The miserable, broken, painful, mortal thing. Yours.
“If you love me,” you say in a quiet rasp, each word costing a piece of your heart you can feel being subtracted from the centre of your chest. “If you love me the way you say you do. If that promise you made me meant anything at all, or the name I gave you meant anything... then you'll let me leave.”
BB stares at you. The tears—his tears, not Bobby's, the moisture that has no biological origin and exists only because the grief demanded a vessel—tracking down his cheeks, and where they fall the skin glows. Faint. Luminescent. A soft, shimmering iridescence that blooms along the tracks of the tears like bioluminescence, like foxfire, a visible signature of an inhuman emotion marking inhuman skin.
His agony written on his face in light.
BB reaches for your shoulder slowly. His hand is gentle, his touch almost absent.
The meadow folds around you, your stomach lurching. The golden light compresses, narrows, and when the world straightens again, you're standing in the corridor on Level 4.
The monitoring equipment. The cameras. The wall with the shimmer. The remains from operatives are mostly gone. Absorbed by the Backrooms, consumed by the level itself, the corridor healing over the evidence of violence the way skin heals over a wound. A few remain. Dark shapes at the periphery that you don't look at.
The no-clip wall is there. The shimmer and behind it the real world. A place where it rains, and people eat hotdogs and phone calls go unanswered. Where love atrophies through neglect and everyone you've ever known has forgotten your face.
And BB's hand rests on your shoulder, trembling openly. A hand that was built to hold on, that heard you, chose you, kept you, loved you and lied to you, and is now standing in a corridor doing the one thing it has never done.
Letting go.
His hand lifts from your shoulder.
You feel the absence instantly. The place where his palm was goes cold, the last physical connection between your bodies dissolving into air.
“Please,” he rasps behind you, low and shaking, stripped of everything. The charm, the cockiness, the ancient resonance, the hum's harmonic, all of it gone, the voice of a thing that has been reduced to its simplest possible setting: a being, in a hallway, begging. “Please stay. Please don't leave me alone again. Please.”
You turn, walking toward the wall. Your notebook tight against your chest.
“Please.” Louder, more frantic, the word cracking. “I'll be better. I'll tell you everything. I'll never lie to you again. I'll—I can change. I can learn. You taught me how to dance and how to kiss. How to hold you. Teach me this too, teach me how to let you be angry and still stay, teach me how to—”
You keep walking. The shimmer is close now. Five metres. Four.
“Please don't go.” His voice is climbing. Not in volume, in pitch. In frequency. The human register giving way to something else, something that vibrates in the walls and the floor, fillings in your teeth. “Please. I can't—I'll be alone. I'll be alone again. I was alone for so long, and then you were there, and I heard you. You were the first voice in—in—”
The sound fractures. Becomes a keening. A high, sustained, inhuman wail that has no words left in it, just the raw frequency of loss, a being older than language grieving in the only language it has left. Sound itself, vibration itself, the hum turned inside out and made to carry a weight it was never designed to hold.
You stop.
Your composure breaks. Silent tears pour down your face, and your mouth contorts, your chest heaving and you press the notebook against your sternum until it hurts. The keening behind you is the worst sound you’ve ever heard. Worse than the Smiler, worse than Entity X, worse than Bobby's voice saying baby? in a yellow corridor, because this sound has your name in it.
This sound is the noise a heart makes when it's too old and too vast and too full to survive what's happening to it.
You turn and look behind you.
The corridor is empty.
The shimmer on the wall pulses gently, waiting. And the space where BB stood—three metres back, in the corridor, where his voice was—is vacant. Just the flat, beige, infinite emptiness of a level that's been suddenly abandoned.
He's gone.
For all his power. For all the corridors he owns and the entities he's unmade and the levels he moves through like blood through a vein. For all the ancient, vast, immeasurable force that lives inside the Bobby-suit and behind the borrowed eyes and underneath the face he chose because he heard a woman crying and wanted to be the thing that made her stop.
The one thing BB couldn't do was watch you leave him.
You press your hands over your face, and you sob. Hard. A sound that comes from the bottom of your gut and fills the corridor and bounces off the walls and comes back to you changed, louder.
You scrub your face. The heels of your hands grinding against your eyes until white spots swim in your vision. You breathe wetly, straightening, and look toward the wall. The shimmering exit.
You step through.
an: in which everyone has a no good, very bad day ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby(bb)
wc: 18.9k 🚬🚬🚬
contents/warnings: emotional manipulation, emotional neglect in a past relationship, internalised self-blame, discussions of infidelity, grief and loss, emotional dependency, body horror, strong violence, psychological horror, existential/cosmic horror, angstttttt.
notes: This took the pisssssssss. But here it is at long last. So much plot happens in this part it's actually dizzying. Originally wanted to cut it earlier but once you read the ending you'll understand why I pushed to get to it. So enjoy this behemoth and again massive, fat, joosy thank you to everyone for reading, messaging, liking, reblogging and apparently shouting out this series on tiktok??? hello? crazy. you guys are awesome. thank you 💕
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
“That goes on the left.”
“It's on the left.”
“My left. Not your left.”
BB holds the stack of notebooks. Your old ones, filled and dog-eared, the spines cracked from use. He looks at you with an expression of exaggerated patience. Bobby's face doing BB's particular brand of tolerant amusement, the one that says I have existed since before your species discovered fire, and I’m being told where to put stationery.
“Your left and my left are the same left,” he says. “We're facing the same direction.”
“We weren't a second ago,” you argue. “You turned.”
He looks down at his feet, then at the shelf. Then at you. His mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he says, and moves the notebooks to the other side of the shelf with the slow, deliberate care, making a point about how cooperative he's being. “Your left.”
“Thank you.”
“You're a tyrant,” he huffs, even though his eyes crinkle as he says it.
“I'm an organised tyrant.”
The apartment hums around you.
That's the thing you still can't quite get used to. The hum is different here. Not the flat, fluorescent drone of Level 0's hallways, that ambient pressure that sits on your skin like a low-grade headache. This is warmer. Rounder. A sustained note that lives in the walls the way heat lives in a radiator, and it fills the rooms, plural, with doors and corners and a kitchen with a window that faces a corridor that BB has done something to.
Strange and inhuman, so that the light that comes through the glass looks like late afternoon in the Santa Clara Valley, even though there is no afternoon here and no valley and no sun.
BB built this for you.
A hallway that hadn't existed. A doorway where a wall once stood. He carved a sublevel out of Level 0, the way you'd carve a space inside a block of wood, and what emerged was this: an apartment. Your apartment. Not a copy, not the uncanny almost-right, but a reconstruction built from the details he absorbed through the wall over months of listening and your own memories. The layout of the kitchen. The position of the bookshelves. The height of the counter where you used to lean while Bobby stood at the sink.
It's not identical. It can't be. Some details Backrooms can’t render right, some he interpreted rather than reproduced, and there are places where his understanding of home and yours diverge in ways that are quietly alien. The windows don't open. The bathroom has no mirror. The bookshelves are organised by colour, the way you described to him once, and seeing your preference rendered in physical space by something that remembered a passing comment had made your throat tight in a way you couldn't name.
He started building it after the agents.
You don't like thinking about the attack. Your body remembers it better than your mind does.
You remember the impact. The floor. A pressure on your chest that felt unbearable, like the air itself had solidified, and a pain in your shoulder that burned white and erased thought. You remember voices—clipped, tactical, coordinated, the language of people who had trained for this—and then BB's arrival.
You don't remember what happened to the agents. BB recounted what happened later, in clipped sentences, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying a darkness that took hours to fully recede, that there had been six. Human. Armed. Organised in a way that suggested training and resources, and a purpose that went beyond casual exploration. The encounter had been resolved.
He didn't elaborate on resolved. You didn't ask.
After that, BB locked Level 0 down. You felt it happen even as you clung to him after the attack, a shift in the hum, a tightening, like a fist closing around the entire level.
The corridors that used to carry the occasional lost wanderer, the stray explorer who stumbled in from Level 1 and stumbled out again, are now sealed. Thresholds that had been porous became walls. Doors that had been doors became surfaces. BB walked the perimeter for three days straight, and when he came back, his eyes were fully black, and the warmth took a long time to return, and the message was absolute: nothing gets in.
Nothing human, nothing inhuman, nothing with a weapon and a tactical vocabulary and the coordinates to find the corridor where you bled on the floor. Level 0 was his. Level 0 was yours. And the only things moving through it now were the two of you and the hum and whatever BB decided to allow, which was nothing, which was no one, which was the total and permanent closure of a territory around the person inside it.
You healed. Your lip closed over, your bruises receded. BB fussed over you, his face tight with concentration that you gradually recognised as fear. Not fear of the wound. Fear of what the wound meant. That you could be reached. That the corridors he'd taught you to walk and the levels he'd shown you and the notebook full of careful shorthand hadn't been enough to keep a human with a weapon from putting you on the ground in a place he'd told you was safe.
He'd been different since. Not colder, exactly, the warmth was still there, the hand on yours, the chin on your shoulder while you sketched. But warier. His attention, already vast, had developed a new layer, a peripheral vigilance that never fully shut off, a constant low-level scanning that you could feel the way you felt the hum.
He checked the corridors before you entered them now. He checked rooms you'd been in a hundred times. And he'd built this place—the sublevel, the apartment, the nest within the nest—and the message was clear even if he never said it aloud. Deeper. More hidden. Harder to reach. A space carved into the architecture of Level 0 itself, tucked beneath his territory the way a vital organ sits beneath the ribs.
You've been here a while.
Long enough that the first notebook is full and the second is two-thirds gone and the third is waiting on the shelf BB just stacked, its mottled cover still crisp.
Long enough that you've mapped Level 0 in its entirety, or as close to entirety as a place like this gets, and made partial notes on multiple other levels. Some detailed, some no more than a page of warnings and a rough sketch. It’s been long enough that your handwriting has changed. Gotten smaller, tighter, more efficient, conserving space the way you conserve everything here.
And long enough that the thing on the perimeter has become a permanent entry in the notebook. Updated weekly, the symbol you invented for it—a circle with a line bisecting it, unknown entity, behaviour unclassified—appearing on more pages than any other annotation.
It's still circling. Still testing. Running its vast, patient intelligence along the boundary of BB's territory and pulling back before contact. You've taken to calling it Entity X in your notes permanently, a placeholder designation, because giving it a real name would make it more solid, and it's already solid enough.
You can feel it sometimes. Not the way you feel the hum or BB's presence, but as an absence, a hot spot at the edge of perception, like turning your head toward a sound that stopped just before you heard it.
BB doesn't talk about it.
That's how you know it's bad. BB talks about Smilers with contempt and Howlers with mild annoyance, and the locked-down perimeter with the grim satisfaction of a thing that sealed its borders and dares anything to test them. He talks about the agents with a clipped exactness that betrays how much it shook him.
But Entity X gets silence. Gets the jaw-tightening. Gets the moments you've started cataloguing in a private section of the notebook that you don't label. The mornings when he's already awake when you surface, sitting at the edge of the nest with his posture too rigid and his eyes too dark, focused on a distance you can't perceive. The nights he disappears and comes back with the face not quite set, the edges sharp, the wet-paint quality that means he dropped Bobby to deal with whatever he found and hasn't fully climbed back in yet. He smooths over it. Deflects. Does the half-grin and the shrug and the it's handled that you've learned to read as I don't want you to carry this.
You let him think it works. You watch him reassemble his composure over breakfast, and you don't push. You don't pry. You simply add another entry to the private section, which is getting longer. The circle-with-a-line symbol fills the margins like a recurring dream.
Long enough that the thought of leaving has shifted from a wound to a question.
You think about it. Still. Not every day—not the way you did in the beginning, when it was a constant screaming pressure behind your ribs—but in the quiet moments, the ones between mapping and walking and BB's hand on yours. In the pauses. You'll be sketching a corridor junction, and your pen will stop, and you'll look at the lines on the page and think: I could navigate this now.
Not all of it. Not the deep levels, not the places BB won't take you. But the paths between 0 and 1, between 1 and the threshold levels, the routes that thread through the safer territories. You know them. You've walked them, mapped them in your own shorthand and committed the landmarks to memory. You’re no longer the woman who fell through a wall and couldn't find her way back. You could find your way back. Probably. If you wanted to.
If you wanted to.
The if is the problem.
The if sits in your chest like a stone, and you can feel its weight when you breathe, and you don't examine it too closely because examining it means confronting what's underneath. That the woman who fell through the wall wanted to go home with a desperation that burned, and the woman standing in a reconstructed kitchen organising shelves with an ancient entity is not sure she does anymore. Not because home stopped mattering. Because here started mattering too.
You feel loved here.
The admission lives in the back of your skull like a low-grade fever, always present, never quite articulated.
You feel loved. BB needed you before he loved you, or whatever the equivalent is for a being that predates human emotional language. But loved, in the clear, daily, accumulative way that love manifests when it's not grand gestures and declarations but shared laughter and proximity and a hand that finds yours in the dark without being asked. BB loves you pervasively, from every direction at once. And you’ve started to love him back, and the loving feels like betrayal, and the betrayal feels like breathing, and you can't tell anymore which one you're supposed to stop.
It's selfish. You know it's selfish. Somewhere on the other side of the wall there's a world you belonged to, a life with your name on it, and you're standing in a facsimile kitchen letting an inhuman thing shelve your notebooks and you're happy, or close enough to happy that the difference doesn't register, and the selfishness of that—choosing comfort over confrontation, choosing the being who stayed over the man you'd have to face—sits in your stomach like acid.
You don't say any of this. You lean against the kitchen counter, and you watch him arrange the shelf and try not to notice the tension he thinks he's hiding.
It's in his hands. The notebooks are stacked neatly, but his fingers linger on each spine a fraction too long before releasing, and there's a quality to BB’s movements—too measured, too controlled—that you've learned to recognise as the aftermath of a bad patrol.
He'd been out this morning. Before you woke. You'd surfaced to find the nest empty, and you'd lain there tracing the impression of his body in the fabric and counting the minutes until the hallway produced him again. And when it did, his face was smooth, and his smile was easy. He'd said morning, baby with the half-grin. You'd said morning, and neither of you mentioned that his eyes were still a shade too dark, that the blue was slow in rising, that whatever he'd encountered at the perimeter was still sitting behind his expression like sediment that hadn't fully settled.
He's protecting you from it. The way he shields you from the worst of the corridor checks, the way he smooths Entity X into a vague it's fine, it's the same, nothing's changed whenever you ask directly. He carries it alone because carrying it is what he does, because shielding you is coded into whatever he is at a level deeper than the face, and the tenderness of that instinct and the frustration of being managed by it exist in equal measure inside your chest.
You watch his hands on the shelf. You watch the tension he thinks is invisible.
The hum holds you both in its warm, low frequency, and somewhere from the apartment, the music starts.
A crackle of static first, the particular pop and hiss of a record that's been played too many times, and then the melody. Slow. Sweet. Old in a way that feels intentional, like the Backrooms reached into the past and pulled out the exact song designed to make your chest ache.
Vera Lynn. The voice is warm and rounded and impossibly clear for a moment, every note landing clean, and then the Backrooms stutter—a glitch, a skip, the audio hiccupping like a record needle jumping a groove—and the word when stretches, distorts, hangs in the air a fraction too long before the melody catches up to itself and continues.
—but I know we'll meet again some sunny day—
Another glitch. The word sunny fractures, splits into overlapping copies of itself that pile up for half a second (sunny sunny sun-n-ny) and then resolves, the song smoothing back out like water closing over a dropped stone. The crackle persists underneath. A warmth to the distortion, like listening to a broadcast from very far away, like the song is travelling through miles of wall and wire and yellow to reach you.
You go still.
Your hand rests on the counter. The song fills the apartment, and you feel yourself drift. Not physically. Internally. The song pulls at the room in the back of your chest, the one where the Thursday morning lives, the one where Bobby said stay and the sheets were gold, and the phone rang, and he ignored it because his mouth was on yours.
Keep smiling through, just like you always do—
A skip. Always repeats, layers, becomes a brief chorus of itself before the record unsticks and Vera Lynn carries on, serene, unruffled, singing about reunion to a woman standing in a place where reunion might be impossible.
You stare at the window. The fake Santa Clara light falls across your hands on the counter, and it's warm, it's exactly the right warmth, and the song is playing, and you are thinking about the front door of your real apartment, the one with the sticky lock that Bobby always meant to fix. The sound your keys made when you set them on the table by the door. Whether anyone has fixed the lock since you've been gone, or whether it's still sticky, waiting for your hand on the knob, waiting for you to come home and jiggle it the way only you knew how—
“Hey.”
BB's voice. Close. You blink. He's in front of you—when did he move?—and his head is tilted, his eyes searching your face. That total-attention read, line by line. He sees where you went. He always sees it. He can track the exact moment your gaze goes internal, the instant when the woman in front of him leaves the room, and the woman who misses Bobby takes her place.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't say are you thinking about him or do you want to talk about it or are you okay. He does something else instead.
He holds out his hand.
Palm up. Fingers open. The same gesture he made at the old nest, except the context has shifted, the weight of it is different now, heavier, more layered.
His eyes are warm, and his mouth is soft. Vera Lynn sings through the walls and glitching on the word again (a-a-again), and BB stands in a kitchen he built for you with his hand extended, and the look on his face says come here, come back, I know where you just went, and you don't have to stay there.
You seize his hand in yours.
He pulls you in. Gently. Your chest against his. His hand settles at the small of your back. Low, warm, the heel of his palm resting against the base of your spine, and his other hand keeps yours, lifting it, positioning your joined hands at shoulder height, the way you showed him.
You've been teaching BB to dance.
It started as a joke, a throwaway comment about how Bobby had two left feet and you'd tried to teach him once. He'd stepped on your toes, called dancing vertical suffering, and refused to try again.
BB had tilted his head. Asked questions. And the next evening, he'd stood in the middle of the living room with his arms stiff and his weight wrong and said show me, and you'd laughed but taken his hands and spent an hour teaching him a basic box step while he moved with the mechanical precision of something that had studied human motion extensively and participated in it never.
He's better now. Not fluid, not quite natural, still carrying that faint quality in his movements, the angles a half-degree too clean, but better. He can hold the frame. He can follow the tempo. Can move you through the small kitchen space without stepping on your feet.
'Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away —
The song glitches. Dark clouds becomes d-dark cl-clouds, a stutter that sounds like the record is caught in a groove, cycling, and then it releases, and the melody continues, and BB turns you slowly in the kitchen light.
You look up at him.
He's looking down at you. Bobby's face, close, the chain at his throat catching the warm not-sunlight, the earring a small bright point at the edge of your vision. His expression is—
You've run out of words for BB's expressions. The early ones had names: Bobby's grin, Bobby's smirk, Bobby's mock-wounded outrage. But BB has been building his own vocabulary of expressions on top of Bobby's, small deviations from the blueprint, micro-adjustments that belong to him and only him, and the one on his face right now is entirely his.
He smiles at you.
Small. Crooked. Genuine.
Bobby's grin was a performance, a weapon, a thing deployed with intent. This is quieter. Lopsided. One corner of his mouth lifting slightly higher than the other, the asymmetry creating warmth. It's the smile of a thing that learned to smile by watching a man smile and then, slowly, over months, forgot to copy and started to mean it.
You gaze at each other.
BB's hand is warm at your back, and your hand is in his, and you're standing close enough that you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the blue, and the small scar on his jaw, and the way the not-sunlight catches the fine grain of his skin. Which is perfect. Which is too perfect, and has no imperfections except the ones he chose to replicate, and even those are too intentional, the blemishes of a face that was designed rather than grown.
You should look away. The tension is building in the space between your bodies the way static builds before a storm, and you should look away because looking at BB like this, in this light, with this song, is a door you're not sure you can close once you walk through it.
You don't look away.
BB's gaze drops.
To your mouth.
It's not subtle because BB doesn't do subtle. His eyes fix on your lips and stay there, and you can feel the weight of it, the physical pressure of being looked at that intently by something that ancient. Like a beam of light concentrated through a lens until it burns.
His breathing changes.
He doesn't need to breathe. You know this. You've known it for a while. The breathing is performance, a courtesy, a piece of the human costume he maintains because the alternative would unsettle you. But right now, in the kitchen, with his eyes on your mouth and the song glitching softly around you (we'll meet a-a-again), his chest expands and contracts, the air leaving him in a slow, uneven exhale, pushed out rather than released. Like whatever is happening inside him right now is too large for the shape to hold without venting pressure.
“Can I—” he starts.
Stops.
BB’s jaw twitches, that muscle at the hinge. His eyes are still on your mouth, and his hand tightens at your back. A fraction, barely perceptible, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and his throat moves. A swallow. Another borrowed gesture, another piece of human machinery he doesn't need, except right now it looks involuntary. It looks real.
“Can I,” he rasps again, even quieter.
His voice has dropped into that low register, the one that carries the hum's harmonic underneath it. Not the ancient-thing voice. Or the vast, reverberating frequency he uses when something threatens his territory. This is… smaller. Almost shy. A resonance that sounds like it's coming from a place BB didn't know he had.
He trails off.
The kitchen is quiet. Vera Lynn has gone silent. The song caught in a glitch, a held note, the record spinning in a groove that won't release. Only sounds are the hum, BB's unnecessary breathing, and your own heartbeat, too loud in your ears.
"What do you want?" you ask, barely above a whisper.
You can feel the tension in him through your palm on his shoulder. Not the coiled readiness he carries in dangerous corridors. A different kind. A vibration, running through the muscle and bone of a body that is not muscle and bone. That is something else entirely, wearing the shape of a man who is shaking because he wants something and doesn't know how to take it without being taught.
BB makes a sound.
Low. At the back of his throat. A sound that lives in the space between a groan and a hum, that carries a wanting so raw it barely fits through his vocal cords. Throaty. Needy. And underneath it—beneath the borrowed voice, beneath Bobby's timbre and the human costume—a vibration that is entirely and unmistakably other. Primal.
His hand lifts from between your bodies. Unsure. His fingers drift upward, and his thumb finds your mouth. Presses against the swell of your bottom lip. Gentle. Barely there. The pad of his thumb traces the curve of it the way he traces the edge of a doorway when he's reading a room, with that same focused attention, that same reverent precision.
“A kiss,” he whispers.
His eyes lift from your mouth to your eyes. His thumb stays on your lip. The wanting on his face is so naked, so unperformed, so completely stripped of Bobby's armour and BB's composure that it makes your breath catch.
“You taught me to dance,” he goes on, the words coming out unevenly. Hushed. His thumb moves against your lip, the faintest drag, back and forth, and his eyes are dark and wide. The ancient thing behind them is nowhere to be seen. What's looking at you is just BB, just the being you named in a meadow, wanting something human with a desperation that borders on heartbreaking. “Teach me this. Teach me how to—” His breath shudders. Not a performance, a malfunction. A system overwhelmed. “How to do it right. I want to do it right. For you.”
Your breath hitches.
The conflict is a living thing in your chest, a creature with teeth and a heartbeat, pulling in two directions at once.
Bobby's mouth on yours on a sunny morning. BB's thumb on your lip in a kitchen that shouldn't exist. The man who kissed you like he invented it, and the being who is asking permission to learn how to. The love you carried through the wall and the love that grew on this side of it, stubborn and impossible and real, and the guilt, the guilt, the guilt that says this is betrayal and the counter-voice that hisses betrayal of what? Of a man who grunted at your goodbye? Of a love that was already starving when you left?
You want this.
The wanting is its own answer. It sits in your stomach, hot and undeniable, and it doesn't care about the guilt, and it doesn't care about the conflict. It doesn't care that the mouth hovering near yours belongs to a thing that heard you through concrete and chose to wear the face of the man who broke your heart.
You want this. You want him. BB. Not the face, or the copy, not the better version of someone else, but the thing underneath. The one who learned your name, kept your promise, built you a kitchen, and is standing in it now with his thumb on your lip, his body shaking, the word please forming on his tongue.
“Please,” he breathes, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip one more time. Feather-light. And his face is so soft, so open, so wrecked with the rawness of wanting something he's never had that the word comes out like a prayer. "Please."
You don't stop him when he leans in.
His lips brush yours.
The lightest possible contact. The surface tension of a kiss, the moment before it becomes one, and the touch is tentative. So fragile, and so different from every kiss you've ever experienced that your body doesn't know how to categorise it.
Bobby kissed like he was claiming, savouring. BB kisses like he's asking, begging. His mouth hovers against yours, barely touching, a question held in the millimetre of space between his skin and yours, and you can feel the tremor in his lips. He's shaking. Fine, continuous, a vibration that you feel more than see, and his breath—the breath he doesn't need—washes over your mouth in a warm, unsteady exhale.
Then the contact lands. Full. His lips press to yours, and the sensation is—
Heat.
Beyond warmth, beyond the gentle building of a slow kiss. A current that slams through your entire system, starting at the point of contact and radiating outward through your jaw, your throat, your chest, and the base of your spine. It's not natural, it can't be natural, because the body against yours is not a body and the mouth on yours is not a mouth, not really. It's the surface expression of something vast and old and powerful, and that power is in the kiss, threaded through it like voltage through copper, and your nervous system lights up like a circuit completing.
BB is worse.
You feel it happen. His skin, always cool, always that slightly-below-human temperature that you've gotten used to, goes hot. A flush of warmth that starts at his mouth and spreads, radiant, through his jaw and his neck and the hands on your body. His cool skin warms beneath your lips like metal left in the sun. Like the contact between your mouth and his is generating a heat that his body was never designed to process.
He makes a sound against your mouth. Soft. Greedy. A small, desperate noise that vibrates between your lips, and he can't stop it. You can tell. Because you can feel the way his jaw tightens and his breath catches. Like he's trying to contain it and failing, the sound escaping anyway, involuntary, the noise of someone encountering sensation for the first time and being unmade by it.
You tilt your head. Change the angle. Show him.
He follows. Quick, eager, that same devouring attentiveness he brings to every lesson. Your angle becomes his angle, your pressure becomes his pressure, and the speed at which BB adapts is inhuman. Seconds instead of minutes, the learning curve of a thing that absorbs information through contact.
Your lips part, just barely, and his mirrors the movement, and the kiss deepens, and BB's hand slides up your back and grips, bunching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers. The sound he makes this time is louder. A sigh that cracks open midway through and becomes a groan, low and shaking, shot through with that sub-harmonic frequency that you feel in your teeth.
His other hand finds the side of your face, cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours. He's learning. You can feel him learning, cataloguing each shift in pressure, each tilt, each breath, mapping this the way you mapped his corridors, with hunger and the desperate focus.
You run your fingers through his hair. BB shudders. A full-body tremor, head to feet, and the sound he makes is a wrecked, bitten-off thing that lives somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and his forehead drops against yours, and his mouth chases yours, his fingers tightening in your shirt.
When you finally part, his mouth follows yours. An inch. Reluctant. Not wanting the distance.
His forehead rests against yours. His breathing is ragged. Unnecessary, performative, and completely out of his control, great shuddering exhales that fog the negligible space between your faces. His eyes are closed. The lashes dark against his flushed skin, which is still warm, still radiating that unnatural heat, and his lips are parted, and his expression is—
Ruined. That's the word. He looks ruined. Taken apart at the joints and not yet reassembled. Every layer of composure stripped away. Bobby's armour, BB's own careful vaneer, the ancient thing's vast indifference. All of it gone, peeled back, and what's underneath is just this: a being, shaking, in a kitchen, with the taste of you on a mouth he built to say your name.
“Am I doing it right?” he whispers shakily, slightly dazed. “Was that good?”
His eyes open. Find yours. And the expression in them is so earnest. So genuinely concerned that the answer might be no, that he might have gotten it wrong. That the thing he wants more than anything he's ever wanted might be the thing he's worst at, that your chest cracks along an old fault line, warmth flooding in.
You smile. Your nose bumps his.
“You're a very eager student,” you murmur, your voice thick. Roughened.
The heat still sits in your veins, humming through the places where his mouth was, and the words come out low and warm but certain.
BB's face transforms.
The worry dissolves. What replaces it is satisfaction. Feline. Deep. The slow, spreading pleasure of a thing that’s been told it succeeded at the one task it cared about. And the expression settles onto Bobby's features in a way that is entirely BB's. Not the cocky grin, but quieter, more private, enormously pleased, a contentment so total it rearranges his face into a shape Bobby never wore.
He leans in. Presses his lips to your forehead.
Gentle. Unhurried, lingering. His mouth is warm against your skin, and you feel the hum transfer through the contact. That low, steady vibration, his frequency, the sound that lives in his chest and translates through his mouth into a pulse that settles behind your sternum like a second heartbeat.
He holds the kiss there. Two seconds. Three. His hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers in your hair, and the gesture is so tender and so completely his that the breath leaves your body in a long, slow exhale.
You close your eyes. Lean into it.
Bobby never used to kiss your forehead.
Bobby kissed your mouth, your neck, the spot below your ear that made you gasp. Bobby kissed with intent, heat, and skill. Bobby kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to know he knew.
But the forehead—that quiet, unhurried, undemanding press of lips to the place above your eyes—that was never in Bobby's vocabulary.
It was too tender. Too unperformative. Too much like a devotion and not enough like a statement. Bobby declared. And the soft devotional gesture of forehead to forehead, mouth to brow, the kiss that says I cherish you instead of I want you—that was always one of the doors Bobby bricked up, one of the tender things he couldn't do because doing it would've meant admitting the size of what he felt, and Bobby's whole life was an exercise in pretending the feeling was smaller than the room.
Vera Lynn unsticks from her glitch, and the last notes of the song drift through the apartment like smoke (some sunny d-day), and you are here. In a kitchen that was built for you by something that heard you cry through a wall.
You lean into lips gentle against your skin and close your eyes.
BB pauses at the threshold of the apartment.
He does this now, the pause, the backward glance, the half-second where his body is already oriented toward the corridor but his attention is still tethered to you.
It started after the first kiss. A new subroutine in him, a step added to the departure sequence that wasn't there before, and you've watched it develop over the past few days.
“Perimeter check,” he calls out casually. The half-grin flashes. “Back soon.”
You cross the kitchen, pressing your lips to his cheek. A quick, light contact, the kind of kiss that says be safe without saying it.
BB's hand catches your chin.
His fingers close around it,, his thumb and forefinger framing your jaw the way he'd frame a shot if he were Bobby, if he had a camera, if the instinct that lives in those borrowed hands were pointed at a lens instead of at your face. He tilts your head. Tips it up. Holds you exactly where he wants you.
And he kisses you.
Full, wet, unhurried, his lips parting against yours with a confidence he didn't have two days ago in the kitchen. He's been learning, replaying, refining, the way he refines everything, and the kiss he gives you now is deeper than the first, more certain, carrying the heat that slammed through both of you the first time and has been simmering since, banked but not extinguished. His tongue brushes your lower lip. His fingers tighten on your chin.
He makes that sound again. The low, needy one, the one that lives at the back of his throat with the purr, and he tries to swallow it, almost, but not quite.
BB pulls back. A centimetre, his mouth hovering.
“Was that okay?” he breathes out, his breath on your lips. His eyes search yours with that earnest, slightly worried focus. Still checking, treating every escalation like a threshold he needs your permission to cross.
You nod. You don't trust your voice. You stay close, your forehead almost touching his, breathing the same air, and the hum in the walls dips low and warm around you.
BB presses his lips to your forehead. Holds them there.
"Stay," he murmurs against your skin.
Then he's gone. The hum adjusts, tightens, and you're alone in the apartment with the ghost of his mouth on your brow and the taste of him on your lips.
You decide to sort the nest to kill time.
It doesn't need sorting, really.
BB arranges it with a precision that borders on pedantic, the blankets layered in an exact order, the pillows positioned at angles he's adjusted over weeks of watching how you sleep. But your hands need occupation, and your brain needs distraction, because the kiss is still on your mouth, the taste is still there, and the wanting is a warm, heavy thing in the pit of your stomach.
And if you don't move, don't work, don't put your hands on fabric and fold, you're going to lie down on this bed and think about his fingers on your chin and his tongue on your lip and the sound he made, and you can't afford to be that soft right now. Not while he's out there. Not while Entity X is out there.
You refold the top blanket. Smooth the creases. Adjust the pillow on the left side—your side, the one that holds the impression of your head—and reach for the second pillow, the one on BB's side that he doesn't need but uses because you told him beds have two pillows and he'd looked at you with that tilted curiosity and said why? and you'd said because that's how it works and he'd said that's not a reason and you'd said because it means someone else sleeps here too and he'd gone quiet for a long time and the next morning there were two pillows.
You're smoothing the second pillowcase when you hear it.
Your hand stills.
“—not about that, can you just—”
Your voice. Your own voice, coming from somewhere beyond the apartment walls, floating through the hum the way Vera Lynn had floated. Sourceless, directionless. Except this isn't music. This is you. A version of you from before, the you that existed on the other side of the wall, and the sound of your own voice reaching you from the yellow makes your blood slow in your veins.
“—I'm just asking if we're okay, Bobby, that's all I'm asking—”
And then his. Bobby's. The real Bobby, the original, the voice you haven't heard in—
You don't know how long. Months. Maybe onger. And the sound of it hits you in the sternum like a fist because it's exactly the same, the same timbre and cadence, the same tired dismissive flatness that used to make the back of your throat burn.
“We're fine.”
Two words. Tossed over his shoulder. The verbal equivalent of a shrug, of a turned back, of a man already looking at the television while his girlfriend stands in the kitchen with her hands gripping the counter and her chest full of words she's running out of courage to say.
“You keep saying that, but you don't—Bobby, can you look at me? Can you just—”
“I am looking at you.”
“You're not. You're looking at the screen. I'm asking you to turn around and actually—”
“What do you want me to say?" And there it is—the edge. The blade that lives under the casual, the sharp thing that comes out when he feels cornered, when the conversation is moving toward a territory he doesn't want to enter. Not anger. Worse than anger. Impatience. A man who’s decided this conversation is unnecessary before it started. “We're fine, babe. I'm here. What else do you want?”
“I want you to talk to me—”
“I'm talking to you right now. Stop trying to turn this into a fight.”
“That's not—Bobby, that's not what I mean, and you know it.”
Silence of a man who’s already disengaged follows, who’s pulled the drawbridge up mid-conversation and is now sitting behind his own walls waiting for you to exhaust yourself against them. You know that silence. You lived inside that silence for months. You drowned in it.
You set the pillow down. Your hands are trembling.
You know you shouldn't. Your instincts are screaming loudly. The animal brain hisses warnings. The brain that’s spent months learning the rules of this place and the first rule, the foundational rule, the one BB drilled into you before he taught you anything else, is stay in the nest. Stay in the apartment. Stay inside the protection he carved for you out of Level 0's guts.
But your voice is out there. Bobby's voice is out there. And the sound of that exact conversation—that devastating, ordinary conversation, the kind you had a hundred times, the kind that ended with you staring at the ceiling at two AM—is pulling at you the way gravity pulls.
Not curiosity. Recognition. The lure of an old wound being reopened.
You step out of the apartment.
The corridor beyond the front door is yellow. Long. The sublevel hallway that connects the apartment to the main body of Level 0, the passage BB carved like a throat between his territory and yours.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in that flat shadowless drone, and the hum is steady, even, unchanged. Nothing looks wrong. Nothing feels wrong, except that your voice is coming from the far end of the corridor, from beyond the doorway where the sublevel opens into Level 0 proper, and the conversation is continuing, rolling forward, playing itself out like a recording that doesn't know it's being listened to.
“—I feel like you don't even notice if I'm here or not. Bobby, do you notice? Do you notice when I'm standing right in front of you?”
Your eyes burn. The lump in your throat is solid, immovable, sharp-edged. You walk toward the sound. One hand trails the wall, and your bare feet are silent on the carpet, and the conversation beyond pulls you forward step by step.
“You're being dramatic.”
The words hit you like a slap. Not because they're new. Because they're not.
Bobby said that. Bobby said those exact words, in that same exact tone, with that exact tired, dismissive, I-don't-have-the-energy-for-this tone, and the accuracy of the reproduction makes your skin prickle because the Backrooms shouldn't have this.
The Backrooms shouldn't have the argument you had on a random Tuesday in October in a kitchen in Santa Clara. The Backrooms shouldn't know what Bobby sounded like when he was making you feel invisible.
“I'm not being dramatic, I'm being honest, I'm trying to tell you that I'm hurting and you won't even—”
“Hurting from what? Babe, I don’t want to fight. Stop turning everything into an argument.” Bobby's voice, louder now. The edge hardens into a wall. “You want me to sit here and—what? Have a feelings conversation? I'm tired. I worked all day. Can we just—can we not?”
You stop at the doorway.
The sublevel opens into the corridor beyond. Level 0 proper, BB's territory, the locked-down hallways that nothing enters and nothing leaves. The lights stretch into the yellow distance. The carpet extends, flat and damp, into the dark.
The conversation is louder here, bouncing off the walls, your voice and Bobby's voice layered on top of each other in a terrible intimacy, and your eyes are full, and the anger is back. The buried anger, the one BB identified months ago, the one you folded into self-doubt and swallowed. It's risen now, pulled to the surface by the sound of Bobby refusing, again, to try. To talk. To turn around and listen.
To look at you, see you standing there with your heart in your hands, asking for the bare minimum, and be told you're being dramatic.
The doorway is empty.
Your voices continue, playing in the walls. But there's nothing there, just the corridor. More of the yellow, and the dark at the far end, where the lights don't reach. Where the fluorescents give way to a blackness that is too thick, too solid to be ordinary shadow.
You stare at the dark.
The dark stares back.
Your sweat goes cold. A full-body temperature drop, your skin prickling from scalp to ankles, every hair on your arms standing in unison, and the moisture on your palms turns to ice water, and your heartbeat detonates. Slams against the cage of your ribs so hard you feel it in your teeth. Once. Twice. A third time that shakes your vision.
The conversation stops.
Your voice. Bobby's voice. Gone. Cut off mid-sentence like a throat being closed, and the silence that replaces it is not Level 0's silence, not the hum-filled quiet of a place holding itself still. This is the absence of sound. The void where sound should be. A silence so complete it has its own pressure, pushing against your eardrums, filling your skull with a static that isn't static but attention.
Vast, focused, oriented entirely on you.
The dark moves.
A motion that starts at the far end of the corridor and travels toward you with unhurried, deliberate patience, like whatever it is has all the time in the world and knows it. The fluorescent lights flicker (one, two, three in sequence), and when they reignite, they’re not yellow anymore.
They’re red.
A deep, arterial crimson that transforms the corridor into a visceral maw that looks less like a hallway and more like standing in the inside of a throat. The carpet darkens. The walls darken. Familiar geometry of Level 0 warps under the red light into a place you don't recognise, a version of BB's territory that has been flooded with something foreign, something that changes the colour of the air itself.
The lights flicker again. Red, black, red, black. A strobe, pulsing, each flash revealing the dark a little closer, a little more solid, a shape forming inside it the way a body forms inside smoke, and in the stuttering crimson you see it.
Your head tips up.
And up.
And up.
It comes into the red light the way a whale breaches water. Slowly, the sheer scale of it requiring a recalibration of your visual field that your brain refuses to perform.
Your legs won't move. Your body has locked up, every muscle seized in the ancient, primate, pre-verbal grip of a fear so total it bypasses the nervous system and goes straight to the marrow.
This isn’t the Smiler or the Howler. This isn’t six agents with weapons and tactical vocabulary. This is the thing in the notebook. The symbol you drew on page after page, updating weekly, tracking its movements at the perimeter with clinical detachment because clinical detachment was the only way to hold it at arm's length.
It's not at the perimeter anymore.
It's tall. Obscenely, horrifically tall. Its body fills the corridor from floor to ceiling, which suddenly seems too low, its shape pressing against the walls as if the hallway were built around it, or as if it had grown to fill the hallway.
It's shaped wrong, proportioned wrong, only vaguely humanoid silhouette stretched to the breaking point and then stretched further, limbs too long, muscular, joints articulating at angles that make your eyes slide off them like water off glass.
Its skin is more like a hide. Leathery. Matte. A deep, dark red that absorbs the crimson light instead of reflecting it, like something that was red once and has since become a surface that eats light and gives nothing back. No texture. No sheen. The flat, dead finish of something organic that has forgotten how to be alive.
And it has no face.
The surface where a face should be is smooth. Featureless. A blank expanse of that matte leathery skin, curved slightly, like the inside of a mask, and the blankness is worse than any feature could be because your brain keeps trying to find the face, keeps scanning the surface for eyes, mouth, nose, any anchor of recognition, any sign that what you're looking at is a being and not a wall of skin that has learned to walk.
Then the eyes appear.
They don't open, they emerge.
Bulging outward from the surface of the face, pressing through the skin like something hatching, the leathery hide stretching and thinning and splitting apart in wet, peeling seams, and what emerges is yellow. Burning, furnace-bright yellow, the colour of the fluorescent lights distilled and concentrated and superheated until it became something that hurts to look at. Two points of searing amber in the featureless red, and they fix on you.
They fix on you, and they don't move.
Tears spill down your cheeks.
The animal body's response to being seen by something that should not be able to see. A reflex, a pressure release, your system venting whatever it can in a desperate attempt to process the input flooding through it.
Your heart hammers inside your chest, your mouth bone dry. Your hands are numb at your sides, the fingers bloodless and tingling, and you can feel your pulse in your throat and your temples.
Entity X.
It's bigger than you thought. Bigger than BB's clipped descriptions and careful evasions.
It fills the corridor the way a flood would. Totally, leaving no space unoccupied. And those eyes, those burning yellow eyes, are locked on you with a focus that’s not predatory. Not hungry. Patient.
It’s been waiting for this, you realise with a lurch. To lure you out with the sound of your own voice and Bobby's voice and the argument calibrated to the exact frequency of your buried fury, and now that you're here, now that you're standing in the doorway with your tears on your face and your anger in your throat, it’s in no rush.
It has what it wanted. Your attention. Your recognition.
It reaches for you.
The arm extends. Long, impossibly long, the limb unfolding like a telescope, the joints articulating in that wrong way, and the hand comes through the doorway. Into the sublevel. Into BB's territory, into the space he carved and sealed and locked down, the space where nothing enters—
The hand comes apart.
Ribbons. The skin peels away from the fingers in long, wet strips, the flesh beneath splitting and curling back, and the arm disintegrates from fingertip to wrist to forearm in a cascade of shredding tissue that falls to the carpet in dark. Heavy coils dissolve on contact, eaten by the floor, absorbed into BB's territory like an immune response rejecting foreign matter.
The barrier—invisible, structural, woven into the very air at a level you can't perceive—is doing what BB built it to do. Unmaking anything that tries to cross inside and harm you.
You scramble backwards.
Your heel catches the carpet. You stumble, catch yourself on the wall, push off, and your body is finally moving, finally responding. The paralysis encasing you cracks, and the survival brain kicks online with a screaming urgency.
You back away from the doorway, and Entity X is standing in the corridor beyond it, and you watch in mute terror as its arm begins to regrow. The ribbons reverse, the skin re-knitting, the flesh sealing back over the bones with a wet, thick sound like clay being pressed into shape.
It tracks your retreat with those yellow eyes, and it’s not even slightly bothered.
It’s not bothered at all.
It reaches again. The same arm, healed, whole, the matte red skin glistening faintly with the residue of its own reconstruction. It pushes through the barrier, and the skin starts to peel again. It pushes harder, the arm advancing centimetre by centimetre through the invisible wall, and the peeling is slower this time.
The barrier is straining. You can feel it in the hum. A high, tight frequency that sounds like metal under stress, and Entity X is shredding its own flesh to reach you, and it doesn't flinch. Doesn't falter, those burning eyes fixed on you with an intensity that is not rage, not hunger, is something far worse than either.
It's insistence.
You turn and run.
The corridor stretches. Or you're running slower than you think, or the sublevel is responding to the breach by elongating, by putting distance between you and the doorway, and you sprint for the apartment at full speed. Your bare feet slap against the carpet, your breath coming in ragged, tearing gasps, and behind you, you can hear it.
Not footsteps. A sound like tearing fabric, like the barrier giving way fibre by fibre, like something enormous and patient methodically peeling through a protection that was supposed to be absolute.
You slam through the apartment doors, gasping for breath.
You scramble for the lock. It’s decorative, you know that, it's a human gesture in a human-shaped apartment, and it will stop nothing that just shredded itself through BB's barrier, but you still try, grabbing the bookshelf next. The one BB just arranged. Your notebooks cascade to the floor as you drag it across the carpet and shove it against the door. The wood scrapes, the weight of it pathetic against what's coming.
You grab the kitchen table. A chair. The standing lamp from the corner. Anything. Everything. Piling it against the door in a barricade of furniture that looks exactly like what it is: a pathetic attempt to buy time.
“BB!”
Your voice breaks on his name. Cracks open, raw, a scream that comes from the bottom of your lungs and fills the apartment and bounces off the walls he built for you.
“BB, COME BACK! BB!”
The door splinters.
Not from the hinges. From the surface. The wood bulges inward, warping, then splits along a line running from top to bottom, and through the crack, you see it. The red. The matte, light-eating red. And then an arm.
It comes through the gap the way the first one came through the barrier, fingers curling around the edge of the broken door, and the wood peels away from the frame in long strips. The apartment dismantles itself around the intrusion, BB's careful construction coming apart under the weight of something that will not stop.
The clawed hand reaches into the room.
You grab the lamp. The standing lamp, with a heavy brass base, the most solid thing within reach, and you swing it. It connects with the arm, bounces off the matte skin, and the impact travels up your wrists and into your shoulders, but the thing doesn't react. The arm keeps coming. You throw the lamp. Throw books. Throw a kitchen chair that shatters against the forearm and falls into pieces.
“Stay away from me!" You're screaming, your voice stripped raw, your body backing toward the far wall with nothing left to throw. “Get away—”
Entity X's eyes find you through the wreckage of the door.
Yellow. Burning. Fixed. It hasn't blinked. Through the barrier, through the peeling, the furniture and the lamp and the screaming. Those eyes locked onto you in the corridor, and they have not left you.
They’ll not leave you, and the constancy of the gaze is the most terrifying thing you've ever experienced because it means you. You’re the target. You’ve always been the target. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, whatever fuel it runs on—it wants you, specifically, personally, with a focus that transcends predation and enters the territory of purpose.
The arm reaches for you. Healed. Whole. The stripped flesh re-formed, the fingers extended, and it's close enough now that you can see the texture of the skin. Up close, it's not smooth; it's covered in fine, hairline fractures. Like dried earth, something that cracked and sealed and cracked again, a surface that has been broken and rebuilt so many times, the damage has become a pattern.
The arm detaches.
Ripped, torn from the shoulder socket with a violence so total the sound it makes isn't a tear but a detonation. A concussive, wet blast that shakes the walls and sends a spray of dark viscera across the ceiling and the wrecked furniture and your face, warm and thick, smelling of copper and something older, something mineral.
Entity X's arm hits the floor. The fingers are still curling. Still reaching. Oriented toward you, even severed from the body.
The thing that threw it is standing in the doorway.
It’s not BB and not Bobby.
Not anything that has ever worn a human face, and you understand this immediately, viscerally, in the part of your brain that predates language and operates on pure animal recognition: the shape in the doorway is wrong.
It's Bobby's height, but the proportions have shifted. The shoulders sit too wide, the stance too low, the geometry of the body rearranged into something optimised for destruction rather than disguise. The face is Bobby's face, but it's barely holding, the features sliding, the jaw too sharp, the eyes fully black. Two pits of absolute dark in a face that is coming apart at the seams.
The skin is cracking. Not like Entity X's fractures—like porcelain, like a mask that's been struck, fissures radiating from the jaw and the cheekbones, and through the cracks you can see—not flesh, not bone, but nothing. An absence. A dark so total it makes Entity X's darkness look like shadow.
He's covered in black. Head to chest, arms to elbows, the viscous substance coating his skin and matting his hair to his forehead, dripping from his hands in long, slow ropes. Whatever distraction Entity X deployed to pull him from the perimeter, BB didn't just fight through it.
He annihilated it. And he didn't stop to put the face back on before he came for you.
The hum collapses.
The ambient frequency of Level 0—the constant, ever-present vibration that’s been the background radiation of your existence since you fell through the wall—drops to a subsonic register that you don't hear so much as feel.
A pressure wave that presses against your eardrums, your chest, and settles at the backs of your eyes. The red lights in the corridor blow out. Every single one. The apartment goes dark except for Entity X's burning yellow eyes and the fissures in BB's cracking face, which glow. Faintly, coldly, with a light that has no colour name.
BB opens his mouth, and the sound that comes out is not a voice.
It’s the hum.
The hum itself, weaponised, concentrated, forced through a throat that has stopped pretending to be human. The sound fills the apartment, the corridor, the sublevel, more vibration than language, dragged through the collapsing shape of Bobby's vocal cords with a fury so enormous it makes the floor ripple:
“Clever distraction.”
Entity X turns.
The motion is glacial. Unhurried. The massive red body rotating in the wrecked doorway of the apartment to face the thing that just removed its arm, and even now—even turning to face BB, even orienting its body toward the threat—its eyes stay on you.
Its eyes stay on you.
The head doesn't move with the body. The neck articulates. Wrong, all wrong. Rotating independently of the torso at a degree that no anatomy should permit. The burning yellow gaze remains fixed on your position against the far wall while the body faces BB, the removed arm regrowing in wet, rapid pulses at the severed shoulder, rising to meet what's coming.
The fight starts.
You can't follow it. Not really. Not the way you'd follow a human fight, with fists and momentum and the readable physics of two bodies colliding.
This is different. These are two beings that don't obey the laws of physics, tearing at each other in a space that's coming apart around them.
BB moves the way he moved against the agents. Too fast, fluid, the human shape abandoned for something more efficient, more angular, more suited to what he actually is, and Entity X absorbs. Takes. Endures.
BB tears through its torso, and the flesh re-knits immediately. BB shatters its jaw with a crack, the featureless face splintering like ceramic, the yellow eyes bulging through the fissures, and the jaw reforms. BB puts his fist through its chest, and the chest closes around his arm, and for a terrible second, they're locked, joined. BB rips free with a sound like tearing metal, and Entity X is already whole again, already standing, already watching you through the chaos with those eyes that have never left, never wavered, never once looked at anything else.
You're behind BB. Pressed against the wall, moving when he moves, keeping his body between you and the thing, and you're trying to be small, trying to be invisible, but Entity X doesn't need to see you to know where you are. It knows. The way it knew your voice. The way it knew Bobby's voice. The way it knew the exact argument to play through the walls to bring you to the threshold.
BB is winning. At first. His speed is devastating, his fury enormous, and Entity X staggers under the assault, the massive body driven backwards through the wrecked apartment and into the corridor, and for a few brutal seconds you think he's got this, he's got it, he's going to unmake it the way he unmade the Smiler—
Entity X catches his arm.
The movement is casual. Almost lazy. One massive red hand closing around BB's forearm mid-strike, and the force of the stop shudders through the corridor, through the floor under your feet. BB wrenches. Twists. The hand doesn't open. Entity X holds him there—one-armed, the other still regrowing—and for the first time in the fight, it isn't retreating.
It's pushing forward.
The shift is tectonic.
Entity X drives BB backwards, and the corridor shakes around you. BB's feet leave the ground for a fraction of a second, and when he lands, his posture has changed. Less offensive, more braced, the shape of someone absorbing impact instead of delivering it. Entity X hits him. Open-handed, a strike that catches BB across the chest and sends him into the wall hard enough to crater the surface, and the sound BB makes is not a snarl. It's a gasp. A short, involuntary, winded exhalation, the noise of a body—even a body that isn't a body—taking damage it didn't expect.
And through it all. Through the fighting and the shattering and the black blood and the reknitting flesh.
Entity X's eyes never leave you.
The gaze stays locked on you with the serene, unwavering patience that knows this fight is temporary. That knows BB is between it and you, and that BB is the obstacle, but you’re the objective and obstacles, eventually, move.
BB goes down.
A blow you don't see—too fast, too angled, connecting with something vital in BB's body—and he hits the floor and doesn't get up immediately.
He gets to his hands and knees. The black blood drips from his mouth now, from his nose, from a gash across his chest that isn't closing the way Entity X's wounds close. His arms are shaking. The human face is flickering. BB, then the thing beneath, then BB again, the mask destabilising under the damage, slipping.
“BB!”
You're moving before you think. Scrambling across the wreckage, over the broken furniture and the shattered doorframe, toward him, toward the crumpled shape of him on the floor, and your hands reach for his shoulders—
“Stop.”
His voice. A snarled command, delivered with every frequency he has. Human, inhuman, the hum itself weaponised into a single syllable that hits you in the chest like a physical force and roots your feet to the floor.
He lifts his head. His eyes are black, and his mouth is black with blood. The expression on his face is wild, furious, terrified. An emotion he’s never shown you before, an emotion you didn't know he was capable of, and the terror is not for himself.
“Level 974.” He spits blood. Black. Thick. “Mr Kitty. You know the route. Go, now.”
“I'm not leaving you—”
“You’re a target.” Each word costs him. You can see it. The effort of speech, of maintaining the face, of holding the human shape together while the damage tries to unmake it. “As long as you’re here, it will not stop. It doesn't want me. It wants you. And I can't—” His jaw clenches, a tremor running through his arms. “I can't fight it and protect you. I need you gone. I need you out of range.”
Entity X rises behind him. The massive body straightening. The burning eyes on you. Always on you.
“BB—”
“I am older than this place.” Low. Fierce. Black blood on his teeth, and his eyes fully dark, the ancient thing speaking through the ruined face with a conviction that shakes the walls. “I’m older than the walls and the hum and the doors and it. I have survived every horror this place has made. But I cannot do it while I'm holding back.”
Holding back.
You understand, then. Instantly and fully.
He's been fighting at half capacity. Less. Fighting with one hand while the other shields you, positioning his body between you and the thing, dividing his attention between destruction and protection and losing ground on both. But it's more than that.
You look at his face—the cracking face, the flickering face, Bobby's features sliding and reforming and sliding again—and you understand the other constraint.
The one he'd never say. The Bobby suit. The face, the body, the human shape he's maintained for you since the day you came through the wall. It takes power to hold it. Focus. Resources currently being spent on keeping twenty-two-year-old Bobby Franklin's jaw attached to his skull, instead of being channelled into whatever he actually is underneath.
He's not just protecting you with his body. He's protecting you with his form. Keeping the familiar shape, the face you trust, the lips you kissed, but keeping all of it intact costs him, bleeds him, divides the vast and ancient thing into a fraction of its true capacity.
As long as you're here, he will keep wearing Bobby. As long as he's wearing Bobby, Entity X will keep gaining ground.
You’re not his weakness. You’re his ceiling. And as long as you're in this corridor, he will keep hitting that ceiling, and Entity X will keep pushing through it, and the math only ends one way.
“Trust me,” BB says, blood in his mouth, the face slipping. The thing underneath looks at you with an intensity that has nothing to do with age or power but with promise he made you, his hand on your cheek. “Run.”
You grab the notebook.
It's on the floor, knocked from the shelf in the barricade, pages bent, the cover dented.
You snatch it up. Press it to your chest. The routes are in there. Level 0 to Level 1, Level 1 to the stairwell threshold, the stairwell to the passage threading through Level 2 and opening into the long, dark corridor descending to Level 974. You mapped it. You walked it with BB at your side and his hand at your back, and you marked every turn, every landmark, every shift in the hum that signals a boundary.
You look at BB one more time. On the floor. Bleeding black. The face barely holding. Entity X rising behind him, vast and red and patient, those yellow eyes burning through the dark as it turns to follow you.
BB snarls, and Entity X’s legs crack beneath it.
You run.
Through the wrecked sublevel. Into the corridor, into Level 0, your notebook against your chest and your bare feet on the carpet and the sound of the fight erupting behind you. Massive, structural, the sound of two ancient things finally meeting without a ceiling, and you run toward the route you mapped, the path you memorised, and you don't look back.
You run until you can't hear it anymore.
The fight stopped being audible three corridors back; the sounds of two entities tearing each other apart swallowed by the hum.
What you're running from now is the silence. Weighted silence of a level that’s been breached, holding itself still the way an animal holds still when the predator is too close to outrun. The red light hasn't faded. It pulses occasionally, as if Level 0 itself is wounded and you're running through it.
Your bare feet slap on the carpet, the notebook clutched to your chest. The cover bent, the pages pressed against your sternum.
You're navigating from memory now, the left fork at the junction where the carpet gets warmer, the right turn at the corridor where the hum drops a semitone, the long stretch past the section with the water-stained ceiling tiles that marks the boundary of BB's inner territory.
You know this route, walked it with BB multiple times. Traced it in the notebook with blue ink and annotated the landmarks and tested yourself on it in the nest while BB watched with that quiet pride, and the memory of his face—the last time you saw it, cracking, bleeding black, the ancient thing surfacing through the fissures—makes your vision blur and you blink hard and keep running.
The corridor opens up.
You skid to a stop. The junction ahead is the one that leads to the stairwell threshold, the one that drops you into the transitional space between Level 0 and Level 1.
But that’s not why you stop. You stop because the corridor is full of furniture.
And you know this furniture. The recognition is immediate, physical. The flat-packed shelving units with the Scandinavian labels. The plastic-wrapped headboards stacked against the wall. A dining table, oak veneer, the floor model with the scratch on the left leg where Bobby kicked it once, carrying inventory, and the scratch is there, exactly where it should be. The recognition hits you like a blow because this is Clark's.
Clark's inventory: the same flatpacks and display pieces you organised on night shifts, labelled in your handwriting, and sorted by vendor into bins.
The Backrooms do this. You know they do. They absorb, they replicate, they pull pieces of the real world through the membrane and deposit them in corridors like driftwood. BB explained it once: the levels aren't separate from reality, they're underneath it, and sometimes the underneath leaks up and the above leaks down and things end up where they don't belong.
But knowing the mechanics doesn't prepare you for the lurch of seeing Clark's dining table in a yellow corridor, and you press your hand to the wall and breathe. The wall is warm under your palm, and you think of BB, and the thought is a blade, so you keep moving—
Voices.
Entity X's lure would be sourceless, directionless. These voices have a direction. They're coming from ahead and to the left, from the section of the corridor that bends around the stacked flatpacks, and they're real. Human. Layered on top of each other with the particular rhythm of people talking in a confined space, voices bouncing off hard surfaces, and you can hear—
“—I don't care, I'm going down there, let go of—”
“Bobby, stop, you can't just—we don't know what's down there, we don't know if—”
“—came through here, right? Through this wall, through this—whatever the hell this is. If she came through here, maybe she's lost, maybe she's—”
“Bobby. Baby. Listen to me—”
Your feet stop. Your lungs cease functioning.
Bobby.
Bobby's voice. Real, live, present. Happening right now on the other side of a bend in a corridor that shouldn't exist.
You'd know Entity X's trick by now, the sourceless quality, the way it comes from everywhere and nowhere. This has a direction. This has Bobby's actual vocal cords behind it. And it sounds different. The tired, dismissive Bobby who said you're being dramatic is gone. This voice is raw. Stripped. A man speaking through gravel, through grief so thorough it's changed the texture of his vocal cords. Desperate in a way Bobby never used to sound because Bobby never used to let himself sound like anything except perfectly at ease.
And the other voice. The woman. Calling him baby.
You step past the wall.
The corridor opens into a wider space. One of the junction rooms, the kind where several hallways converge, and the ceiling is higher, the fluorescents brighter, and the hum is louder because more of Level 0 is accessible from a single point. The flatpack furniture from Clark's store is stacked along the walls. A rope trails across the carpet from the far wall, where the concrete appears to dip into a dark space below.
Clark stands near the rope. Older than you remember. Heavier in the face, the circles under his eyes darker, his work shirt untucked and stained, his hands clenched. He looks terrified and dazed in equal measure.
And a woman. Young. Dark hair, cut short, slip flops. She's got one hand on Bobby's arm and the other pressed to her own chest, and her face is tight with a fear that hasn't fully landed yet, still hovering in the space between this can't be real and this is real, and I might die.
And Bobby.
Your Bobby.
He's standing in the middle of the junction room with the rope half-tied from his belt and a camera in his hand—of course, even here, even in the impossible, Bobby brought the camera—and he's thinner.
The crop top hangs differently on him now, looser, the chain at his throat sitting lower against collarbones that are more prominent than they used to be. His face is harder. The softness that used to live at the edges, the boyish quality, the roundness that you used to trace with your fingers in the morning light, is gone. Carved away. What's left is angular, drawn, the face of a man who hasn't been sleeping right for a long time. Who hasn't been eating right, either.
He’s been doing something to himself, or having something done to him, that has stripped the youth from his bones and left behind this sharpened, hollowed version of the person you loved.
You don't know how long it's been. You don't know what happened to him after you fell through the wall. You just know that the Bobby standing in front of you is not the Bobby you left, and the distance between those two versions is written in the new, foreign angles of his still handsome face.
The woman spots you first.
Her gasp is sharp, bitten off, the sound of a person encountering something that doesn't fit the parameters of what she was prepared for. Her hand tightens on Bobby's arm. Her eyes go wide, and her body shifts. Backwards, behind him, an instinct that tells you everything about their dynamic in a single gesture.
Bobby turns.
For a moment, there's only shocked silence. Bobby stares at you. You stare at Bobby.
The light buzzes, and the rope trails across the carpet. The woman's hand is on his arm, and Clark's flashlight beam trembles on the floor, and you’re standing ten feet apart in an impossible place, looking at each other for the first time since the doorway, the grunt, and the don't wait up and neither of you breathes.
Bobby's mouth moves. No sound, a rasp of breath. Then, cracking at the edges:
"Baby?"
His voice splinters on the second syllable. Splits open. The word comes out ragged, disbelieving, torn from somewhere deep, and the information—you, standing in a yellow corridor, alive, alive—is too big for his face, and the room.
You don't respond. You can't. Your throat has closed around a sound that won't form.
You're looking at him. Bobby. Real Bobby. The original. The man whose face you've been kissing on another body for who knows how long, whose voice you've been hearing through borrowed vocal cords, whose edges and angles and scars you've memorised on a copy so perfect you'd almost forgotten there was an original.
And here he is. Diminished and sharpened, desperate and real, standing in front of you in a crop top and a chain with a camera in his shaking hand, and the distance between you is ten feet, and however long it's been and all the things neither of you said.
Bobby drops the camera.
It hits the carpet with a muted thud.
Bobby, who’s never let go of a camera voluntarily in his life, who held onto the viewfinder the way other men hold onto control, lets it fall from his fingers like it weighs nothing. Like it was never important, like every hour of footage he ever shot was just a rehearsal for the moment he'd need his hands free to reach for you.
He yanks at the rope around his waist. His fingers are clumsy, frantic, tearing at the knot rather than untying it, his jaw clenched and his breathing coming in short, hard bursts through his nose. The woman takes a step toward him.
“Bobby, wait, you don't know if—”
He doesn't hear her. The rope falls. He steps out of it like stepping out of a skin he doesn't need anymore, and he starts walking toward you. Fast, accelerating, his stride lengthening with each step, his breathing growing more laboured, and the expression on his face is furious.
At the ten feet of carpet between his body and yours, at whatever he's been through since you vanished, at whatever it cost him, and he’s crossing it with the barely-contained ferocity.
He stops. Three feet from you. Two.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes glassy, red-rimmed. His lashes are wet. Bobby, who doesn't cry in front of people, who presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and grinds the tears back, who’s never once let you see him break, is standing in front of you with tears in his eyes and making no effort to hide them.
“Fuck,” he says again, softer, cracking, his whole face contorting around the word like it's the only syllable left in his vocabulary.
He's looking at your face. Scanning every feature the way he used to scan you through the viewfinder, except there's no viewfinder now, no glass, nothing between his eyes and your face, and you can see the exact moment his brain confirms what his body already knows.
It's you. It's really you.
His hand lifts. Shaking. Visibly, violently shaking, the tremor running from his shoulder through his elbow through his wrist through his fingers, and his hand reaches across the two feet of air between you and lands on your shoulder.
You flinch.
Bobby makes a sound. A wrecked, gutted thing. Less than a gasp, more than a breath. His fingers tighten on your shoulder, involuntary, desperate, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip. His other hand comes up and grabs your other shoulder, and he's holding you at arm's length with both hands, his face falling apart, the composure crumbling, and his voice when it comes out is barely there:
“You're real. God, please, tell me you're real, baby. Tell me this isn't—tell me I'm not—”
You're both breathing hard. Standing in a yellow corridor, his hand on your shoulder. Your body is rigid, his eyes wet as they drink you in, and the woman behind him is watching you both. Clark mumbles his disbelief faintly, and the world reduces to the two feet of air between your body and Bobby’s and all the wreckage on either side.
Bobby whispers your name.
Not baby. Your name. The real one, the full one, spoken so quietly you almost don't hear it, spoken the way you'd speak a word you're afraid will break if you say it too loud. Your name in Bobby's real mouth, the one that kissed you on a Thursday morning and said stay and meant it, and the sound of it cracks you open.
He throws his arms around you.
Without gentleness, without hesitation. Bobby grabs you with both arms and pulls you into his chest so hard you stumble, your bare feet sliding on the carpet. His arms lock around your back, and his face buries in your neck. He's holding you desperately, with the full-body grip, a man who’s just recovered the thing he was drowning without.
He's warm.
The realisation hits you with a horrible, dizzying vertigo. He's warm. His hands on your shoulders were hot. Searingly, really, shockingly hot after months of BB's cool skin, BB's below-human temperature, the constant slight chill of a body that generates heat only when kissed into producing it.
Now his whole body is pressed against yours, and he’s a furnace. Metabolic, organic, almost unbearable. The heat of blood moving through capillaries, of a heart pumping in a chest that rises and falls because it has to, because it will stop if it doesn't. He smells like soap. Faintly. Under that, sweat. Actual sweat, the salt-and-skin smell of a human body under stress.
And underneath that, barely there, weed. Like he smoked before coming down here. Like Bobby needed his hands to stop shaking long enough to hold the camera, and the specificity of it, the humanness of it, the biochemical reality of a man who self-medicates his anxiety with marijuana and has done it since he was nineteen, is so overwhelmingly, violently real that your knees buckle.
You cling to him.
Your arms come up—late, delayed, your body catching up to the fact that this is happening—and your fingers grab fistfuls of his shirt, and you hold on. He holds on too, and you're both shaking. Both gasping, making sounds that aren't words at the sheer impossibility of it all.
Just grief and relief and terror and love, suddenly all the same thing.
Bobby's hand is on the back of your head, pressing your face into his neck, and his chest is heaving, his pulse hammering against your cheek, and he's alive, he's alive, he came for you, he found the wall, and he came through, and he's here and—
“Bobby?”
The woman's voice. Small. Wary. She's standing behind Bobby with her arms wrapped around herself and her face pinched with confusion, frightened, and underneath both of those, a hurt she's trying very hard not to let surface. She's staring at you. At your head, pressed into Bobby's neck. At Bobby's arms around you, locked, total.
The way he's holding you like the building could come down, and he wouldn't let go.
Bobby pulls back. Only his head, only enough to see your face. His hands come up and cup your jaw, framing your face the way he used to frame shots, and his thumbs trace your cheekbones and his eyes drag over your features with the starving hunger.
“You're alive,” Bobby says hoarsely, his thumbs on your cheekbones and his eyes bright. “You're alive. I thought—the tapes, they went blank, they all went—I thought you were—fuck, you're alive. I missed so fucking much—"
The lights go red.
A sudden, total shift. Every fluorescent in the junction room snaps from yellow to deep crimson in the space of a single heartbeat, and the hum screams. A high, keening frequency that's less sound and more pressure, a vibration that pushes against your eardrums again and fills your skull. An alarm. Organic, not mechanical.
The level itself shrieks, Level 0 responding to a breach so severe that its entire frequency is destabilising.
You know this sound, know what it means. Your body knows before your brain catches up. The red means Entity X. The alarm means the fight has moved, or ended, or escalated beyond what the level can contain. The walls are wrong, and the carpet under your feet is vibrating with a frequency you've never felt before, and every nerve in your body is firing the same message: move.
You grab Bobby's hand. Hard. Your fingers lacing through his.
“Come with me. Right now.”
“What—what is that, what's happen—”
“Right now, Bobby.”
The woman closes the distance. She's been standing behind him, arms wrapped around herself, but the alarm has shaken her forward, adrenaline overriding the hurt on her face, and she grabs Bobby's other arm with both hands.
“Bobby is not going anywhere," she insists, her voice steady. Tighter than her face. “We came here together, and we're leaving together—back through the wall, not deeper into—”
You look at her. Really look at her for the first time. Dark hair. Round jaw. Pretty in a girl-next-door way. You focus on the way she holds Bobby’s arm, the way she positions herself behind him, and remember the baby she called earlier. You see it, and something cold slides between your ribs and sits there.
“Who are you?” you ask flatly.
Bobby's hand tightens in yours. “She's—this is Kat, she works at—”
A scream splits the corridor.
Not human. Long, oscillating, rising in pitch until it hits a frequency that makes the flatpack shelving units rattle against the walls. Howler. Close. Moving fast, drawn by the alarm the way predators are drawn by distress signals, and the sound of it snaps through the junction room like a whip.
“If you want to live,” you begin, your voice dropping into a register you didn't know you owned, calm, flat, cold, the voice of a woman who’s mapped multiple levels and catalogued fifty-three entity types and survived— “you'll follow me. Now.”
You pull Bobby. Bobby grabs Kat, and you move.
You lead them the only way you know how. By the notebook, by the months of repetition and documentation.
You check each junction against the layout in your head, cross-referencing the hum's pitch and the angle of the corridor walls. Left at the warm patch. Right at the stain. Down the corridor, where the ceiling drops by three inches and the air smells damp. Through the threshold that shifts from carpet to tile and tile to the stairwell that descends between levels.
Bobby is behind you. His hand in yours. He won't let go. His grip is crushing, his callused fingers locked around your palm with a force that will leave bruises, and every few steps, his thumb moves against your wrist. Some involuntary check, a pulse-read, confirming you're still there, still solid, still real.
“How long have you been here?” he asks. Moving fast, breathing hard, his voice pitched low. The camera is gone. Left on the carpet in the junction room, the first time Bobby has abandoned a camera since he was a boy. “How did you—are you hurt? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine, you're barefoot in a—what is this place? Where are we?”
You work your jaw, scanning ahead to escape the storm of warring emotions in your chest. “Keep moving.”
“Baby—”
“Don't call me that.”
The words leave your mouth before you can catch them. Sharp. Reflexive. A flinch turned verbal.
Bobby's hand tightens on yours, and you feel the impact of the words travel through his grip like a current. A brief, rigid shock, a stiffening of the fingers.
You keep walking. The stairwell descends. Kat is behind Bobby, her hand on the back of his shirt, her breathing ragged, her head on a swivel. She's terrified. You can hear it in the quality of her breath. Short, high, the particular arrhythmia of a nervous system running on pure cortisol. But she's moving. She's keeping up. She hasn't frozen up.
Some distant, clinical part of you notes this with grudging respect.
Through Level 2. The dripping pipes and the dark. Bobby pulls Kat closer as the dripping grows louder and the shadows lengthen. Something in the walls makes a sound like breathing, and you watch him do it from the corner of your eye—watch his hand find her shoulder, watch his body angle between her and the dark—and the cold thing between your ribs turns over.
Through the transitional corridor. Down. The air changes again. Warmer, sweeter, carrying the faint smell of grass and dust, the signature of the levels that sit closer to the organic stratum. You check the notebook. Page thirty-seven. The route to 974.
Bobby is watching you. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head, on your bare feet, on the notebook clutched in your hand. On the way you navigate this impossible place with confidence. You feel him putting pieces together. That you’ve been here long enough to stop being lost. Long enough to have a system. To have bare feet, which means long enough to have stopped expecting to leave.
“You know this place,” he says. Not a question. His voice is careful, testing, wariness of someone who’s assembling a picture he doesn't want to see. “You've been—you've been here this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Eighteen months?”
You pause. “Is that how long it's been?”
The silence behind you is devastating. Bobby's thumb stops its circuit on your wrist. Kat makes a small, wounded sound of realisation. If she wasn’t sure who you were before, she is now.
“You didn't know,” Bobby says quietly. “You didn't know how long.”
You keep walking. The corridor opens up, the air changing again. A final threshold, a shift in the hum, and the space ahead brightens. Not with fluorescent light but something softer, golden.
Scent of freshly cut grass, old wood and sugar fills your nose, followed by the particular mustiness of a house that’s been lived in by a being both patient and old for a very long time.
Level 974.
Mr Kitty appears at once.
One moment, the entrance to 974 is empty. The amber light, the corridor opening onto a landscape of gently rolling hills and scattered structures, some of them painted in colours too cheerful for the Backrooms, pinks and pastels that shouldn't survive down here.
The next moment, he's there. Tall. Black. A humanoid shape standing in the centre of the path, its skin the deep, light-absorbing matte of a body that exists as a silhouette even in full illumination. It has no face. The surface where features should be is smooth, blank, and featureless, but the blankness differs from that of Entity X.
Where Entity X's facelessness was a threat, a void, a surface that peeled open to reveal burning eyes, Mr Kitty's is gentle. Calm. The blankness of a thing that doesn't need a face because its presence communicates everything a face would. It stands with its long arms at its sides, and its smooth head tilted toward your group, its posture radiating patience the way the hum radiates sound.
Kat screams.
A sharp, bitten-off shriek at the wrongness of it, the too-tall body, the faceless head, the quality of ancient, unhurried presence that radiates from it. The scream bounces off the corridor behind you and fades into the amber light.
Bobby jerks to action. Reflex, instinct, the hardwired response to protect the person behind him. He steps in front of Kat, his arm sweeping back to push her behind his body, his jaw set and his eyes wide. His other hand still grips yours so tightly the bones grind together.
His body is a wall between her and the threat, and the positioning is automatic, total, the posture of a man who does this without thinking.
Your stomach hollows out.
A different emptiness than fear. A cavity that opens beneath your ribs and fills with something cold and acidic. You watch Bobby shield Kat with his body the way he should have shielded you, the way you wished he would have shielded you, the way you spent months standing in doorways wishing he'd turn around and step toward you and put himself between you and anything at all.
And he's doing it now. For her. The reflexive, unthinking protectiveness he could never perform for you when it was you who needed it. The muscle he let atrophy while you were his has somehow been rebuilt for someone else.
“It's okay,” you say, and your voice comes out even. Controlled. The cold thing behind your ribs makes your words clear. “He won't hurt you. He's safe.”
“He?” Bobby stares at the figure. The figure's blank face turns toward him. Bobby's hand tightens on yours.
“Mr Kitty.” You step forward. The tall, dark shape inclines its head toward you. A brief, acknowledging tilt, the gesture of a being that knows you and has been expecting you. “I need your help. Entity X breached the sublevel. BB is fighting it. I need—”
I'm aware.
The voice arrives inside your skull. A warm, dense pressure that fills the space behind your eyes and settles into your thoughts like sediment into still water. Mr Kitty's blank face is angled toward yours. The stillness radiating from him is calm. Steady.
The disturbance registered across many levels. The barrier on Level 0 has been partially compromised. Your boy is still engaged.
Your stomach knots. “Is he winning?”
That depends on your definition.
“Is he alive?”
A pause. Mr Kitty's blank head inclines slightly, a gesture you've come to read as contemplation. He does not die the way you understand dying. But he is diminished. The sustained engagement is costly. The red one first used other entities to weaken him.
“Can we use your house? I need to get them somewhere safe.” Your voice catches. “Please. Just…”
Follow the path, little one. You’ll see it in the distance. I need to check the perimeter first. It’s chaos out there. Something else might slip through.
You nod, gratitude plain on your face. Bobby and Kat are staring at you with matching expressions of blank, dissociated horror when you turn to them.
“You were talking to it,” Bobby blurts out, flat with disbelief when Mr Kitty flickers out of sight. "You were having a conversation with a faceless thing. What the fuck.”
“It's complicated,” you mutter. “Follow me. Quickly.”
You lead them up the path. The amber light is steady here, warm and sourceless, and the hills roll gently toward a cluster of structures.
Houses, loosely, buildings with doors and windows and roofs that approximate the concept of dwelling in the way the Backrooms approximate everything. Close enough to function but underlaid with a wrongness that only registers if you look too long. The second structure on the right is small. Wooden. A porch with a rocking chair.
The door opens when you touch it, and the inside smells like dust and old paper and tea and the particular warmth of a house that is, impossibly, safe.
Mr Kitty is already inside. Standing in the corner of the kitchen, his dark shape nearly touching the ceiling, his long arms folded in front of him with a stillness that radiates patience. The plate of scones sits on the counter beside him.
You usher Bobby and Kat inside. Kat's hands are shaking. Bobby's jaw is tight, and his eyes are moving—scanning the room, the windows, Mr Kitty's dark shape in the corner, you—with the frantic, comprehensive attention of a man who is trying very hard to apply logic to a situation that has left logic behind long ago.
“Sit,” you say. “Eat. Don't touch anything you don't recognise, especially the toys.”
You look behind them. The doorway is empty. The amber path stretches back toward the corridor, quiet.
“Where's Clark?”
Bobby's jaw tightens. He doesn't look at the door. “We got separated. The dark section, with the pipes. Something moved in the walls, and he panicked and ran the wrong direction and I—” He stops. Swallows. The guilt on his face is immediate, reflexive. “I couldn't go after him. I had to keep—I had to keep moving forward."
Kat puts her hand on his arm. “He had the rope. He can follow it back.”
“The rope was tied to me.”
The silence fills the room. You look at the door. Clark is somewhere in the Backrooms, alone, without a map, without a guide, without the months of hard-won knowledge sitting in the notebook pressed to your chest. Clark is somewhere in the dark, and he’s still a man who hired you, who complimented your attention to detail, told you once in an offhand way that seemed to surprise even him that you would’ve made a fine architect, like him.
“Mr Kitty,” you say, turning toward the entity. “Clark. He's on Level 2. Can you—”
I'm aware. I'll send guidance. The older male is frightened but unharmed. For now.
You cross to the window. The amber light outside is steady. The green hills are quiet. No red in sight. You press your palm flat against the glass and close your eyes, reaching the way BB taught you. Not with your hands but with the part of you that connects to the hum, the part that learned to feel Level 0's frequency like a second heartbeat—
Nothing.
“BB,” you call out. Into the glass and beyond it. “BB, please, answer me. BB?”
Nothing. The window is cold under your hand. He always answers you. Always. From any level, from any distance.
“Who's BB?”
Bobby. Behind you. Standing by the kitchen table, a scone untouched in his hand, watching you with an expression that has shifted from shock to something more complicated. Suspicious, calculating.
You turn back to face the window. “Not now.”
“You just called someone's name into a window. In a house inside a nightmare. I think now is pretty much exactly when.”
“Bobby—”
“Is it a person? Another… another one of those things, like the tall one? Are you with someone down here?” He sets the scone on the table. His frown deepens when you don’t correct him. “What—is he your new boyfriend or something? Does he have a face, at least?”
The laugh that comes out of you is ugly. Short, throaty, carrying a bitterness you didn't know you had room for on top of everything else. You turn from the window, glaring, ignoring the pang of relief, love, and warmth you feel at the sight of him despite it all.
“You don't get to ask me that.”
“I don't get to—I just found you. I've been looking for you for eighteen months. I sat in a basement and talked to a goddamn wall for seven months because I thought—because I hoped— nd you're down here with a name for someone and—”
“And what, Bobby? What were you doing while you were sitting in that basement? Because it looks like you were doing pretty well.” Your eyes cut to Kat, who’s standing by the counter with a scone in her hand and her face pinched still. “Looks like you bounced back just fine.”
The room goes quiet.
Bobby stares at you. The hurt on his face is immediate, unguarded, a direct hit. The flinch he didn't have time to armour against, the naked impact of being told by the woman he's been grieving that his grief wasn't enough. His jaw tightens, eyes hardening.
“You think I bounced back?” Low. Dangerous. Bobby's edge, the blade under the casual, the sharp thing that used to make you go quiet, except right now it's not going to make you go quiet because you’ve spent months in the impossible learning how to not go quiet. “You think—do you have any idea what it was like? You disappeared. You just vanished. No note, no call, no body, nothing. The cops thought I killed you. They hauled me in, sat me down and looked at me like I was something he scraped off his shoe. I sat there, and I took it because what was I gonna say? She up and vanished? The neighbours heard us fighting. Terrence would barely talk to me unless it's about searching for you. People won’t look at me around town. My own mother—”
“Bobby, maybe this isn't the—” Kat starts.
“And the tapes.” Bobby's voice cracks, just slightly. A tiny fracture in the anger and grief. “The tapes went blank. All of them. Every single one. Years of footage and it just—you just—disappeared. From the tapes, from people's memories, from everything. Terrence couldn't remember what you looked like. My mom called you 'Bobby's friend.' Nobody remembered you. Nobody, except me. And I thought I was losing my fucking mind because I could remember and no one else could, and the tapes were blank and you were gone and I had nothing, nothing—”
“I'm sure your new girlfriend was very comforting,” you cut in coolly. “In your grief.”
The words come out serrated. Cruel. You hear them leave your mouth, and you can feel the wrongness of them, the unfairness. This woman is standing three feet away, and you don't know her. You’re aiming your pain at her like a weapon because she's standing next to Bobby and keeping his name in her mouth, and the alternative is aiming the anger at yourself.
Kat's face goes white. Then red. Her hand tightens around the scone, and she sets it down on the counter, carefully, the controlled gesture of a woman who’s choosing her next words carefully.
“I kept him alive,” Kat says. Quiet. Level. A statement of fact delivered with a steady gaze. “When everyone else gave up or thought he was a killer, I was there. Every night. I didn't leave.”
Your mouth compresses into a bloodless line. “How noble.”
“You left.”
“I didn't leave, I—”
“I know, I’m sorry that came out wrong.” Kat's voice doesn't rise. It drops, gets quieter. Gets closer to the bone. “I know something happened to you. Clearly. Since you’re here. I know you didn't choose this. But he didn't know that. He sat in a basement for seven months talking to an empty wall, and then Clark kicked him out, and he sat in a parking lot, screaming at me because he couldn't scream at you, and I stayed. I stayed when everyone else left. So don't stand there and act like I stole something from you. I picked up what you couldn't carry anymore because you weren’t there."
The room vibrates. Not with sound. With the tension of three people, holding pain that doesn't fit. Pain that belongs to eighteen months of separation and misunderstanding and choices made in the dark by people who were all, in their own ways, trying to survive.
Bobby is looking at you. His eyes are red, jaw set, his hands fisted at his sides.
“It took months,” he chokes out. “It took months after Clark kicked me out. Months before—before anything. I was a wreck, and she was kind to me. I pushed her away, and I pushed her away, and I pushed her away, and eventually I—” He swallows thickly. “I had nothing. You were gone. The tapes were gone. And I had to—I had to keep living, baby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kept living.”
“I'm sure it was very hard," you bite out coldly. “Having to move on after seven whole months.”
“Seven months of sitting on a concrete floor talking to you.” Bobby takes a step toward you. His voice rising now, the anger competing with the grief, both of them pushing through the cracks in his face. “Seven months of bringing you coffee, your order, every night, and pouring it down the drain at two in the morning because you weren't there to drink it. Seven months of sleeping on your side of the bed because it still smelled like you for the first three weeks, and then it didn't, and that was worse. Seven months of saying I love you to a wall, night after night after night, and the wall never answered. So yeah. Yeah, it was hard. Sorry, it wasn't long enough for you.”
“Then maybe you should have told me you loved me before I disappeared.”
The words come out cold. A scalpel drawn across the exact right vein, delivered with a fury so controlled it's almost calm, practically a snarl. Your jaw sits tight, and your eyes burn, voice carrying the compressed weight of every night you lay three feet from Bobby in the dark and wondered if you were still visible.
“Maybe if you'd said it once—” Your voice cracks. Splits. Your anger rises like bile, flooding your throat, and you can feel it. The rage, the one BB heard through the wall, the one you buried under self-doubt and swallowed until it poisoned you. It's here. Right here. Pressing against your teeth, trying to get out. “Maybe if you'd just—maybe—”
You stop.
Your jaw clamps shut, your hands fisted at your sides. You can feel the anger writhing in your chest, trying to claw its way up your throat, and you swallow it. Again. The way you've always swallowed it. Push it down. Fold it in. Turn it inward because the alternative is letting it out, and if you let it out, you don't know what might happen, you don't know what it might burn down, you don't know—
In the corner of the room, Mr Kitty tips his head.
A slow, measured tilt. His blank face angling toward you with a quality of attention that's different from his usual patient stillness. Then the moment passes, and Mr Kitty's head straightens again.
Bobby is staring at you. The anger on his face has fractured. What's underneath it is worse. Hurt, raw and exposed. Kat stands at the counter behind him with her arms crossed and her face closed. The hurt she's refusing to show bleeds through anyway, visible in the set of her mouth and the brightness of her dark eyes.
You're about to speak. The words are loaded, chambered, aimed—the doorway, the grunt, the don't wait up, the months of feeling like furniture in your shared apartment and now learning it took him seven whole months of dramatic wall-performances before he found a fucking replacement—
And then you hear what he said.
You hear it. Underneath the anger, underneath the accusations. The specific, factual content buried in the grief.
Seven months of sitting on a concrete floor talking to you.
The basement. Clark's basement. The storage level, the concrete floor, and the wall that breathes.
Bobby sat in the basement and talked to the wall you fell through. For seven months. Talked to you, through the wall, the same wall that separates the real world from the Backrooms, the same wall that BB sat on the other side of and listened through. BB heard you through the wall. That's what he told you himself. I heard you. From the other side.
If BB heard you through the wall, then BB heard Bobby, too. Bobby's voice, Bobby's grief, Bobby's confessions and apologies poured into concrete for seven months. BB heard a man sitting on the other side of the wall begging you to come back, searching for you, refusing to give up.
BB heard all of it.
BB knew Bobby was looking for you. Knew Bobby loved you. Bobby was sitting three inches of concrete away from the woman BB was holding in the dark, and BB said nothing. BB held you while you cried about Bobby's indifference, and he said it was never you, it was his malfunction, and he knew (he knew) that Bobby was on the other side of that wall.
He chose, deliberately, consciously, with the full weight of whatever passes for his moral compass, to keep that from you.
BB let you believe Bobby didn't care.
BB let you grieve a living man.
And the worst part—the part that makes your vision narrow and your hands shake and something hot and corrosive flood the back of your throat—is that it worked. It worked.
You grieved Bobby. You swallowed the anger, folded the hurt inward, and accepted BB's version of the story. He got scared and retreated; that's his malfunction, not yours.
You let it hollow you out, let it carve the space that BB then filled, and the filling felt like love. The forehead kisses. The promise. The apartment he built for you, the bookshelves by colour, the way he learned to dance and to kiss and to hold you through nightmares. All of it—every tenderness, every moment you thought this is what it feels like to be seen, to be loved—was planted in soil he'd poisoned.
He didn't just withhold information. He cultivated your grief. He let the hurt grow until it choked out everything else, until Bobby was a wound instead of a person, until you stopped hoping for the door back because what was the point of a door that opened onto a man who didn't love you?
Except Bobby loved you. Bobby loved you the whole time. He loved you so much he sat on a concrete floor for seven months saying it to a wall that wouldn't answer and BB was on the other side of that wall listening and he heard every word and he held your face and said how odd and kissed your forehead and never once, not once, said he's looking for you, he's right there, he hasn't stopped.
The realisation doesn't land like a blow. It lands like a floor giving way. Every tender moment. Every I heard you and nobody else did. Every forehead kiss, every promise, every night in the nest with his cool hand on your back and his hum in your bones.
All of it built on an omission so vast it restructures everything it touches.
You want to scream. Want to put your fist through the window of this safe house and scream BB's name into the amber light and demand—demand—that he explain himself, that he look at you with those borrowed eyes and tell you why.
Why did he let you believe you were forgotten? Why did he let you ache for a man who was aching back, three inches of concrete and a universe apart, both of you reaching for each other in the dark while the thing between you held you close and said I've got you, baby, nothing touches you.
Nothing touches you. Because BB made sure nothing reached you. Not even the truth.
Part of you—small, stubborn, lodged behind your ribs like a splinter—whispers that he did it because he loves you.
That the omission wasn't deliberate cruelty but desperation. That BB heard Bobby through the wall and understood, with the clarity of a thing that’s never been loved or chosen, that the truth would take you away from him. That the choice was between honesty and losing the only person who ever said his name kindly. And the whisper sounds like BB’s voice, and it sounds like the hum. It makes your eyes burn because you understand desperation and loneliness, you understand choosing wrong because the right choice is unbearable—isn't that exactly what Bobby did? What you did by choosing to stay?
Isn't that the whole stupid, devastating circle? Bobby loved you and showed it by looking away. BB loved you and showed it by keeping you blind.
The whisper doesn't survive the inferno in your chest.
He knew. He knew. And he kept you anyway.
Your mouth opens. The questions forming on your tongue, taking shape, gaining mass—
A crack splits the room. Structural, not sonic. The walls of the house shudder. The windows fracture, the glass spiderwebbing from the centre to the frame in a pattern that resembles stress lines. Kat screams, a sharp, yelping sound. Mr Kitty straightens to his full height, his dark shape pressing against the ceiling, his blank face oriented toward the source of the disturbance with a sudden, absolute alertness.
Bobby is wrenched forward.
One second, he's standing by the kitchen table. The next he's airborne, yanked off his feet by a force that crosses the room faster than sight, faster than the sound that follows it. A percussive boom that blows the scones off the counter and knocks Kat sideways.
Bobby slams into the far wall, and the wall cracks behind him. He's pinned there, three feet off the ground, his feet dangling, his hands clawing at the thing around his throat.
BB's hand.
BB is in the room. Not entered, arrived, the air displacing around his sudden presence with a pressure change you feel in your sinuses.
He's holding Bobby against the wall by the throat, one-handed, arm extended, and the face he's wearing is Bobby's face, but it's not—it's wrong, more animal than human, the features sharpened past recognition, the jaw too wide, the teeth visible behind lips that have pulled back in a snarl that doesn't belong on any human mouth. His eyes are black. Fully black. The fissures from the fight are still visible, tiny cracks radiating from his jaw and cheekbones, leaking that colourless light, the mask of Bobby held together by fury and will and nothing else.
One arm hangs at an angle that isn't right. Dark, viscous blood streaks his chest, his neck, his hair. The crop top is torn. The chain is broken, hanging from one side of his throat. He looks like he walked through a war to get here, and the war isn't over; it's just been put on pause long enough for him to cross the Backrooms and find the one thing in his territory that doesn't belong.
Bobby chokes. His feet kick. His hands grab BB's wrist, but BB doesn't move, doesn't register the resistance, a marble statue with a throat in its hand.
BB leans in. Close. His face inches from Bobby's, the original and the copy, face to face at last, the man and the thing that chose his face. Bobby's eyes are wide, bulging, filled with a terror that’s different from any terror he’s ever felt because he’s looking into his own features and finding nothing human behind them.
BB bares his bloodied teeth, snarling low in his chest.
this gif of finn in domina (also 😵💫😵💫 #needthat, also this looks like it could be the nest 👀) except its bb fucking companion and he can’t stop trembling and purring bc its so good yes pls. companion originally starting fully on her knees but the dicks too good and bb was not holding back so she just ended up prone with bb’s hand in her hair 😵💫😵💫😵💫
You start on your knees.
That's how it begins. You on your hands and knees in the nest, the warm pile of blankets bunched under your palms. The amber light of the lamp falling through the fabric he's hung from the ceiling like curtains, like veils, turning the whole space into something honeyed and intimate.
BB's hand is at the small of your back. Resting. His thumb tracing the knobs of your spine one at a time the way someone would trace the beads of a rosary, slow and reverent, committed to the count.
He's behind you. Not inside you yet. He's looking.
You can feel the looking. The seven translate it as a low warm pull behind your navel, all seven of them humming at half-attention, picking up the quality of his gaze the way skin picks up sun. The air between your shoulder blades feels warmer where his eyes are resting. You drop your head between your arms and breathe and wait.
"Ready, baby?"
His voice is low and a little rough at the edges and you nod into the blanket.
BB pushes in.
The whole length of him in a slow, careful slide that opens you up inch by inch. He doesn't stop until his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs, and the sound you make is not a word, it's just air leaving you like he's pushed it out from the inside. The seven light up all at once and BB's hand at your back spreads wide and presses down, holding.
"There," he breathes. "Oh—there, sweetheart."
He starts to move.
And he's not holding back.
You can tell immediately. The careful version of BB—the one who reads the seven in real time and adjusts, who treats your body like an instrument he's learning to play lovingly—that version is not here tonight. What's here instead is the drive, the thing underneath, the patient ancient hunger given permission to take what it wants, and what it wants is depth.
The first real thrust knocks the breath out of you. Deep, grinding, his hips rolling forward with a force that slides your knees an inch across the blanket, and the ridged texture of him—he hasn't bothered with the smooth human surface, he hasn't bothered with any pretence at all—drags against your inner walls in a long rippling wave that makes your vision narrow.
You moan, arching into the sensation. "Oh—"
"Yeah." His hand slides up your spine. Into your hair. His fingers gather the damp weight of it, gentle, then firm, tilting your head up from the blanket just enough that you can breathe properly. "Yeah, baby. I got you. Just hold on."
BB fucks you with slow, heavy strokes that use the full length of him, pulling back until you're whimpering at the wet drag and then grinding forward until the depth of him is pressing against places that make your eyes roll and your hands fist in the blanket and your mouth open on sounds you can't control.
And he's trembling.
You feel it first through his hand in your hair, a fine vibration in BB's fingers, not quite a shake, more like the hum of a wire pulled taut.
Then through his hips where they press against you at the apex of each stroke, the muscle of his thighs quivering. Then through the harmonic, which is not the steady controlled hum you know but something broken open, stuttering, catching on itself like a record skipping.
That purr-register gone ragged.
BBis inside you and he's overwhelmed, and the trembling is the body's way of trying to contain what is running through it, and it's failing.
"Baby—" his voice cracks, ragged on a moan, the Bobby-drawl fraying, "—baby, you feel— I can't—you're so—"
He can't finish the sentence. He gives up on the sentence. He gives up on language entirely and makes a sound instead. Low, wrecked, pulled up from somewhere underneath the Bobby-shape, somewhere old and wordless, and his hips snap forward harder and you keen.
Your elbows give.
A slow buckling, your arms folding under you as the force of him drives you forward and down, your breasts pressing to the blanket, your cheek turning against the soft pile of it.
You try to hold the position. Your knees are still under you, hips still raised, the angle still presenting, but the next stroke is deep, deeper than the last, and the one after that is deeper still, and your knees slide backward and your hips sink and then you're flat, prone, belly-down on the blanket with the warm weight of him following you down.
BB covers you.
His chest to your back, the cool-going-warm length of him draped over you, his mouth at your ear, his hand still in your hair, and the angle has changed—god, the angle has changed—the downward position tightening everything. The pressure of the blanket under your hips tilts your pelvis just enough that every stroke grinds the ridged length of him across the spot the seven have been guarding for months.
"BB—"
The name hits him like a hand on a bell. His whole body shudders.
Full shudder, crown to heel, the trembling cresting into a wave, and the harmonic pours out of him uncontrolled. Not the purr anymore but the deeper thing, the frequency, the one that vibrates through the floor and the walls and the warm pile of the nest and through your sternum. The seven sing back and the resonance between his body and yours and the seven becomes a single humming chord and you're flying apart from the inside—
"More," you choke into the blanket, moaning loudly into the blankets. "More, BB, I need—more—"
He whines in response.
A high, thin sound you have never heard him make before, and his hips stutter against you and you feel him shift.
The cock lengthens inside you. You feel it happen: the deliberate stretch of him reaching deeper, the ridges multiplying, the girth thickening by fractions, and the shift is not sudden. It's rolling. The shape of him rewriting itself to fill you fuller while he's still moving, and the sensation of being reshaped from the inside by a thing that is reshaping itself to match is—
You cry out.
Your hands claw at the blanket. Your face wet, tears soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has gone past the point where it's a distinct sensation and become a state. A condition, a thing your whole body is doing, every nerve firing in tandem, the seven blazing so bright they're almost tangible—
"I know," BB slurs against your ear. His lips are on the hinge of your jaw, his breath coming fast and uneven, the careful human rhythm of it abandoned. "I know, baby, I know, it's—it's so much, I know, but I need—just a little—just a little deeper, sweetheart, just—there—"
He presses deeper. You sob, clawing at the sheets.
"Just like that," he whispers, shaking. "Just like—oh—just like that, you're perfect, you're so perfect, you're so so perfect, baby, I can feel you. I can feel all of you—the seven are—they're singin' so loud, sweetheart, you should hear what you sound like from the inside."
His hand in your hair tightens. An anchor for both of you. His forehead drops to the back of your neck and his mouth is open against your skin and you can feel the harmonic coming out of him in waves now.
Not a hum anymore but a keen, the eldritch version of the sound you're making, and the two sounds layer and braid and the nest hums with the combined frequency and the lamp pulses and you feel the warm curtain-light flicker across your closed eyelids.
"BB—BB, I can't—it's too much, it's—"
Your voice breaks and you hiccup over the sound.
"I know." His voice is rough. Barely there. Slurring on the vowels, the consonants dissolving. "I know it is, baby, I know, I'm sorry, I just—you feel so good. I need to feel you, I need—just a little more, just—please—you feel so—I've never—nothin' has ever—"
He can't finish.
BB gives up on trying to finish. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and his hips roll into you. He's not thrusting anymore, not the sharp deep strokes of a minute ago, but a grind. His pelvis sealed flush against you and the full ridged length of him working in slow, devastating circles against the deepest place he can reach, and the texture of him is dragging against every nerve you have in a continuous rolling wave that doesn't crest and doesn't ebb.
It doesn't give you a single second to breathe between one pulse of sensation and the next.
Your mouth hangs open, your fingers clenched in the blanket to hold on.
Tears run freely now, soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has crossed some threshold you didn't know existed. Past the point where your body can process it as discrete sensation, past the point where the peaks are distinguishable from the valleys, into a place where it is just one thing. One continuous roaring note, your entire nervous system lit up and screaming and the seven are amplifying every single second of it.
And the seven are doing something they've never done before.
The feedback loop is open, wide open, all seven gates singing at full volume, and they're not just catching your pleasure and passing it to BB anymore, they're catching it, passing it to him, receiving his version back, amplifying it, and feeding it back to you.
And the amplified version hits your nervous system and produces more pleasure and the seven catch that and the loop accelerates—
Your vision goes white at the edges.
The warm amber curtain-light blurs and bleaches and for a terrifying, gorgeous second you cannot see anything at all. You're just sensation, just the grinding pressure of BB thrusting inside you and the seven singing at a pitch that is vibrating your actual bones and the weight of him on your back and the wet heat of his mouth on your neck, kissing and licking and sucking, and the harmonic pouring through your sternum and you are—you're going to—
"BB—" it comes out thin, desperate, slurred, "BB, I'm—I think I'm gonna—I can't see—"
"I got you." Immediate. Even wrecked, even shaking, even slurring, immediate. BB's arm tightens around your ribs. The grind slows by a fraction. Not quite stopping, he cannot stop, but easing just enough that the seven pull back from the screaming edge by one degree. "I got you, sweetheart, I'm here, I'm not lettin' you go anywhere. Stay with me. Stay right here. Just feel me."
You gasp, trying to nod as it dissolves into a whimper. The white recedes. The amber comes back instead, blurred through tears. You can feel your heartbeat in your whole body, hammering, and the seven have eased from their shrieking peak into something that is still blinding but no longer threatening to take your consciousness with it.
"There we go," he breathes against your neck, kissing the damp line, pulsing inside you. "There you are, baby. Right here. My good girl. So good for me."
And then, because the drive is still running, because the feel of you clenching and fluttering around him in the aftermath of almost going under is apparently more than he can take, BB's hips snap forward.
Hard. One sharp, deep thrust that punches the air out of you and buries him to the absolute limit of what the reshaped length can reach inside wit a wet squelch, and he stays, and grinds. That slow, devastating circles find the spot again and your body seizes around him.
You come with a violent flutter.
There's no crest. An avalanche. It takes you from the feet up, your toes curling, your calves locking, your thighs clamping around nothing because there's nothing to clamp around.
He's inside you and you're flat on the blanket and the only thing to do with this pleasure force is take it, and you scream into the pillow, a sound you did not know you could make, and the seven catch the scream and translate it and send it hurtling down the loop and—
BB snarls above you.
You feel the moment his body exceeds capacity. The trembling hits a frequency that's no longer trembling but vibrating, every molecule of the shape BB built shaking at a pitch that blurs the edges of him, and the harmonic doesn't just pour out of him, it erupts. A sound so deep and so vast that the walls of the nest bow outward like lungs filling and the blankets shudder and the curtain-light swings and somewhere in the corridor outside the room shifts.
BB comes inside you in a gush so powerful you sob, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth and into wrecked blankets below.
You feel the overflow.
The saturation point inside you reached and exceeded and the excess having nowhere to go but out.
What comes out is hot—hotter than he's ever been, the fever-warmth of him spiking past anything your body has memorised, the warm flood pouring into you in heavy pulses that the seven catch, each one, and hold.
It produces a secondary wave of pleasure in you that rolls through the first one and compounds it and your climax, which was already an avalanche, becomes a thing with aftershocks. Your body pulses around him in helpless clenches and flutters that you can't control and that BB can feel, each one, because the loop is still running.
Because the seven are still translating, because your pleasure is still becoming his pleasure is still becoming yours—
The loop runs for what feels like hours.
Peak feeding into peak feeding into peak, the two of you locked together prone on the blanket, his weight on you and his face buried in your neck, his arm a steel band around your ribs.
The seven sing so loud the sound becomes physical, a vibration you can feel in your teeth, in the small bones of your wrists. Your body is doing things without your input—clenching, releasing, clenching again, the involuntary rhythm of a nervous system in freefall, and every clench pulls another small sound out of BB, animal sounds, wrecked sounds, whines and gasps that have no Bobby left in them at all.
When the loop finally begins to slow by degrees, the peaks getting fractionally smaller, the spaces between them getting fractionally wider. Until the spaces are big enough to breathe in and you both breathe, a long shuddering simultaneous inhale that sounds like surfacing from deep water.
Your vision clears.
The amber comes back in full. The curtain-light steadies. The seven ease from their blinding chorus into a warm, steady hum that feels almost apologetic, like seven small fires banking themselves after nearly burning the house down.
He's still inside you, still shaking. The trembling hasn't stopped and you're starting to understand that it may not stop for a while. That what just moved through him was too large for the body and the body is still processing it the way a bell still rings after being struck.
"Baby," he manages. One word. The only word he can apparently find. His mouth shapes it into the crook of your neck like he's pressing it into your skin for safekeeping.
You try to answer. What comes out is a breath that might have been a laugh, and your hand finds his where it's clamped around your ribs and your fingers lace through his and you squeeze, once, because that's all you have.
One squeeze. I'm here. I felt it. I know.
BB squeezes back, his fingers trembling in yours.
You become aware of the mess slowly.
First the wet. You're lying in it.
The blanket beneath your hips is soaked. Warm and slick and too much, more than a human body could produce, because his is not a human body and what comes out of him does not obey human volume. It has pooled under you, gathered in the dip the weight of your hips has made in the nest, and when you shift even a fraction you feel the warm slide of it against your belly, your inner thighs, the crease where thigh meets hip.
Then the glow.
You almost miss it. Your face is still turned sideways on the pillow, eyes half-closed, lashes damp, and the amber curtain-light is soft enough that it takes a moment to separate one warm light from another.
But there—at the edge of your vision, where the blanket is darkest with mess of it—the faintest luminescence. Not bright. A soft bioluminescent shimmer in the slick of him, barely there, the palest gold-white, like something living at the bottom of a very deep ocean giving off its own light.
"BB," you whisper. "It's—it's glowing."
He makes a sound against your neck. A low rumble that vibrates through your spine, half-embarrassed, half-pleased, entirely spent.
He knows. He can feel it, the way he can feel everything that is still him regardless of where it is. The substance on the blanket, all the substance overflowing inside you, the seven rooted places. all of it still pulsing in the same slow diminishing rhythm, the tail end of the overflow settling into stillness.
BB's hand unlaces from yours. Slides down, slow, across your ribs, over the dip of your waist, and comes to rest low on your belly. His palm presses flat. Warm. Possessive in the old way, the way his hand always finds that place, but tonight there is intent in the pressure, a slow gentle push, and you feel it.
You feel him inside.
The cock is still seated deep, still hard. He doesn't soften the way human men soften. The refractory period is not installed, the body simply stays at whatever state of readiness he chooses, and right now he is choosing to stay full in you.
When his hand presses against your belly from the outside you become aware of the shape of him from both directions. The hard length of him inside, pressing against your front wall, and his warm palm outside, pressing toward it, and between the two pressures your belly becomes the held thing, the kept thing, and the sensation is so intimate it makes your breath catch.
BB rubs. Slow circles. Gentle, absent, the way he strokes the small of your back when you're standing in the kitchen.
Except now BB's hand is on the soft low curve of your belly and he's pressing just firmly enough that you can feel the ridge of him shift inside you with each pass. Feel the extra pressure push more of his release out of you, dripping down in a wet, thick gush.
Each circle pushes his cock a fraction of an angle, just enough that you feel it move, and the moving is not a thrust, it's not even sex, it's just... awareness. Him making sure you know he's still there, making sure you can feel the full shape of what is still inside you, hard and pulsing and present.
You're ruined, a wreck. Your face, tear-streaked, and your thighs, trembling. You're lying in a puddle of faintly glowing come in a nest an eldritch entity built you out of love, and his hand is on your belly, and his cock is still inside you, and you're so far past okay you don't have the word for it.
BB's hand keeps rubbing. Slow circles, slow circles.
summary: inspired by to all the boys i’ve loved before but filled with tension and mentions of smut
a.n: yeah, i'm in love with ya books. and they'll always be a part of my heart fr.
The moment you stepped out of your apartment, you were fucked.
Dick Grayson showed up with a blue letter in hand as you recognized your handwriting in contained the address—his address.
Oh fuck!
"Hey, uh, I got this letter. I-I know this was, like, what? You wrote this letter around five years ago, I think," Dick said, rather awkward. "Look, I'm very flattered that you thought the world of me and all, but Barbara and I just broke up recently and I'm not really sure if it's the right time to say this--"
The world around you swallowed up faster, your eyes were getting hazy and spinning, and spinning, and spinning.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! I'm going to faint!
You collapsed, dropped your books and your small donated box on the ground, as your eyes were deeply into enveloped into a void in your mind's eye.
Being Nightwing, Dick had quick reflexes and caught you by the waist, but around that time, you're already fainted.
Meanwhile, Jason got his letter at the doorstep. Usually he want his mail slipped in between the cracks so he doesn't have to go through his mailbox, and he had received it.
Your letter to him. From five years ago.
Around that time, Jason was dating Artemis, before a terrible breakup.
It was a pink envelope with red cursive, clear enough to read the sentence to his address and contents inside. Jason read the whole thing. After realizing, you were so explicit on putting down heavy-detailing on...naughty aspect of things.
At once, Jason grabbed his brown leather jacket and drove off from his heavy bike on the way to your apartment.
Across the Gotham City, in Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne was in the middle of the observing the workers for the upcoming foundations for tonight. He was helping out with orphanage in regards to education. Therefore, he had to strive for a better world, even throwing money in towards the right people.
The moment he was taking a call, Alfred extended the silk black envelop with yellow seal out to Bruce. It was addressed to him and the address for Wayne Enterprises (the other is his Wayne Manor address within parenthesis). He broke the seal and read the letter, realizing the contents inside went from heartwarming to downright dirty and a mess of complications. Bruce had a fair share of women in his life, including Selina and Talia, the messiest of all. But in all of comparison seemed to have forgotten.
Part of it because in his eyes, you were known as the sweet and responsible woman who knows how to say the right words. In this current hour, he's unsure what to think of you, but his heart and mind were racing with unanswered questions.
He got his coat and went at the parking lot and drove off with his Lamborghini on the way to your place.
***
By the time you woke up, all three men were sitting down, their eyes laid on you.
You sat up quick, clutching rosy blanket onto your chest.
What. The. Fuck?
Bruce lifted the letter. "Care to tell me why you a letter address to me? I was beginning to think it was a prank, but to think there's several contents inside that are strongly suggested."
Hands in the air, you scooted back. "Yeah, I can explain--"
"Explain then, miss naughty," Jason said unkindly, crossing his beefy arms on his big chest.
You swallowed. "Those letters are from a long time ago. I used to have feelings for all you three, and I don't know how my letters got sent, but, my feelings for you were gone a long time ago. Dead and gone. Are you happy?"
They weren't convinced. At least, Dick is convinced, not sure about the other two.
Bruce squinted his eyes, in detective mode.
"That was five years ago. I was lonely, okay? I had no date for Valentine's Day; I got dumped by this guy who flaked out for another woman. What am I supposed to do? Cry? I had to write my feelings out."
"You could've written a self-care letter to yourself, not writing a steamy romance novel in the letters," Jason said, frowning.
"I know. But I wasn't feeling it at the time." You hugged your legs onto your chest. "Sorry."
Bruce tilted his head, looking like an innocent bystander, his leg crossed. "You should've thought of something else. I mean, you could've done several things to cope in better ways."
"Bruce is right," Dick said, hand tucked under his chin. "I know that guy is a jerk, but writing us an explicit letter? If it gets into the wrong hands, who knows what they might do to you."
"Sorry isn't going to cut it, missy," Jason said, hands rested on the bed, his body leaned forward, his face was close to yours.
"You can back off if you hate me that much," you said. "What's done is done. Either you can burn it, throw it away, or do whatever with my letter."
Jason tilted his head. "Who said anything about hating you?"
Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice, vibration sent into your ears.
Was he...purring?
"Jason, what the fuck--"
Your legs have been tugged downwards against him, your feet touched his lower abs.
Jason took off his leather jacket, then his compressed shirt, revealed his scarred abs and his happy trail. "Let's test the theory to see if you claimed not to like us as you did years ago."
Jason's lip curled up into a smirk.
Following by Bruce removing his grey tie and Dick his unbuttoning his crisp shirt, approaching you, following by the unbuckling chimes on their belts and quick unzipped trousers, landed on their ankles.
And soon, climbed onto the bed, impeding their heavy weight pressing against the mattress.
***
Hours after, Alfred was concerned to where Bruce might have gone off since the upcoming foundation is about to start.
When he drove by to your place, the door was unlocked, leading himself inside and trudged through the hall and peeked at the gaping door, revealing three men--Bruce and his first two wards--were sleeping naked with you in a queen-sized bed.
"Oh dear," he muttered in terror.
Maybe, whoever the send the letters out, was worth it.
you were lounged back against the pillows in dick’s oversized t-shirt, legs stretched out, completely absorbed in your book. fingers flipped through the pages with the occasional rustle while your boyfriend was out.
dick slipped in after patrol, still in his nightwing suit. he crawled onto the bed and settled between your legs, resting his head on your chest with a soft sigh. this was practically routine now. dick was obsessed with your tits—needed them after every patrol like they were what he came home for (which… they are.)
“baby… can i…?” he asked, voice low and warm and so sweet, that easy charm threaded with pure need. when you made a small noise that indicated permission, dick tugged the shirt up gently and latched onto one nipple.
his mouth was hot, his motions eager—lips sealing tight around the stiff peak as he sucked with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your breast ache oh so sweetly and sent heated jolts straight to your cunt. his tongue swirled and flicked relentlessly around the sensitive bud that had pebbled immediately under his tongue, then flattened to nurse harder, drawing your nipple deep into his mouth with wet, obscene slurps. cheeks hollowing, he moaned softly against your flesh, the vibrations buzzing through your tit while saliva dripped down the curve of your breast.
he ground his hips against your thigh like a desperate puppy, his thick cock rock-hard and straining through the thin suit fabric. the leaking head left a growing wet spot as he humped slow and insistent, rubbing his throbbing cock along your legs in needy strokes. the friction the suit provided was delicious—but nowhere near what it would feel like to thrust into those pretty tits.
“mm… baby,” he mumbled around your tit, switching sides effortlessly, latching onto the other nipple and sucking deeper, tongue lapping messily at the slick, spit-covered skin. “missed this. fuck… you’re so soft and warm.”
you slid one hand into his dark hair, holding him close but kept your eyes on the book. he couldn’t help but wonder what was so good about words that made you so distracted. “wait a sec, dick. i’m in the middle of this chapter.”
he groaned, the sound buzzing through your breast as he sucked harder, pulling your nipple taut between his lips before soothing it with hungry laps, spit trailing down your tits as he sucked like he couldn’t get enough—which is true. his hips rocked faster, cock sliding hot and slick with pre-cum against your thigh, dragging the swollen head in filthy up down motions. “c’mon… just look at me? i’m being good here.” his tone stayed playful, that signature wit light even in the plea. “feels good, right? tell me. please.”
you turned another page, fingers stroking his hair absently. he groaned, hips twitching. “you’re doing fine, baby. give me a minute.”
“okay… fine. i can wait,” he breathed, still nursing with greedy pulls that left your nipples swollen and glistening with his saliva, grinding harder now so his aching cock dragged along your leg with slick, filthy friction. “but god, these beauties… been thinking about them all night. don’t ignore me too long.”
after a few more minutes of his devoted sucking and puppy-like humping, you sighed, slotted your bookmark in and closed the book with a snap, setting it aside. you tugged his hair gently so he met your eyes, a teasing smile on your lips.
“aww, look at my needy dick,” you murmured, guiding his mouth back down while you laid back fully so you weren’t resting your back against the headboard anymore. which meant he could grind better now. “begging so sweetly while humping my leg like a puppy. can’t get enough, huh?”
dick pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, biting his lower lip up at you with that bright, boyish spark. “guilty. you bring out the best in me… or the neediest.” he chuckled softly. “you gonna tease me or finally give me all your attention?”
you laughed, arching your back to press your glistening tits closer. “go on then. keep going. make it good and i’ll take care of that aching cock next. you’ve earned it.”
he groaned happily and latched on again with fresh hunger, sucking deeper and sloppier while his hips kept grinding, cock pulsing hot and heavy against your cunt now that he’s got you under him properly. you held him close with both hands in his hair, finally giving him the full attention he craved.
Yandere Tim Drake x Soulmate Reader (Warnings: very brief mention of past sh, unconscious groping, etc.)
Everyone had a soulmate.
It was simply a fact of life, as ordinary and inevitable as the tide rolling against the shore or the sunrise spilling gold across Gotham’s skyline each morning.
Most people shared pain.
A scraped knee for one meant a sting of sympathy for the other. Broken bones, headaches, paper cuts, small reminders that somewhere in the world existed another person tethered to your life by an invisible thread.
Others shared emotions, dreams, memories.
Tim Drake had words.
Two simple words etched into the inside of his left wrist in neat black script.
That’s mine
His mother had cried when she first saw them.
Not because she was upset, quite the opposite. Janet Drake had spent years documenting soulmate phenomena across the globe, and a verbal bond was extraordinarily rare.
His father had immediately started researching statistics.
Less than three percent of soulmates received words. Less than .5 percent remembered hearing them.
“You’ll know them the moment they speak,” his mother told him one evening as she adjusted the cuff of his tiny dress shirt before another charity gala. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Tim looked down at his wrist.
That’s mine
“I guess.”
His mother laughed softly. “You don’t sound very excited.”
Tim shrugged. At eight years old, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.
Soulmates mattered. Everyone knew that.
His classmates talked about theirs constantly.
Some compared phantom aches from their shared-pain bonds. Others spent recess imagining how their lives would be together.
Tim listened more than he spoke.
He preferred facts. Questions. Patterns.
How could words know who they belonged to before either person was born? Were they predetermined? Did people still have choices? What happened if soulmates never met?
His teachers rarely had answers.
His parents were usually too busy to discuss it.
The Drakes loved him. Tim knew they did. But love and presence weren’t always the same thing. His father spent most of his time working. His mother traveled constantly. Some months, he saw them more in framed photos scattered around the house than in person.
The manor was always full of staff and tutors and carefully planned schedules, yet somehow felt impossibly empty.
Tim grew used to eating dinner with adults paid to be there.
He learned early how to entertain himself.
Books, puzzles, documentaries, the small television in his room, where he rewatched recordings of the Flying Graysons until he knew every movement by heart.
People left. That was simply another fact of life.
His parents always came home eventually, but there was always another trip. Another meeting. Another promise of next week.
Sometimes, late at night, Tim would trace the letters on his wrist with his thumb and wonder.
That’s mine
Possessive. Confident.
The opposite of everything Tim felt.
Whoever they were, they sounded like someone who knew exactly what they wanted.
Someone who would point at him without hesitation and say, Mine.
The thought warmed something quiet inside his chest.
Maybe one day there would be someone who chose him first. Someone who stayed.
“Timothy!”
He glanced up from his wrist. His mother’s assistant stood in the doorway.
“Your parents are leaving for the airport.”
Tim slipped his sleeve back down. “Okay.” He followed the familiar route downstairs.
His father kissed the top of his head absentmindedly while checking his watch. His mother promised she’d bring him something back from Singapore.
Three weeks, this time. Maybe four.
“We love you, sweetheart.”
Tim smiled because he knew he was supposed to. “I love you too.”
Then the front doors closed behind them. The house settled into silence.
Tim looked down at his wrist.
That’s mine
Someday, he thought, he’d meet the person those words belonged to.
Someday, there would be someone who wouldn’t leave.
He had no way of knowing that in less than a year, standing on a crowded beach with salt in the air and sand clinging to his toes, he’d hear those exact words spoken aloud.
Or that he would spend the rest of his life trying to find them again.
Everyone had soulmates.
You grew up with the knowledge the same way you grew up knowing the sky was blue and the ocean was deep.
It simply was.
Some people shared pain. Others shared dreams or emotions or marks or memories.
Your soulmate had words.
Four of them, written in dark script along the inside of your wrist.
Can I see that?
Your dad had laughed the first time you asked what they meant.
“I don’t know, Bub. That’s the fun part.”
You traced the letters with your fingertip. “Do you think they’re nice?”
“I think,” he said, setting down the book he’d been reading, “that someone who asks permission before touching your things probably has good manners.”
You considered that very seriously. That sounded nice. Most things about soulmates sounded nice.
You didn’t think about it much. Your soulmate existed somewhere in the world. Eventually, you’d meet them.
Until then, there were more important things to worry about.
Like whether you could convince dad to cut the crusts off your sandwiches. Or whether the stray cat behind your building would finally let you pet it. Or if you’d be allowed to stay up past your bedtime to watch Cartoon Network.
Life was small in the way childhood always was.
Warm hands on your shoulders. Stories before bed. The magical fairies who always put your favorite snacks in your bag. Someone waiting for you after school.
You never doubted that you were loved. Not once.
Even when your dad got busy. Even when money was tight. Even when life became messy in all the ordinary ways life tended to.
You were never alone.
So while other children treated soulmates like missing pieces, you thought of yours more like a surprise waiting to happen.
Someone to look forward to. Who would eventually become important. But not yet. For now, your world was made up of smaller certainties.
The comfort of home. The sound of laughter from the kitchen. The warmth of sunlight spilling across your bedroom floor. And the beach.
You loved the beach.
Especially during summer.
The wind carried the sharp scent of salt through the air as waves crashed against the shore in a rhythm you could never quite predict.
Dad sat further back beneath a striped umbrella with a book open in his lap.
Every so often, he looked up to make sure you were still nearby.
You always were.
You darted along the shoreline barefoot, collecting seashells and smooth pieces of sea glass in a small plastic bucket.
The ocean foam chased your feet. Seagulls cried overhead. Children laughed nearby.
Everything felt bright.
A stronger gust of wind swept across the beach. Something light slipped from your hands and tumbled away across the sand.
You gasped.
Then immediately took off after it, your laughter carried away by the ocean breeze.
Tim almost said no when his mother asked.
Not because he didn't want to go, but cause experience had taught him not to get too excited.
Plans changed. Flights got moved forward. Meetings ran long. Emergencies happened.
He'd learned years ago that disappointment stung less when he expected it.
So when Janet Drake appeared in the doorway of the study where he'd been working through a puzzle book and said, "Your father and I have the whole weekend free," Tim had looked up suspiciously.
"The whole weekend?"
His father leaned against the doorframe behind her, smiling. "The whole weekend."
No phones. No assistants. No business dinners. Just the three of them.
Tim waited for the catch.
There wasn't one.
"Anywhere you want to go," his mother promised. "Your choice."
For a moment, Tim considered museums. The aquarium. The planetarium. Then he thought about summer heat and salty air and waves crashing against the shore.
"The beach," he decided.
His parents exchanged a surprised look.
"The beach?" his father repeated.
Tim nodded.
He'd only been a handful of times before, always during business trips when his parents could spare an hour or two.
He liked it. The patterns of the waves. The seashells hidden in the sand. The endless horizon stretching farther than he could see.
Mostly, he liked that people stayed at the beach. No one seemed in a hurry there.
"Then the beach it is."
True to their word, they left early the next morning.
The drive felt strange in the best way. His mother sang quietly along to the radio. His father let Tim pick the music. Nobody checked their watches. Nobody took business calls. For once, Tim had their full attention.
The feeling settled warm and unfamiliar in his chest.
By the time they reached the coast, the sun sat high overhead.
The beach was crowded.
Children raced through the surf. Couples crowded beneath colorful umbrellas. The air smelled like sunscreen and salt.
His parents set up their chairs a short distance from the water.
His mother pressed sunscreen into his hands with strict instructions to reapply every few hours.
His father handed him a towel for swimming.
Tim smiled.
Then headed toward the shoreline. The ocean foam curled around his ankles as he walked.
He searched carefully through the wet sand, studying each shell before deciding whether it was worth keeping.
Behind him, he could hear his parents talking softly.
Every so often, he glanced back to make sure they were still there.
They always were.
A sudden gust of wind swept across the beach.
Something colorful tumbled through the air a few feet ahead of him.
A small shovel.
Tim moved before he thought about it, stepping forward and catching it before another gust could carry it away.
He turned it over in his hands. Bright plastic swayed lazily in the sea breeze.
Then he heard a voice behind him.
"That's mine!"
The world stopped.
His breath caught. Heat rushed through his body so suddenly it made him dizzy.
Slowly, impossibly slowly, Tim looked down.
The words on the inside of his wrist burned.
That's mine
Every sound around him faded beneath the rushing in his ears.
He knew those words. He'd traced them countless times. Dreamed about them. Wondered about them. And now they belonged to a voice. To a person.
Tim turned around and saw you.
You stood a few feet away, slightly out of breath from running, your bucket swinging from one hand.
You were younger than him. Seven, maybe.
Sand clung to your knees, your hair messy from the wind, and there was a tiny gap where one of your front teeth had recently fallen out.
You looked completely ordinary.
And somehow, you were the most important person Tim had ever seen.
You frowned when he didn’t say anything. “Um… my shovel?”
Right. The shovel.
Tim handed it back with shaking fingers.
Then, before he could lose his nerve, he blurted out the question you’d imagined hearing for years.
“Can I see that?”
Your eyes widened. Then, almost immediately, your gaze dropped to your own wrist.
Tim followed it.
When you looked back up at him, confusion and wonder mixed across your face.
Slowly, you held out your arm.
His words.
His exact words.
Tim stared. His soulmate. He’d found them.
You stared at him with equal fascination. “You’re my soulmate?” The question came out small.
Tim felt something inside his chest loosen for the first time in his life. “Yeah,” he whispered.
You grinned. Just like that. No hesitation or uncertainty. Just simply joy.
“Cool.”
Cool. As though the entire universe hadn’t shifted beneath his feet.
Like you hadn’t just become the answer to every question he’d ever asked late at night while tracing words on his wrist.
Your excitement was immediate and uncomplicated. Tim envied that.
Before he could think of what to say next, an adult voice called your name from further down the beach.
You waved in their direction.
“My dad’s over there!”
Tim glanced toward the striped worn out umbrella and the man watching the two of you with open curiosity.
You turned back to him. “Want to play?”
The answer should have been obvious. Still, Tim had never been asked that question with such easy sincerity before.
He nodded. “Okay.”
And somehow, that single word changed everything.
The two-year age gap disappeared within minutes.
You talked enough for both of you, filling every quiet moment with stories while Tim listened intently.
You showed him the smooth sea glass you’d collected.
He taught you how to tell the difference between oyster shells and clam shells.
You built sprawling sandcastles connected by winding trenches that the tide eventually claimed.
You chased waves until your shorts were soaked.
You buried his feet in the sand.
He let you.
When seagulls stole one of your crackers, you laughed so hard you nearly fell over.
Tim found himself laughing too. Really laughing. Not the polite smiles he wore at galas. Not the careful amusement he showed adults. Something warm and bright spilled through him every time you smiled at him. Like sunlight after weeks of rain.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel lonely.
It was strange. How someone he’d only known for a few hours could make the world feel different. Like he’d spent his entire life holding his breath without realising it. And now, sitting beside you in the sand while you proudly displayed a misshapen seashell you’d declared lucky, Tim finally exhaled.
This was what everyone talked about when they talked about soulmates. Not destiny. Not marks. Not magic. This.
The feeling that you’d found someone who fit beside you so naturally that being apart suddenly made no sense at all.
You looked up at him and smiled.
Tim smiled back.
Mine, he thought.
For the first time in his life, Tim knew exactly what he wanted.
And for the first time in his life, he believed he could have it.
→←↓↑
The sun began to sink lower in the sky far too quickly.
Tim noticed because your father stood from his chair and started packing away towels.
No. No, it couldn’t be that late already.
You were still explaining your very serious theory that seagulls were secretly spies.
“We have to go soon,” your dad called.
You looked up, your face immediately falling. “Aww.”
Something uncomfortable twisted in Tim’s chest.
“Can we stay a little longer?” you asked hopefully.
Your dad checked his watch and shook his head apologetically. “We still have to drive back.”
You sighed dramatically before turning back to Tim. “I guess I have to go.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Tim’s eyes dropped to your wrist.
Can I see that?
Then to his own.
That’s mine
Proof.
Even if you left, the words would stay. You couldn’t disappear completely. Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that. His mother had told him so.
You stood, brushing sand from your shorts. “Can we see each other again?”
“Yes,” Tim answered immediately. Too quickly. His cheeks warmed.
Your smile returned instantly. “Okay!”
Of course you would. You were soulmates. That was how this worked.
Tim stood too, suddenly aware that he didn’t know your last name. Or your phone number. Or where you lived.
Panic flickered briefly beneath his ribs. “We should-”
“Timothy.”
His mother waved from several yards away. “We need to get going soon.”
Not yet.
Please, not yet.
He looked back at you. Your father had already gathered your things.
Adults were always in a hurry.
The thought came suddenly and irrationally.
Adults ruined everything.
“Can I have your number?” Tim asked.
You blinked. “My what?”
Right. You were seven.
Your dad laughed as he walked over. “I don’t think they know our number by heart.”
Heat crawled up Tim’s neck. Of course you didn’t.
Think.
Addresses. Last names. Anything.
“Maybe we can write letters!” you suggested brightly.
Your father smiled. “That’s a good idea.”
Relief rushed through Tim so hard his knees felt weak.
Yes. Letters. Of course.
Your father knelt beside you. “Why don’t you get something to write on?”
You nodded enthusiastically and ran back toward the umbrella.
Tim turned to his parents, excitement bubbling in his chest so fiercely it almost hurt.
His mother was smiling.
His father looked amused.
“Soulmates, huh?” Jack asked softly.
Tim couldn’t stop smiling.
“Yeah.”
His mother squeezed his shoulder. “We’re happy for you, sweetheart.”
Everything felt right. Perfect. As if the universe had finally clicked into place.
You returned moments later with a purple marker and a wrinkled napkin.
Tim carefully wrote down his home address. Double-checked it twice, then handed you the marker.
You copied yours beneath it in large, uneven letters. Your handwriting tilted crookedly across the paper.
Tim thought it was the most important thing he’d ever held.
You tore the napkin in half.
One for you.
One for him.
Insurance.
Smart.
His soulmate was smart.
“I’ll write first,” you promised.
Tim folded the paper carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his shorts. “I’ll write back.”
You grinned.
“Deal.”
Then your father called your name again.
This time, you couldn’t delay. You waved at him. Then at Tim.
“Bye, Tim!”
His chest squeezed painfully. “Bye.”
You ran back toward your dad.
Halfway there, you turned around one last time and waved again.
Tim waved back immediately.
Only when you disappeared into the crowd did he lower his hand.
The beach suddenly felt quieter. Emptier. But it was okay. Because he had your address.
You’d write first. Then he’d write back. And this wouldn’t be goodbye.
Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that.
Tim pressed a hand over the pocket holding your half of the napkin.
The paper crackled softly beneath his palm. Safe.
Everything was going to be okay.
He had no way of knowing that by the time he sent his first letter, your family would already be gone.
No forwarding address. No phone number. Nothing.
Just two words inked onto his skin.
And the memory of a summer afternoon that would define the rest of his life.
The Batcave was quiet at three in the morning.
Not quite silent. Computers still hummed softly. Monitors cast blue light across polished metal surfaces. Somewhere overhead, water dripped steadily through ancient stone.
Most people would have called the hour late. Tim called it productive.
A half-empty coffee cup sat forgotten beside his keyboard.
Three different cases waited on adjacent screens.
An unsolved string of robberies. A League of Assassins weapons shipment. A missing persons report.
Tim ignored all of them.
Instead, he stared at a photograph taken twelve years ago.
The image quality was terrible. The edges were worn from use, the colors faded by time.
Two children sat cross-legged in the sand beside a lopsided castle.
A nine-year-old Tim grinned openly at the camera. The seven-year-old beside him was laughing.
Tim had memorised every pixel.
He knew exactly where the sunlight hit your face. Knew the shape of your smile. Knew the tiny crack running through the plastic bucket sitting between you.
The original photo lived in a fireproof safe upstairs.
This was one of the digital copies. One of hundreds.
His fingers drifted to his wrist.
That’s mine
The words had never faded.
Not after his mother’s death. Not after his father’s funeral. Not after becoming Robin. Not after being pushed into Red Robin. Not after years of searching.
They remained as dark and certain as the day he’d first heard them.
Proof that you existed. That you were still out there.
Tim had built entire investigations from less.
Over the years, he’d searched for you with a determination that bordered on insanity.
School records. Property databases. Archived census information. Social media. Facial recognition software. The Batcomputer.
Every new technology became another opportunity. Every dead end became another reason to keep looking.
He’d found international criminals more easily than he’d found you.
It shouldn’t have been possible.
But all he’d ever had was a nickname, a childhood address, and a photograph.
The apartment listed on the napkin had been empty by the time his first letter arrived.
Moved. No forwarding address.
The landlord hadn’t remembered where.
Your father’s phone number had been disconnected within the year.
After that, the trail vanished.
You vanished. Just like everyone else.
Tim pressed his thumb against the words on his wrist, digging in hard enough to sting. The area was crowded with thick, old scars, but the words were still clear. Even when things were at their worst, he’d never dared to slice through the letters.
Across the cave, laughter echoed from the stairs.
Dick. Jason. Damian.
Family.
People who stayed. Mostly.
Tim minimised the photo before any of them could walk over and see.
He’d made rhe mistake once.
Dick had found him at sixteen, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor surrounded by maps and newspaper clippings.
“What’re you working on?”
Tim had frozen for a second too long and Dick had seen the picture. Seen the soulmate mark. The pure desperation.
Tim still remembered the concern in his brother’s voice. “You know they’ll come back into your life eventually, right?”
Tim hadn’t answered. Because that wasn’t what scared him. Finding you had never been the problem. Losing you again was.
And what if, after all these years, you met Dick first? Dick, with his effortless charm and easy smiles.
What if you met Jason? Jason, who filled every room he walked into.
What if you met Damian? Brilliant. Confident. Unapologetically himself.
Fuck.
Tim rubbed a hand over his face. The thoughts were irrational. He knew that.
You were soulmates. His soulmate.
His.
The universe had written your first words onto his skin before either of you were born.
Still, the fear remained. Because soulmates weren’t guarantees.
He’d seen enough failed bonds to know that. People walked away from soulmates all the time. People chose other people. People left.
The words on his wrist proved destiny.
They didn’t prove love.
His computer chimed softly. A notification. Another failed search parameter.
Tim closed it without reading.
He’d check again tomorrow. Run new algorithms. Cross-reference new databases. Keep looking.
He always kept looking.
Because somewhere out there, you still carried four words on your wrist.
Words he’d spoken before he knew how much they would matter.
Words that had become the center of his entire life.
Can I see that?
You probably traced them absentmindedly while waiting in line for coffee. Probably laughed when people asked about them. Maybe you told the beach story sometimes. Maybe you didn’t remember it at all.
The thought hollowed him out.
He remembered everything.
The sound of your laugh. The way you buried his feet in the sand. The gap between your front teeth. The way you’d turned around to wave at him one last time.
He remembered because he’d never stopped needing to.
Because forgetting had never even been an option.
Tim opened the pic again. Zoomed in, just a little. As if getting closer to the screen could somehow bridge twelve years.
“I’ll find you,” he whispered into the empty cave.
The promise was soft. Certain. The same way those words had always been.
He’d spent more than half his life searching. And Tim Drake was not someone prone to giving up.
University wasn’t anything like you’d expected.
Everyone had promised it would be the best years of your life.
Mostly, it was just busy.
Assignments piled up faster than you could finish them. Your sleep schedule was held together by caffeine and wishful thinking. Half your meals came from the campus café because grocery shopping required a level of organisation you simply didn’t possess.
Still, you liked it. You liked the freedom. The independence. The way nobody cared if you wore the same hoodie three days in a row.
Your world had become pleasantly ordinary.
Evening lectures. Study groups. Late-night takeout with friends. Dinner with your dad every Sunday evening.
Life moved forward in small, comfortable routines.
Soulmates fit somewhere inside that routine. Not at the centre of it. Just… there. A fact of life. An eventuality.
You’d never been one of those people who obsessed over their soulmate mark.
Maybe it was because your bond wasn’t particularly unusual. Words were rare, sure, but not unheard of.
Or maybe it was because the words themselves didn’t tell you much.
Can I see that?
People asked about them all the time. Friends in high school had theories.
Maybe your soulmate worked in museums. Maybe they were an artist. Maybe they were just really nosy.
You usually laughed and changed the subject. Because the truth was, you didn’t know.
You’d heard the words once. Apparently.
You remembered flashes of a beach. A boy. Older than you, maybe.
The memory shifted every time you tried to hold onto it.
Childhood was like that.
Important moments blurred around the edges until you weren’t sure whether you truly remembered them or had simply heard the story too many times.
Your dad remembered more than you did.
Every few years, he’d bring it up with a fond smile.
“Remember when you met your soulmate at the beach?”
You always laughed. “Not really.”
His expression turned wistful every time. “You were inseparable all day.”
You believed him. You just couldn’t remember. Not properly. There were no photos. No letters. No evidence beyond four words inked onto your skin.
Sometimes you wondered if your soulmate remembered. Or if they’d forgotten too.
The thought never upset you.
Life was busy. If they were meant to come back into your life, they would.
You traced the words on your wrist absentmindedly as you sat outside the library, waiting for your next class to start.
Can I see that?
Around you, campus buzzed with life. Students hurried between lectures. Someone laughed nearby. A group passed carrying redbulls and complaining about an upcoming exam.
Your phone buzzed. A message from your dad.
Don’t forget dinner this weekend.
You smiled despite yourself.
I’m nineteen. I won’t forget the dinner we plan every week.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
You’ll still be my kid when you’re ninety.
Shaking your head, you slipped your phone back into your pocket.
You had a lecture in ten minutes. An essay due next week. Plans with friends on Friday. A whole life unfolding in front of you.
You stood and adjusted your bag over your shoulder.
Completely unaware that, less than twenty miles away, someone was running your photograph through facial recognition software.
Unaware that someone had spent the last twelve years searching for you.
That somewhere beneath Gotham, a man who knew the exact shape of your childhood smile was whispering your name to himself like a prayer.
To you, your soulmate was a pleasant mystery.
To Tim Drake, you had become an obsession.
←↓↑→
The Batcomputer chimed again. A different sound this time.
A match.
Tim froze.
The notification sat in the corner of the screen for almost three full seconds before he trusted himself enough to breathe.
Possible facial recognition match found.
Similarity: 91.3%
His chair scraped violently across the cave floor. “No…” The word barely made it out.
His fingers were already moving. Open. Enhance. Cross-reference.
The photo filled the monitor.
Not the child from the beach. An adult. Older. Nineteen.
Your jaw had sharpened. Your hair was different. You’d grown into your features the way children always did.
But your smile..
His heart stopped. It was you. It had to be. The same eyes. The same crooked little smile he’d memorised from a photograph so faded he’d reconstructed parts of it by hand.
He didn’t realise he was crying until a tear landed on the keyboard.
“I found you…” The words cracked apart in his throat.
Twelve years of dead ends. Of wondering if he’d imagined that day on the beach.
And here you were. Real.
Tim laughed. It sounded dangerously close to a sob. “You’re okay.”
His hands shook so violently he mistyped twice trying to open the source.
A public Instagram account. Must’ve been someone else’s, since you’d been tagged.
A university friend, judging from the captions.
He clicked.
More photos. You outside a café. You in the library. You wearing an oversized hoodie while holding a coffee nearly as big as your head.
You’d always hated crusts. You pushed your sleeves over your hands. You still smiled with your whole face. Every tiny detail hit him like another heartbeat.
He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop smiling.
“I found you.”
You looked… Happy.
His chest hurt.
You’d grown up. Without him. Without a single letter. Without remembering him.
Guilt settled somewhere deep inside his ribs.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.
I’m here now.
I’ll never lose you again.
He clicked the next post. His smile disappeared. You stood beside someone about your age. Their arms wrapped around your shoulders. They leaned over to kiss your cheek.
You were making the most exaggerated expression of disgust imaginable, nose scrunched, lips pulled away dramatically while the caption underneath read:
Admit it, you love me ♡
Anyone else would’ve laughed.
Tim knew it wasn’t romantic. He could see that. He understood body language. Read micro-expressions. Built psychological profiles from less. They were friends.
Just friends.
But then why were they touching you?
His breathing slowed. The cave suddenly felt much colder.
Their hand rested so naturally against your shoulder. Like they’d done it before.
They’d probably hugged you. Sat beside you. Heard you laugh. Been there while you were becoming.. you.
They’d lived twelve years Tim had been denied. Twelve years that should have been his.
Jealousy wasn’t the right word. It felt uglier than that. Hungrier.
Tim rested his forehead against his clasped hands. “That’s selfish.” His voice came out hoarse.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Of course you hadn’t. You deserved friends. You deserved people who loved you. People who looked after you. You deserved everything. He should be grateful someone had been there while he hadn’t.
He should.
…
But why did it feel like something inside him was being torn apart?
Why couldn’t he stop staring at the place their lips touched your cheek?
Why did he want to beat-
No.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt.
Don’t think that. They’re important to you. If they’re important to you…
Then they’re important to me.
The words sounded rehearsed. Like he was trying to convince himself.
Another notification blinked in the corner of the monitor.
“Replacement patrol assigned.”
Followed almost immediately by another from Bruce.
Where are you?
Tim didn’t even look. His eyes never left your face.
“I found you.” This time, the whisper wasn’t joyful. It was reverent. Almost prayerful.
“Please..”
His thumb brushed lightly across your smiling face on the screen.
“Please still want me.”
Months passed before he let himself stand within twenty metres of you.
Not because he lacked the opportunity. He just couldn’t risk ruining it.
You deserved a proper reunion. He’d rehearsed it hundreds of times.
“Hi.”
Too casual.
“You probably don’t remember me…”
Too pathetic.
“We met once, years ago.”
Too unbelievable.
So he waited. And watched.
He learnt your timetable before he ever learnt the sound of your adult voice.
Tuesday lectures started at one thirty. You always arrived a few minutes early.
You bought the same coffee every Wednesday, except during exam weeks, when you switched to doubles without even realising you were doing it.
You texted your friends while waiting for pedestrian crossings.
You hummed when you cooked.
You don’t lock your front window.
Tim fixed that after you went to sleep.
The first time he’d climbed through your garden to latch it from the inside, he’d almost laughed at himself.
This is insane. He knew that. He also knew the suburb’s burglary statistics.
The window stayed locked after that.
You never noticed.
Good.
You weren’t supposed to.
He never took anything. That would’ve made it real.
Instead he’d straighten the photo frame you’d knocked crooked. Move your forgotten wallet a little further from the edge of the kitchen bench. Replace the batteries in your smoke alarm after it chirped once at three in the morning.
Tiny enough things that you might’ve assumed you’d done yourself.
He wasn’t trying to change your life.
He was only… smoothing the edges. Helping. Protecting.
The files on the Batcomputer grew thicker.
Medical history. University records. Favourite takeaway. Allergies. Blood type. Emergency contacts. Your friends.
Every single one received their own folder.
It’s not like Tim distrusted them. It’s just that if one of them ever needed help getting to you, he wanted to know before they did.
He read their social media. Their public records. Their routines. Who they dated. Whether they drank too much. Whether they drove distracted. Whether they’d ever hurt anyone. If they were kind to you.
Tim found himself quietly grateful.
If they made you cry, he’d spend the rest of the night staring at their name.
His fingers hovering over keyboards. Databases. Background checks. One command. He could dismantle someone’s entire life before sunrise.
He never pressed Enter.
Because that wasn’t what you would’ve wanted. And your happiness mattered more than his anger. It always would.
←↓↑→
Bruce noticed first.
“You’ve stopped sleeping.”
“I’m busy.”
“You haven’t been running facial recognition software anymkre.”
Silence.
Bruce sighed. “You found them.”
Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Bruce’s expression softened for only a second. “I’m glad they’re alive.”
“So am I.”
Another silence.
“You haven’t spoken to them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Tim looked back towards the glowing monitor. Your face smiled back from a candid photo one of your friends had uploaded that afternoon.
What if you looked at him and didn’t remember? What if twelve years had turned him into a stranger?
He could survive broken bones. Gunshots. The Joker. He wasn’t sure he could survive watching confusion replace your smile.
So instead, he watched from afar. Close enough to stop anything bad from reaching you. Far enough that you never had to know there had been danger at all.
If someone followed you home, they found another route. If your tire went flat, roadside assistance somehow arrived before you’d even finished pulling over. If your wallet went missing, it appeared at the nearest police station before you’d cancelled your cards.
Tim preferred it that way. Because heroes weren’t supposed to ask for thanks.
And if protecting you was the only place he still belonged, then that was enough.
It had to be.
Because wanting anything more felt unforgivably selfish.
Some nights, though, when he watched your bedroom light switch off, he’d rest two fingers against the computer screen.
“I miss you.” A tiny, tired smile.
“You don’t even know me.” His voice cracked. “But I know you.”
He swallowed hard. “And that’s enough. It has to be.”
You’d always considered yourself a pretty lucky person.
Not lottery-winning lucky. More ‘weird little coincidences’ lucky.
Like the time your car decided to die halfway home after a late shift.
You’d barely managed to pull onto the shoulder before an RACQ van rolled around the corner.
The bloke had laughed.
“Perfect timing.”
You’d laughed too. “What are the odds?”
Or when you’d realised you’d left your wallet at the café.
You’d panicked for all of thirty seconds before the staff smiled and held it up.
“Someone dropped it into us.”
No cash missing. Cards untouched. You’d gone home convinced there were still decent people in the world.
Then there was the time your smoke alarm had stopped making that awful chirping noise before you’d gotten around to buying batteries.
You assumed you’d imagined hearing it.
Then the dodgy latch on your bedroom window had somehow started working again.
Finally.
About bloody time.
You made a mental note to thank your landlord.
You forgot.
Life just happened like that. Little inconveniences solving themselves. Disasters never fully becoming disasters.
You figured everyone had stories like yours.
Didn’t they?
→↓←↑
“You are,” Your friend declared, pointing a chip at you across the table, “the universe’s favourite.”
“Oh, piss off.”
“I’m serious.”
“You spilled an entire iced latte over your assignment yesterday.”
He crossed his arms, dropping the chip into his mouth. “And then the professor gave us a forty-eight hour extension.”
“That was for everyone.”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
“You just benefit the most.”
You rolled your eyes. “I think you’re confusing luck with chronic incompetence.”
“I think,” he replied, “you’ve got some weird guardian angel following you around.”
You snorted so hard your drink nearly came out your nose.
“Imagine.”
“Oi, don’t laugh. Nan swears everyone gets one.”
“If mine exists, they’re exhausted.”
“They’re probably on stress leave.”
You both laughed until people started looking over.
Sometimes, though, there were moments.
You’d catch yourself glancing over your shoulder after leaving uni.
It always felt like someone had said your name. But there was never anyone there.
Just people walking. Cars passing. The breeze.
You’d shake it off.
Your friends called you observant.
You noticed when someone changed shampoo. When lecturers looked more tired than usual. When strangers were having bad days.
But somehow, you’d never notice the black motorbike parked half a block away. Never notice that it wasn’t always the same bike. That the familiar silhouette perched on rooftops when you walked home after evening classes. Or the pair of blue eyes lifting from a rooftop scope the second you glanced upwards. Because every time your gaze drifted a little too close, he was already gone.
Because why would you? No one expects to be the centre of somebody else’s universe.
Not without knowing it.
Somewhere in Gotham, Tim closed another file. Today’s entry was short.
Ate lunch.
Laughed with friends.
Nearly got hit by a cyclist while reading a text.
Smiled twenty-three times.
His lips curved despite himself. “Good.”
He closed the document. Another day where nothing bad had happened to you. Another perfect day.
Exactly as it should be.
Tim wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He never was anymore. Watching you had become as habitual as checking the weather before patrol or reviewing overnight reports from the Titans.
One monitor displayed Wayne Enterprises’ quarterly projections while another quietly cycled through public posts from accounts you’d been tagged in over the past twenty-four hours.
One of your friend’s account refreshed.
A new post. Six photos.
The first was all of you crowded around a tiny restaurant table littered with empty plates and cocktail glasses, your smile wide enough to crinkle your eyes.
The second was a blurry group selfie that looked like it’d been taken after far too many attempts.
The third showed someone holding up printed boarding passes.
The fourth made his stomach tighten.
It was you, sitting cross-legged on somebody’s lounge room floor with travel brochures scattered around your knees. You were laughing so hard your head had tipped backwards, completely unaware of the camera.
The caption was simple.
Can’t believe we’re finally doing it. Goodbye Gotham. Next stop: Europe!! ✈️
The comments underneath were worse.
You’re actually leaving us.
Don’t forget us when you’re famous overseas.
Still can’t believe you’re moving.
Going to miss you so much.
Tim reread that last one. Then the one before it. Then the caption again.
His cursor hovered over the screen.
“…Moving?” The word sounded foreign in his own voice.
He opened your calendar. Nothing.
Your university timetable. Nothing.
Your employment records. Nothing.
He searched airline databases. Nothing.
He frowned. That didn’t make sense.
If you were emigrating, there would’ve been paperwork. Visa applications. Employment sponsorship. Rental listings. Passport activity beyond an ordinary holiday.
Unless you’d only decided recently. If you’d kept it private. If he’d missed something.
Tim’s fingers were already moving before he’d consciously decided to investigate.
Searches multiplied across the Batcomputer. Passport usage. Banking activity. University enrolment. Rental history. Government databases. Public records. Flight manifests.
The cave filled with the quiet clatter of keys.
Hours passed unnoticed. Eventually, one search returned a result.
Three return tickets. Departure in eleven days. Return scheduled just over three weeks later.
Tim stared at the itinerary for a long moment. Three weeks. Not forever. Just three weeks.
His shoulders sagged so abruptly it almost hurt.
He laughed once under his breath, embarrassed by the sheer force of the relief flooding through him. “You idiot…”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re coming back.”
Of course you were.
He’d panicked over a holiday.
His heartbeat gradually settled.
He closed the flight information. Then his eyes drifted back to the Instagram post.
Goodbye Gotham.
Going to miss you.
Still can’t believe you’re moving.
They’d all thought it looked permanent too.
He wasn’t stupid. The wording was misleading. Anyone could’ve misunderstood.
But the thought of you leaving for twenty-one days was unfathomable. You’d be where every system he’d quietly built around your safety became useless.
Where there only needed to be one delayed ambulance, drunk driver, pickpocket in the wrong place, one stupid accident.. and he would be exactly where he’d been twelve years ago.
Too late.
His fingers folded together beneath his chin.
He remembered another disappearance. Another day he’d told himself he’d find you tomorrow.
Tomorrow had become twelve years.
He’d promised himself that would never happen again.
Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, he reopened your file. Thousands of pages. Medical records. Class schedules. Emergency contacts. Favourite cafés. The names of everyone you’d ever trusted. Months of observation. Years of restraint.
He looked at the date stamped across the oldest folder. All this time waiting, for what?
Permission?
A perfect reunion?
Some magical moment where you’d look at him and everything would make sense?
What a ridiculous fantasy.
You didn’t remember him. You never would. Not unless he made you.
He had mistaken absence for kindness. Distance for love.
He’d stood outside your life for months, convincing himself that watching you from the shadows was enough because it made you smile.
And where had that left him?
Watching another goodbye. Waiting for another disappearance. Still pretending he could survive it.
A quiet laugh escaped him. Ashamed. “I’ve been an idiot.” The words echoed through the empty cave.
He’d treated his own devotion like something shameful. Something to hide. As though loving you enough to dedicate every waking moment to your safety was a flaw instead of the truest thing he’d ever felt.
No one else loved you like this. No one else could.
Your friends loved the version of you they saw between lectures and dinners. Your family loved the child you’d once been. Tim loved every version.
The child on the beach. The teenager he’d reconstructed from scattered photographs. The adult who forgot to lock windows, who hummed while cooking, who laughed with your whole body when something was funny.
He loved the life you’d built without him. And perhaps that had been his mistake.
He’d mistaken love for spectatorship.
Love wasn’t standing fifty metres away making sure you got home safely. It wasn’t fixing broken latches in the middle of the night and leaving before sunrise. It wasn’t pretending he didn’t exist.
Love was being there.
His gaze drifted back to your smiling face.
“You’ve waited long enough,” he murmured.
For a moment, it almost sounded as though he was speaking to you. Then he smiled.
“No more.” The words weren’t a promise to himself. They were a decision.
He reached for his phone. For the first time in months, he wasn’t planning how to keep watching you.
He was planning how to finally walk into your life.
And this time, he wasn’t ever going to leave.
↑←→↓
The house had taken longer than he would’ve liked to build. Because nothing ever felt good enough.
Tim replaced every piece of furniture twice before he was satisfied. The mattress in the spare bedroom became a king-sized one after he remembered you tended to sleep diagonally whenever you had nowhere important to be the next morning. The kitchen cupboards were stocked with your favourite brands, each item selected with the quiet certainty of someone who had spent years memorising details you never realised you were giving away.
The coffee in the pantry was the same blend you bought every Wednesday.
The toothpaste in the bathroom was the brand you preferred.
The shampoo smelled exactly like the one you'd used six months ago before switching to something else.
You'd liked the old one better.
You just hadn't known it.
Fresh towels sat folded neatly on the shelves. Spare chargers waited beside every bed. Books you had once picked up in stores and put back down rested untouched on shelves already prepared for you.
Every room carried traces of you.
The wardrobe had been the hardest part.
Not expensive things. Not things he wanted. Things you would have chosen.
A ridiculous pair of fluffy socks shaped like little sharks that you’d laughed at for almost five minutes in a department store before deciding they were “too expensive for socks”.
Tim had bought them the following afternoon.
There were plants in nearly every room because you’d once spent fifteen minutes helping a stranger rescue a dying fern from the clearance section at Bunnings.
Healthy, thriving ones.
Nothing in this house would be allowed to die. Not if he could help it.
Music speakers sat discreetly throughout the house.
A shelf waited half-finished in the study because you’d once mentioned you wished you knew how to build furniture yourself.
Tim had watched hours of woodworking tutorials that night.
Just in case you ever wanted to learn.
The entire house was filled with preparations for conversations that had never happened.
Future memories assembled in advance.
A life rehearsed over and over by a man who had spent too long alone.
The only parts that didn’t belong were the things that had never been negotiable.
The cameras. One in every room. Carefully hidden. The reinforced glass. The electronic locks. The steel shutters concealed inside the walls. The security system that could seal the entire house down in seconds.
The absence of anything sharp enough to become a weapon.
Tim stood in the middle of the lounge room long after everything was finished.
His gaze drifted slowly across the room.
The couch where you'd sit. The blanket folded over the armrest. The coffee mug already waiting in the cupboard. The spot beside him.
He turned slowly, searching for flaws.
His eyes landed on one of the cameras. A small black lens hidden in the corner.
His expression crumpled. "...I'm sorry." The apology came out quietly. Almost embarrassed.
"I know you'll hate these."
He stared at it for a long moment. As if he could already see the disappointment on your face. The fear. Anger. Betrayal.
His throat tightened.
"I know." His voice cracked slightly.
"I know you will."
His gaze dropped toward the front door.
Toward the locks. The barriers. The things that would keep you inside. The things that would keep you from leaving him.
His hand pressed against the wood.
"And those." The words barely escaped him.
"You'll think I'm a monster."
A small laugh escaped him. Broken and humourless.
The painful part was knowing that you'd be right.
His eyes burned. "You won't understand."
The house blurred slightly.
"You'll think this is about control."
His fingers tightened against the door. "It's not."
The lie sounded weak even to him. Because it was about control. Partly. But mostly it was about terror. The unbearable, suffocating terror of losing something he had never truly possessed.
"I just..." The words stopped. His throat worked.
He looked around the house again. At the rooms prepared for you. The meals he imagined cooking. The books waiting on shelves. The life built entirely around your absence. And suddenly the entire thing felt pathetic.
A shrine pretending to be a home. A love story with only one participant.
Tim swallowed hard.
"I tried doing it the right way." Years of restraint condensed into one broken sentence.
"I really did." His voice was barely audible.
"I waited."
For you to notice. For you to choose him. For one day to become the day. For years. Nothing.
His eyes closed. And for the first time since finishing the house, he looked genuinely miserable.
None of this felt like winning. It felt like surrender. The last desperate act of someone who had run out of ways to be patient.
His hand remained on the lock. As though he hated it. As though he needed it.
"I'll take them away."
The promise came quickly. Desperately. Like he needed you to hear it.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not anytime soon.
But someday.
If you stayed.
If you smiled at him.
If you stopped looking at him like he was something frightening.
"If you trust me."
Airport security had never made you nervous before.
Annoyed, sure.
You’d complained about taking your shoes off often enough, rolled your eyes at the queue crawling forward centimetre by centimetre, and wondered more than once why your bag was always the one selected for a random inspection.
But nervous?
Not until a woman in a navy security uniform approached with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me?”
You looked up from your phone.
“Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”
Your stomach dropped. “..Sorry?”
“There are a couple of questions regarding your luggage.”
“My luggage?”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
Your friends exchanged confused looks.
“What happened?” one of them asked.
The woman simply smiled again. “It shouldn’t take long.”
That wasn’t exactly reassuring.
You followed anyway, trying to ignore the dozen increasingly ridiculous possibilities running through your head.
Had someone packed something into your suitcase?
The further you walked from the terminal, the quieter everything became. The constant announcements faded. The crowds disappeared.
Eventually, the woman stopped outside an unmarked door and opened it.
“Someone will be with you shortly.”
You stepped inside. The room looked more like an executive meeting room than airport security.
Dark timber. Leather chairs. A wall of monitors. A coffee machine in the corner.
And someone already waiting.
He stood the moment you entered.
For a second, your brain failed to process what you were looking at.
People that attractive belonged in advertisements. On giant billboards. In impossibly expensive campaigns designed by teams of professionals whose entire careers revolved around manufacturing beauty.
Not standing ten feet away. Not breathing. Not real.
He was tall enough to seem imposing without trying, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked less worn than sculpted onto him. The cut was perfect. Every line sharp. Every detail precise.
Yet somehow it wasn't the suit that drew your attention.
It was him.
Dark hair, slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked careless but somehow only made him more devastating to look at. It softened features that would otherwise have been almost unfairly severe.
His face looked like something an artist would've spent months trying to get right.
Strong jaw.
Straight nose.
Cheekbones sharp enough to catch the light.
Everything balanced so perfectly it bordered on irritating.
But it was his eyes that made it impossible to look away.
Blue.
Not the bright artificial blue magazines edited into existence.
Something deeper. Cooler. The colour of the sky just before a storm.
The kind of eyes people wrote poetry about when they ran out of better ideas.
And they were looking directly at you.
As though the moment you entered the room, everything else had ceased to matter.
Your pulse skipped.
This was ridiculous. You weren't sixteen. You weren't the type to lose your ability to function because an attractive man happened to exist in your vicinity.
And yet, there was something profoundly unfair about the way he carried himself.
The quiet confidence. The effortless posture. The controlled stillness that made every movement feel deliberate.
Even standing up from a chair somehow looked elegant. Like he'd spent his entire life accidentally making everyone else look clumsy by comparison.
Then your brain finally caught up. Recognition hit like a delayed collision.
You knew that face. Everyone knew that face.
Interviews. Magazine covers. Business journals. Wayne Enterprises.
"...Tim Drake?"
Something happened to his expression after you’d said it. A subtle shift.
The carefully composed businessman vanished for half a second.
Enough to reveal something underneath. Something startlingly human.
Relief.
His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. His gaze softened. And suddenly he looked less like the impossibly wealthy CEO you'd seen in magazines and more like a man who had been holding his breath for a very long time.
"Hi." His tone was lower than you expected. Warm. Gentle. The sort of voice that made people instinctively lean closer.
You found yourself staring again.
The newsletters had lied.
They captured the symmetry. The beauty. The impossible genetics. But they missed everything else.
The intelligence behind his eyes. The exhaustion buried beneath them. The strange sadness lingering at the edges of his smile. The tiny imperfections that somehow made him even worse. A faint crease near one cuff where he'd clearly adjusted his sleeve too many times. A loosened breath. The tension hidden beneath composure. Nervousness.
The realisation struck you so abruptly you almost laughed. Tim Drake looked nervous.
Which made absolutely no sense.
Men like Tim Drake weren't supposed to get nervous. Especially not around strangers. Yet there it was. Written in the subtle tightening of his jaw. The way his hands remained carefully still. The fractionally too-long pause before speaking.
As though meeting you mattered far more than it should. Far more than it possibly could.
Recognition fluttered strangely in your chest. An inexplicable feeling that you knew him.
That if you crossed the room and took his hand, it would fit.
You frowned at yourself.
What the hell was that?
“I’m sorry,” you laughed awkwardly. “This is probably a stupid question, but…”
Your eyes met his. For the briefest second, the entire room felt impossibly still.
“Have we met before?”
His breath caught.
As though the question alone had knocked the air from his lungs.
A thousand emotions crossed his face too quickly to name.
Hope. Relief. Grief. Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.
Then he smiled. Small and beautiful. Heartbreakingly fragile.
“No.”
The answer came after a beat too long. “Not in a way you’d remember.”
You opened your mouth.
Before you could ask what that meant, a sharp, chemical smell drifted through the room.
Your head suddenly felt heavy.
You blinked hard.
The floor shifted beneath your feet.
“..What…”
Your knees threatened to give way. Strong hands caught you before you hit the ground.
Instinctively, you tried to pull away. You couldn’t. Your limbs refused to cooperate.
Panic surged through you.
“Hey-” Your voice came out slurred. “What.. did…”
The room blurred. You forced yourself to look up one last time.
Tim was already kneeling in front of you, one arm supporting your weight with impossible care, the other brushing your hair back from your face as though you were something precious enough to break.
The look on his face wasn’t triumphant nor cruel. It was devastated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and his voice shook so badly it barely sounded like speech.
“I tried.”
His forehead rested against yours for the briefest moment. “I waited as long as I could.”
The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed everything was Tim Drake looking at you like a man who had finally reached heaven,
and hated himself for the path he’d taken to get there.
↑→↓←
The silence in the bedroom was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, shallow sound of your breathing.
Tim sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight barely making a dent in the expensive linens.
His suit jacket discarded on the floor, his shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal the tension in his chest. It was damp with sweat, clinging to the lean muscles of his back as he leaned into your space.
He looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a frantic, starving look in them that made the air in the room feel thick. He looked like a man who had finally been allowed to touch the altar after years of kneeling in the dark.
He watched you. Not looking away even to blink.
His hand reached out, his fingers trembling as they made contact with your skin.
He started at your ankle, his touch light, almost hesitant, as if he expected you to bolt upright and scream the moment he touched you.
He traced the line of your leg, his thumb brushing over the softness of your calf, moving upward with a slow, agonising patience.
He wasn't just touching you; he was memorising you. He was verifying that you were solid, that you were warm, and that you were finally, truly, here.
When his hand reached your hip, his touch grew a little more firm. He slid his palm under the hem of your shirt, the heat of your skin seeping into his calloused fingertips.
He let his hand wander, trailing over the curve of your waist and the soft swell of your stomach. He moved with a desperate kind of reverence, his eyes fixed on where his hand met your flesh.
He leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate, until he was hovering just above you.
He buried his face into the crook of your stomach, pressing his nose against the warmth of your skin. He took a long, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of you. The soap you’d bought, the skin he’d dreamt of, the reality of you.
He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your abdomen, his breath warm against your skin.
He sounded broken, a low, jagged exhale escaping him every time he breathed you in. He gripped the fabric of your clothes, his knuckles turning white, as if he were terrified that if he let go, the entire room would dissolve and leave him standing in an empty house again.
He wasn't being careful anymore. He was greedy.
He let his hands wander upward, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs, his touch heavy and insistent.
He watched the way your chest rose and fell, his eyes tracking the movement of your muscles with a terrifying, hungry focus. He was memorising the architecture of you.
Then, he lowered himself.
He didn't just lean in, he collapsed against you. He buried his face in the heat of your skin, his nose pressing hard into your chest, inhaling you with a sound that was half sob, half growl.
His mouth followed the path of his hands. He pressed hot, wet kisses along your side, his lips dragging over your skin with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger.
He moved lower, his face pressing into the dip of your waist, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of you.
He was acting like a man possessed, his movements frantic yet strangely worshipful.
He shifted, his heavy thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart to make room for him.
He was pressing himself against you, the hard, insistent length of him straining against the fabric of his trousers.
He reached down, his hand sliding lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear.
He didn't hesitate. He slid his hand inside, his fingers seeking the heat of you. He wasn't being clinical, he was searching, his touch clumsy and urgent, his fingers trembling as they found you.
He let out a low, broken sound. A whimper when he finally made contact, the sound entirely too small for a boy of his stature.
He leaned up just enough to look at your face, his eyes dark and blown wide with a terrifying kind of devotion.
He looked pathetic.
Shaking, sweating, and completely at the mercy of someone who wasn't even awake to see him.
"You're so perfect," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It's not fair. It's not fucking fair."
He leaned back down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his tongue tracing a wet, hot line that made his own body shudder. He was worshiping you, and he was doing it with the desperate, starving energy of a boy who knew he didn't deserve a single second of it.
He pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering a fraction above your skin. The heat from his mouth a stark contrast to the cool air of the room, but he was trembling with the effort of not sinking teeth into you.
He looked up at your face, his eyes searching yours even though he knew they were closed.
"I should stop," he whispered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I should wait until you wake up. Until you can actually look at me."
But his hand didn't listen. His fingers were still buried deep in the waistband of your underwear, his thumb sweeping against your heat with a slow, rhythmic pressure that was meant to be soothing but felt entirely too hungry.
He watched your face, waiting for a frown or a groan, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.
He wanted to worship you properly, but he has also waited so long that he was practically starving to death.
With a shaky, defeated breath, he leaned down again, but he didn't go for your core this time.
Instead, he pressed his cheek against your thigh, his eyes closing as he let himself simply be near you.
He moved his hand in a steady, agonisingly slow motion, a gentle friction that was almost a tease. He wasn't trying to make you finish. He was just trying to feel the life in you, the pulse of your blood beneath his palm.
"I'll be good," he promised, his voice a wrecked, low murmur against your skin. "I'll be so good for you. Just.. let me stay like this for a little longer."
He let his hips grind weakly against yours, a desperate, uncoordinated movement that was more about seeking comfort than seeking pleasure.
He reached up with his free hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head slightly toward him as if he could coax you into waking up just to tell him he was doing a good job.
He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, his lips trembling.
"When you wake up," he breathed, his forehead resting against your hip, "everything will be different. I promise. I'll give you everything. Just.. don't leave me again."
↓→←↑
Consciousness returned in fragments.
The first thing you noticed was the weight on your mind. Everything felt slow, wrapped in thick cotton, every thought taking just a little too long to surface. Your eyelids were heavy enough that opening them felt like lifting something far larger than yourself.
The second thing you noticed was the silence.
No traffic. No voices outside. No distant hum of aeroplanes climbing into the sky. Just… Quiet.
Your eyes cracked open.
The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar.
Cream plaster. Dark timber beams. Soft morning light spilling through linen curtains that shifted lazily with the breeze.
For one impossible second, you wondered if you’d somehow slept through your holiday.
Then memories crashed back all at once.
Airport. Security. The room. Tim Drake.
Your body jerked upright. The room spun so violently you almost fell straight back onto the mattress.
A hand caught your shoulder before you could.
“Easy.”
You recoiled instinctively.
Tim immediately let go.
He stepped backwards so quickly it was almost clumsy, both hands lifting into the air like he was surrendering.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse.
“I just… you nearly hit your head.”
You stared. He looked different. Gone was the immaculate businessman from the airport.
He’d changed into a plain black jumper and loose track pants, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles sat beneath eyes that hadn’t slept.
He looked exhausted. But he also looked terrified. Not of what he’d done.
Of you.
As though the expression on your face mattered more than the fact he’d just kidnapped someone.
“…Where am I?”
“My home.” The answer came quietly.
“Our home.” He sighed, taking his hand through his hair. “I should have said that. I meant our. Sorry.”
Your stomach twisted. “What?”
“I bought it years ago.”
He glanced around the room almost shyly. “I.. thought you’d like it.”
Silence settled between you. Then he laughed. Not because anything was funny. He sounded like he was about to cry.
“I know how insane that sounds.”
Your breathing quickened. “You kidnapped me.”
“Yes.”
“You drugged me.”
“…Yes.”
“My friends-”
“They’re safe.” The response came instantly.
“They think you missed your flight and decided to stay behind. They’ll worry for a while, but they’ll stop. I’ll make sure they’re alright.”
You stared at him. He wasn’t denying any of it. He wasn’t making excuses. Wasn’t pretending this was for your own good.
He simply stood there looking unbearably guilty.
“I know what this is.” His voice cracked. “I know what I am.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
“I stopped trying to convince myself I wouldn’t do this a long time ago.”
He laughed again, quieter this time. “I just kept hoping I’d be stronger before it came to this.”
You looked towards the bedroom door. It wasn’t locked. You were almost certain of that.
He noticed.
“You can try.” His smile was small. Heartbreaking.
“I’ll stop you.”
The words weren’t threatening. They were apologetic.
“I’ll hate myself for it.”
Another shaky breath. “But I’ll still stop you.” His shoulders sagged. “I can’t lose you.”
You looked back at him. For the first time since waking, you really looked. His hands were shaking. His breathing wasn’t steady. His eyes were fixed on you with such desperate concentration it was almost painful to witness.
Then your gaze caught on his wrist. The sleeve of his jumper had ridden up. Black ink curved around the inside of his skin.
Two simple words.
That’s mine
Your stomach lurched. Without thinking, you looked down at your own wrist. To the words that had always stained your skin. Words you’d laughed about with your mates.
Can I see that?
Your fingers slowly brushed over the faded script.
Tim saw where you were looking. His entire body went still.
“So..” Your voice barely worked. “It was you.”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“You knew.”
“I’ve always known.”
“Since when?”
A long silence. “Since I was nine.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I met you once.” His smile was impossibly soft.
“On Gotham Beach. You thought I was trying to steal your shovel.”
His eyes shimmered. “And then..” Very gently, almost reverently, he repeated the words that had altered both your lives. “‘That’s mine.’”
His gaze drifted to your wrist.
“I don’t think..” He swallowed. “…I took another proper breath after that.”
The room was silent again.
“So all of this..” Your voice broke. “all these years… were you?”
There wasn’t a second of hesitation.
“It’s always been me.” He stepped closer.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I know you’ll hate me.” His eyes finally met yours again. Filled with absolute, devastating devotion.
“But I need you to understand one thing.”
His voice became impossibly quiet. “I never wanted a prisoner. I wanted my soulmate.”
He laughed through tears.
“I just wasn’t strong enough to live in a world where I’d already found you.”
His lips trembled. “…and then had to spend the rest of my life pretending you belonged to somebody else.”
Another tear slipped down his cheek. “I’ve built companies. Saved cities. People think I’m clever.” He smiled weakly.
“But the smartest thing I’ve ever done..” His gaze softened with an affection so overwhelming it hurt to witness. “…was finding you.”
He looked around the room. “And the worst thing I’ve ever done was bringing you here.”
His shoulders finally gave out beneath the weight he’d been carrying for years.
He sank slowly onto his knees. His head bowed. His hands rested uselessly in his lap.
“You can hate me.” His voice was barely audible.
“You probably should.”
Another shaky breath. “But…”
He looked up at you with the same expression he’d worn in the airport. Like a man placing his entire existence into someone else’s hands. “…please don’t leave me.”
“I don’t know how to exist in a world that doesn’t have you in it.”
Outside, the wind stirred the trees beyond the window. Somewhere, impossibly far away, a plane crossed the morning sky. The holiday you’d planned would go on without you.
Photos would be posted. Memories would be made. Life would continue. Just not yours. Not anymore.
Perhaps soulmates weren’t proof that fate was kind.
But simply proof that fate existed.
Please reblog and comment!! :)
12K+ words, 70K+ characters, 2K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 43 minute average reading time, 1 hour 7 minute average speaking time.
summary: michael is desperate to get into oxford's prestigious bullingdon club; unfortunately for him, they command him to do the impossible to gain admittance
pairing: michael gavey x bimbo!reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, bimbo reader, mentions of hazing but nothing horrible/extreme, virgin!michael, breast/nipple play, praise kink, piv sex, protected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral sex (f receiving), consensual filming, dirty talk, cursing, what i hope is saltburn-esque humor, mild size kink, mild angst but happy ending, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 12.7k
a/n: images in the header are for aesthetic purposes only & are not used to describe the reader! she's back and she's long as hell but what else is new!!! this is my first time writing bimbo!reader and while she wasn't super bimbo-y, it was fun getting my feet wet! hope y'all enjoy!
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
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Michael
Michael couldn’t help but feel his heart speed up in his chest as he wound through the quiet corridors clutching tightly to the cryptic note he’d found stuffed in his pigeonhole that morning – just a page torn out of a standard notebook covered hastily written red ink; wholly un-intimidating as far as cryptic notes were concerned. Really, he was surprised to see they didn’t put more effort in; with as secretive and imperious as this little club was, he had been expecting some sort of extravagant stationary, perhaps even some gold embossing.
Coming to a stop in front of an unassuming janitor’s closet door, he narrows his eyes behind the gold frames of his glasses, staring at the door with a nearly accusatorial expression. Michael swivels his head once more, his brows furrowed as he checks and re-checks every door in the vicinity before turning back to the one he stands before. Scoffing, he unfolds the note with a little irritated sigh and quickly scans the page again, mouthing the words to himself for the millionth time that day.
The riddle had been easy enough to figure out, some trivial little lines about dead men walking, the mob, finding God, and looking to one’s heart pointed right toward some hush hush basement beneath the Merton College Chapel. That, and it didn’t take a genius to see that each line consisted of a specific number of words, pointing him right to the very door he stood in front of now – 129.
Fucking amateurs, he’d thought after cracking the code in under half an hour. But that was earlier. And now, as he stares at the stupid dull grey janitor’s closet door in front of him, Michael can’t stop the little tendrils of doubt from creeping into his periphery. He’s sure this is the right door and positive this is the right place and yet… janitor’s closet. He checks his watch, 11:50 PM on the dot, and glances up and down the dark, shadowy corridors once more, half expecting one of the twatty rich assholes to jump out and start snickering at him, making fun of him for thinking that a no one like him would’ve ever received an invite to a club like this.
Shaking his head, he reaches for the doorknob anyway, he’s come this far so he may as well. He freezes a little when it actually turns and his blue eyes go wide when he pushes the door open, shivering a little as he’s met with a wall of cool, dank air – eau de basement, just as he’d expected. A little actually impressed sigh passes his lips when he pokes his head in, an apprehensive smile blooming on his lips as he takes in the eerie red lighting spilling up the stairwell from the God-knows-what downstairs.
He winces as the door squeaks when he tugs it open but he doesn’t stop, emboldened now as he knows he had been right once again. He takes the stairs quickly, probably too quickly given that he hasn’t a fucking clue what or who could be down here, but before he can dwell on the idea too much, he’s faced with another corridor. This one, unlike the ones upstairs, is narrow and brick-lined and leads in only one direction, straight to another closed door at the other end.
Michael squints against the bright red light coming from a spotlight that had been haphazardly set up on the stone floor and walks down the hallway, his steps speeding up as he hears the janitor’s door above him open and close once more. His breath hitches a little as he opens the second door and quickly steps inside, like ripping off a band-aid.
He freezes once more when a strong hand latches onto his shoulder and quickly jerks him further into the room, making him yelp as he stumbles, trying to keep pace with whoever the hell is leading him.
“What the –”
Before he has time to so much as blink, his back thuds against a brick wall and finally he looks up, the vicious scowl he’d prepared morphing into a look of disturbed confusion as he eyes a row of other students, about fifteen and all men from the looks of it, dawned with black –
Oh, Christ, are those ski masks? He thinks as he eyes them up and down, How fucking banal… at least it’s not hooded cloaks. He nearly rolls his eyes as he scans the rest of the room, taking in the dim lighting interspersed with blues and greens from more of those stupid party boy spotlights. Glancing to the side, he sees another boy in his year, some guy he only knew from a few classes and passing glances in the hallways, but even still he’s comforted to not be alone down here, no matter how cliché this whole affair seemed.
His blue eyes snap forward as the door, the only door, to the room is opened once more and some other poor sap is hastily dragged across the room, only to be smacked on the wall to his left. Again, it’s just some other boy Michael knows from classes, though he doesn’t know why he expects any different – it’s not as if he knows many people outside of the forced proximity of a lecture hall. Which was really his only reason for putting up with this bother, for seeking it out in the first place; a quick flash of him placing a tightly folded up sticky note with his name and pigeonhole number in an old, beaten up copy of King Lear in the library played in his mind – the price he seemed to pay for loneliness.
Distantly, the bells of the chapel began to chime, signaling the hour. Once, twice, and eventually twelve times – midnight. Time to start the show, Michael surmises.
“Welcome, initiates,” one of the hooded men says in a tone that makes Michael glare judgmentally, his voice pitched down like some idiotic knock-off Darth Vader. He steps forward from the row they stand in and holds his arms out open at his sides, “Consider this your first foray into the Bullingdon Club.”
Again, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a scoff. This was all just so… juvenile? He was beginning to sincerely doubt that this was the über clandestine club that granted its members all sorts of connections to various businesses, societies, and insider information that even the richest of the rich couldn’t buy.
Unfortunately, his face seemed to betray more of his emotions than he intended and the masked boy steps forward once more, his dark eyes zeroing in on Michael.
“You,” he says gruffly, pointing a finger in his direction, “Something you wanna say, initiate?”
Out of habit, he pushed his glasses up on his nose before he spoke, perhaps foolishly bold given the situation.
“Doesn’t this all seem a bit much for three people?” He scoffs, shaking his head slightly, “I mean, masks, really?”
The hooded boy stops for a second and studies Michael closely, one hand on his hip, “What’s wrong with the masks?”
“Well, what’s the point? There’s, what, fifteen or sixteen of you? And three of us?” He asks, glancing around the room, which he now realized very clearly used to be some run-of-the-mill storage room, probably forgotten about by now.
The boy laughs sarcastically and shrugs his shoulders a bit, his voice back to its natural pitch, “It wouldn’t really be a secret thing if we just invited half the student body, mate.”
Michael supposes his reasoning is sound and says as much with a little hum and nod of his head, eyebrows raising dismissively.
“Anything else?” The masked boy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The masks don’t really disguise you lot that well,” he observes, pointing at one of the other boys standing in the row, “That’s Harry from Multivariable Calculus.”
“Shit…” Harry mutters under his breath, the sound carrying through the concrete room. A few of the other boys in the row lean over and place comforting hands on his shoulders and murmur words of encouragement, much to Michael’s dismay.
“Why’re you here, initiate?” The lead boy asks, turning back to Michael.
“Dunno,” he shrugs again, pushing his glasses up his nose, “Friends, I guess.”
A couple of the boys in the row make little noises, mutters of empathy that make the blond’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion as he glances up and down the line.
“And this was your first thought? A secret society?” Harry from Multivariable Calculus asks with a little laugh, “Not like… chess or something?”
“Don’t really like chess…” Michael says with a little shrug. Apparently a good enough answer for Harry, who makes a little noise of understanding and nods his head.
After another moment, the lead boy clears his throat, which shuts up the rest. “Anyway,” he says, his voice falsely low once more. “Each of you will be given a task…,” his dark eyes glance between Michael and the other two boys as he paces in front of them, “Perfectly customized to challenge you, to push you to your absolute limits.”
The masked boy pauses his little speech and gestures back to three of the other boys standing in the row behind him who then step forward and walk over to the dank brick wall that Michael and the other two boys stand against. He studies the boy that walks towards him carefully, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he notices how much shorter he appears to be.
Finally, the boy comes to stand before him and presents a plain white envelope, though Michael’s lips spread into a hateful smirk when he sees an all too familiar pair of old, beat up trainers on the boy’s feet.
“Oliver?!” He hisses meanly, shock lacing his voice as he jerks back the hand he had reached out for the envelope, wincing as his elbow collides with the cool wall behind him. He glances around the room, noting the few pairs of eyes that were on him, before fixing his gaze on the boy before him once more with a harsh glare, “You’re in Bullingdon?”
The boy in front of him hesitates for a second, cutting a sideways glance toward a taller boy that was busy presenting an envelope to the boy to Michael’s left, before he sighs and looks back at him, blue eyes peeking out of the holes in his ski mask. “Yeah,” he huffs, shrugging his shoulders defensively, “How’d you know it was me, then?”
“You look like a goddamn twelve year old!” Michael jeers, his voice low and vicious as his hands curl into fists at his sides, “How’d you manage to get into this club anyway?” He questions, seething, “They only let you in if you have the money or the marks and I know for a fucking fact you don’t have either.”
Oliver sighs again and rolls his eyes, which makes him see red and grit his teeth, although he doesn’t miss how the shorter boy’s eyes cut to the side again quickly. He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word in edgewise, the blond cuts him off with a little mocking laugh.
“Don’t tell me that’s fucking Catton,” Michael groans lowly with a shake of his head, breathing heavily as he feels the same sense of anger and betrayal he’d felt all those months ago well up in him once more, transporting him right back to the stupid damn pub, “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me, is this shite little club only full of cunts?”
“Look, I’m –”
Oliver starts to speak again, only to be cut off when the head boy traipses over to where they are, coming to stand ominously behind him with his arms clasped behind his back. His dark eyes dart between the two boys before he speaks.
“Problem over here, lads?”
“No,” Oliver answers quickly, staring warily up at Michael as he practically shoves the envelope into his arms, “Just complete the task, initiate. You have thirty-six hours.”
Before Michael can blink, Oliver turns his back and stalks back over to the other boys, taking his place in the row once more. The head boy looks Michael up and down appraisingly before nodding to the letter in his hands with a sly smirk.
“I can’t wait to see how you fare with that one, Gavey,” he says, his voice low and threatening, as if he’s in on the most delicious joke, “Remember, thirty-six hours, initiate.” He chuckles softly and departs, returning to stand in the center of the room.
Everyone stands still for a moment, Michael and the other two boys to his left and right holding their respective envelopes nervously, unsure if they were supposed to open them now or not. Thankfully, the head boy clears his throat, commanding all eyes to him once again.
“Initiates,” he says slowly, his voice no doubt already hoarse from this little farce, “Failure to complete your tasks will result in a permanent ban from Bullingdon; no second chances. We expect results as well as proof of those results,” his dark eyes scan over the three boys once more, one corner of his mouth turned up into a mean smirk, “We’ll be seeing you back in this location Sunday at noon. Your thirty-six hours begin now… have fun.” He finishes with a taunting laugh before turning and exiting from the room, the old door creaking as he pulls it open before disappearing into the faint red glow of the hallway, followed by the rest of the fifteen boys in an orderly line.
As soon as the old door closes, the sound of paper tearing echoes around the dimly lit basement as Michael and the other two boys hastily tear open their envelopes. Pulling out a little slip of paper, his eyes go wide as a wave of dread washes over him. His eyes scan over the paper again and again as he nervously shoves his glasses back up his nose once more, silently willing the chicken-scratch words on the paper to somehow change, to give him some other command.
His heart is pumping so loudly in his ears that he misses it when one of the other boys tries getting his attention, his head snapping up suddenly as a hand waves in front of it.
“Oi!”
“W-What?”
“What did they give you?” The boy asks, nodding at the scrap of paper in Michael’s hand.
He clears his throat and tries his best to come off as casual, though he hardly cares with the way thoughts begin racing through his mind. “Oh, um,” he starts, glancing down to read over the paper once more, “I just uh, have to sleep with someone is all.”
The other two boys gape at him for a moment before groaning frustratedly. The one that had first spoken to him holds his paper out and smacks it disdainfully with the back of his hand.
“What the hell?” He asks gruffly, glancing between his paper and Michael, “Why’s yours so bloody easy?”
“For real,” sighs the second boy, rubbing the back of his head, “Ours are damn near impossible. They must already be decided on you to go so soft. How am I meant to steal the fucking Selden Map from Bodleian?” He laments, brows furrowed as he stares down at the paper in his hands.
“Yeah, and I have to transfer ten thousand pounds out of the chancellor’s bank account and into mine!” The first boy sighs, shaking his head, “At least your mum’s head of conservatorship here, you can at least get within a stone’s throw of the map. I have to commit fucking wire fraud!”
The two boys grumble for another moment as Michael silently descends into a tailspin, his blue eyes unfocused as he stares at one of the dingy brick walls of the basement, trying desperately to formulate a plan, any plan. He merely glances up as the other to head for the door, spitballing ideas for each of their tasks.
“Isn’t your dad the president of Julius Baer? Can’t you just get him to pull strings?”
“Oh, yeah, fantastic idea! I’ll just ring him and ask the old man to commit a felony! What could possibly go wrong there?”
Michael tries to tune out their bickering as the three of them ascend the staircase and trail out into the hallway of Merton College Chapel once more; the two other boys don’t pay him any mind as they continue whispering amongst themselves, their voices trailing quietly down the hallway as he leans with his back against the cool metal of the janitor’s closet door.
Sighing, he reads over the directive again, his blue eyes catching on the sharply scrawled letters of a very familiar name, one that makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. He swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
How could they know to do this? He wonders sheepishly. It’s not like he’d mentioned her to anyone; hell, he’d never even said so much as three words to her! No, his pathetic little crush was entirely in his mind.
Too much of a coward to even say hi, he bemoans, trying to stave off the sense of shame he felt as he considered how many times he’d finished with her name on his lips, her pretty face and soft curves and sweet smell and little girly outfits whirling around his head since he’d spotted her on the first fucking day; he’d pined ever since and she didn’t even know he existed! How could she?
This is fucking impossible, he thinks miserably, wishing that he had any other task. He’d rather steal the Queen’s own goddamn family jewels than this. He glances at his watch once more and groans when he sees it’s almost already two in the morning; pushing himself up off the door, he hangs his head as he scurries back to his dorm room, thoughts spiraling as he plots.
You
A laugh bubbles up past your lips as you sway your hips, your whole body vibrating as “Umbrella” blasts through the speakers while you dance with your friends, partying to celebrate the end of term.
“You can run into my arms, it’s okay, don't be alarmed!” You sing happily, yours and your friends voices mingling together with another peal of laughter; you take another sip of your drink as you move along with the beat of the song, savoring the fizzy strawberry daiquiri as you begin to feel a bit warm from the little rush of alcohol, already on your third drink of the night.
You smile proudly as you spot Felix in the crowd, his hazel eyes already fixed on you, or well, fixated on your chest. His attention makes you preen and you bite your lower lip, the sickly sweet taste of your cherry lip gloss filling your mouth as you purposefully bounce up and down on the balls of your feet.
The thin straps of your pastel pink dress hold on for dear life as your chest heaves enticingly, and you giggle when you see those hazel eyes widen just a bit, no doubt tracing over the glittering chain of your necklace, following down to where it settles, a little sparkly pink diamond nestling temptingly at your cleavage. You teasingly wink, blushing a little when you get a wink back, and go back to dancing with your friends, knowing from experience that Felix preferred to approach rather than be approached.
You dance with your friends for a few more moments, grinding up against any warm body you can find as a raunchier song begins pumping through the speakers, before you feel eyes on you yet again. Smiling at the attention, you glance around again, the low, colorful lighting of the pub making it hard to tell exactly which direction your admirer’s coming from.
Your eyes flit over a few familiar faces, you can’t help but sigh in relief when you notice that Oliver’s eyes are thankfully planted firmly on someone that is not you, though a confused little crease forms between your brows when you realize that Felix’s aren’t either. Turning your head, you sway along to the music still as you look around quickly, your feet beginning to ache finally from the precious little satin Chanel heels buckled around your ankles.
Your eyes finally lock onto an unexpected gaze, a fresh wash of pink coloring your cheeks as blue eyes glance shyly away from you. A little giggle titters past your lips as you lean over to one of your friends, patting her shoulder to get her attention.
“You know who that blond guy is? With the glasses?” You call over the music, nodding over in your admirer’s direction as he stands awkwardly back against the wall by the entrance, clutching a still-foamy pint.
She glances over before turning back to you with a little shrug. “Michael something, I think!” She says, her breath warm as she leans in closer so you can hear her, “I thought Oliver knew him!”
Your eyes immediately find the brunette, predictably following Felix around like a lost little puppy, before you look back over at Michael. You can’t help but feel a bit bad when you see him quickly look away from your direction again before staring intently into his pint glass, one hand shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants.
“I’m gonna take a breather for a second!” You yell over the loud music, leaning in close and cupping a hand over her ear.
“Aw, babe, come on!” She pouts playfully, tilting her head at you, “Stay longer!”
You shake your head with another little laugh and gesture at your feet, “These are sooo cute but they’re killing me!” You laugh, finishing off the last sip of your drink, “I’ll be over by the notice board!” You tell her, blowing a kiss as you walk away from the dance floor of the small, cramped pub.
Finally, you reach the little area by the front door and lean back against the wall, taking in a much-needed deep breath as you pull your little tube of lip gloss out of your bra and carefully reapply some more, smirking when you glance over out of the corner of your eye and see a certain blond boy already shyly eyeing you.
Rubbing your lips together with a little pouty pop, you tuck your gloss back in your bra once more before slowly approaching Michael, prettily manicured hands clasped behind your back to help shamelessly push your chest out more. His wide eyed stare makes you giggle and blush as you study him, eyes flitting appreciatively up and down his lithe frame; so much potential hidden away under a little button down and khakis.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” you tease, smirking when he blushes and all but chokes on his beer, coughing for a few seconds before finally speaking.
“I… Me?” He asks awkwardly, glancing around for seemingly anyone else you could be talking to.
Lucky for him, you find his awkwardness endearing. Truthfully, you had for months, never missing the way his eyes always happened upon you in a crowd. There was something impressive about the boy, something that had made your mind drift to him on more than one occasion, even if you were already under someone else.
“Of course you, silly,” you laugh softly, leaning against the wall next to him and tilting your head curiously, “You’re Michael, right?”
His eyes go wide again and nods wordlessly before finding his voice. “Yeah, Michael,” he says with a reserved little smile, “Gavey! Michael Gavey…” He adds awkwardly, cheeks flushing even more when you giggle, seemingly charmed by his inability to string two words together. He nods as you introduce yourself.
“I know,” he says before blinking, eyes going wide behind his gold framed glasses as he awkwardly glances away, “I just… I mean I’ve heard your name before, that’s all.”
“That’s all, huh?” You echo with a flirty little giggle, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you let the moment linger, just wanting to push him a little. “What’re you reading?” You ask curiously, cocking your head to the side a little.
“Maths,” he nods quickly before looking down into his pint glass once more as if fizzling beer is the most interesting thing in the world, “I don’t really like it all that much, though… I mostly only picked it because I’m good at it.”
“Ooh,” you coo softly, nodding along with his words as you watch him carefully, “You must be wicked smart, I can’t do maths to save my life.” You comment with a little giggle, biting your lip when he seems to perk up at that comment and looks up at you with a little grin.
“I can do it in my head,” he says lowly, an unexpectedly cocky edge to his voice that has your heart picking up in your chest, “Ask me a sum,” he says, a challenging glimmer in his eyes.
You hum softly, biting your lip as you think for a second, “Uhm, seventy-two plus a hundred and thirteen?”
“One eighty-five,” he chuckles after no more than a second before scoffing a little, “Come on, give me one that’s hard, love.”
Love? The little pet name makes you raise an eyebrow before you laugh softly. “What do you mean a hard one?” You giggle, shaking your head, “That one was hard!”
“That was hard for you?” He teases, making your cheeks tingle as a pink flush settles over your skin, “What’re you reading, then?”
“Art history!” You chirp proudly, chuckling nervously when you see him roll his eyes a bit, “What? Something wrong with that?”
He shakes his head dismissively, quickly polishing off the last of his pint before setting the empty class on a table and turning back to you, pushing his glasses up his nose with a grin, “Ask me another one, then. Biggest numbers you can think of.”
You don’t know why, but something about his little challenge has you blushing again, like he’s testing you somehow. But still, you take a moment to think of some numbers, biting your lip and quirking your eyes up toward the ceiling.
“Six hundred thirty-two times… eight hundred ninety-one,” you hum, cocking your head to the side as you watch him closely. His eyes seem to glaze over, only for a second, before once again he’s spouting off numbers like a calculator.
“Five hundred sixty-three thousand, one hundred and twelve.”
Your eyebrows raise at that as you gawk at him. “Wow…,” you breathe after a moment, blinking as you stare up at him, “You’re, like, super smart, then?”
“Suppose so,” he says, smiling shyly again as he tucks both hands into the pockets of his khaki pants.
You study him for a moment as the conversation lulls, finding something endlessly fascinating about the boy; the way he could swing from being so cocky and self assured to shy and awkward makes your stomach do summersaults. Turning your head, you spot your group of friends still dancing and you look back at Michael with a little sigh as another upbeat song blasts loudly through the pub.
“D’you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smirking when he looks up at you shyly.
“W-What?”
“My dorm’s only, like, a minute from here,” you flirt, sweet and enticing as you make him blush somehow more, “We could go somewhere more… quiet?”
He stares at you for a moment, shocked that you’re asking him of all people to come back to yours before he nods and nervously runs a hand through his wheat colored hair, unsuccessfully trying to act casual. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”
“Yay!” You giggle happily, flirtatiously grabbing one of his hands as you saunter past him, heading for the exit, “C’mon, it’s like a five minute walk!” He nods wordlessly and you can’t help but smirk as he follows you like a lost little puppy.
True to your word, it’s only a few minutes later when you and Michael reach your dorm room, after you’d stopped for a minute at the entrance to your hall to chat with Farleigh, who seemed very interested in the nerdy boy following at your heels. You just couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face as you and Michael left him standing at the doors, mouth open and a wicked little gleam in his eyes; no doubt, he’d immediately scurried off to the King’s Arms.
The door to your room opens with a tiny squeak, blasted old building, and you all but prance inside, turning back to the blond boy still lingering in the doorway with a smile.
“Am I going to have to invite you in like a vampire?” You joke with a little laugh as you bend down to quickly undo the buckles of your heels, letting out a relieved sigh when you finally step out of them, leaving you in frilly white ankle socks.
Michael finally steps into your room with a huffed laugh and quickly kicks off his shoes, you smirk when you see his Star Wars themed socks. “‘M no vampire, love,” he quips, gold framed eyes darting around your room as he looks over every detail. You grin at the little blush on his cheeks and perch on the edge of your bed to watch him, head tilted ever so slightly.
“It’s, uh, it’s cute in here,” he observes, his voice a low hum as he takes in your frilly, lacy curtains, plush white rug, and equally girlish floral bedding, all encased in the faint pink glow of the heart-shaped fairy lights strung up around the room, “Just like how I imagined…” He breathes, so lowly you doubt he meant to say that bit aloud.
“Like you imagined?” You echo with a little giggle, quickly reapplying your lip gloss before setting the little tube on the corner of your desk.
“I just… I – It’s just very… you, is all I meant,” he stutters, running a hand through his hair awkwardly, the apples of his cheeks flushed a dark pink.
His awkwardness is so endearing, you can’t help but grin. The more time you spend with him, the more interesting he seems to become; this bumbling, nervous boy is so different from the one you’ve seen on campus so many times. On campus, he’s comfortable, quiet still, but with a definite air of confidence – clearly in his element as he prowls through bookshelves in the library or explains some complex math formula in the quad.
“So, you think about me often, then?” Your voice stays sweet, innocent almost, though you can’t help but tease him; he’s so pretty when he blushes.
“No!” He answers quickly, whipping his head toward you from where he’d been studying the various pictures tacked up on the walls, everything from boy band posters to stills from Clueless and Legally Blonde. “I mean, yes, sometimes, I…,” he fumbles again and pushes his glasses up his sharp nose, “I think about you a normal amount.” He says finally, glancing at you quickly before looking away.
You hum softly and stand before walking toward him with a kind smile, though you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing down at your cleavage, or the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows nervously.
“A normal amount?”
“Mhm,” he nods, gaze unsure as you come to stand in front of him, teeth biting into your plush lower lip as you twirl a piece of hair through your fingers, “As much as I think of anyone else.”
“So…,” you breathe, drawing out the word as you reach up and fiddle with the collar of his button down shirt, the turquoise gingham a bright blue blip among all the blush tones of your room, “Every time I’ve caught you looking at my tits in the library or in the quad or in the hallways… that was just a normal amount?”
You giggle as his eyes go wide, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. Deciding to take mercy on him, you run a finger down his chest, playfully fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
“Relax, I’m not mad,” you shake your head, smiling when the tension in his shoulders visibly eases, “Why wouldn’t I want a cutie like you staring?”
His lips part at that as he sucks in a little breath, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. “You think I’m… cute?” He asks breathlessly, heart pounding under your fingertip.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip once more as you nod, cocking your head to the side just slightly as you peer up at him. “‘Course I do, honey, what’s not to like?”
Again, he gawks at you, blinking in shock and swallowing nervously.
“I –”
“I do have one question though…,” you tease, pouting a bit as you slowly and carefully undo the very top button on his shirt, relishing the way his breath hitches in his throat.
“Y-Yeah?” His voice breaks, making you giggle while he blushes somehow deeper.
“Mhm,” you nod, undoing the second button and pausing when you find a splash of hair across his chest, the same shiny wheat color as the hair on his head, causing a familiar knot to begin twisting itself up in your belly, “Why were you at the end of term party?”
He blinks for a second, evidently taken off guard. “I… W-Was it invite only?”
His question nearly makes you snort and you shake your head, the corners of your lips twitching as you try not to laugh. “No, sweetie,” you peer up at him through your lashes as you rest your hand against his bare chest, smirking ever so slightly when he shivers, “I just meant, I haven’t seen you at parties before… doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”
“I, well,” he stammers, the bottoms of his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his cheeks, “I just –”
“It’s for that club, yeah?” You ask finally, giggling at the shocked expression on his face.
“How do –”
“You lot are not nearly as sneaky as you think,” you laugh cheekily, bouncing excitedly on the balls of your feet, “Plus, I heard Felix and Oliver whispering about something to do with tasks a few weeks ago… and boys are very bad at keeping secrets once you get their cocks out.” You add with a little giggle, taking Michael’s hand once more and dragging him over to your plush bed. You sit him on the edge before all but climbing in his lap, smiling cheekily as you straddle his thighs, your knees digging into your soft bedding.
“So,” you start, holding onto his shoulders to balance yourself and smiling a little when he finally touches you, lightly resting his hands on your hips, “What’s your task, hm? I heard they made them, like, particularly brutal this year.”
“I don’t think I should say,” Michael murmurs with a little shake of his head, making you pout.
“Oh, come on!” You bounce on his lap a little, not missing the way his eyes seem to be drawn to your breasts like magnets, “I want to help! Is it something at the King’s Arms?”
“N-No, I really don’t think –”
“I know they keep the important rugby trophies there,” you think aloud, still playing dumb, just wanting him to say it, “Is that it? D’you have to steal one? One of the boys that works there owes me, I could get him to let you in after hours…” You prattle on, speaking faster and faster as Michael shakes his head beneath you.
Finally, he seems to reach a breaking point and his grip on your hips tightens. “I have to fuck you!” He blurts out before sighing.
“Oh, really?”
“I… I have to fuck you –”
“Mhm?”
“And prove I did somehow.”
“How interesting!”
He narrows his eyes at that and peers up at you suspiciously, studying you carefully. You can’t help but giggle, loving the way you feel when his eyes are on you, and you smirk when he finally blinks in realization.
“You… you knew this whole time, didn’t you?”
A sly smile spreads across your lips as you nod, squirming excitedly on his lap. “Like I said,” you chuckle with a little shrug, “Not. Sneaky!” You tease, punctuating each word with a little boop to the tip of his nose, unable to resist.
He stays silent for a moment, gazing up at you with a strange mixture of awe and unease before he finally speaks through a deep sigh. “So, I suppose this is the part where you tell me to leave?”
Well, that comment throws you off. You cock your head to the side, confused, as your eyebrows furrow together. “Why would I ask you to leave?”
He sighs again and grits his teeth, looking dejectedly at the floor. “Come on, love,” he mutters, looking anywhere but you, “I-It’s not like you’d ever want to –”
“Ever want to what?” You ask with a frown, gently grabbing at his chin and tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze, “You think I don’t wanna fuck you, honey?”
“Well, I –”
“Michael,” you say pointedly, raising your brows as you smirk slightly, staring deeply into his blue eyes, “I’m the one that came onto you, yeah?”
“I… I suppose.”
“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as you run your fingers through his short hair, not missing the little sigh that leaves his lips when you push yourself closer to him, your chest pressing tightly against his, “And while I’m not thrilled at our first time being for some stupid little task –”
“It’s,” he cuts you off shyly, shaking his head ever so slightly, “It’s – I’ve never…” He stammers, nervously gripping at your waist once more.
You can’t help but smile softly, so charmed by him over and over. You nod your head knowingly, raising your brows just a bit. “I know, honey,” you whisper reassuringly, “We don’t have to, I’ll let you take a pair of my panties or whatever else, but we don’t need to do anything.”
He sighs up at you again, so taken with you he feels like he could scream, and shakes his head more, grabbing at your hips tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “N-No, I… I want to,” he nods, swallowing anxiously, “I do, I just… don’t really know what I’m doing.”
You nod again, listening carefully as he speaks. “So, is it all new or…?”
He shakes his head and smiles a little, shyly, though the sight of it still makes that knot in your belly tighten further, making you blush on his lap while butterflies swirl around inside you. “I’ve kissed before,” he says lowly, chuckling awkwardly as he seems to get bolder, causing you to shudder when he lightly rubs his hands over your waist and hips, “And done… hand stuff.”
You giggle at his boyish explanation and bite your lip when you smile at him, wiggling in his lap as a heat begins to settle at the apex of your thighs. “Can I kiss you, honey?”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat again, making you want so badly to press soft, glossy kisses to it, but you resist, determined to make this good for him.
“Yeah,” he nods eagerly, blue eyes fixated on your lips.
You smile softly before leaning in and finally pressing your lips against his, both of you sighing at once. One of his hands stays at your hip while the other comes to rest in the small of your back, pressing you more tightly to him as your lips move together, his motions surprisingly fluid and practiced.
You make a small noise in the back of your throat when you feel his tongue licking at your bottom lip, and eagerly allow him access with a little sigh. Your fingers busy themselves with unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, making him shudder beneath you when you skim your hands over his bare chest and stomach as his tongue flows with your own, the bitter, coffee-ish flavor of the pint he’d had earlier still on his tongue.
Impatient, you pull back long enough to look at him for reassurance, smiling when you earn a little nod. You kiss him once more before tugging his shirt off, flushing when he groans lowly as you trail kisses down over his jaw and neck before swiping your tongue greedily over his Adam’s apple, making his breath hitch.
“F-Fuck,” he sighs brokenly, bolding tracing over your thigh until his fingers are tucked up under the silky, baby pink material of your dress. His touches make you shiver as goosebumps bloom over your skin, making you whine against the pale column of his throat, “Can I?” He breathes, fingers toying with a strap of your dress while the others slowly inched the bottom of it up higher and higher.
“God, please,” you mewl, nodding against his throat, your head on his shoulder. He shudders at the feel of your breath on his neck and nods once before tugging at the bottom of your dress. You sit up to help him, whining when you feel his hard length pressing against your thin, lacy underwear, “You don’t need to ask, Michael. Want you to take me however you want.” You whisper as he tugs your dress over your head, blue eyes meeting yours for a second as he nods before they skim lower, widening as he takes you in on his lap wearing only a bra and panties.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, making you giggle shyly as you lean in and softly kiss over his cheeks, “You have…you’re – you’re perfect,” he sighs, brazenly cupping your breasts, skimming his thumbs over your nipples through the thin pink fabric of your bra and smiling proudly when he feels them harden at his touch, “You’re perfect, but these are… holy shit.” He repeats, his voice breathy and mesmerized as he takes in your chest for another moment while you softly card your fingers through his golden hair.
You gasp through a little giggle when you feel his length twitch, even through his trousers, and wiggle on his lap, blushing when the movement earns you a broken groan. “Yeah?” You whisper cheekily, watching as he marvels at your chest for a second longer before quickly unclasping your bra and shrugging out of it, tossing it down onto the floor with his shirt and your dress, “What about now?” You tease, proudly arching your back as you bite your lip.
He groans again, louder than he has all evening, and instantly ducks his head down. The feel of his soft lips wrapping eagerly around one of your nipples makes you cry out, gasping sharply as he sucks at the sensitive bud before he runs his tongue over it. You cradle the back of his head in your hands, fingers lightly pulling at the short strands of hair, as he switches from one breast to the other, kneading whichever one is free with his hand.
Needing something, anything, you finally pull him off of your chest after a few moments, laughing when he all but whines, and smiling even more when you take in his disheveled appearance – blond hair sticking up at odd angles from where you’d run your fingers through it, cheeks flushed as his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his blue eyes staring up at you hungrily.
You shift back on his thighs just enough to snake a hand between the two of you and he gasps when you cup the bulge pressing against the zipper of his khakis. “You want me to suck your cock?” You ask cheekily, lightly squeezing at his length.
He surprises you by shaking his head no,gulping slightly with an awkward laugh before answering. “I do, I really fucking do, love,” he breathes, kneading at your breasts as he stares up at you sheepishly, “B-But I really want to last and if you… if you suck it, I –”
“Okay, okay,” you stop him with a kiss, “We’ll table it for next time.”
“N-Next time?” He questions, fighting to keep his eyes open as you press kisses against his neck once more. You nod against his shoulder and press kisses up to just beneath his ear.
“I’m not letting you go that easy, honey,” you whisper, chuckling when he shivers. You spend another moment softly kissing and biting at his neck before speaking again, “Have you ever eaten anyone out?” You question, pulling back to look at him.
He shakes his head, his eyes flicking between both of yours as he looks up at you. “No.” He answers simply, his voice hardly a whisper.
You can’t help but smirk coyly and cock your head to the side, running a finger through the little patch of hair on his chest just to see him shudder. “You wanna try it?”
He nods eagerly and surprises you once again by quickly swinging you around, maneuvering you until your head rests on the pillows of your bed. You squeal at the movement, laughing with him as he settles over you, his narrow hips slotting easily between your thighs as you silently marvel at his unexpected strength, the shock of it going right between your legs.
“You want me to lick your pussy?” He asks lowly, grinning when he sees your eyes widen ever so slightly.
“You’re quite something, huh?” You breathe, still gazing up at him in surprise.
“Observant,” he shrugs, smirking as he sits up, kneeling between your legs, “You aren’t the only one who is, love.” He teases, quickly undoing his belt and trousers and groaning as he pushes them down his thighs, stopping at his knees.
Your eyes go wide at the size of his length, it’s clearly very impressive and it’s not even out of his plaid boxers yet. That smirk stays plastered on his face as he leans back down to hover over you, hastily removing his glasses and sitting them on your desk before sloppily kissing you for a moment, surprising you yet again by trailing wet kisses down your neck.
“Michael…” You sigh dreamily, arching your back toward him when he starts kissing over your chest. He groans from deep in his chest, mouth pressed against the fat of your breast.
“Fucking hell,” he curses, teasing your nipple again with the tip of his tongue, “Say it again, love.”
His simple command sends shivers down your spine and you mewl, squirming underneath him, “M-Michael!” You moan again, fumbling over your words as he sucks at your breast again before he lifts his head.
“Good girl,” he purrs with a sly, easy smirk that makes your heart jump, a soft sigh tumbling past your lips. He shifts further down the bed, kissing down over your ribs and stomach, his confidence seemingly growing every time he presses his lips against your skin; the thought makes your head spin.
Finally, he hooks his fingers into the lacy sides of your panties, and his eyes peer up at you as he tugs them down over your hips before flinging them onto the floor. “Oh, my God…,” he sighs, staring greedily at your pussy, a broken groan sounds from his throat when you spread your legs more.
You bite your lip and giggle, smiling shyly as you tangle your fingers in his hair once more. “Like what you see?”
He nods his head rapidly, making you chuckle again as he stares up at you, an almost pained expression on his face. “I… uh, w-what now?”
He’s so endearing, you can’t help the little sigh that leaves you and you sit up a little, leaning back on an elbow as you use your other hand to spread your center open. You bite your bottom lip once more when he whines a little, seeing you all spread out before him, flushed folds already slick and shiny.
“Lick here, honey,” you whimper as you skim your fingers over your clit, so keyed up from only a few kisses that you gasp a little when you feel yourself clench; Michael looks like he may pass out.
Ever the dutiful student, he gives you one last look before diving in. Your head falls back with a whiny gasp as his tongue snakes over your clit, just as you’d instructed. A long, shuddery moan leaves him, vibrating against your cunt and you watch as his blue eyes all but roll back in his head.
“Just like that, Michael,” you praise, tugging at his hair ever so slightly, which only serves to make him moan more. Your chest heaves as you watch him, determined not to let your eyes squeeze shut while he licks and kisses and sucks at your pussy like a man possessed, “Holy shit!” You whimper loudly when he pushes his tongue into you, groaning lowly when he feels your walls clench around it as he presses his nose perfectly against your clit.
“You taste so good,” he gasps, wrapping his hands around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants. He peers up at you through blond lashes as he feasts on you, sucking eagerly at your clit and savoring the way you shiver and squirm from his motions.
Unbelievably, you already feel that warm, familiar tug in your belly beginning to grow, making your whole body feel flush and taut. “Just like that, just like that,” you whine urgently, grabbing onto his hair tighter and guiding his mouth exactly where you need it, your eyes finally rolling back and fluttering shut, “Holy fuck, don’t stop!”
Michael grunts as you tug at his hair, his own hips rutting greedily against your pretty bedding — cock throbbing so hard there’s no doubt he’s leaked through his boxers. He watches you carefully, studying your movements and reactions as best he can while he rhythmically licks at your clit.
“Oh, shit!” You cry not even a moment later, your whole body seeming to stutter as your muscles finally relax. You mewl as your high finally washes over you, savoring the way Michael groans into your cunt as he feels it contracting on his tongue. Your eyes stay squeezed shut as shivers roll up and down your spine, shuddered cries leaving your lips.
Just as his touches begin to border on overstimulation, you have enough wherewithal to push him away, and he releases your center with a lewd little pop.
“Was that good?” He asks through a breathless laugh, swallowing as he looks up at you, evidence of your arousal still shining on his lips and chin.
“Good?” You huff, eyebrows raised as you gaze down at him, “You’re sure you’ve never done that before?” You question in disbelief, chest still heaving.
He smiles shyly, already pink cheeks seeming to flush deeper from your praise as he chuckles. You cup his cheeks when he leans over you again, whimpering as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re unbelievable.” You sign as he kisses down your neck again, making him chuckle against your skin.
“Just observant,” he grunts, shuddering when you wrap your legs around his trim waist. You gasp as his length brushes over your still sensitive pussy, impossibly hot and hard even through the thin fabric of his boxers. His fragmented sigh makes you smile and you tug his head up, blushing as you look up at him.
“You ready, honey?” You breathe, giggling when he nods his head again eagerly, his hips stuttering instinctually against your center. “Here, let me…” You trail off, the two of you separating for a moment as you lean over and pull open the top drawer of your desk, pulling out a pack of condoms and tearing one off before laying back down.
You watch enraptured as he kneels between your legs again, pulling down his boxers finally. “Holy…” you gasp when his cock finally bobs free, twitching up to rut against his lower stomach; he’s long and thick, curving a little as veins run up the underside, leading to a flushed, leaking head. He smiles shyly again at your attention as he shuffles awkwardly out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them off and onto the floor.
You hand him the condom and watch as he rolls it on, giving him a little reassuring smile as he does. Once it’s securely in place, you pull him back to you, eagerly kissing him once more and wrapping your legs securely around his waist. Both of you moan in unison when his length glides through your folds, the head catching perfectly on your clit.
He pulls away with a little gasp, hovering over you as he glances down at your hips. “S-So, I just…” He trails off, watching as you reach down with one hand, grunting softly when you wrap your hand around his cock.
Carefully, you position him at your entrance and angle your hips a little. “Go on, honey,” you encourage with a soft smile, running your other hand over his chest.
Nodding once, he presses forward and swears he sees God. “F-Fucking hell,” he groans, loudly sighing your name as he carefully guides himself into you, absolutely in awe at the way your hot cunt grips him. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips resting firmly against yours as his chest heaves, breaths coming in short, sharp pants.
You aren’t fairing much better, head spinning at the way he splits you open, pressing incessantly at each and every sensitive spot within you. You pant against his neck as he stills, pressed deeply within you.
“D-Do… fuck, do I just…?” Michael stutters, giving half-hearted little thrusts to test the waters.
“Yes!” You answer instantly, anxiously nodding up at him as your hips wiggle against the bedsheets, making him swear and shudder above you, “Just move, honey, do what feels good.”
He groans again and gives a little nod before experimentally moving his hips again, pulling out more this time before pushing back in. “Shit,” he breathes above you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he grunts with each roll of his hips.
You pant underneath him, spurring him on by pressing your feet against his backside, urging him to move faster and faster as the frilly lace from your socks tickles his pale skin. “You’re doing so, so good, oh, my God,” you breathe, your voice high-pitched and whimpery as you tangle your fingers in his hair again, knowing by now that it drives him crazy.
Above you, Michael’s hips slowly but surely begin to stutter, his thrusts starting to peter out as his breathing picks up. “I’m —!”
“Wait!” You blurt suddenly, smiling wickedly as he comes to a screeching halt, pushing himself up enough to stare down at you with wild eyes, “I have an idea…” You tease with a little giggle.
“W-What?”
“You have a phone, yeah?”
“…Yeah?”
“One that can, like, take video?”
“Yes?”
“Grab it,” you laugh, pushing him off of you with a laugh. He rolls his eyes with a smirk but does as you ask, clumsily pulling himself from your heat before stumbling over to where his khakis had landed. He shuffles about for a second before pulling a silver phone from the pocket of his trousers.
“Now what?” He asks curiously, positioning himself back between your thighs, cock twitching meanly.
“Film me.”
“What?!” He gapes at you, brows creased.
“Film me, honey,” you giggle, biting your lip conspiratorially, “For your little task, you need proof, yeah?”
“Well, yeah, b-but I can just take your panties or something, I don’t —“
“Or you could bring back something better…” You smirk, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “We don’t have to but… it could be kinda hot?”
He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking between you, your pussy, and the phone in his hand before he nods once, curtly. “We… we can try it.”
“Yeah? You wanna?”
“Yeah,” he quips, catching you by surprise as a mean little smirk spreads over his lips, “Wanna see the look on Catton’s face when he sees you creaming on my cock.”
Your eyes widen and you huff out a shocked laugh, a zing of electricity lighting behind your eyes. “You’re insane,” you say softly, an endeared smile on your lips.
He snickers, his whole demeanor seeming to change before your eyes as he transforms from this shy, stuttering boy into an astonishingly cocky man. “You like it, love,” he teases, grabbing his dick and positioning himself at your entrance yet again.
“Wait!” You giggle again, blushing as he groans.
“You don’t want to anymore?”
“No, no, not that,” you assure him, affectionately running your hand down one of his shockingly muscular arms, “You can film me… on one condition.”
“‘N what would that be?”
“Take me on a date.” You breathe, suddenly shy. You know he’ll agree to it, but even still, your heart pumps wildly in your chest.
He stares at you for a second, blinking dumbly as he processes your request. “You want me to take you on a date?” He asks, flushing so deeply that the soft pink hue cascades all the way down to his chest.
Giggling, you nod your head, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “You need to start giving yourself more credit, honey.”
He sighs at that, a little astounded huff, before he’s suddenly grabbing at your calves and pushing your legs up toward your shoulders, all but bending you in half, anxious to get his cock back into you. You gasp at the movement, and chuckle at his eagerness, a sound that morphs into a whiny moan when he slides back home.
“Christ,” he grunts, shoulders heaving as he gets used to the way you feel around him once more, “Y-You feel so good, love, fucking perfect.”
“You’re so big,” you whine, nodding as you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, “You’re so good, Michael, you have no idea.”
He groans above you, hands shaking as he grabs for his phone, flipping it open and quickly opening the camera as his hips rut into you, making the springs of your bed creak softly.
As soon as Michael gives you a little nod to let you know he’s filming, you truly put on a show — or well, you at least stop trying to quiet yourself down and be conscientious of the people in the rooms next to you. The way he has your legs bent back makes him feel somehow bigger and causes his cock to hit that sensitive spot within you with pinpoint accuracy every time he thrusts in, making you clench around him and moan loudly each time he moves his hips against you.
You watch as he angles the camera down a bit, no doubt pointing it at the spot the two of you are joined together, letting the camera record his cock sliding in and out of you. When he moves it back up, however, to get your face as evidence, you plaster on the cheekiest grin you can muster.
“H-Hi boys,” you tease breathlessly, smirking as you lean up on one elbow. You wave with your other hand before blowing a kiss to the camera, which makes Michael cockily laugh.
“Fuck, I gotta…” he mutters after a few more seconds, carelessly dropping his phone down on the bed before roughly grabbing at your thighs with a bruising grip, one that makes you mewl and arch your back toward him. The two of you moan and whimper in unison as he begins thrusting wildly, seemingly too worked up to care about anything but cumming.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You chant over and over, head spinning as he bullies your sweet spot.
“That’s it, love,” Michael murmurs, his voice gruff and low as he stares down at you, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead; he looks wilder than you’ve ever seen him, the thought only serving to push you closer and closer to the edge. “S-Shit, that’s it. Fucking come for me, cream on my cock; please, please, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to press desperate kisses against your neck and collarbones.
The new position causes his pubic bone to rub deliciously over your clit, making you seize beneath him with a loud whine. Your toes curl, heels still pressing into the small of his back. “M-Michael, holy fuck!” You practically squeal as your high finally washes over you once more, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you go lax and pliant underneath him.
The feel of your walls pulsing around his cock has Michael reeling, his hips somehow thrusting even faster as he both desperately wants to cum while also never wanting this feeling to end. “C-Cum, honey, cum,” you pant softly, cupping his cheek with one hand and turning his face toward yours.
That does him in and the rubber band in his belly viciously snaps, making him shudder above you as his thrusts come to a halt, cock twitching wildly inside you as he empties himself into the condom. You watch him in awe, taking in every detail from the way his nose scrunches up as his eyes squeeze close to the way he whispers your name over and over like a prayer.
The two of you lay in silence for a moment, his breath warm against your neck as he slumps against you trying to catch his breath.
Eventually, you can’t help it anymore and let out a breathless giggle, which only intensifies when he props himself up on an elbow to peer down at you with a smirk.
“Something funny?”
“Just,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself enough to get words out, “Just… wow,” you finally say, giggles petering out as you look up at him, the soft gleam in his eyes makes your heart clench in your chest.
“Good wow?” He blushes, looking down between the two of you as he pulls himself from your walls with a little hiss.
“Very, very good wow,” you confirm, grinning as you watch him pull off the condom before he peers up at you with a sheepish grin. “Tie it off, honey,” you instruct, smirking as he does just that, before nodding to the little wastebasket by your desk.
He gets up with a groan and quickly tosses the condom in the trash before turning back to you, the bashful look on his face making you blush.
Unable to resist, you grin at him and spread your arms with a giggle, wordlessly inviting him for a cuddle, which he gladly accepts. The bed creaks slightly as he lays back down, relaxing his head on the pillow just beside yours. Again, the two of you stay silent for a moment, content to merely gaze at one another, before he shyly looks away and sighs.
“I…,” he starts, blue eyes blinking and flitting around your room as he gathers his thoughts, “Thank you,” he finally says, looking back at you with a little half smile.
Your brows furrow at this as you grin at him. “What’re you thanking me for?”
“Well, f-for… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you before sitting up just slightly and fishing around in the blankets for a second. “And this,” he sighs, holding his phone up before twisting around to set it on the corner of your desk, turning back to you. “I just… I know you didn’t have to, is all, so…”
You cock your head to the side as you prop yourself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing as you study him closely. “And people have the nerve to say I’m thick,” you joke, lips spreading into a wide grin as you gaze down at him, “I wanted to do all this, Michael. I’m the one that came onto you, remember?”
“W-Well, yeah, but —“
“No buts!” You laugh, pressing a finger against his lips as you shake your head, “I have eyes too, you know.”
“What does that mean?”
“You haven’t been the only one watching someone for months,” you giggle shyly, pressing your forehead against his, “I meant what I said about that date, too.”
His arms wind around your waist, holding you tight as he processes your words with a dumbstruck smile, blushing under your gaze. “Whatever you say, love,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips against yours sweetly.
He yawns tiredly when he pulls away from you after a moment, which only makes you yawn as well, and you glance over at the little clock on your dresser. “Christ,” you gasp, turning back to him, “I didn’t realize it’s already almost four… you can crash here, if you want?”
He considers it for a moment, knowing he has to be back in that stupid little basement by noon and making a mental map of where exactly your dormitory is in relation to the Merton College Chapel. “I… I can stay, yeah,” he finally nods after a moment.
“You’re sure?”
“Love, I’m not sure my legs work well enough yet to walk out of here anyway.”
Michael
Groaning, Michael slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing them softly as he sits up in bed with a yawn. Blindly reaching over for his glasses, he’s confused when he doesn’t feel them in their usual spot and finally opens his eyes properly.
He stares, confused for a moment as to how exactly he somehow got transported into what appears to be Barbie’s damn dream house, before the events of last night come flooding back to him.
“Holy shit,” he breathes when he turns his head and sees your still-sleeping form beneath your flowery sheets, your hair tousled wildly on the pillow as your shoulders rise and fall evenly still with each breath. Looking around, he finally spots his glasses and puts them on before reaching for his phone, and cursing again when he sees the time.
11:47 AM.
He practically falls out of your bed as he tries to extricate himself from the sheets, and he hears you wake with a start behind him as he grabs wildly at his clothes on the floor.
“Michael?” You ask questioningly, your voice still hoarse from sleep as you, frankly fucking adorably, rub at your eyes before fixing him with a curious look.
“Gotta, shit, gotta run,” he explains quickly, cursing as he nearly loses his balance trying to tug his trousers on, “Need to be at Merton Chapel in, like, Christ, ten minutes!”
“Ohh,” you giggle softly, watching with amusement as he finishes getting dressed, hair and clothes so disheveled that he’s sure he looks like the very definition of the walk of shame.
Just as he’s tugging his shoes on and making a mad dash for the door, you stop him. “Here,” you smirk, holding out the same lacy pair of pink panties you wore last night, “For proof,” you explain, nodding to the phone in his hand, “Along with that. Should be more than enough,” you giggle proudly.
He smiled sheepishly as he pockets your underwear. “T-Thanks,” he nods, turning to leave before you stop him once more.
He can’t help but blush when you lean in and press and quick kiss to his lips, your cherry chapstick rubbing off on him some. Pulling away, you playfully smack his chest with a little grin. “Go get ‘em, honey.”
Nodding, he smiles again before finally pulling your door open and bounding down the hallway. “I’ll text you, love!” He calls, peering back just before he rounds a corner, “About that date!”
It’s 11:58 on the dot when he flings the basement door open, only to be pulled over to the same stupid dank basement wall, his back hitting it once more with a dull thud.
Glancing around, he sees the ski-masked boys again, all fifteen of them, standing in a row with the head boy slightly out of line. To his left stands one of the other initiates, clutching a black tube of some sort.
The basement stays silent for a moment before one of the masked boy’s watch alarms goes off just as the bells in the tower begin to chime.
Once, twice, all the way up to twelve. Noon.
Right on cue, the head boy steps forward even more and looks between Michael and the other initiate. “Your friend couldn’t be bothered to show his face, then?” He asks, dark eyes peering at the boy next to Michael.
He scoffs and shakes his head, glaring at the head boy. “He’s still at the bank!” He snaps, “All the way in bloody Switzerland,” he kicks at the dirty stone floor as he explains, “Dickhead,” he finally mutters lowly under his breath.
“Shame,” the head boy quips, clasping his hands in front of his waist, “Some men are simply not cut out for Bullingdon.”
The boys in the row behind him nod knowingly, each making some little noise of affirmation until the head boy quickly stops them, holding a fist up by his head, bringing it back down to his side when they shut up.
“So, initiates, what’ve you got?”
The boy next to Michael steps forward first and hands the black tube to the head boy with a sigh. “There,” he says, gesturing to it, “There’s your bloody map. My mum could get sacked for that.”
The head boy pops open one end of the tube, a document sleeve Michael now realizes, and gingerly extracts a rolled up piece of parchment from it, unrolling it just enough to confirm it's what they asked for.
“Well done, initiate,” he nods, seemingly impressed as he flashes a smile at the boy, white teeth gleaming creepily through the slit in his ski mask. Carefully, he rolls the document up again before sliding it back in the tube, “Your commitment to Bullingdon will take you far. Welcome to the fray.”
The boy stands still for a moment, eyeing the document tube with an almost regretful expression before curtly nodding and taking his place back against the wall.
“And then there was one,” the head boy murmurs, dark faze fixed on Michael, “I seem to remember we gave you quite the… interesting task indeed, initiate. How did you manage?”
Smiling damn near arrogantly, Michael all but skips up the head boy and proudly pulls your panties from his back pocket, letting them dangle from his index finger. “See for yourself.”
The head boy grabs them by the edge and studies them for a moment, turning back to the row of boys behind him with a questioning glance. The boy Michael knows already to be that cunt, Oliver Quick, glances between him, the panties, and Michael, before cutting a sideways glance to a tall boy standing next to him.
“These could be anyone’s,” the head boy says, turning back to Michael as he shakes his head, “You could’ve nicked them from your sister or something, we’ll need more than this, initiate.”
“Don’t even have a sister,” Michael quips, shrugging his shoulders with a little frown.
“Okay, like, your cousin or something then –”
“Don’t have a female cousin,” he says with a shake of his head, “All boys.”
“The point still stands!” The head boy finally snaps, making Michael bite the inside of his cheek to hide a little laugh, though the corner of his lips still quirks up in a smirk, “You haven’t got any proof, do you? Is that why you’re stalling?”
Huffing a little laugh, Michael finally lets himself smirk meanly and steps closer to the head boy as he pulls his phone from his pocket, flips it open, and navigates to his video gallery. “Is this enough proof?” He teases, pressing play on the most recent video.
The picture is small and grainy but there’s no doubt as to what’s happening as the sound of your pretty whimpers and moans echoes around the brick basement, along with the wet smack of Michael’s cock driving into you again and again.
The head boy stares at the screen still as curiosity gets to a few of the boys in the row behind him and they all come crowd around Michael’s phone, eyes widening behind their ski masks and mouths falling open.
The tallest one, the one Oliver keeps glancing at, lets out a long sigh as he peers down at the small screen and brings a hand up to his head as if he were going to run it through his hair before remembering the mask he has on. With him this close, Michael finally notices the little silver barbell stuck through his eyebrow and shivers as his lips curl up into a sadistic Cheshire cat smile, a tidal wave of savage pride crashing through his system.
Finally, fucking finally, I get something he wants, he thinks as your breathy moans continue to pour from the speaker of his phone, tinny and muffled in some spots where he’d accidentally covered the microphone, but beautiful, beautiful and because of him.
After a moment, the video ends, the tiny phone screen reverting back to it’s little thumbnail as the head boy peers up at Michael, the rest of the club members taking their places back in line, though he can’t help but notice that Felix’s broad shoulders are slumped now and Oliver stands ever closer to him, like some kind of fucked up bodyguard.
“I’ll be damned, initiate,” the head boy sighs with a shake of his head, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.”
He watches as Michael merely nods and pockets his phone again, holding it tightly in his fist even still. After a second, he smiles widely and claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“Welcome to Bullingdon.”
Some time later, Michael finally exits the basement, a few of the club members, sans ski masks now, nodding goodbye to him as they disperse across campus, meeting adjourned.
He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting from the initial meeting but it was mostly them prattling on about where exactly they had all their grubby little fingers, poked in seemingly every facet of society from Parliament to local newspapers.
Braggy cunts, Michael thinks as he ambles outside, glancing up at the sky as he steps into the Mob Quad, surrounded by stony old buildings.
Smiling to himself, he pulls out his phone and quickly finds your number in his contacts list, blushing when he sees you’ve taken the liberty of adding some girly heart emoticon next to it. He hardly has time to press it against his ear before you answer.
“Well?” You demand with that now familiar giggle, some unfamiliar pop song playing in the background.
“I’m in,” he confirms, nodding to himself as he slowly walks in the direction of his dormitory, “Thanks to you.” He smiles like an idiot when you laugh.
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” you tease, he can picture your bright, glossy smile in his head, “You earned that spot.”
Michael merely shakes his head with a happy little sigh. “So,” he starts, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “About that date… I was thinking the King’s Arms? Tonight at six, if that works?”
“Oooh, tonight at six,” you repeat teasingly, an image flashing in his mind of you twirling your hair around a perfectly manicured finger, “Someone’s quite eager, hm?”
“Can you blame me?”
“Hmm, I suppose not,” you giggle, pausing for a second, “It’s a date then.”
“Fantastic,” Michael sighs, trying with every fiber of his being to sound casual and cool about the whole thing, even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
“See you tonight, Mr. Bullingdon,” you tease, making a little kissy sound into the phone before hanging up.
Michael pauses for a moment, standing to the side on the pavement as he nods to himself. If it weren’t so fucking cheesy, he’d raise his fist in the air, victorious, à la Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club.
Instead, he flips his phone back open and navigates back to your video. Sighing, he stares at the little thumbnail for a second before deleting it, pocketing his phone once more, and continuing back to his dormitory.
i think bsf!tim would love grinding his tip against your clit until both of you are soaked (♡⸃ ◡ ⸂♡)
he’d have you lie on your back, guiding the flush pink of his glistening tip through your folds with an agonizing slowness, smearing pre-cum against your slick. every firm nudge against your puffy clit has both of you whimpering.
“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters, voice wrecked as he catches on your clenching entrance for the umpteenth time.
“j-just the tip, okay? i promise. i just need to feel you for a second.”
famous last words.
because the second your tight heat takes the first few inches of the head of his cock, his abs flex, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as a pathetic moan escapes him.
“i-i’m sorry—“ and he slides all the way in in one go until he’s buried to the hilt inside you, pelvis pressed firm against your clit. “shit, i’m sorry— i didn’t mean— you just feel so good.”
he doesn’t immediately start fucking you hard, just starts off with slow grinds. enough to make you claw at his shoulders and beg for him to go deeper <3
every time you don’t reblog you’re discouraging writers!! reblog and support us!!
Nobel Prize In Fangirl @miraclealignertlsp369 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
