#time to go for another 2 months without posting lol

[grim-echoes]

the combination machine head buck pulsatingmass brain damage hit me like a truck again with the new merch drop

[icarusignite]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count:  8.5k 

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged. 

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved. 

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it. 

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts. 

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive. 

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him. 

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you. 

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind,  you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response. 

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession. 

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense. 

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope. 

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?" 

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it.  You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice. 

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him. 

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance. 

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty. 

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.  

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs. 

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home. 

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this. 

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess. 

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light. 

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped. 

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still. 

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

[ghostfacd]

ALL BECAUSE I LIKED A BOY? | TOM BLYTH

pairing. tom blyth x fem!actress!reader

summary. after you and tom called it quits, the internet can’t help but make you their punching bag, all because you liked a boy.

part 2 | installment of this au | recommend you read it for more context!

CELEBRITYNEWS Months after the pair announced they were dating on Instagram, couple Y/N Avocot and Tom Blyth have now since broken up due to personal reasons and “mutual agreement” according to a source. We will miss the sweet ex-couple, and we wish the best for Y/N and Tom!

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user1 guys im going to cry

user2 this wasn’t in my 2023 plans.

user3 actual tears

user4 ik rachel is heartbroken rn bc they’re both her close friends and she introduced them to one another 😭😭

➥ user5 you’re so right OMG

user6 they were so good together?? im upset

user7 he’s single now….. YES

ynuser me time 🌞 (new skincare video up soon yayy!!)

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user8 guys, it’s official. she unfollowed tom

➥ user9 it’s the way he still follows her and likes all her posts like this is too sad to watch ☹️

user10 girly after unfollowing tom and everything even tho he still follows and likes her post

user11 she doesn’t deserve him lol. not then, not now, not ever

sean.kauf ur time

conangray yess i love you yn

➥ ynuser @/conangray @/sean.kauf i love you two 💘

rachelzegler only girls party

➥ user12 oh?

hollywoodnews Oh? is this a new romance brewing? Actress and music artist, YN Avocot and her fellow actor and cast mate Sean Kaufman seen awfully comfortable in multiple restaurants not long after YN’s breakup with her ex-boyfriend, actor Tom Blyth

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user13 cant defend yn anymore

➥ user14 she never asked u to defend her stop being delulu..

user15 welp called it, she’s a hoe

user16 doesn’t sean have a gf? not her homewrecking…

user17 acting like all that after she’s single please someone humble her immediately

user18 guys stop sending hate to yn, it’s literally not gonna help anyone. she’s single, she has the freedom to do whatever she wants without you guys being down her back 24/7.

liked by @/tomblyth

➥ user19 hello tom blyth literally liked ur comment??

user20 not tom still being nice to her even after all this. Personally me? Id never take that level of disrespect

ynuser “all because i liked a boy” OUT NOW! This song was originally something else that I put off for a really long time until now, it’s all from my experiences so it makes it very personal for me. I hope you guys like it as much as I do! As always, be kind to yourself and one another ❤️

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sean.kauf love this, love YOU!

➥ ynuser ❤️❤️

conangray this is a masterpiece

user21 THE REFERENCES TO THE HATE COMMENTS OMG ☹️☹️ this song is so good she doesn’t deserve all the hate she gets

user22 and all of this for what? WHEN EVERYTHIN’ WENT DOWN WE’D ALREADY BROKEN UP

➥ user23 TELL ME WHO I AM GUESS I DONT HAVE A CHOICE

➥ user24 ALL BECAUSE I LIKED A BOYYYYY

user25 the way tom hasn’t said anything..

[kanmom51]

Respect for AYS editors

JK said it all.

Not sure that their antics were even editable.

*Side note: Just mull on that one for a second. Jikook did them. So much so that they weren't even sure that there would be a way to edit it as a show. You have got to know what that means, right?

Anyway, apparently Jikook weren't the only ones worried now, were they?

Yep, they said it too.

And once again, y'all know what that means.

But, at the end of the day, kudos to the editors, because they managed to do it (at times with some clumsy or questionable editing, but they made it all the same).

Saying all that, oh boy did we still get some very "OMG WHAT DID WE JUST SEE/HEAR" moments.

And because you asked for it, here are just a few examples of those "wtf did we just see/hear?" moments.

I like to split it into two:

a. The questionable; and

b. The WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

There are those little questionable moments that make you raise an eyebrow, and yet aren't shockers. Yes, it sounds or looks a little too much, or if you want, a little (or a lot) GAAAYYYY, but can live within the realm of deniability. The realm of "yes, they are a little much, but..."

Such as:

Little comments made matter of factly.

A little too playful in bed.

Some naughty pool fun.

Kissie kissie?

Ramen talk followed by a very probable shared shower.

What's even this?

JK's morning woody.

Like how did that one get in, right?

And if we are already referring to the woody morning, let's allow ourselves a second here to go back to the whole Jikook shower together.

They say you need to watch something multiple times to see things, well they were right. I wrote a whole post about Jikook showering together. I even mentioned JK walking into that bathroom while JM is still there showering saying that perhaps he was going to shower with him, maybe not, but at the very least he was walking into that bathroom where JM was showering ever so naturally, no knock on door, no problem to walk in on a naked JM. What I didn't realise, and this is on me, I admit, is the editors captions for this moment:

Yep.

Let's...

Let us...

US.

As in not just I. As in more than one. As in the two of them.

Let us, as in JM and JK, go shower.

A preemptive perhaps seeing that JK does eventually follow JM into that shower?

Or just because this is what they do, and they know that's what they do (ahm... JK told us so himself), and as part of AYS this is something they want to establish as a normal for those two...

The soft launch we all have been thinking and talking about.

Just thoughts.

And last but not least of these questionable moments that found their way into AYS, thank you editors we have the hot and cold tubs and the Jacuzzi from Sapporo.

You may ask how do they edit these in without it being too much? Good question. But seeing that they gave us this in BV4:

I guess that there is little they won't show? Even back in 2019? But then again, this is with another 5 members around them. All while here in Sapporo it's just the two of them.

So, we got 2 hot tub moments (hot tub and Jacuzzi more like it).

One on the more awkward side,

the other more relaxed and intimate.

Both could be considered a little much. MANY cuts. A few glances at the cameras, lol. Lots of interesting sounds (not sound effects, lol). Very interesting to say the very least.

And then you have those WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK moments.

Those moments that you ask yourself "what was the editor on when editing this one into the show?" or "what in the actual fuck did I just watch?"

Yeah, this bed scene. Even being highly edited. Really highly edited, it still leaves you with a feeling of "what did I actually just see?"

It's not that we didn't get intimate moments in AYS, but this one was WAAAAAYYYYYY beyond. Friends can share a bed. Friends can be touchy feely. This here was not a friendly exchange. Know them, don't know them. Know Korean culture and skinship or don't know it. This whole interaction, the touches, soft (JK softly lowering JM's leg to cuddle into it), less soft (JK slapping JM's butt only to then caress it), JM playing footsies around JK's crotch followed by JK turning to lie on his stomach grunting. Seriously. The whole thing was just WTAF!!!!

And I'm sorry, but wtf was this????

In what world is this considered not gay? JK, that man, he just pulled JM up by his hair. And JM, having ZERO issue with that. Like NONE.

And people, did we forget this moment?

The way it's delivered. The way it's taken.

Nothing to see here folks. Just a couple talking over dinner...

What about this my friends?

Like what were they thinking? Really?

Why don't we take away the video? I mean, they did it for us at the start too...

Seriously!!

And if I'm already talking about sounds we got to hear off camera, there might also be these couple of questionable edits posted by @hon3ymo0n:

And if those weren't enough, they gave us this for the photobook.

God almighty, what were they thinking?

In what world is this not screaming "he's my man" (going both ways, JM marking JK and JK owning it)?

Now, once again, my take on these scenes that were left in, more so some of them, because that JK pulling JM's hair in the pool was just so NO!! Anyway, my take is that these were perhaps part of the soft launch the show was giving us. And not necessarily meaning that the two will be officially 'coming out' once military service is over. But more so the solidification of them as a unit. A clap back on the whole JK and JM aren't close. Clarifying the incredible closeness they have and in a way foreshadowing what's to come once they are out of the military.

They are close. They spend their time together at work and beyond. They shower together. They mark each other (hickeys, tattoo, sun screen, lol). They live together (?). Take it as you will. Think what you may. This is them. They don't have to tell us what it means, if you have a brain you get it, but if you don't, well that is enough to protect them from backlash that would come from an official 'coming out'.

Is that what they are planning? Well, obviously I don't know. But it is most definitley an option. One thing for sure is that I truly believe that things won't be going back to the way they were pre enlistment and AYS.

Finally, if this here was the mild. If this here is what we were allowed to see. What they felt safe enough to edit in. Makes you think about all the shit we weren't allowed to see.

Not those moments JK or JM turned off the camera for a PRIVATE moment.

Emphasis on the "again"!!

I'm talking about those moments the cameras were on, and yet they were doing their thing. Their own thing being deemed unwatchable or uneditable.

Yep.

Jikook and the producers feeling they might not be able to create an end product that we can see.

Mull on that.

[winterdaphne2]

Favorite Johnlock Fics (BBC Sherlock)

I went on a bit of a fic-reading spree this spring, and this list of favorites is the result! There are many other fics that I’ve enjoyed reading, but these are the ones that I’ve really loved for one reason or another.

I’ve tagged the authors whose tumblrs I could find. If that’s you, thank you so much for sharing your writing with us. If your work is on here, you wrote something that I really treasure.

1. A River Without Banks, by Chryse. E, 203,286 words. Starts right after Season 3. A mix of Sherlock’s perspective, John’s perspective, and the perspectives of other characters. Sherlock-focused for the first half.

Author’s summary: “‘You love this, being Sherlock Holmes.’ He had once. When had it all gone so wrong?”

This is my absolute favorite. The author’s characterization of Sherlock is amazingly accurate, and Sherlock’s character development over the course of the story is breathtakingly executed and moving. The plot is fantastic and takes you on a page-turning emotional roller coaster, especially for about the first half of the story. I was also continually impressed by how many details from the show and references to earlier parts of the fic the author was able to weave in throughout while still keeping the story creative and original. Most importantly, though, I love this fic for the message that it sends about Sherlock and John’s love, which is a far more positive message than the one that the actual show settled upon in the end. I’m grateful that we have this version of their love story, and, personally, I like to pretend that this was Season 4 and how the show ended.

2. Another Country, by Chryse. E, 67,414 words. Starts right after the end of TAB. Sherlock’s perspective.

Sherlock spends one month and three days under house arrest in 221B, trying to get clean from the drugs, track down the new Moriarty, and figure out what the hell is going on between him and John.

Another fantastic work by Chryse. This author really gets Sherlock’s character, and once again the characterization of Sherlock is spot-on and convincing. There are a few other elements that also make this a compelling story, including smart use of minor characters, a solid central mystery, and a complicated relationship between Sherlock and John that includes a pretty convincing post-Season-3 version of John. Excellent.

3. walk through ghosts, by @augustbird. M, 6,125 words. Written between Seasons 2 and 3. Sherlock’s perspective.

Author’s summary: “The thing is: Sherlock thought that the two of them would have forever to figure it out.”

This is the saddest fic I have ever read, and so beautifully written. The author captures Season 2 Sherlock’s character perfectly; the fact that this story feels so real is what makes it devastating. The day after I read this, I couldn’t stop thinking about it and walked around with my heart physically aching in my chest.

4. Nature and Nurture, by @earlgreytea68. M, 203,273 words. Set sometime after Season 2. Alternates between John’s and Sherlock’s perspectives, but mostly told from John’s.

The British government clones Sherlock. He and John decide to raise the baby.

A true fandom classic. The premise sounds super cracky, but somehow it really works. This fic is surprisingly serious at times, but overall it is the cutest and funniest thing I have ever read in my life. Basically 200,000+ words of Sherlock and John being adorable gay fathers together and working through some feelings, with line-by-line some of the most hilarious dialogue ever. The five accompanying ficlets that the author wrote as short follow-ups are also worth checking out; my favorites were School (T, 4,753 words) and The Radovljica Apicultural Museum (T, 4,540 words).

5. To a Friend Who Sent Me Roses, by @algyswinburne. E, 16,147 words. Set sometime after Season 4 (but ignores TFP, as we all should lol). Sherlock’s perspective.

Author’s summary: “Five times Sherlock is mistaken for John’s partner and Rosie’s father, and one time it isn’t a mistake.”

This fic is sad, sweet, and hot by turns. Absolutely lovely to read in so many ways, and with so many great details and lines. I think this story offers convincing portrayals of what Sherlock’s and John’s characters might be like after it all and how they might finally get together. This and A River Without Banks are my favorite alternate endings to the show. Beautiful!

6. for all that bitter delights will sour, by @darcylindbergh. E, 9,585 words. Set sometime after Season 3. Sherlock’s perspective.

John initiates a sexually and emotionally abusive relationship with Sherlock.

The second saddest fic I have read. I would never want what happens in this fic to happen to Sherlock and John, so I don’t exactly recommend it as a Johnlock fic. But as a short story, this is a gem, full of absolutely gorgeous and incredibly moving writing. It depicts difficult themes very deftly, in lines and paragraphs that I had to stop to read over and over. I appreciate this as an emotionally powerful and thought-provoking piece of writing inspired by Sherlock, so for that reason I think it deserves to be on this list.

7. The Ground Beneath Your Feet, by Chryse. E, 68,803 words. Set after Season 3, but as if the last two minutes of HLV never happened. “The plane went on to Eastern Europe, and this is what came after.” John’s perspective.

This fic is pretty dark; the author describes it as “a PTSD story in which John was wholly devoted to Sherlock.” I don’t love it quite as much as the other two fics by Chryse that I’ve listed here, but that’s mostly because those two are just so amazing! I still really enjoyed this one. It was wonderful to see a kind and caring version of John emerge out of Season 3, and the story had several memorable moments, including one particularly nail-biting scene. I also really liked seeing John and Mycroft become friends as they bonded over their shared concern for Sherlock.

8. The Adventures of a Single Girl in London (Plus a Consulting Detective), by @earlgreytea68. M, 32,913 words. Set soon after Season 3. Alternates between different characters’ perspectives.

Bored with life at her new cottage in Sussex, Janine returns to London and moves in with Sherlock at 221B. Hilarity, heartbreak, and eventual Johnlock ensue.

This is a Season 3 fix-it fic that features an absolutely lovely friendship between Sherlock and Janine and the best version of Janine that I’ve come across in a fic. Sherlock is vulnerable and sweet, John is an absolute idiot, Janine is perfect, and the last two chapters just make me scream. Great stuff.

And that’s it for now! If you know of any other fics that I might like based on the above, I’d be happy to hear about them, so drop me a line!

Happy reading 😊

[macabr3-barbi3]

My wonderful Barbie,

My sister from another mister. How did I live life without your funny, witty, lovely presence in it? Our friendship is something I will treasure until I go to hell myself, and if I'm the first of us to go I'll get a dinky lil apartment and will wait for you to join me so we can rock eternal damnation together!

This donation is in your honor.

It's with no strings attached, just one of the ways I can try to show you how much I love you. If you wish though - You know that I would love to see you write a Vox or Alastor piece that makes the toes curl and the heart flutter.

❤️

first, please know that I have been sitting on this fic for literally MONTHS trying to get it done for a special occasion for you and never finding the fight inspiration to finish it. FINALLY I found the rest of the story and I am so happy to be sharing it in response to this beautiful ask, for a beautiful cause, from a beautiful friend ❤️

This is one of two fics that I am posting in your honor today to count notes for the final bits of the International Women's Day event and I hope everyone enjoys!

Another reminder (sorry I'm a broken record lol) that I'll personally be donating $3 for every 15 notes that the fics with this banner are receiving 💗find fic #1 (RadioStatic breeding kink fic) here and fic #2 (innocent Alastor x Reader) here! I'll stop counting around 12PM EST tomorrow so we can get our final tallys in.

Get more information about the event and future ones by following us on Tumblr @hellsgreatestevents and Bluesky!

Without any further ado, a casual not-quite-request from my darling from like July of 2024: promiscuous!reader x Alastor who thinks they have 0 attraction to him despite flirting/sleeping with literally ANYONE else

Tags: promiscuous fem reader; non sex-repulsed Alastor; possessive Alastor; fingering; handjob; 'It's just biology' logic lol

It shouldn’t bother him the way that it does.

Oh, it does.

Alastor watches you from the shadows of the hotel from the moment that you arrive- another deer, he supposes it’s mere instinct to keep an eye on you, some herd mentality that makes his eyes trail your form as you pass from one room to another, makes his ears twitch in tandem when yours flatten or stiffen in response to something. (He’s never reacted similarly to any other cervine Sinner in Hell, but it’s a comforting logic to cling to.) He sends his shadow to monitor you one time only when he catches a scent of distress coming from your bedroom, only for the blasted thing to tell him you were engaged in ‘personal matters’ that made his mind race and his normally dormant lower half twitch with interest. He throws up wards around your room to keep your scent and sounds contained, and assumes that will be the end of it.

It’s only the beginning- as soon as you acclimate to the Hotel, to Hell as a whole, the string of lovers begins. You would bring them to the hotel late in the day and send them off early the next morning; an assortment of men and women, sinners and succubi and Hellhounds, he’s even sure he may have seen an Overlord make an appearance, though no one of any real importance. Charlie and Vaggie finally catch wind of it, and politely ask that you stop bringing your parade of paramours to the doors of the Hotel; you agree to it, Alastor listening from the shadows around the corner, silently pleased that your brazen flaunting of your sexuality will be forced to come to an end.

Except… it doesn’t. You come home some nights smelling of cheap perfume and rancid cologne and what Alastor can only assume is bodily fluids before excusing yourself to your bedroom and emerging later smelling like yourself again- he can smell it on you, see the signs of your amorous hobbies, and no one else seems to notice or care, besides Angel Dust asking on occasion, “You look well taken care of, toots; who’s the lucky individual?”

Laughing when you respond, “who isn’t?” Like you were sharing your body with simply anyone.

It would be one thing if that was all he was subject to. But aside from your more promiscuous activities, you also rivaled the spider demon in terms of flirting and innuendo! At breakfast or lunch with the rest of the Hotel occupants, you would let suggestive comments fly across the table or lobby to everyone- winking at Angel as you swirled your tongue around an ice cream cone; dropping your voice to a lower register when leaning across the bar to ask Husk for a drink; ‘jokingly’ asking the Princess and Vaggie if they were looking for another participant when they mentioned going to bed one night. You weren’t as persistent or forward as the spider used to be- when Vaggie had growled in response to your question you had immediately backed off and apologized profusely- but you were very generous with your compliments and comments with everyone in the Hotel, even Niffty, going so far as to make a pass at Lucifer himself one night that he joined the group.

That, at least, had been entertaining- watching the King seem to choke on his own tongue as he flushed and tried to stammer out a response to your invitation to your bedroom, away from the ears of his daughter.

But your attention was never turned to him.

You never turned shy or demure like one would expect, but you made no pass at Alastor. No innuendos or offers like you made to the others, like you clearly made to the seemingly never ending stream of creatures and sinners that you warmed the sheets of. You chatted with him and laughed and spoke about music and literature but you never complimented him or invited him to your room as he had seen you do with countless others. And normally he wouldn’t care in the slightest- normally he would prefer it this way. When he thinks of the comments he got from the porn star that were always dismissed, the fumbled passes that Vox had made at him during their partnership that had never interested him in the slightest, the various offers and invitations that he had received over the years since arriving in Hell, he feels nothing.

You, though…

Perhaps it's the nature of his sinner form; the buck in him distraught at the idea that such a pretty, fertile doe didn’t think he was acceptable as a sexual partner when you would take on anyone else, and do so blatantly, right in front of him. But the thought of it keeps him up at night, his trousers tight and his antlers large and itchy, scratching at the bark of the trees in his bayou when he risks dropping his wards around your bedroom one night and smells that same scent from before, what he had thought was distress and could now recognize as being arousal. He refuses to lower himself as far as touching his straining erection, but the fact of you not wanting him eats him alive.

To his credit, he resists for a decent amount of time. Alastor lets the thoughts stew and thinks of you- what you’re doing with others, the ways they might be touching you, the sounds you might be making during it. He doesn’t allow himself to follow you when you step out in the evenings, keeps his shadow close to his side when you leave and come back smelling of sex.

A man can only have so much self control.

He’s down in the kitchen late in the evening when the light switches on, and your soft gasp of surprise graces his ears. When he looks over at you he wishes you had kept the lights off- you stand there in a mere slip of a nightgown, black and silky and clinging to the lines of your body like a second skin. Indecent. Alluring. Far, far too tempting, and he keeps his distance across the room, willing his antlers to stay as they are and not branch out to crowd the space at the close proximity to a potential mate.

He feels an eyebrow quirk up at that- mate was new, the word dangerous as it curls through his brain while he watches you, ears dropped low against your head and a blush tinting your face.

“Good evening, dear,” he says cordially, and resumes his earlier actions of making an evening cup of tea- like everything is normal, like the mere presence of you isn’t sending blood rushing through his body.

You seem to breathe a sigh of relief  before fully coming into the room, wrapping your arms around yourself, the motion pushing the mounds of your breasts up ever so slightly. He forces himself to look away, to stay busy as you approach and stand next to him. “Hi, Alastor. Think I could get one of those?” You gesture to the mug he holds in his hands.

“Why, of course! Allow me to-” 

When your arm drops back down he catches the scent on the air that you displace- Frustration. Arousal. There’s a second of silence before the glass he holds drops to the floor as he abandons all notion of tea in favor of reaching for you, tugging you closer so that you’re fitted against his body, tucked under his chin as he drops it down to sniff at your hair, one hand clasped around your bicep and the other coming around the back to hold you to him.

You make an alarmed squeak but don’t pull away, tilting your head up to try and look at him. The noise you make is inquisitive but not scared as he turns the pair of you, pins you between his chest and the counter and just breathes in the intoxicating cocktail of scent that you give off. He recognizes that he’s overstepping his boundaries- his mother would skin his hide if she was anywhere near Hell and knew he was behaving in such a manner- but he’s held out admirably long, and the need to know why, why, why was beating insistently at his thoughts. And after this, who knew if you would ever let him so close to you again? If you would even stay in the Hotel? The mere idea of you being anywhere else, away from his watchful eye and protection, makes his antlers ache.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs into your scalp, as eager to explain his actions away as he was to get answers from you even if he can’t bring himself to release you yet. “It’s a… biological impulse, I presume, because of our-”

“Because we’re deer?” You ask softly, the whisper of your breath tickling the skin of his chest where it pokes out of his shirt, and his erection aches where it suddenly strains against his trousers. He angles his hips back subtly, resists the urge to shove forward instead.

“Right. I’m afraid I- I was not thinking, and not myself.” He feels a flush take over his face, glad that you can’t see it where you’re held against him. “I believe if I can just- take in your scent for a moment, that should appease the instinct.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but you hum into his shirt and stay put, so he assumes it’s a passable excuse.

You stand there quietly with him for a moment before the traitorous words bubble out of his throat against his will, the curiosity overriding his logic. “Why do you show no interest in me like you do the others?”

You stiffen in his hold- and even at this sign of alarm he can’t bring himself to release you. “I don’t- I’m not sure what you mean, Alastor,” you stammer, but he can smell it on you, the nerves, the anxiety in the phrase.

“It’s not my intention to scare you- nor corner you like this,” he adds, nodding down at his arms that cage you against the counter. “Merely a curiosity, and unfortunate coincidence. You offer your compliments freely, you make advances, you have an endless stream of lovers, and yet you have never directed such attention my way. Even Niffty has been at the receiving end of your flirting, albeit in a joking manner.” You’re silent in his arms, muscles tense and face turned away from him, and he keeps his hands where they are instead of doing something stupid like brushing his fingers against your cheek and turning you to face him. “Have I offended you in some manner? Do you simply not find me to be appealing?”

“No!” Your eyes are wide when you meet his again, a sweet blush to your face as you deny. “No, I mean, you’re fine, you haven’t done anything wrong- and you’re hot, so that’s not- fuck. Fuck. It’s really nothing, Alastor-”

And there it was again- that scent that you carried with you, pheromones that broadcasted to him as clearly as a radio that you were aroused, a tinge of embarrassment tinting it now instead of the frustration from earlier and it’s simply not enough. He drops his face to your shoulder, ignoring your soft squeak of alarm in favor of inhaling deeply at the curve of your neck where it’s the strongest that he can reach. It’s heady and thick, almost feeling like it’s coating his airways as it travels through his body, cock leaking inside his trousers now. “Doesn’t smell like nothing,” he murmurs absently, and your hands come up from where they’ve been gripping the counter to fist into his shirt. An explanation, he tells himself as he meets your eyes again, dilated and wide. That’s all I need. That will sate this feeling. That will return me to normal. That will-

He’s taken off guard by your dragging him down to meet your lips, more a clash of teeth than anything else before you get the angle right, surprising him with your tongue against his teeth as you try to lick into his mouth. His noise of surprise is muffled into the kiss, and it gives you the opportunity you need to get your tongue in his mouth, stroke with the slick muscle along his own. The action makes his hips jolt forward, erection finally pressed against the warmth of your body for a blissful moment before he remembers himself and angles away again.

He tries to, anyway. Your hands leave his shirt to tug at his belt loops, bringing his hips back into alignment with yours and causing a moan to vibrate from your mouth and into his as you clumsily try to grind into him.

Alastor releases you- only for a moment, only to reposition his hands so he can hold you even closer, shift you up onto the counter to press harder against you so he can finally satisfy the instinctive craving that had been plaguing him for months- and before he can do anything further you tear away with a gasp, letting go of his hips to push at his chest and try to put distance between the two of you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, and were it not for the note of panic that now taints your delicious scent he would tease you for the calling of a being so far removed from Hell when he manages to settle his hands on your body again. “Fuck, I didn’t mean- I’m so sorry, Alastor, I wasn’t thinking,” and through your stammering your face is darkening, ears laid flat against your head.

One can only guess what sort of foolish things you’re telling yourself- that he didn’t want this, that you shouldn’t have kissed him, that this would surely result in some kind of disaster. What he was more focused on was the huff of your breath against his chest, the thrum of your heartbeat under his fingertips, the twitch of your ears. The heat of your body pressed against his as you had attempted to grind down, such an obvious display of your attraction to him that he knows he needs to cease your rampant overthinking before you do something terrible, like flee from him.

“My dear,” he says softly, and your eyes dart up, wide, trembling like your fingers against his chest. Much more like a frightened bird than the doe you were. “If you explain your hesitation, we can sort out any confusion that might linger between us, and get back to the more important matters at hand.” He brings a hand up from your hip to trace along the curve of your jaw, and the exhale that escapes you is hot against his wrist when he pulls you back against him. “Tell me your concerns.”

“You don’t actually want this,” you stutter out, your tongue darting out to wet your dry lips, and it’s all he can do not to reclaim your mouth. “It’s- you’re only reacting like this because we’re both deer, you wouldn’t normally-”

“Do you think,” he interrupts with a roll of his hips into you, “that you are the first deer demon I’ve ever come across in all my years in Hell?”

Your eyes widen. “You- but you just said-”

“Yes, in an effort to spare myself the embarrassment of clinging to a young lady that I thought had no interest in me.” He places his hands on your waist and lifts you with little effort to rest on the edge of the counter so he can step fully between your legs. “It seems that may not be the case.”

You whimper, low and broken as his thumb brushes the skin of your thighs. “It’s not,” you confess. “I’ve… it wasn’t the whole time. I mean, I like sex with other people but lately its been- killing me, wanting you. I didn’t think you would want anything.”

“You thought wrong.” He slides his hands under your nightgown, the feeling of your bare skin under his hands igniting the heat within him anew. “I want everything from you.” He clasps you to his body and grinds, his erection dragging deliciously against the soaked warmth between your legs. “You were touching yourself just moments before you entered the kitchen, weren’t you? You couldn’t reach satisfaction; that’s why you smell of frustration, or arousal. Your scent has been driving me mad, these… lovers you’ve been with have been intolerable.”

He can feel the swollen nub of your clit through your panties, wet with slick from your time spent pleasuring yourself and unable to find release. He can almost feel the folds of you molding to his shape, parting with ease to invite him in if he so wished. 

He wouldn’t take you here. Alastor had craved you for too long to be satisfied with a fumbling romp in the kitchen in the dead of night- he was a gentleman, and would take you to bed and whisper the words of praise that you were so deserving of as he entered you for the first time. He would ensure that the evening was beautiful and worthy of how long you both had waited, unknowing of how easy it all could have been.

For now, though, you were both vibrating with the tension of months of pent up frustration, and he wouldn’t make you wait any longer, his own release be damned. He would show you that none of the others you had bedded were any sort of viable substitution for him.

He asks, “may I?” As he teases his fingers along the waist of your panties, and your breathy agreement is music to his ears as he simply vanishes them away and slips his fingers into your core. You’re wet for him, the smell of your arousal overwhelming now that you’re bare before him, open for his touch, and while he has little experience in this area he’s able to read the tremble of your body in his arms well enough, the whimpers and gasps that you let out into his ears. He searches, fingers gentle in their exploration as he aches in his slacks, grinding against the counter with what little leverage he has and watching your face for any sign of discomfort. He finds the answer to his questioning touch in a pliable spot of flesh that he crooks his fingers against, and your body trembles in his arms. He hardly needs your frantic whisper of “yes, there, please,” but the feedback is encouraging anyway as he presses hard, withdrawing and adding another finger at the encouraging thrust of your hips.

He wishes he could taste you, knows that you would be just as sweet on his tongue as you felt clenched around his digits. You’re both too wound for that now, as he would want to take his time in savoring you, and so he settles for letting you come undone around his fingers. He finds a promising angle by pushing up on the tips of his hooves, and that gives him the angle he needs to rut into your thigh, hot as the rest of your body and deliciously firm against his cock. Your cunt weeps with arousal, and he swipes his thumb through it for an effortless glide against your clit as he rocks his fingers in a steady rhythm.

“Please,” you whisper, and there’s a hand shoved against his belt buckle, clawing at the clasp in the little space that exists between your bodies. “I want to touch you- please, can I?” Your eyes are wet with pleasure, every inch of your visible skin flushed and your request sweet as honey in the air as you wait for his approval. He nods, and his head drops to your shoulder with a defeated groan at the first touch of your hands to his bare erection.

Your grip is firm, hot- experienced, he thinks with a distant throb of jealousy knowing how many others you had been with to have gained such knowledge. How many others had held you against a counter or wall like this with some part of their body inside of you, your delicate hand touching them in return? What was the exact number of Sinners he would have to hunt down that became familiar with the flavor of your moans before he had been given the chance to sample you?

“Fuck, Alastor,” you cry out, and he grins sharp and dangerous into the crook of your neck at the realization that none of your previous lovers mattered now- all that existed to you in this moment was him, his fingers buried in the tight clench of your body, his cock leaking in your hand, his name on your soft lips. You were pliant and warm and perfect, and he would ensure that you never needed anyone else to satisfy you for the rest of your afterlife.

His orgasm catches him nearly by surprise, hips jerking as he spills hard and messy over your fingers. His voice catches on a desperate moan of your name, and somehow this- staticky and rough and broken- is what takes you over the edge as well, your inner walls fluttering hard around his fingers and even more slick gushing from you to coat him in the evidence of your satisfaction.

You take a moment to simply breathe, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder before you start laughing.

Alastor is almost offended, but when he pulls back from your shoulder your smile is fond and pleased. “To think we could have been doing this all along,” you tease, and run your thumb through the mess of his orgasm and lightly against his tip before withdrawing from his pants. You roll your hips against his fingers as he pulls them from you, and the small action is enough to have his spent cock twitching once again.

“Not all along,” he says, bringing his fingers up to inspect, delighting in your renewed blush when he pops one into his mouth for a taste and is rewarded with it being every bit as delicious as he had hoped. “I’m sure with your expertise we would have graduated to more adventurous endeavors by now.”

“My expertise?” You feign offense, your tone exaggerated and your smile genuine as you look up at him. “Why, Alastor, are you implying I’m some sort of tart?”

His eyes are dark as he growls, “not anymore, you aren’t,” and scoops you into his arms to retreat to his bedroom with the ghost of your laughter echoing in the kitchen when you’re gone.

[white-poppie]

𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 ⎯⎯⎯ Part II of the '𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇' series

SYNOPSIS: In the bleakest times of your life, there kindled a little ember in you. Tsukiko, moon child, you were coping, one way or another. But dark clouds claw at the litte light of hope in your life as you come face to face with Suguru again.

TW: crying, teen-pregnancy, panic attacks, lactation, depression-like symptoms, post-partum, adoption,, self-loathing, su!c!dal ideation, jealousy, mentions of suguru's twisted ideals of a perfect jujutsu society, big sad :(

A/N: Thank you for all the support to this series!! Ps! look out for the symbolism in objects, i used big brain power lol. Plus I am sooooo sorry for delaying this so much

NOTE: reader is in her last year so she'd be around 17-19 :) This big sad will build up to happiest happy in the last part so bear with me.

WC: 4k lmaooo

Series masterlist Pt1: 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 ⏮ ⏸ ⏭ Part 3 Now playing: Part 2

The child, a baby girl, lay giggling and cooing in your arms as you look down at her with warmth in your eyes. She's the spitting image of an angel with her wide and expressive eyes, her small nose, a sharp arch exactly like her father, pink flushed cheeks and a tuft of soft dark black hair on her head…She looks exactly like Suguru.

She is a talkative baby, her little pink lips opening and closing wit soft 'pops', thats quite literally talking, what even is the difference when you are holding a squishy 2 month old? Her hands and movements are disoriented, jerky, flailing her chubby little arms and legs without care.

Her tiny hand reaching up to grab at your strands of hair, her big eyes looking curiously at your hair, observing how it moves with her tiny wrist.

"Come on, sweetheart, let mama do shopping for you." you whisper to the tiny baby strapped to your chest as you go around picking the essentials

She looks up at your voice, her lips almost forming a little pout and you can't help but coo lightly at her cuteness. You resist the urge to snap another photo and send it to Shoko to which she would always reply with a boring thumbs up emoji, but you know well how she smiles after seeing her god-child.

"Let's see what we have... we got the diapers, baby oil, flour, we got the veggies and other stuff...ah pear, we should get some pears." you say to the baby. It was difficult to think singularly in singular pronouns, it was the two of you-- it was 'us', 'our' through and through.

You walk down to the fruit isle, looking for some pears. Eventually you find the last pack in the thin mesh. Your hands reach forward to grip it and so does another. Your heart ceases. There is no way you wouldn't recognise that hand. The faint tan under which lie a constellation of protruding green veins. Fingers with a naturally large nail bed, the skin around it slightly discoloured. Suguru. There was no doubt it was him, you didn't even need to look up or rather you didn't have the strength to.

You suddenly wanted to laugh. You felt like a tragic greek hero, comung across your beloved, a bit too late. Orpheus and Eurydice, Hyacinthus and Apollo. Achilles and Patroclus. But the real tragedy was, as the poets said, "I could recognise him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

"Suguru..." You whisper out breathlessly as you finally dare and look him in the eye.

His name leaving your lips like a plea tears straight through his chest, his heart aching at the sound of his beloved's voice again. He can't help but feel his heart racing as he looks at your face, drinking in the sight of your tired but radiant face. "Y/N," he murmurs out.

He feels sick, how instantly his sleep-deprived body finds solitude at the sight of you. Relief flooding into his lungs, spreading throughout his veins like a chasm. Its shattering, he feels like a man who was lost in a desert after having left his paradise for a mirage of an oasis.

His body is on fire, his muscles searing to envelop you, to somehow make you melt into him and never let go. His vision blurs, watery, and then suddenly, his breath stills, when his eyes fall onto the soft bundle safely strapped to you chest. An appearance uncanny similar to his, its alive, living. His ears buzz in trepidation. On one hand you stand in front of him and he wants to fall on his knees and tell you how miserable and lonely he was, how being the villain in everyone's story, including yours doesn't bother him anymore, but that child...

"Is that.." he murmurs, but his voice trembles more that he would have liked it to.

Your eyebrows etch into a small frown, you almost want to scream at him for even asking this question. "Obviously." You reply your eyes darting to the aisles in the mart.

His breath stutters and his palms turn cold. No, no, no, no, no. A soft gasp leaves his mouth. The revelation tumbling down him. he had thought of everything. He was ready to face anything, and every consequence, and yet somehow some way he had forgotten to calculate a variable. A variable that was a variable that you, a variable was his child.

He killed his parents without hesitation, left the walls of the quaint house he grew up in all sullied with but somehow the sight of you with his child brings him to his knees. He wants to sob, rest his head on your knee and shakily kiss you and the baby in forgiveness.

"That's my child..." he says, but it sounds more like a statement than a question. With his silken black hair and nose bridge, the same bright black eyes he had as a kid....that's his

You take in a deep breath and nod, your heart pounds in your chest till it aches. "Tsukiko." You whisper out, your voice hoarse as you look at the little girl

Suguru has to bite his lip just to keep himself sane, memories of that bittersweet night flooding in and he feels he would topple over the pear rack.

"Tsukiko...she's named Tsukiko..." He says out and his hand shakes. That's his blood, his daughter and yet he is the farthest thing from a father. Seeing her so close to you, the way you are fussing over her, it has his throat run dry by the intensity of a ground marred from rain, a rain that fell always but now doesn't fall in the courtyard of his heart, leaving all the plants of humane emotions, wilting and dry.

He can't help but murmur out, "A pretty name. It suits her." He whispers out softly, gently reaching out a hand towards the small child. "May I?"

You look at him as a strange anger wells up within. You want to refuse, yet you want to cry in his sturdy arms, for him to envelope you so hard that you can't breathe. You want to beg him to come back, and yet you want to slap him and tell him to never show his face.

You want him to stay, to apologise for letting some as young as you go through pregnancy alone. You want him to apologise for leaving you in a state where the shadows around you seemed to warp in oddly threatening shapes, where intrusive thoughts had you so scared you had to call Shoko or Satoru just to listen to their voice, so that you feel real and don't end up doing anything stupid.

You want him to go back to your dorm room in jujutsu high, where all of his belongings are untouched like the day he left.

You gently unclasp her from the carrier. “Support her neck, she’s only two months old.”

He swallows the lump in his throat as he gently takes the child into his arms, watching as you gently unclasp her from the carrier and gently place her into his arms. His heart hammers in his chest as he carefully and gently supports her small, fragile neck, feeling her small frame in his arms. Tsukiko blinks her wide eyes in confusion, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes.

You feel anguished, thinking of what life could have been if Suguru had never left for his goals. What if you hadn’t lost half of your soul that day.

His heart aches as he holds the small baby in his arms, thinking of all the moments he will lose out on seeing now. Never seeing her first steps, her first words, never reading her bedtime stories, never having her call him ‘daddy’. He will never get to see her experience the feeling of pure and unbridled joy for the first time, or seeing her face light up at all the small, everyday things that make children happy. He knows he has missed so much already, and the thought of missing more...

His heart aches and his breath catches in his throat as he feels the small child’s bottom lip tremble slightly, her head turning up to look at you with a conflicted look in her eyes. He can feel her small frame quiver slightly in his arms, probably still confused by the fact that she is in a stranger’s arms, but she isn’t crying to get away from him. The fact that she’s not crying to get back into your arms makes him want to laugh and sob all at the same time.

"Tsuki." You whisper out as you gently brush your fingers on her face. For some odd reason you don't want her to cry in his arms. After all the pain he has inflicted on me, Iyou still don't want him to be hurt by his girl crying to get away from him.

You take a sudden breath as your fingers brush against his arm accidentally, and suddenly you feel so small, so alone. With Tsuki away from your chest, even though she is right in front of you, you feel a strange fear of abandonment.

His heart races as he feels your fingers brush against his arm accidentally, your fingers leaving a scorching heat in their wake even though you’re only brushing against his arm. Your fingers are icy cold, and it’s just then that he realizes that you have tears streaming down your face, the droplets running down your chin and dripping onto the linoleum flooring of the grocery store. Your shoulders are trembling and you’re trying to hold back your sobs, but he can hear your strangled breaths.

"Give her back to me and leave." You whisper out as you bite your lips. Its not fair, It hurts so much. You have been so strong until now, taking care of everything, but now he is here and everything is rushing back like a riptide, knocking you off your feet, making you fall face-first onto the sand

He can feel his eyes widening in shock as your strangled words reach his ears, his heart aching painfully as he holds back the urge to cry out. He watches you struggle to stop tears from streaming down your face, watching the way your shoulders tremble as you try to hold back your sobs, watching as you fight back the urge to just hold the baby and run back to his arms.

"Geto." You murmur. Not Sugu, not Suguru. "Give me my child back," You whisper as you look at him, your hand clutching your chest as it aches so painfully. "Are you having fun seeing me make a spectacle of myself in the middle of a mart?" You croak out, but your voice doesn't waver.

His heart breaks as you call him ‘Geto’ in such a cold, detached voice. He gulps and hand the baby to you, his hands immediately feeling so empty, thats his daughter, his little girl. He wants to hold her, kiss her head, kiss the beautiful woman who brought her to life, but he is going to make a new world, and when all that is done, you would all be a family....

You gently tuck Tsukiko back in the carrier as he hands her to you and walk out of the mart, towards the exit. The groceries forgotten. You will buy them some other day. Each step is so difficult.

You wanna go back to him, cry in his arms, sob and hit his chest. Standing underneath a stop as you dial your phone to Satoru and he answers. "Satoru...can you pick us up?" you murmur tiredly, your voice hoarse

The moment he heard your voice over the phone, Satoru felt his heart dropping to his stomach. He can hear the way your voice is strained and hoarse, and he can sense the way that you are on the verge of tears. Satoru swallows the lump in his throat as he stands up from his desk and grabs the keys off his desk. “I’m on my way.”

You nod and cut the call, staring blankly at the clouds. You hear the automated door of the mart open and look at Suguru exiting the mart, three polybags in his hands as he walks up to you and keeps two of them on the ground. You look at the bag...its all the things in my cart and the pears.

Your lip trembles as I look up at him, eyes bleary. Tsukiko is now peacefully asleep against your chest. Her faint smell, that of baby powder and milk...It lingers from Suguru too, your head pounds.

He faintly smells like her too now and the way he looks at her, like he is aching, his eyes begging--- they are peading in the same way as they were on the night which lead to Tsuki. I wish I can have what I love, but to protect what I love, I must make a society where those I love ⎯ sorcerers: you, Tsuki, Satoru, Shoko ⎯ are safe

"Go, it's about to rain soon. You'll catch a cold if you get wet." You whisper out tiredly.

His heart aches as he watches you whisper out your words, the exhaustion plain on your face. He can’t bear to see you struggling and forcing yourself to be strong when he is the sole reason for your pain. And as he hears your tired voice, he just can’t help the way his hand reaches out to gently brush the tear away from your cheek. “Y/N…don’t cry,” he whispers.

You look at his hand caressing your cheek before a soft sob escapes your mouth. His touch making goosebumps rise all over your body. “Don’t do that, you have no right to when you decided to leave….” You say as you weakly push his hand away, but it’s so feeble and weary that it’s like a gentle nudge.

A fresh wave of tears builds in your eyes, and all he wants to do is draw you into his arms and hold you until your sobs fade away. It kills him how weak you are, how weak his leaving has made you. He wants to hold you and never let you suffer like this ever again. But how could he after he’s the one that caused this pain to begin with?

His phone rings, an unfamiliar contact name flashes on his screen. Mimiko with a little childish flower emoji next to it.

You feel your heart drop to your stomach; to the point that you feel as if you are having morning sickness all over again.

"That's your girlfriend?" you ask with a soft chuckle, as you don't feel this ugly cold wave wash over you, you feel your limbs stiffen, your teeth chattering at how cold I feel.

Its as if your heart has closed off, putting up a barrier around it and locking away all those painful emotion that he has inflicted on you. He looks down at his phone, seeing a picture of Mimiko and Nanako, the little girls he rescued and adopted 11 months ago, smiling in the caller ID. "Y/N..no..."

"You don't have to defend yourself y'know." you say with a fake breathy laugh as your hand supports Tsumiko's sleeping head to your chest. "Not that it matters anymore."

He bites his lip as he stares at your expression, his heart being "I’m not gonna defend myself but...those are my kids, not my girlfriends," he says softly.

Your eyebrows furrow as your grip on Tsukiko tightens instinctively. "...What?" Its too much. Its way too much for you to handle, your ears ring uncomfortably, yet you try to stand firm.

"Mimiko and Nanako..." He swallows nervously, trying to figure out the right words to say. "I-I found them, when I left you. They are sisters. Their parents were murdered, and they were in such horrendous conditions that I just had to rescue them," he stutters, feeling a sudden uncomfortable rush of warmth on his cheeks from his heart racing.

"I see, uhm thats very nice of you." You mutter with a little smile. "Having two daughters, must be nice. something positive amongst all that you are doing..." You say, but your throat runs dry. He has two daughters. That’s basically a family. He is raising them out of goodwill and love, it’s optimistic.

Your heart aches as you think about Tsukiko. Her mother still stuck to her past, clinging to her lover.

Most of the days you can't tell the date from start to finish. You blankly do all the work, function normally but trapped in this surreal dream that you can't snap out from, until your back hits the bed and you stare at a picture of you and Suguru on the bedside. Finally crying, showing some humane emotion after acting like a non-sentient being.

He has two daughters. Who first had happy lives with their parents until they tragically died, and were taken in by an equally loving caretaker.

Your expression turns from shock to something a little more painful, a sad half-smile that looks like it’s masking the emotional turmoil that he can see building up beneath it. He can see the way that your shoulders droop a little, your head bowing just a fraction more towards your chest. He can see your fingers tightening just slightly around Tsukiko, "Yeah..it is...” he murmurs out weakly.

“I am glad…every child deserves a home.” You mutter genuinely, but you feel so so terrible, like the worst person on earth that you am jealous of those little girls. Those little kids who get to live with their adoptive dad, a happy life. Full of joys and laughter. While Tsukiko was born in such despair. So much pain. Her mother, her godparents; everyone suffering in the tumultuous Jujutsu society. But what about Tsukiko, who's only fault was being born, why does she have to experience this tragedy?

Suguru's heart shatters as he watches you silently struggle and hold back your tears. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He did this to you. He did this to you, and now his two adopted children are getting the life that he ripped from you. That he denied you. There’s so much you already hear from people, about your character. When your only crime was being in love

“I won’t tell her that you have kids when she grows up.” You say with smile. “Wouldn’t want her to think she’s not a good kid and that’s why her dad left her for other children who are better than her. She’ll think her daddy didn’t like her.” You mumur. “Kids can be particularly fragile…who would know better than a mother who’s a kid herself?”

His heart drops at your cold, quiet words, his breath catching in his throat, tears building in his eyes at the pure agony that he can feel in your words. The way you’re already resigning yourself to being a single parent all alone. The way you can only do this because you’re still a damn kid yourself. Suguru heaves breathlessly as he gulps, his bottom lip trembling. The words don't leave his mouth. He should just ask you to come with him, to live with him, to be together as a family, a big family.

“At least raise them well Suguru…the two of them should get a safe environment. You look down at Tsukiko, your fingers gently brushing the little hair on her hair. She’s so tiny, hasn’t even gotten hair on her head fully.

Suguru's hands shakes as he takes a step closer, just basking in the sight of his beloved and his daughter. "Yeah," he mutters. "They are good kids, my girls..." he says in a faint whisper as a soft smile graces his face at the sight of Tsukiko's pudgy cheeks.

What a mighty child, she can stop world wars, she has him stopped and he is the closest thing to be a cause of a war in near future.

My girls? Your knees buckle at the words. “Ah I see… they are your girls.” You can't help but be bitter at his phrasing as you look at our little Tsukiko. She looks so much like her daddy. From her eyes, nose, hair, skin…she is a replica of him and yet he’s never had the chance to call her his child. It’s so cruel.

He feels a sharp spike of pain shoot through his heart at your words. His girls…not our girls. His girls. He doesn’t have the right to have you call them our girls. They’re just his. All because of him.

“Will she ever be your daughter Suguru…?” You can’t help but mutter so shakily, your voice quivering like a child’s as tears roll down your eyes…you feel so small it’s embarrassing.

A soft breathy sob leaves Suguru, he can't do this, he is goddamn monster. The sound almost makes you flinch as you look up at him. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it in for a few seconds before exhaling. “How could I...she’s…” he struggles to get the words out. “She’s ours. She’s ours and she’ll always be ours.”

Suguru sakes his head as he runs his fingers through his hair, he so goddamn dizzy. "She is my daughter, Nanako and Mimiko are my kids." he says, the change of a synonym making such a huge difference in the meaning.

"And you- you are mine, you have no- no idea who difficult it has been, I can't even try to compare, but I've missed you so goddamn much." his voice cracks. "And its so lonely, the girls they see me staring at your picture everyday and I tell them that's their mother. When they ask where you are, I tell them how I messed up- left to protect you, because you do not agree with my ideas, I thought you would be better off without me, that you'd move on slowly. But there's my daughter and I feel so guilty. You cannot move on, not when she is a reminder of me, of us. Of our youth."

The tears don't drop, but they pain is etched on his face, deep frown and upturned brows. You breathe out and shake your head. "I can't-" you murmur and he bites his lip, his index finger lightly running on Tsukiko's palm.

"I know." he says, "I just wish- I just wish I had more time, with you and Tsukiko." he whispers in the same soft tone as he conflicted eyes look into yours as if to say. Come with me, leave the jujutsu society, just us, our family.

But leaving with Suguru meant betraying everyone. Satoru, Shoko, Yaga sensei and the entirety of the sorcerers who work day and night for the future. A safe future from people like Suguru. Who heedlessly killed thousands of innocents.

"Go," you whisper out. "the girls must be waiting." You pause, your fingers shakily finding his and his eyes widen. He firmly squeezes your hand, the warmth of his hand against yours rouses and inexplicable pain and fondness in you.

"Satoru must be arriving." you mutter.

He nods his head slowly as he steps away, his voice thick. “I love you." he whispers out. The same words he had denied you the privilege of last time as he leaves...

Moments later a panicked Gojo pulls over, alarmed by your call before his eyes widen as he senses the remnants of Suguru’s cursed energy. His best friend, the strongest along him. Gojo can feel a cold shudder wash down his spine as he senses the remnants of Suguru’s cursed energy in the air, his breath catching in his throat as recognition hits him instantly, realising what may have happened.

You are sitting on the seats on the bus-stand as he comes close.He steps closer to you, his heart breaking upon seeing the dried tear tracks that are on your cheeks and the look of brokenness and despair in your eyes. He kneels down in front of you and gently rests his hand on your knee, his eyes gentle as he looks at you. “Y/N....” he whispers.

“Satoru…” You whimper softly, your voice cracking out of desperation and relief.

He quickly reaches up to pull you into a tight hug, his heart aching at the small, whimpering whisper of his name from your lips and the way your breathing hitches and a choked sob escapes your lips, the rest of your body quivering in his arms from the force of your tears. His arms are locked tightly against your body, keeping you pulled firm against his chest as you cry into your hands and he gently strokes a hand up and down your back. “Hey…shh..it’s okay…I’m here.”

He mutters as he winces, closing his eyes while the remnants of his best friend's cursed energy remains...

A/N: I sincerely apologise for the pain, but I don't have enough money for everyone's therapy.

EXP: Pear symbolism: In Chinese, the word li means both pear and separation, so it's said that to avoid a separation, friends and lovers should not divide pears between themselves.

[darkpolicepsycho]

Fan art for @vylantrophi because I want

Arts(fan arts):

Another version (night version? light?):

Speedpaint:

A little closer:

A little closer again:

🪴 . . .

So.. A few words from me.

I had this idea a month ago (or more). @vylantrophi created a test of who you are from this au, and at first I got April, and then Casey, after which I said I would draw them..

. . .

So I drew them..

. . .

I take this opportunity to say that I think your work is cool and the universe itself is interesting. I wish you to continue to promote your own ideas and gain more confidence. You’re amazing, know that. You inspire me (know this too).

(I'm talking without stickers, so you know that I’m serious🫵)

🪴 . . .

Have a good morning/afternoon/evening, and I'm going to die because I've been edited this for 2 days and my arm is falling off.

(I decided to draw in your style because I thought it would be an interesting and fun challenge... I was wrong... I have no idea how you draw Casey’s hair, so next time I’ll draw him bald✌.)

(I also added a hockey stick to him, but Idk if he uses it in this au. I’m sorry for that🫰)

(Also, the video was 12 minutes long even in accelerated mode, so I had to speed it up even more)

(Lol, I also have photos of separate backgrounds, I know it’s cool, but Idk if I should post them here)

🪴 . . .

(And I also lost the reference, I know, I'm awesome)

🪴 . . .

Songs for the video ( In the order of appearance in the video):

[pseudophan]

im sooo interested in what they could possibly be wanting to upload so bad after the rebrand like i was off podcast hill but now im back on and all i can wonder is what the hell will be the official dan and phil content like wtf are they cooking up what do they want to start posting that they felt like they couldn't until the rebrand AHHHHH like i need to know and I cant believe me from like 3 months from now will know

I KNOWWWW it's always so difficult to tell with those two because with the exception of the comeback in general, which they keep saying was very unplanned and casual, they're allergic to just doing something. they have to plan it out and make it a THING. to be fair i get it because i feel like 90% of the things they've started on a whim or just said they might do they end up dropping, and so now they're very careful not to tell us shit until they're 100% sure, but oh my god my blood pressure...

i've always thought a podcast would make a lot of sense for them, and there are definitely been plenty of hints that that's a possibility, but idek if that would tell us that much because that's just a slightly different format, the actual content could be anything. they could also do something that's podcast-esque in that it's longer and has some more casual bants/less editing but that's still heavily video focused, so instead of 2-3 shorter videos a week it's one long one that incorporates different segments. basically still a podcast but just enough to the left that dan doesn't have to call himself a podcaster lol

another option is they do different series of sorts, if they want to try out different types of videos without committing exclusively to one (likely thing for them to do lmao). kind of similar to the podcast idea but different videos, either one thing at a time (10 episodes of one thing then 10 episodes of another, a limited series but it's youtube videos if you get what i mean) or more of a like an 'on tuesday we post this and on fridays we post this' kind of vibe, except again i don't necessarily trust their ability to stick to a schedule

i feel like this is all over the place, i keep rambling for several hundred words and deleting it all because it's entirely nonsensical MAN I JUST DON'T KNOW. I NEED TO KNOW. i guess i just have very few guesses as to what specifically the content could be, but i keep wondering about exactly what you just said like, why does it have to be a New Era. they already post non-gaming on the gaming channel so it really does say format change more than anything, but what's the format!!!! and most of all what the fuck are they going to do with it!!!!!!! i'm going insane

[rs-hawk]

Another version of Bestie’s Werewolf Brother where you two have fallen out of contact for years and when he finds out you’re having a baby with someone else because you start being friends with his sister again and he gets really possessive and starts stalking you again. He finds out you’re a single mom and suddenly he realizes he just wants a baby with you even if it’s not his pup 🥺❣️Mostly fluff plz but I’d love some smut too

Not you bringing out this trope when I literally posted it’s my fave. Lol. No smut all fluff but I might do more with this if y’all like it 🥰

When you got pregnant your boyfriend acted like he was happy. He lavished you in compliments and told everyone how excited he was to be starting a family with you. Your childhood bestie and you even reconnected, her excited about baby names and planning your baby shower. It’s like you picked up right where you left off.

When you ask about her brother, she’s obviously uncomfortable. She comes up with all kinds of excuses about why he doesn’t want to talk to you, or why he seemed to have just vanished off social media recently. You can’t help but feeling hurt but you keep it to yourself.

When you catch your boyfriend cheating on you, you end up packing up all your stuff in a night and moving back in with your parents. It sucks. You can’t help but feel like a failure. You start going for walks more at the local park, just trying anything to keep your mind off your predicament.

“Hey,” you heard a familiar voice say from behind you.

You didn’t know that he had already been stalking you for months. Ever since he found out you were pregnant. He thought he could get past it, get past you, but hearing that you had been with someone else drove him crazy. He wanted to be angry with you. To hate you, even, and that other man’s baby, but the longer he stalked you, the more he realized how much he missed you. How he just wanted to be around you again.

“Hi,” you said as you turned around, awkwardly holding your arms in front of your stomach. You knew he knew, but you couldn’t help but wish this wasn’t the first time he was seeing you after all these years.

“It looks like you’re doing well.”

You shrugged, moving your arms and shoving your hands in your pockets. “I guess.”

“My sister said you’re… getting engaged,” he managed to get out without growling.

“We were, but some stuff happened. I’m living back at home until I can find a place.”

He knew he shouldn’t be happy, but he was. After that, he started offering to help you with everything. Need someone to drive you to an OBGYN appointment? Needed help putting the bassinet together? Couldn’t figure out which kind of car seat to get? He was always there and offering to help.

You were surprised, pleasantly so. You’d never thought much about it, but you didn’t think that he would be so involved in your pregnancy when 1) you weren’t dating and 2) it wasn’t his baby. As the weeks passed, he started asking to touch your stomach when he saw movement. He came to your parents’ house all hours of the day if you even hinted that you wanted to see him or if you wanted something.

When you went into labor, your mother took you, much to his disappointment. He came to visit you of course, but he seemed a little off when he came in. His head was down, and he wasn’t nearly as imposing as he normally was, especially considering he was mostly shifted. Then a nurse came back in with the baby after giving a bath.

“Oh! Here’s Dad,” she smiled as she placed the small bundle in his arms, though she did admittedly look a little uneasy.

You started to correct her, but he just started at the little one in his arms with wide eyes. You’d never seen him be so gentle. His ears were perked up, and you couldn’t help but notice his tail started to wag. He shushed you mid-sentence as you tried telling the nurse he wasn’t the dad.

“Human babies are so tiny,” he whispered, rocking the baby in his arms.

The nurse looked between you before slipping out. He stayed almost the entire time you were in the hospital. Even your parents left more often than him. While he was attentive to you, he was even more attentive to the baby. Asking the nurses to show him how to swaddle. Reading up on when human babies can eat solid food (because it’s just a couple months for pups).

He’s the one that took you home. Your parents are excited when they see his car pull up and you’re admittedly a little confused. When you get inside, you see that he took it upon himself to baby proof everything. He put together an entire nursery when you were just going to have the baby sleep in your room in the bassinet. He even sprung to get a crib since he had read online that infants can only be in bassinets for a few months.

That’s when you realize that he really is the best for you. He’s always been the best for you, and he’s the best for your baby too. The baby fell asleep in his arms before he settled the tiny bundle into the crib. Tears pricked your eyes as you wrapped your arms around his back, burying your face in his shoulder.

“You’ll stay, right?”

A low rumble in his chest vibrated your body when he spun around, grabbing you up in his arms. “I’ll never leave again.”

[potatoplace]

Every Family Is A Butterfly

Welcome to the Family: Chapter 2 | series masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist

Nesta x Reader

Summary: Your first dinner with the in-laws... Does not go well, to say the least.

Warnings: homophobia, toxic inner circle, lemme know if I missed something

Words: ~2.7k

Author's Note: ahhhhHHHHH NESTAAAAA 🥰🥰🥰 I'm soooo glad that I'm updating this one, I LOVE Nesta so damn much and I always forget cause I'm so Feysand obsessed lol. I hope you guys enjoy this one, uhhh Cassian is the absolute worst. Sorry Cassie boy, you're a total douche in this story... I'll be posting the first chapter and this one to AO3 tomorrooow probably. Or like. Later today cause it's past midnight 👍 (chapter title is from Welcome to the Family (the song lol))

18+ only pls

🤍🩶🤍🩶🤍

The door swung opening, revealing your High Lady. A smile graced her lips, but her eyes were tense.

“Feyre,” Nesta said stiffly. “This is my wife, Y/N. Y/N, this is my youngest sister, Feyre.”

You smiled brightly, taking her slender, tattooed hand in yours when she extended it. “It’s so nice to meet you, Feyre. Nesta has told me a lot about you, and of course, you’ve been a wonderful High Lady.”

That strained smile stayed in place as Feyre responded, “Thank you, it’s lovely to meet you as well. Come in.” She stepped aside to let the two of you inside, shutting the door behind you.

Nesta slotted her hand in yours as Feyre led you through the house to a sitting room, seven stunning people watching as the three of you passed through the archway.

“Everyone,” Nesta began, her voice confident. “I would like to introduce you to Y/N, my wife,” she finished with a smile directed at you, your heart fluttering.

You would never stop feeling butterflies at that look, so soft and sweet and all for you.

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” you said with a smile. They all introduced themselves, though you recognized a few of them. Feyre had sat down next to Rhys, your High Lord, on a loveseat, and sitting together on a couch was Mor, Elain, and Lucien. Azriel and Amren both sat alone in cushy armchairs, leaving one spot on the loveseat next to Cassian.

That fact did not go unnoticed by you, or by Nesta, with the way she stiffened as she began leading you to the open seat. Nesta smoothed her dress before sitting, tugging you onto her lap a moment later, and you let out a giggle as her arms wrapped around you. You felt her nose against the base of your neck a moment later, taking a calming breath of your scent before relaxing slightly below you.

You let your fingers intertwine with hers, hoping that she could feel the love you were sending to her.

“Y/N, it’s so nice to finally meet you!” Mor said cheerily, the first person to seem pleased by your relationship with Nesta. “Though I am a little upset, Nesta.”

Her fingers tightened around yours before relaxing. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t invite me to the wedding!” Mor said plainly, as though it was the most obvious answer.

“Well,” you giggled. “It was a bit spur-of-the-moment, Nesta came home one night and said that she didn’t want to spend another day without being married to me.” You looked behind you to give Nes a dreamy look, certain that there were hearts in your eyes.

“Aww,” Mor cooed, clapping her hands together lightly. “I’m so happy for the two of you! Y/N, we have to get together some time, I want to know my best friend’s wife!”

You nodded your head enthusiastically, actually looking forward to spending time with the blonde, from the stories Nesta had told you. “I’d love that, Mor!”

“So, Nesta. How did the two of you meet?” Rhys asked abruptly, and your eyes snapped to him.

Nesta inhaled deeply before answering. “We met in Y/N’s bookstore a few months ago.”

Now that was odd.

Nesta loved telling the story of how the two of you met and got together, gushing about how she knew she was going to fall in love with you the moment she spoke to you, especially once you’d started discussing your tastes in books.

Maybe… Maybe your suspicion about these dinners had been correct.

“A few months ago?” Feyre asked, a brow quirked. “Isn’t that a bit… Soon, to get married?”

Nesta scoffed lightly. “As though you didn’t get married within a few months, Feyre.” “Yes, but… Rhys is my mate,” Feyre said simply, as though it was reason enough.

“And Y/N feels like my mate, I love her so dearly,” Nesta responded.

You felt Cassian stiffen, heard his wings flare behind him, and your brow scrunched for a moment before smoothing out.

“So when, exactly, did you meet?” Elain asked from your right, her eyes locked on Nesta.

“In the tenth month of last year,” Nesta answered, her arms tightening every so slightly around you, her discomfort radiating in waves now.

“And… When did you start seeing each other?” Feyre asked, her tone light but you knew the reasoning.

They wanted to prove that you weren’t meant to last.

But they were wrong.

“About three months ago,” Nesta ground out, and you set to massaging her fingers gently, working some of the tension out and reminding her that you were here, and you were here to stay.

Amren hummed, but said nothing else, causing Nesta’s head to whip towards her. You imagined that she was fixing her with a glare, daring her to say something against your relationship.

“That’s… Quick,” Rhys commented, violet eyes trained on you. “Nesta said you have a bookstore?”

You nodded. “Yes, it’s been my family’s for centuries,” you responded, only the barest traces of a smile on your face.

“That’s nice, Y/N,” Elain said. “Does your family help you run it?”

A pain hit your heart at the question, rarely did you have people ask after your family anymore. “No, they… They were killed in the attack,” you answered quietly.

Sympathetic eyes hit you from every angle, and you wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground beneath you as memories of that day flashed in your mind. Nesta’s fingers gripped yours gently, bringing you back to the present.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rhys said softly.

“Dinner is ready,” a shadow-wraith announced from the archway, disappearing too quickly for you to ask for her name.

Slowly, the ten of you migrated over to the dining room, and thankfully there were enough seats for all of you. You sat at one corner of the table, Nesta next to you, and her other side taken by Azriel. At one end of the table, Rhys and Feyre had crammed their chairs close enough to sit next to each other, the other end taken by Amren. Opposite you was Mor, who gave you a reassuring smile. Across from Nesta was Cassian, who Nesta seemed to be doing everything to avoid looking at, and next to him was Elain, then Lucien.

Conversation was slow to start again as you all dished up your plates, the roast already carved into perfect, tender slices.

Which would be wonderful, if you ate meat…

But as it was, you only ate fish and occasionally eggs, meat and poultry having never agreed with your stomach properly.

Nesta shooed your hands away from the salad tongs, covering half of your plate in a blend of leafy greens and chopped bell peppers for you before taking some for herself, a knowing smile aimed at you. She plated all of your food for you, only the roast not making its way onto your plate, none of the other dishes containing meat of any kind. You smiled softly at her before you began eating, squeezing her hand below the table in thanks.

“So, where are the two of you planning to live?” Rhys asked after a while, breaking the relative silence of chewing and cutlery scraping against plates. “I’d imagine in Nesta’s apartment.”

Ah.

“No, we’ve already moved Nesta’s things into my apartment above the shop, and yesterday the landlord nullified her lease,” you said plainly before taking another bite of your salad, hoping that your answer settled any questions in his mind about you using Nesta to get to his money.

As though you would ever be so cruel, as to use someone like that. Especially someone who had been through as much as Nesta had been.

No, you would be happy to provide for Nesta for the rest of your life, if it meant she would be happy and healthy.

Even if she weren’t with you, a tiny part of your mind whispered, but you shut it down quickly.

Because she is with you, and very happily.

“I’m sure that’s a dream for you, Nesta,” Mor chirped, grinning at her. “Not only are you married to an owner of a bookstore, you live above the bookstore! Do you ever go downstairs in the middle of the night to grab a new book?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

Nesta’s cheeks colored ever so slightly, and your eyes widened a bit. “I knew those books weren’t there the night before!” you giggled, playfully hitting Nesta’s arm.

A low growl shocked the smile off of your face, and you looked to the source.

Cassian.

He was glaring at you, his hazel eyes flicking between yours and where your hand had hit Nesta.

You looked at him questioningly. What the fuck?

Mor cleared her throat awkwardly. “So, will the two of you be hosting a wedding party? I know you already did the ceremony and all, but I would love to celebra-”

“Oh, come on!” Cassian yelled, stopping the blonde mid-sentence, who turned to gape at him. “Are you all really going to act like this is normal?! Nesta barely knows this… This…” He waved his hands at you furiously. “Female,” he hissed. “How could she even be happy with her?! There is no world in which you, Y/N, can satisfy my Nesta, my MATE!” Cassian roared, his chair on the ground and his wings spread wide as he towered over the dining table.

Your heart dropped into your stomach at his confession, and one glance at Nesta told you that she was just as horrified at the revelation as you were, her eyes pleading as they looked in yours. You gave a tiny nod of understanding, then turned your head back to the threat, your arm reaching out to protect Nesta.

But you had forgotten; Nesta didn’t always need your protection.

She stood from her own chair the instant after your arm darted out, her hand grasping yours firmly, reassuringly. “Cassian,” she growled, so much rage in one word. “You asked me to go out to dinner with you, and I rejected you. You asked me again, and I rejected you again. A third time, you asked me on a date, which I clearly turned down. I would think that by now, you would understand that I do not like you. I do not want to be your mate,” Nesta spat at him coldly. “And if you cared for me beyond an animalistic level, you would respect my choices. But I can see that I was wrong, about all of you except for Mor. I love Y/N, and she loves me. And that’s more than I can say for the rest of you.”

Nesta tugged you from your chair without wasting another second and began leading you to the door, so many sets of footsteps following the two of you to the exit.

“Nesta,” Cassian growled as her hand landed on the doorknob. “Do not make me chase you.”

Nesta looked back at him, nothing but cold, hard hatred in her eyes. “There’s nothing to chase, you imbecile. If I felt the bond that you claim, I would shatter it this instant. I am married, and I love Y/N.” She flung the door open, letting it hit the wall behind it as she pulled you outside and out of that now-suffocating house, the weight of her family’s disappointment lifting off you the moment you were in the fresh air of Velaris.

You felt Nesta’s boiling temper the entire walk home, but you let it rest for the moment. She would talk to you, when she was ready.

Which happened to be immediately after entering your shared apartment.

“I cannot believe them!” Nesta yelled into the air, taking a few deep, deep breaths to calm herself down before focusing on more measured breaths for a few minutes. You busied yourself with making tea for the two of you, watching as Nesta paced in the living room. “I just…” she sighed heavily, taking a seat on the couch. “I cannot believe how rude they were. I know I told them that you don’t eat meat. And fucking Cassian,” she sobbed. “I thought he understood that I am not interested.”

You went to her, tea cups in hand, and sat next to her on the couch, cups placed on the table. “I know, love, I’m so sorry,” you said, offering a hand to her. Nesta took it with a watery smile, her stormy, steel-blue eyes tinged with red around the edges. “And springing that news on you, in front of everyone…”

Tears leaked from Nesta’s eyes as she held your hand tighter. “I swear, I had no idea, I would have rejected hi-”

“Hey,” you shushed her, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “I know you didn’t, Nessie, you looked just as shocked as I felt. Though if… If you wanted to explore the bond-”

“Gods, no,” Nesta chuckled wetly, wiping more tears from her face. “I don’t even want to be in the same building as him now, with how he treated me and you tonight.”

You let out a breath of relief that you hadn’t even realized you were holding. “I’m so glad to hear that, Nes.” You brought her hand to your lips, pressing them gently to the back of it. “I love you, you know that, right?” Nesta nodded. “And you know that your family being… Less than pretty up close won’t change that, right?” Nesta hesitated, but nodded after a minute of you staring pointedly at her. “And you’re not… Reconsidering us, are you?”

“Never,” Nesta breathed, her free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “I will never reconsider loving you, Y/N.”

“We’re in agreement, then,” you said softly, slowly leaning in for a kiss, if she wanted. Her lips pressed gently to yours in the next moment, soft and tender, and full of love. “Now… Would you like to take a bath? I could draw one for you, or we could take one together,” you offered, eyes cataloging her reaction.

Her face relaxed at the suggestion, her lips tilting up slightly at the edges. “Together, please,” she answered quietly, and you could hear the exhaustion in her voice, now that some of the anger had drained out of her.

"Alright, Nessie, you stay here and drink your tea until I come to get you.” You waited to leave until she picked up her cup and took a sip, rolling her eyes at you.

But you knew she appreciated how much you insisted on her taking care of herself, even when she didn’t feel like it.

The bath water was drawn quickly, a lovely gingerbread scented soap added to the water and covering the top with a thick layer of bubbles. Next you lit a few candles and turned off the faelights before going to fetch Nesta, who had finished her tea in the time you had been gone.

“Let’s go, love,” you said as you gently pulled her off of the couch, though she grabbed your cup of tea before she let you lead you into the bedroom, and you knew without her having to say that she expected you to drink your tea before getting in the bath.

You took the cup from her, taking a large gulp of the still warm tea as Nesta began tying your hair up, her own having already been secured for dinner.

“Are you okay, baby?” Nesta asked you softly when she was done, her hands resting on your waist.

“I can’t say… That their treatment didn’t sting, but I am fine, Nes. I promise,” you reassured her as you spun in her grip. She raised her brow at you, her eyes serious. “I promise. Besides, at least we know that Mor likes me,” you giggled.

Nesta’s face softened at the mention of her friend. “That is the bright spot of tonight, I suppose,” she sighed. “Well, besides the bath I’m about to have with my beautiful, amazing, understanding, wife.”

You smiled wide at her before reaching for the ties of her dress. “Let me just speed that part of the night along,” you said, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s lips when she blushed lightly. “I happen to need a dose of my lovely wife Nesta, with a side of warm bubble bath.”

Nesta snorted at your words before starting to take your own dress off with gentle hands. “We’re in agreement, then.”

You nodded up at her, once again amazed that she, Nesta, loved you, and chose you. “Yes, we are.”

🤍🩶🤍🩶🤍

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao @twismare @wrenisrad @icey--stars

Series Masterlist: @amelya5567

[thoughtsonkm]

Goodbye, for now

BABY? HONEY? BOYFRIEND SHOT? Jikook you're too much!

This episode was truly the best way to end the show, maybe even the best episode of the series. (Neck in neck with episode 2 of course) The way they enjoyed it so much but were also so sad it was over. The hot tension all around, the soft boyfriends mood who can't stop flirting and name calling each other with the most low-key couple-like sweet names. They could not stop laughing, they could not stop touching and they couldn't stop being hilarious without even trying.

~

SK Spotify daily chart end of November 2023 :

Jimin Jungkook Jimin Jungkook Jimin Jimin

~

It would be such a full circle moment if Jimin posted the boyfriend photo (which won't happen). Would almost be like a soft launch of some sort.

Not the underwear too?? Gosh I love my little gay freaks!! (didn't understand why Jimin would quote their 'yet another inner joke meme' right at that moment but I've learned to not question their inner workings)

~

Sorry but i have to be pretty one last time and say that I kinda had enough of seeing so much from the crew around or even in Jikook's shots and angles. It breaks the fourth wall a little too much and ruins the whole bubble idea. Ok I'm done lol

~

Returning to the issue at hand, the "seeing the beds for the first time" scene keeps getting funnier and funnier. As if they don't already have designated sides of the bed 😏

~

Ah the never ending bickering gives me life. Peep the half korean half english talk when they playfully get on each others nerves 👀😂

I better not speak on the scuzzi jacuzzi shenanigans cause otherwise.. Let's just say the photo speaks for itself..

NO YOU KNOW WHAT IMMA SPEAK. We all know that jacuzzi time is always intimate, relaxing and personal for people that's why I wish Jikook had enjoyed it fully without cameras. Yes I'm pissed on their behalf, that they had to film the whole thing with 382929 different angles. lol

His face is literally saying "oh so you're really gonna make me do it huh? if I was in your place I would've folded immediately and would've never let you go through with it!!" 😂

~

No one ever:

Jikook every 2sec : HONEY OH HONEY

(I was actually listening to the song while writing this and idk why it's so funny to me even tho it's a sad love ballad)

~

They must've loved getting the chance to at least see one episode of the show, plus the idea of watching it together..

Jungkook being so entertained by it meanwhile Jimin being mortified about half of the things that happened. HILARIOUS

HAHAHHAHAHA all parties were concerned if they'd be able to pull it off, I can't

BEST BELIEVE they're always gonna find a way to touch. Consciously or unconsciously.

~

This show made me realize that my favourite thing ever is Jk making food for Jimin, then making him hysterically laugh and therefore getting to hear Jimin's adorable giggles.

~

"Hello it is I the one and only, the only one who can touch Jimin's head ble ble ble ble" - JK

Jk was like: How can you imagine Jimin without me in your dream? Are you crazy? What is this delusional dream world you live in Jin hyung??

~

Tbh it's so meaningful and a huge thing saying that these trips were literally the best trips of your life. I think the statement almost went over people's heads.

I can't get enough of Jimin looking pretty and cuddly and Jungkook's immediate thought being: I HAVE TO FILM YOU

Them saying they can do a reboot when they come back gave me some hope that maybe just maybe this is not the end of AYS 😭

The ending bonus clip left me fulfilled but also sad and with goosebumps all over.

Thank you Jimin & Jungkook for letting us peek into this trip and getting to witness some of your precious moments.

Signing off, J&J 🥹

Ps. So I'm guessing the 52 minute video that comes with the photobook is probably the 3 bts videos combined that they've been reviewing for 48392 months right?

[galedekarios]

this is a personal vent post so please let me just get it all out without trying to come at me lol:

so many ppl saying they respect larian's decision to peace out and not deal with hasbro/wotc, but i have to be honest, i don't respect them at all.

they are leaving a game behind that is unfinished and a narrative mess.

they leave a game behind where everyone paid the same amount of money for it, yet depending on which character you prefer, you get less content.

the disparity between everyone else and their writer's pet ast*rion is insane. he has a half to a third more content depending on which character you compare him to.

they leave behind a sparse act 2, which is already so barren compared to act 1 and all it had to offer. act 3 is a narrative mess and lacks structure.

they leave a game behind where they made promises a handful of weeks before release where they ought to have known that they, in fact, will not be delivering said promises: access to the upper city, consequences for playing certain races across the acts (playing a drow is going to be different in act 1 and gives you advantages vs act 3 where it would give you understandable disadvantages), etc etc etc.

they leave behind a game where content was cut from the companions to make it seem like the origins have something to offer when that system is barely able to compare what origin playthroughs offered in dos2 and it hurts the game and the experience (like tara being cut for companion gale).

they leave behind a game where they promised to much variety and proclaimed in panels from hell how they struggled to show the width and depth of the game, but really? it's about as deep as a puddle. a lot of the choices do not matter. kill ethel? nah, she's alive and well in the city. no sister hags to be angry here. give karlach no infernal iron and never talk to her at all? doesn't matter, she'll survive until the end of act 3 and will still call you her bff. dissuade gale to use the orb? we'll make sure he'll still offer 3 more times just in case. send yenna away from camp bc you don't want her there? doesn't matter, she'll stay. and yes, i'm aware these are all small things, but they are part of a larger problem. almost nothing you do truly matters to the point of where i just skip most things in act 1 and 2 now.

they leave behind a game that they promise to still patch, but some things have been broken since early access / release to the point of where i'm like i'm sorry, but your word that you will continue to patch things means about as much to me as all the other empty promises. the dialogue about morena dekarios is still broken and it's been over half a year now. the astral sea scene has low-res body textures for months. i know from mutuals who love minthara that her romance is still broken. and i could go on and on.

and what gets me the most about this is all is that they have learned nothing at all from dos2: act 3 of that game was so bugged and all over the place that i couldn't muster up the motivation to finish it the first time i played. they neglected a character to the point of where he could have been removed from the game or made a general hireling (beast).

those issues were at least attempted to be fixed in the definitive edition.

with swen saying that there will be no new content anymore and stating that both bg3 and its characters are now property of wotc/hasbro, it seems unlikely we'll even get an attempt of a fix.

so what this boils down to to me is just another game company not delivering on their promises after overselling their product and more or less abandoning it after a year to move onto the next big thing.

i don't think i can respect that ngl.

[measuredingold]

with you, anywhere will be my home

author’s note: hiiiiiiiii. it’s been a minute, huh ? i’ve honestly been sitting on this for 2 weeks 😅 but happy i’m able to finally get this out for yall ! think of it as a v-day treat 🥰 i love this universe i built with folio and reader and have so many ideas for them lol as always, please enjoy and feedback is appreciated ! and requests are open btw, i’m in a rut and am not sure what people wanna read :) title a translated lyric from bts’ song home

pairing: nick folio x reader

word count: 2.2k

cross posted on ao3

cw/tw: miscommunication 🤥, fluff fluff fluffffff, first time saying i love you, nick is so smitten with reader it makes me sick, 18+ minors do not interact

It's almost a no brainer when Nick decides to ask you to move in.

It makes perfect sense. You're always together when he's home, switching between one place or the other, and it just makes a lot more sense than having your own separate spaces. He doesn't want to be separate anymore. He wants to know that when he's coming back from tour he's coming home to you, in a space you both share and make your own.

There's only one hiccup to this no brainer decision - he hasn’t even said I love you yet. Neither have you.

It's only been 9 months. Not a full year yet, but Nick thinks by month one he was fully in love with you. He might've been from the jump. You were the only person he thought about, the only person he yearned for. Which is crazy to think, because Nick's sure he's never yearned for a single person a day in his life. But it's different when it comes to you.

You're who he sees when he thinks about the future. When he plans out the rest of his life, coming up with every single possibility that could happen between now and then, you somehow manage to be in every single scenario. At first it was jarring, you popping up into his future daydreams, but now it's comforting.

If you asked him right now to spend the rest of his life with you, he'd say yes before you even finished your sentence.

So why hasn't he said it yet? Hell if he knows.

It's not that he doesn't think you love him because deep down he knows you do. Can see it in the way you look at him, in the way you smile, in the small gestures that you make. He stares at you just the same, smile way too big that it hurts his fucking face, and those same small gestures.

You love him the way he loves you.

Which is why he's decided that when he asks you to move in with him, he's just going to say it. No more silent looks and shared smiles when saying goodbye. Nick doesn't think he can go another day without telling you that he loves you. It's corny, but he needs you and just about everyone in a hundred mile radius to know immediately.

So, he'll tell you tomorrow. Easy.

...

Not easy.

Nick never thought he was much of the anxious type, yet here he was pacing outside your front door. He felt hot, hands clammy as he stared at the only thing separating the two of you. He has a key. He can let himself in. Yet, he can't seem to get himself to do it.

Because he knows once he goes in, there's no going back.

He isn't scared of your rejection because he knows that's not the likely outcome. He knows you love him. He thinks he may be a bit scared of what comes next. This is probably the most serious relationship he's ever been in, and he doesn't want to fuck that up. He doesn't think that he would, intentionally at least, but the what if of a hypothetical fuck up has been eating at him for hours.

His eyes flutter shut as he takes in a long deep breath before he finally braves unlocking your door.

His hand shakes as he twists the handle and he mentally swears at himself to fucking calm down, it’s just you, everything’s fine, but when he finally sees you, it’s like the world stops for just a moment. You look up at Nick from your couch, book in your lap, and the smile that spreads across your face makes Nick relax for maybe a split second.

"Hey baby."

"Hi."

He doesn't move, just stares at you from where he's standing, and your expression turns from happy to amused, arms crossing over your chest.

"Babe?"

He blinks. "Yeah?"

"...Whatcha' doin?"

"Um." His face burns at the sound of your giggle at his unusual behavior, but truthfully he doesn't know how to act right now. "Standin'."

"Oh yeah?" You arch a brow at him, more laughter escaping. "Why don't you quit standin' and come sit with me? I missed you."

He'd been gone a few days, out in California to put down some tracks for the new album. He'd just gotten home the day before when he decided he was going to ask you to move in with him because he couldn't stand coming back to an empty home. Nick blinks at you again before he smiles, warmth spreading across his chest as he looks at you seated on the couch.

This is what he wanted to come home to. He wanted to come home after a tour, or after a few weeks in California laying down some drums, to you reading your book on the couch.

"It was only a few days." He hums out and makes his way towards you, flopping himself down beside you.

"I always miss you when you're gone." You shrug before pouting at him. "Did you not miss me?"

His heart speeds up, pounding against his chest and he immediately shakes his head. "I wasn't saying that I didn't-"

"I was just messing with you," You cut him off with a laugh, face softening as you looked at him. "What's goin' on? You're acting weird."

Nick chews on his bottom lip before moving his gaze to the muted television, shoulders going up into a shrug. " 'm not acting weird."

"Yes, you are."

Okay. He is. He knows it and he knows you know it, but he just isn't sure what to say. How do people bring this up? Hey, I'm in love with you. Let's live together. It seems easy enough to say in his head but the second he gazes at you again, his words fall short.

So much for easy.

"I..." Nick starts and then sighs, sliding a hand down his face. "You ever have something to say, but just don't know how to say it? In my head it's so easy but every time I try to get the words out, I lose everything I even wanted to say."

Your face softens. "What happened?"

"What?"

"Something happened when you were gone." Your eyes narrow. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened." He mumbles out, eyeing you for a moment. "I just... realized something, but I don't know how to tell you."

"Oh."

For some reason, the detached tone in your voice makes his stomach turn. You shift on the couch, moving your eyes away from him as you look to the side. It's silent between the two of you now and Nick hates it. It's never felt this awkward before. Uncomfortable. He fucking hates it.

"Babe-"

You cut him off. "...Did I do something?"

"No." He's quick with his response, shaking his head quickly. "Fuck. No, you didn't do anything."

His stomach turns at the way you don't respond and wrap your arms around yourself, your arms being some form of protection. From him. Fuck. That's definitely not what he wanted to do. He shakes his head again, eyes pleading as he reaches out for you.

"You didn't do anything."

"Well, it sure feels like I did." You laugh, strained, and Nick swallows down whatever lump was building in his throat. "This feels awfully like a break-up, Nick."

"What?" His voice comes out a lot louder than he expected, and he hates the way his heart breaks beneath his chest at the sad look you finally give him. "I am not breaking up with you. That is not what's happening."

"Then what's happening, Nick?" You whine out, lips dipping into a frown. "You're being weird and saying you have something to tell me but don't know how to tell me. That sounds a lot like I want to break up with you, but I don't know how to tell you."

Nick pauses for a moment, eyes scanning over your face before he breathes out a quiet "Fuck," and shuts his eyes.

He messed up - majorly.

All he had to do was just fucking tell you that he loved you and this would've been all avoided, but instead he had to go and do whatever the fuck this was.

"Babe, listen to me." His eyes open to find you still staring at him, your frown somehow much deeper than it was moments ago. He hesitantly reaches out, silently asking if it was alright to touch you. You nod. He's gentle when he slips your arms away from yourself, finally able to slide his fingers in between yours. "This... I'm not breaking up with you, okay? I'd be fucking crazy to do that."

You don't say anything, just stare at him with that same sad look. He sighs.

"What I realized is that like," He pauses, searching his brain for the right words. "I like coming home to you. After a short tour, or a long one, it feels... good to know that once I'm off that plane, I'm coming back to you."

Your eyes soften momentarily. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, small and a bit timid, and continues. "Then it made me realize that I'd really love to have a place to call home, you know? Instead of doing all this back and forth. It's fine if that's what you want to keep doing, but I think I'd really like to have a home... with you."

The silence ringing between you two makes his stomach turn. You stare at him, wide eyed and mouth open and the nerves from before come back because he thinks he may have fucked up, but then your hand squeezes his. He can see the tears welling in your eyes now and he watches you blink them away.

"...With me?"

"Yeah?" He's nervous, not sure how to take your response. "If that's okay? Like I said, we can keep doing what we've been doing. Back and forth between here and my place if that's what you want, I don't mind-"

His words are cut off by your lips, a bruising kiss suffocating whatever he wanted to say. His eyes widen for a moment before they flutter shut and he finally kisses back, before chuckling softly against your lips. You sniffle.

"Are you telling me you want to move-in together?"

Nick notices the first tear that falls when he pulls back, reaching a hand up and brushing it away with his thumb. His timid smile grows at the feeling of you nuzzling into his touch.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Are you sure?" You actually sound nervous, staring at him with wide eyes as you asked.

"Of course I'm sure," He doesn't have to think twice, words falling from his lips with ease, "I love you. I want this, if you do."

It takes him a second to realize he had said it, and feels slightly embarrassed at the butterflies filling his stomach at how easy it was to say. His face flushes as your eyes widen more, lips parting as the weight of his words dawn on you.

"...You love me?"

His stomach turns again, and he nods slowly. "Yeah?"

"How long?"

"I think I loved you from the start." He replies sheepishly, cheeks burning at the wide smile you give him.

You blink away your tears again, leaning more into his palm that's still rested against your cheek. "I think I have, too."

Your words are soft, almost inaudible, but he hears it. His stomach turns and he can feel his heart pounding against his chest. His entire face burns and his ears are probably red, too, but fuck it. He doesn't care.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." Your wide smile falls into something softer, much smaller, and he swears your eyes twinkle as you hum out, "I love you."

Nick doesn't know what to say besides smile at you, cheeks immediately hurting at how wide it's stretched across his face. "I love you, too."

"And I really want to live with you." You rush out. "I've been thinking about that too but I was worried I was moving too fast. Didn't want to scare you."

"Honey," He starts with a chuckle, "I think you could've asked me two weeks in and I would've straight up said you know what? Hell yeah."

You laugh, all thick with emotion and fucking beautiful that Nick can't help but lean in and press his lips against yours again. Your arms raise to wrap around your shoulders to bring him closer to you and he can't help but make a noise, a happy sound, and deepen the kiss. You pull away first this time, forehead resting against his.

"So, we're doing this?"

"Yeah. I think we are."

The two of you smile at each other in silence and Nick wishes nothing more than to bask in this moment a little longer. He doesn't know if he's ever felt happier. Knowing that you love him right back makes him feel things he wasn't sure he's ever felt before. It's in that moment, with the way you're staring at him like he hangs up the fucking moon and the stars, that he's going to ask you to marry him someday.

And it makes him feel damn good knowing that you'll say yes.

[purpledemonlilyposting]

Anyway back to Lily. She has helpfully given me another opportunity to give you a preview of what the Dragon Age stream will be like. Finish Inquisition and make your terrible 3rd video already Lily. I finished it in a month doing only 2 streams a week, including The Descent and Trespasser DLCs (and most of Hakkon, I never beat that dragon tho lol.)

[Lily's Post]

Dragon Age: Origins - Lily you played the City Elf origin. You got extra elf ghetto content. Did you miss the entire main story subplot of Loghain allowing Tevinter slavers to kidnap elves from Denerim's alienage under the guise of quarantining people due to a plague? Were you and your wife too busy talking about pointless bullshit over cutscenes to pay attention? Or did you just spacebar hammer your way through? Did you even finish the game?

Dragon Age 2 - Lily you managed to play almost the entire series without realizing the Templars are an arm of the Chantry. That they're a monastic-like order that people are typically recruited into as children. That the Chantry keeps control of them with the lyrium dust that also fuels their magic cancelling powers and will eventually addle their senses like mercury poisoning.

If you think Tranquility is "brainwashing" then... you REALLY weren't paying attention. Making mages that have passed their Harrowing into a Tranquil is actually against Chantry law. Kirkwall's Circle was doing it illegally because it's one of the worst Circles in one of the most violent cities and their Knight-Commander was going insane under the influence of red lyrium. That's not every Circle in the world. No matter what Anders says.

Speaking of Anders... you did finish the game right? You seem to be completely ignoring what was the inciting incident for the conflict boiling over at the end. Don't make me cheat and peek at your video ahead of time, I like reacting to videos blind.

Dragon Age: Inquisition - What the fuck are you even talking about? If you mean the Exalted March on Halamshiral that happened centuries ago in canon. In fact there's so many elves in Halamshiral its more like the entire city is an alienage and the humans wall themselves off.

Or else you're talking about devout Andrastians like Cassandra poking at a Dalish elf about believing in the Maker? Cause only the Dalish aren't Andrastian you know. Most City Elves are. Skill issue either way, my very fiercely Dalish Inquisitor made friends with her. My Quiz didn't even let her stupid egg boyfriend remove her vallaslin.

You haven't even finished the game yet. Of course that hasn't stopped you from writing your script as you go along. And you're clearly not paying attention to the plot if that's your only take away.

Dragon Age: The Veilguard - Yeah Lily every single critic and fan is complaining about the sanitization of the world in Veilguard because it was cobbled from a disastrous idea of making an MMO out of the series after they cancelled development of a fourth game twice already. It's a miracle we got fucking anything.

I won't pretend I didn't enjoy having every single one of my lore theories validated. And being surprised by a few lore reveals I didn't even see coming. I still enjoyed seeing cities in the north of Thedas we'd only ever heard of. I was very happy to see the Grand Necropolis. Also Emmrich is best girl, best new character in the entire series, 10/10 no complaints, I love Mr. Rogers Vincent Prince.

Dat combat system is still amazing though. Too bad it came at the expense of the writing this time.

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, replacing my pinned post with latest update to our status quo....it might seem like things are never moving forward with us (certainly feels that way) but we're in a much better place than a year ago! We have secure, stable housing for the foreseeable longterm future, my ID situation is finished and dealt with, I have a steady, regular paycheck again, and basic health insurance FTW.

My current focus is paying off medical debt/rebuilding credit tanked when I spent every cent and bit of credit I had dealing with my jaw surgery and being unhoused for several years. I still have, well, no teeth, lmao, which is something I'd really like to fix because optimally I've still got a good chance at another forty years left in me and I would like to not spend all that time with ill-fitting dentures. I've never been able to not be aware of the taste of any of the different denture gums/sealants I've tried and its not super fun walking around tasting a constant awareness of that time you were gay-bashed and it blew up your life and led to longterm health complications fifteen years later that blew up your life a second time, even more thoroughly loooool. Why do I add lol there? Its not funny. Whimsy I guess. Idk I dont really get me.

POINT IS. Even if I eventually secure some better dental insurance down the road, there's no way I'm affording teeth implants without decent credit cards or loans in the future. And since jaw bone deteriorates when a tooth is absent and I have quite literally no teeth, the years since my jaw surgery mean I need mega bone grafts in my jaw before I can even think about implants, and the longer it takes to get there, the worse (and more expensive, and thus more unlikely to actually happen) it becomes.

So, as anyone who's lived below the poverty line knows, the only way to make goals like that happen is to prioritize them with every paycheck. So things like food, medication, etc, all come AFTER putting money towards "the big things," with whatever's left over. Which leaves basically zero buffer for anything else, especially the unexpected. I haven't bought a new item of clothing in over four years, etc. A few days ago we wasted a whole day just trying to find an extra freelance job online so we could get five bucks for a box of band-aids. Stuff like that.

Which is to say, five bucks here and there from people who enjoy my content when I actually AM around and would like me to be more often is hugely appreciated and makes a BIG difference, because it helps with all that "extra." For example, even just an extra $40 in a month can keep us fed for a week without having to dip into a paycheck and take money away from The Big Goals. $30 is enough to pay for my most important medication for the month. It takes me two train transfers and a bus to get to work and then the same back, but public transpo caps daily fares at $5.25, so even just an extra $21 takes care of getting me to and from work for a whole week.

A single $3 ko-fi or $5 donation might not sound like a lot to most ppl but for us it adds up quickly and just a handful of those can mean the difference between getting to apply a whole paycheck to where we NEED it to go vs it quickly getting whittled down to nothing and we end up right where we started.....or usually worse off, bc those unexpected expenses like boxes of band-aids or some Advil or little things like that add up quick too and we often start off the next month knowing we have to devote a whole paycheck to everything we couldn't get last month and we're a week in before we're even back at zero and able to start putting money back towards the Big Goals.

So if you ever see this post and think eh, what difference could $2 or $3 bucks make, please just know its VERY appreciated and makes a very big difference indeed. Sometimes an extra $3 means being able to spend a whole day off work ACTUALLY off of work instead of spending ten hours hustling to try and find and secure an extra freelance gig when literally the only thing we needed that day was an extra $3 for a box of pasta and some sauce.

My ko-fi link is here and paypal is here, and as always, anything and everything is really appreciated, even just reading this through and considering it, lol. Thanks guys!!