#like the writing was on the wall in invisible ink

[bananaapplewaffle]

Finally watched the latest episode of G-Witch.

It’s even more fucked up.

Splendid.

[notthefirstfallenangel]

Forbidden to die III

Pairing: John Price x Fem!Reader

Warnings: ADULT CONTENT. 18+, blood, violence, death

Summary: Captain Price endures the horrors of a Russian prison as a prisoner of war, and finds some solace in his cell neighbour, who helps him stay strong with their late-night chats.

Words: 2.4k

A/N: I have tried to write multiple endings, but none feel quite right. Despite my best efforts, the conclusion I have written is not to my liking. However, I accept it as the best one I could come up with at this moment.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

Death is silent, like a shadow, and takes different shapes and forms. Sometimes invisible, sometimes not. Sometimes tall and thin, sometimes short and squat, sometimes all of the above.

Death is a blur in the shadows, which could be any shape. It’s a shade of grey that appears and disappears. You can’t really see it, but you can feel it. Depending on where it is, you can’t even smell it.

Death is silent and takes different shapes and forms. It is a person, a thing; it is unseen. It is a feeling, a fear, a worry, a burden. It comes in a thousand different forms, and no one knows which, if any of them, will strike down that day.

And that day, it came in the shape of you.

Your hands were covered in blood, the body of a man twitching at your feet as he clutched his throat with the same hands that earlier had held you by your arms and shoved you against the wall.

The guard lay before you; he gasped like a fish pulled from the water. His hands scraped over the wound just under his chin, and the air pumped out of him with ragged gasps like a fish being pulled from the water. His blood spilt onto the floor in squeaking, thick spurts.

You looked at your hands, which were now shaking, and then back up to him- his face twisted in terror and pain. You watched as the man convulsed, his fingers desperately clinging to the hard ceramic beneath him. His body was contorted in a final agonising dance. Then, slowly, the spasms stopped, the body falling flat on the floor in a pool of blood, still and silent.

You paused to take a breath, rivulets of sweat dripping from your forehead. Your heart beat like a thunderstorm inside your chest as your mind raced. You didn’t want to be here; you didn’t want to have to do this. But it had to end this way.

When the creak of the cell door echoed through your chamber, you knew it was the moment of reckoning. The guard arrived with a scowl and dragged you from the shadows, ready to bellow his rage yet again. With your heart pounding in anticipation, you knew this was your chance.

Your sleeve hid the gruesome tool hastily created from an old spoon. Its handle was jagged, like a shark’s tooth, shaped and cut out unevenly. It was thin and slender like a pencil yet more pointed, capable of slicing through any material with just one thrust of its point - perfect for stabbing.

You had set the dominoes in motion, a simple act of anticipating the escape of a day to save Price’s life. But from that one action, everything began to unravel like a loose thread pulled from a sweater. The pieces fell into place with an eerie precision that no one could have foreseen. The air was still silent as you held the sharp, rusty knife tightly, its uneven edge biting into your skin.

The split second stretched into eternity; you knelt down, pulled his radio and gun off his belt, and left the body behind.

The thought of dying weighed heavily on your mind.

If you died, all you’d see would be darkness, the blackness of space; it would envelop you like thick ink flowing through water -the last sight you’d see before being pulled away to the other side.

If you died tonight, you’d close your eyes to relieve the pain and feel yourself float away on a sea of blackness. It would be peaceful, quiet, but not cold or terrifying. It would be an end. Your end.

Your lungs would fail, and you’d fall into a deep, comfortable sleep, never to wake up.

Death is terrifying because it is utterly peaceful.

There were bright, soft visions of Heaven, but you found them unconvincing.

You knew that your fate lay outside that door. You could feel the task’s weight ahead of you like a millstone around your neck. The darkness seemed to press in on you, suffocating and oppressive. But you couldn’t afford to be scared. Not now. You had come too far to turn back now.

The plan was to start a fire, large enough to draw the guards away from their posts and allow the other inmates to break free and possibly take over the prison. The tall flames would eat up the dry hay and brambles like a hungry monster, growing faster as it chewed its way through the field like a bull in a china shop. Once they reached the barbed wire fences, there would be nothing left but ashes.

You moved cautiously toward the door, avoiding the pools of blood as you went. The weight of the radio and gun made your hand unsteady, and your heart thundered in your chest. You took a deep breath and placed your hand on the cold metal handle of the door, pushing it open with a creak.

The hallway outside was dark and empty, but you navigated it with all the grace of a panther stalking its prey. Being a spy meant being invisible, and you had mastered the art of going unnoticed better than anyone else in your field. You moved soundlessly, every step calculated and precise, until you reached your target without a single soul catching even a glimpse of you.

The hour of their reckoning had come, and they would soon feel firsthand the inferno of their own wrongdoing.

--

The prison was oddly quiet, a kind of hush that foretold of a coming evil. Price felt it, too - a tension in the air, like something was about to happen and following him like a dark cloud. The hallway and cell block had an oppressive atmosphere - hot and suffocating. Then he smelled it: the unmistakable odour of smoke, bitter and sharp, that burned his nose and made his eyes water. He could almost taste the powdery ding of black and white smoke and ashes. This smell reminded him of war zones- The cries of the desperate and dying, the stench of death. 

The howls of protests, demands, and desperation were distant but just as urgent.

Price gasped for air as the smoke filled his lungs and flooded his eyes. He fought through that awful burning, choking sensation in his throat, which had become hoarse from all the coughing. His voice was rough from the lingering scent of burning plastic and flesh in his lungs. He coughed again, a harsh cough in response to the lingering stench of chemical waste in this redoubt.

“What the hell-?” He coughed and coughed again.

He crawled on all fours, one hand in front of him and the other gripping his shirt in a vain attempt to shield his lungs from the acrid smoke. His eyes scanned the darkness, desperately searching for an exit as he felt around with his fingers.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a sliver of light shone through. Price blinked in surprise as a figure stepped into the room- he could barely make out his frame.

It was one of the inmates he had grown to know well from his own cell block.

“Quickly, now!” he shouted, grasping him firmly. His thick hands were rough, and his grip iron-like as he pulled him up. The calloused palms almost tore into his wrists as Price found himself suddenly standing.

Price stumbled forward, coughing and wheezing. His eyes watered as he tried to adjust to the sudden brightness of the chaotic hallway. The smoke was thicker here, and the shouted protests and demands of the prisoners were louder. Price could see the desperation in their eyes as they scrambled to get out of the burning building. They pushed and shoved, trampling over each other in their haste to escape.

“What the bloody hell’s happenin’?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.

“We’re breaking out,” the other prisoner said, a hint of excitement in his voice.” Looks like you don’t have to be the sacrificial lamb anymore, huh?”

Price blinked, still trying to process the situation. he still felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. He could hardly believe it- they were actually escaping. He was filled with a sudden rush of adrenaline as he realised that his days of captivity were finally over.

Price barrelled through the cell door, with a thick cloud of smoke billowing behind him. His eyes darted around the room as he quickly scanned for you. Panic swelled in his chest when he saw that your bed was empty, and worry flooded his expression.

And then it hit him. It was you—you were the mastermind behind all of this.

“What the hell?!” He stopped and stared at the prisoner. “Where the hell is she? “Price’s voice was hoarse from the smoke, and a nervous lump formed in his throat. He tried to hold himself together, but he couldn’t. “God damn it.”

He bellowed out your name, but there was nothing but smoke, prisoners and the sound of shouting. 

The man yanks him by his collar, dragging him through the maelstrom of chaos and wreckage. 

“No!” Price protested, “not without her.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Don’t care ’til I see her, alright? “He snapped back before running in the opposite direction.

--

The hallway was dark and barely lit with an occasional flickering lamp. The floor was dusty, the air thick with dust and smoke. You could feel it getting into your eyes, nose and mouth, which all stung with each breath you took.

The air was filled with choking smoke, but you could still make out a few details. It looked like a prison block; you made your way back to the main core of the prison, grimacing as your injured leg throbbed with pain. The torn skin was slick and sticky. When you tried to feel the severity of the wound, your fingers slipped into the red mass of meat and gore.

You released your grip on the weapon after taking out a few more guards as you headed for the exit. 

The soft clattering sound of it on the ground went unnoticed against the cacophony of gunfire and men screaming in pain. The job was done, and you were almost out, but your blood still boiled as you leaned against the wall for support.

There were sounds of chaos all around, echoing through your mind, slowly numbing your soul.

Slowly, you had taken the corner, but the sharp pain of someone grabbing you by the shoulder and spinning you around made you stumble. You tripped on your feet and tumbled to the ground as a guard loomed above you, pressing his heavy boot into your chest.

You froze as you felt the cold metal press against your skin, and a whimper escaped your lips. Like its owner’s voice, the gun’s muzzle was brutal and unforgiving.

The man’s voice rumbled out of him, deep and menacing like rolling thunder. His words were almost inaudible, but the intensity of his presence was oppressive. He pushed his gun into your back so hard you felt it burn through the fabric of your clothes. His fingers dug into her collarbone with a cruel strength as he snarled, “Tell me, where do you think you’re going, little miss?” The raw aggression behind his voice was a warning - one you could not ignore.

The man’s face contorted into a twisted mask of fury; his eyes burned with a crimson fire that seemed to originate from deep within his soul. A sense of primal fear gripped you as you took in the sight before you. His snarling lips were drawn back, exposing his crooked teeth and the jagged scar tissue that stretched like a grotesque mask over his features. The man’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cruel like a razor blade.

” I’ll have to make you an example now.”

Your chest was constricted with panic as you struggled to breathe.

You knew that this was it. You were trapped, and there was no way out. The man’s grip on you only tightened, sending waves of pain coursing through your body. You tried to speak, but your throat constricted, and no sound came out. 

There was a coldness in your heart, something telling you to prepare yourself. There would be no falling asleep and drifting away to endless sleep; this time, you would see what lay beyond the veil. It was time to die.

--

The sky was bright and crystal blue, a contrast to the rocky, grey landscape the hospital window overlooked. The air was cold that day, but the weather was nice. A calm wind blew from the east.

Hospital rooms were quiet, too quiet. The occasional beeping of machinery or whispers of doctors and nurses speaking were hushed, like the clatter of the floor tiles as they walked.

Your voice suddenly broke the hush, saying, “No smoking here.”

Price sat in a chair beside your bed, his face weathered but his body lean and mean. His hands clutch a plastic cup of tea. He smiled at you.

“Smoke’s good for a patient like you...” Another plume of thick, acrid smoke exhales from him. “Besides, you’re supposed to be restin’, love.”

“The nurse is going to kick you out like last time,” you warned him.

The back of his hand brushed against your cheek, and he leaned toward you slightly. “I’ll kick the nurse’s scrawny ass out… “

You chuckled. “It’s bad for your health.”

“I’m not the one layin’ in a hospital bed,” he said.

Price looked up and into your eyes, watching them as they dart around the room, taking the measure of everything. He e had been enamoured with your sparkling, luminous eyes. He needed to look into them—his expression warm and full of adoration. It was a look you’d never seen before.

“Because I saved your life.”

“And I saved yours, remember?” His fingertips gently glided down the side of your head, his touch sending soft shivers down your spine. His fingers delicately combed through your hair.

“I guess we’re even.”

You both shared a moment of silence, just enjoying each other’s presence. The sound of beeping machines and faint whispers seemed to disappear, and it was just the two of you in the room. 

“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” he finally said, breaking the silence. 

You smiled weakly, your hand reaching out to take his. “I’m just glad we made it out alive.” 

Price’s thumb stroked your knuckles as he gazed at you with a tenderness that made your heart skip a beat. You knew he was a man of few words, but every word had a depth of meaning when he spoke.

“We did it together,” he whispers, his accent thick and gravelly. “And we’ll keep doin’ it together, no matter what comes our way.”

Tags: @8sy-errah8 @fanficwriterlover @i-ameri-cant @littleone65 @cosmoscoffeee @cj-theyoungling @time-for-tmblr @shuttlelauncher81

[dinodontwait]

Epistles of Love(Preview/Teaser)

Summary: In a charming and new suburb, y/n stumbles upon cryptic letters from Woozi, unveiling a tale of love and heartbreak. As the past unfolds through Woozi's words, will y/n risk her heart to uncover the secrets hidden within each carefully penned letter?

Genre: Romance, Mystery, Suspense, and Contemporary Fiction.

Trope: Slow-Burn, Strangers-to-lovers?

Main Characters: afab!y/n , Woozi, Amour( real names will be revealed later)

Supporting Characters: Jeonghan, Mingyu, Seokmin, Myungho, Suengkwan and Soonyoung(This list might change as the story progresses)

Word Count: 1.3k

Release Date: 28th February

A/N:

Thank you all for your incredible enthusiasm and support! Seeing the strong response to the poll, I couldn't wait to share a sneak peek of what's in store for this story. Brace yourselves for a thrilling ride as I embark on this writing journey. Currently, I've crafted the first part, and I've sprinkled some teasers within this preview.

I'm envisioning this fic to unfold as a mini-series, spanning about 2-3 parts. However, keep in mind that I've only completed part 1, and there might be room for expansion as fresh ideas come my way. My target word count for the entire fic is around 30k, but who knows – that could evolve with the narrative.

As I dive into the world of writing, I'm aware that there might be a few bumps along the way. If you spot any mistakes or have suggestions, please feel free to let me know. I'm still learning and appreciate your input!

Thank you for joining me on this writing adventure. Your encouragement means the world to me! 🌟❤️

Holding the old-fashioned envelope in her hands, y/n hesitated. The letter inside seemed personal, like a peek into someone's private thoughts. She pondered whether to read it or not, feeling a mix of curiosity and respect for the past occupant's privacy.

The vintage style of the envelope, with its intentional old-timey vibe, hinted at a story waiting to be told. The decision to open it felt like standing on the edge of someone else's feelings and memories. The inked words on the letter, still folded, held the potential to reveal a part of someone's life not meant for casual eyes.

The mystery and curiosity won over her reservations. With a quiet determination, y/n decided to unfold the letter, ready to explore the hidden stories and emotions that the pages might unfold. The choice to step into this unknown space felt like opening a door to someone else's past, and she took that step with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.

Dear Amour,

In the silent embrace of this letter, the ink traces the echoes of a day that etched itself into the fabric of my existence.

The day unfolded like a poem, a delicate dance of moments that wove themselves into the very essence of my being. It was as if each passing second became a verse in the story of a land parched for the sweet touch of rain. The air, thick with anticipation, carried me toward a nearby cafe—an enclave of serenity that stood as a refuge from the monotony of the ordinary, a sanctuary where possibilities unfurled like petals in the gentle breeze.

Since the tapestry of my memories began, I've been the silent observer, finding solace in the quiet corners of my home. The contours of my existence were shaped by the solitude I sought, a realm where the whispers of my thoughts resonated in the stillness. Yet, on that fateful day, a gentle pull, like the invisible hands of fate, tugged at the strings of my solitude. It was an urging, a call to step into the unexplored territory of the cafe—a space that held the promise of encounters yet to unfold.

The very decision to step into that cafe marked a departure from the familiar script of my life. The door swung open, not merely to a physical space, but to the uncharted landscapes of possibility. With each step, I traversed the threshold of routine, embracing the unknown with a heart open to the serendipitous wonders that awaited within the walls of that sanctuary.

The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans greeted me, weaving a sensory tapestry that spoke of warmth and familiarity. It was then that I saw her—the girl who, unbeknownst to her, would redefine the contours of my existence. She stood there, a living canvas painted by the hands of fate, the light wind playing a delicate symphony with the strands of her hair.

Her presence seemed like a stroke of destiny, a chapter written in the celestial script of our intertwined stories. As our eyes met, time suspended itself, and the ordinary boundaries of reality blurred. It was a moment that transcended the mundane, as if the universe conspired to orchestrate a connection, an unspoken agreement unfolding in the silent language of glances and smiles.

Her eyes, pools of warmth and mystery, held secrets and stories yet to be told. They mirrored the reflection of a kindred spirit, resonating with a depth that transcended the superficial. It was in that gaze that I felt the tendrils of an invisible thread weaving itself between our souls, binding us in a silent understanding that surpassed the limitations of spoken words.

In the symphony of that moment, the cafe transformed into a sacred space, a stage where our destinies briefly intersected. The ordinary chatter of patrons faded into background noise, leaving only the echo of our shared gaze. And in that silent exchange, a connection was forged, setting in motion a series of events that would shape the course of our intertwined narratives.

The girl I saw was you, and you had me the moment you looked at me. Your gaze became the catalyst for a myriad of emotions, unraveling a story written in the language of fate and woven into the very fabric of our shared existence.

Each recollection of that encounter is like a cherished melody, a timeless tune that plays on a loop in the quiet chambers of my thoughts. The symphony of that moment, the laughter echoing in the cafe, the delicate clink of coffee cups, all compose a melodic ode to the serendipity that unfolded that day. It's a melody that resonates through the corridors of my mind, an everlasting refrain of a connection that defies the constraints of time.

In these moments of reflection, the word "Amour" echoes through my mind, a gentle whisper that transcends the ordinary definitions of fate. It's more than a term; it's a name, a label that carries the weight of our shared connection. The mere utterance of it conjures images of you—the girl who became the focal point of a destiny written in invisible ink.

So, let this letter be a testament to the serendipity that brought us together—the day the drought of my soul quenches its thirst with the rain of your presence. Every word etched on this paper is a silent acknowledgment of the profound impact you've had on the rhythm of my life.

In the quiet solitude of my room, as I pen down these words, I find myself grappling with the uncertainty that shrouds our future. This letter, crafted with the ink of genuine emotions, might never reach your hands. I am left to wonder if our paths will ever cross again, if the serendipity that united us will weave its magic once more.

Yet, even in the face of this uncertainty, I write with a glimmer of hope—a hope that transcends the boundaries of time and distance. This letter becomes a vessel, carrying not only my sentiments but also the silent yearning to see you again. And even if this letter remains unsent, floating in the sea of unsent letters, it stands as a testament to the sincerity of my emotions and the silent hope that someday, our stories will intersect again.

Yours in reminiscence,

Woozi

The words lingered in the air as y/n absorbed the emotions woven into each sentence. The letter had painted a picture of a connection that transcended time and space. The vintage charm of the envelope seemed to have carried not just a message from the past but a piece of a love story waiting to be unfolded.

As she set the letter aside, the room felt different, as if the walls whispered secrets that begged to be heard. It felt like the quiet town held more stories than she had initially imagined, and within its embrace, she found herself entangled in the enigmatic tale of Woozi and Amour. She hoped to find more, but the letter just ends, and she keeps thinking about it. The night enveloped the town in its quiet embrace, and y/n found herself entangled in the web of possibilities. The journey into the unknown had just begun, and the quiet town, with its cobblestone streets and whispered rumors, held the key to a myriad of untold narratives.

With a heart brimming with curiosity, she hoped to uncover the layers of mystery that clung to the very fabric of her surroundings. But for now, the letter remained a silent witness to the unexplored depths of the town's history. Its words, though poignant and evocative, were a mere prologue to the stories that awaited her. As she drifted into contemplation, the vintage envelope and its contents became a beacon, guiding her into a world where love and suspense danced in tandem, inviting her to be a part of a narrative that defied the boundaries of time.

[waklman]

fake it is my bread and butter I’m in love thank u. I feel like reader is going to start pulling away. OMG WHAT IF jake kissed the reader in front of a bunch of people when he was beyond drunk or did something that made the reader embarrassed and uncomfortable so she isn’t talking to him and jake pleads for her forgiveness and it’s angsty and fluffy

note: okay i don't really know what this was but i'm just happy i was able to finally write something honestly, anyways here is more jake and princess until i pull myself together to work on the next chapter </3

warnings: mentions of drinking, insecurities.

If you were merely a book, you’d be a forgotten composition of bounded paper, quietly collecting dust on the unreachable bay of a shelf inside a fading bookstore—barely visited by anyone but the owners themselves.

And Jake would be the first person to ever be drawn in by you, setting off the soft chime of the entrance, walking right up to the shelf you sat on, extending himself to gently pluck you from the rotting oak that previously held you upright, and take you home with him.

When it’s finally just you two surrounded by the shrouding walls of his bedroom, Jake would slowly run his calloused finger down your uncracked leathered spine to ease you open, gaining your trust. Eventually, your pages would unfurl themselves to him—revealing stories that breathed life into your biggest aspirations and smallest insecurities, laid bare for his naked eyes to see.

And Jake would read those inked lines, over and over again until he could recite your contents in his sleep, until his heart filled with fondness when he thought of you, until you became his favorite piece of literature. 

That’s how you’d like to think of your relationship with Jake, anyway. You were something that existed solely for his mind to study, for him to understand. No one else. 

Jake would never return you back to that shop, Jake would never make you feel a semblance of regret for opening up to him, Jake would never laugh at things that would wear down your stitched pages. 

Oh, but he did, right in your face too. 

The moment Jake’s drunk laugh spilled out his chest at Jeremy Duncan’s sloppy joke about you being so quiet he forgot you were there—it was like you entrusted a stranger to hold your red solo cup. 

The same lips that read over your fear about feeling invisible, were the same ones that curled into a smile when a jab was made at you.

Rather than facing that reality head on, you glued back shut, reverting back to that lonely collection of narratives that you didn’t let anyone read. But this time, you couldn’t go running back to that high shelf that hid you away—all you could do was slowly withdraw from the person who took you off of it. 

Jake knew you needed solitude at times, and he respected that, it was how you recharged your energy after any social event.

So, for the last few days he let you do just that. He let you wordlessly walk past him when he tried to reach out for you to join him on the couch. He let you say less and less to him when he just wanted to hear your voice over dinner, afraid he might forget how it sounded. He let you sneak out earlier each day, just so you could avoid walking to class with him.

He let you do all of that, suppressing his slight worry—until he picked up on how you would nervously stand outside his door at random points in the night, only to eventually go back to your own room. And to make matters worse, if Jake hadn’t been staying up late, racking his brain about you rather than sleeping, he wouldn’t have even noticed that you started to do that.

Jake knew you needed solitude at times, but he also knew that something was wrong. 

So, that’s when he decided to stop letting you walk away from him, because it was starting to plague him with concern at this point. 

But, when Jake weakly trailed past your door frame, and kneeled at your seated figure at the corner of your bed, you flinched when he instinctively extended his hands to hold yours. 

Refusing to meet his stare, you miss the subtle traces of disappointment that flit across his features.

“You..don’t want me touching you?” Jake’s quiet voice is colored by hurt, hands cautiously dropping to fiddle with the cuffs of your loose sweatpants instead. You at least let him do that, because it keeps him at a distance, because the fabric he’s gently playing with acts as a safeguard between you and him.  

Gaze casted down into your lap, you reverently shake your head. “No, Jake,” you refuse him, your own strained voice mirroring his own. 

If you were merely a book, he’d laugh at the way you awkwardly sat, he’d playfully bump shoulders with the same people who looked through you like you weren’t there. 

With that, he feels an unsettling guilt well up inside his stomach, rising up to his throat like bile. “Okay, I see. Will you tell me what I did wrong then?” Jake sucks in deep breath, only releasing it when he sees you let out a somewhat steady breath for yourself. 

Even when a burn spreads through his lungs for what feels like a full minute, he still doesn’t feel deserving when he goes to cool it, not when you probably don’t think he’s deserving of it either. 

“No, Jake,” you reinforce, shoulders beginning to tremble from the pressure of refusing him, from the pressure of closing yourself back up.  

If you were merely a book, you wouldn’t let him take you into his careful hands, he’d only read your unshared secrets to the world. 

For Jake, it feels almost sinful to hold himself back from soothing his palms over your shaking body. His fingers clutch the ankles of your pants tighter, a desperate bid for solace. “Please, talk to me princess,” he helplessly begs, not knowing what else to do with himself. “You won’t even come into my room.”

“No, Jake,” you repeat, unaware of the tear that glides down your cheek. “You laughed, when Jeremy said I was practically invisible. You laughed at me.” The crack of your spine urges you to stay resilient like you did before, but the crack of your spine can’t help how much it aches for him to gently coax it again.

Jake stills as realization washes down on him, chest unwinding at your explanation. 

If you were merely a book, you would want to be perched on that shelving unit. You don’t need Jake to be drawn in by what your pages held, you don’t need him to not feel put off by the plain cover that held you together. You don’t need—

Without a warning, Jake scoops you up from where you’re sitting, forcing you to encircle your legs around his middle as he leads you into the threshold of his room. 

“I laughed because I thought it was the stupidest shit I ever heard,” he carefully explains, keeping you in lap as he goes to sit on his sheets. “You’re funny if you think I didn’t tell him off the morning after,” he continues, recounting the string of threats that fell off his tongue when found Jeremy after class.

When you finally look at him, cheeks sticky from streaky tears and waterlogged lashes fluttering at him, Jake feels his heart swell in his chest. Naturally, he goes to playfully tousle your hair, gently, mindful of the migraine that tends to follow after your crying. 

If you were merely a book, he would have corners of the most important pages gently folded in, ingraining each word and punctuation mark that made you vulnerable into his memory. 

“Jake, what would you do if I was a book?” You ask through a weak smile, heart gently throbbing as you notice the tenderness reflected in his eyes.

Smoothing down the hair he’s ruffled with both hands, Jake gives your question some thought. “Is this one of those, would you love me if I was a worm kinda questions?” 

Clutching the hems of his shirt between your hands for solace, you nod at him, waiting for one of those lighthearted responses he always gives you.

But sensing that you’d want a genuine answer instead, Jake gives you just that. 

“If you were a book,” he starts, brushing strands of hair behind your ears. “I would never get sick of reading you princess. Think you’d be my favorite,” and he means it.

[undercoverpena]

to think i’d forgotten

joel miller x f!reader

summary: his jaw is clenched, eyes digging in now—embedding into your muscles and bone to get you to move. he could speak, whisper or even shout, but he preferred this way. allowed the silent torture he could smother you in, to choke you first. 

warnings: angst. sadness. reader going back to a place she knew. jo-level-angst. wc: 2k. an: i know, i know. i said i wouldn't write for him and here we are. but angst is all i have and this was too fitting not to try. sue me.

It seeps into your nose, the smell of decay, rot and devastation.

Bludgeons over the scent of flowery soap, a bitter reminder that nice things—such as hot showers and cleanliness are more than a luxury. 

He’s staring. All gruff and piercing ink-filled eyes. Raking them over you, silently questioning why it is you’ve stopped. Why you’re frozen, lost—entering a dissociated state as memories peck the skin from your skeleton. 

The end of his gun nudges you, forcing you forward—almost stumbling as water ripples around your jeans. 

You want to move. Flee. Run up the once-marble staircase and get through to the building across. 

There’s nothing more important to you than following the plan. Than getting through the building, getting high enough to see through the vegetation and foliage that disguise all the death and disintegration.

But, you hadn’t expected this. 

Hadn’t prepared yourself enough for the fresh hell you’d entered. Hadn’t considered that the place in your dreams had become a waking nightmare. 

Lips parting, you hope to explain—the words spreading like vines across your tongue. Twisting, creating a mass at the back of your throat that makes it hard to breathe.

And then you remembered who you were with. 

Joel wouldn’t understand. 

He wouldn’t care that this was once a place you frequented before the world turned upside down. When plants only grew from the ground, and not from leaking roofs, and crumbling plaster. That this place had been somewhere you found comfort in.

Now it terrified you. 

It creaked and whined. It protesting the two of you being here—as if it wants to recoil from more eyes seeing its ugliness. The building groans again, this time dripping—whatever is tinges the air—into the watery depths you’re both standing in.

But, Joel is silent. 

A deep scowl now etched itself into his face. He basks you in thick, unbearable quietness—his speciality. 

You try to swallow, feeling invisible hands on your neck. The corners of your eyes blotting, remembering, and remembering—

There used to be muffled laughter. The turning of pages. Sometimes, there were even loud whispers and louder shh’s. You could recall how they echoed—how they bounced—around the once pretty, ornate ceiling and the bright cream-coloured walls. 

Now, the shelves were half sunk in water—all the words and stories they held dear washed away by the end of days. The ceiling was now shrouded in darkness and dinge, the walls less cream and murkier yellow and brown. 

It’s different, seeing ruination having taken a safe place. A place, in your head, that had remained intact, hoping it would be safe. 

Now, that fantasy has turned to dust. It crumbles between your fingertips—the same ones which clutch the gun. The one you’re holding just in case you’re not the only two here.

The same gun he’d taught you’d to use. 

The one he’d placed in your grip, his breath on your neck and his hand firmly on your hip.  

Nice ‘nd steady, darlin’.

He had said it mockingly then. Having learnt earlier that day what his voice did to you. His Texas drawl slipped like honey into your ear. Making your cheeks warm and your lips twitch. 

When Joel took out a brick from his wall, he was nice to be around. He could be snarky, funny. Less closed off and difficult. Sometimes, in the brief moments that flitter in—close to the rarity of a perfect day—Joel was someone you think you could tell about a place like this. 

Ramble about how the last time you were here was before it all happened. Your library card, now at the bottom of the backpack on your back, had been full of overdues. Not because you didn’t read, but because you didn’t want to part with the stories—reading them so much the edges began to dye from sitting out in the sun.

Today, Joel wasn’t that person. 

He wouldn’t care for memory lanes or simpler times. 

His jaw is clenched, eyes digging in now—embedding into your muscles and bone to get you to move. He could speak, whisper or even shout, but he preferred this way. Allowed the silent torture he could smother you in, to choke you first. 

He saved your name for necessities. 

As if there was a limited supply—in the same way, there were bullets. 

He hadn’t been the same with Tess. Her name he said so often, let it roll around any room the lot of you stood in. He’d shouted it, hurtled it, spat it and whispered it. Joel had said it until the two of them fought, a lover's quarrel from what you could hear. One which was full of raised, muffled voices that you tried to drown out from your side of the wall next to his place. 

They’d made a lot of noise, but none like this. None which shook the foundation of your small group. Then she was gone—in a slam and a hammering of boots. 

A two plus you, becoming just you and Joel overnight.

And he never said her name again. 

It took months until you put the pieces together. The puzzle not even needing to be complete when it began to stare you in the face. His confirmation of it came in a heated kiss. One which stole all your thoughts, words and oxygen as your fingers ran through his greying brown hair. 

Joel didn’t say your name then. 

Didn’t need to—you knew he was talking only to you. 

He barely said it when he parted your thighs or when he sunk himself to the hilt; didn’t let it escape when he pinned you to the wall, mattress or ground, running his tongue over places that made you whimper. Those times he called you darlin’. 

Let it roll from his tongue—almost convincing you, as he made you see stars, that it could be your name.

Your name, though, Joel says it when he had nothing left in his arsenal. When all else had been rendered useless. 

It’s why it surprised you that he whispered it—let it breathe amongst the walls of a place where it had once been shouted by friends. 

It sounded different. 

Something winding inside of you, twisting and turning until you feel the last shred of your old life snap. 

It’s loud—or it is in your head. It vibrates something through your soul, shattering an array of memories that were once a comfort. 

All you let escape—all you let kiss the air—is a breath-filled gasp. A single one. More breath than noise, but it’s loud. 

Loud in the stillness. In the calm. 

It makes tears sting your eyes. It allows the mask you force up to shatter somewhere around the tops of your boots. Your body emptying, devoiding itself of dreams and hope and the life before.

It must worry him. 

So much so, his hand wraps around your elbow. It’s tight, his hold. Pinning you with him, keeping you grounded—reminding you of his presence. As if you could forget him. 

As if he’d allow you to. 

“Need t’keep moving.”

You know that. Know that more than him. 

“One foot, then the other, you hearin’ me?”

You turn, meeting his gaze. 

How it’s slightly softer. There’s still a sharpness at the edges, but there’s also a hint of warmth, a gentler expression.

He’s being nice. Joel-nice. But still… nice.

It takes a second, one which thrums and shifts—bleeding quickly into another and then another, before you nod. Swallowing, you silence the past and the memories. You try to ignore how it beckons for you, the darkness—the one simmering at the edges of your mind. How it urges you to sink under the water and swim with your sadness—all siren-like and devilish. 

The grip it has, though, loosens as Joel moves you with him. His hand remains around your elbow—not supporting, but guiding. 

Not letting go until you’ve both trudged through rainwater and water-shredded pages. Doesn’t loosen his hold until your boots are squelching on the floor above, the windows letting the thinnest cracks of sunlight peer through the thick vines, the ones that smother the building. 

When he does, he lets go one by one. 

Thumb first, index next, followed by the rest until it’s phantom. Until you can feel his warmth, but know it’s in your head. 

You take a step away, needing distance—craving it. 

Feeling the crackles of thunder from beside you, how it darts through him, ready to hit. 

“Y’wanna explain what the—“

“No.”

It comes out blunt, and sharp. 

Your one word has edges, ones you don’t expect—never mind him. 

You don’t talk to him like that. Not frequently. You’re calmer, devious—plotting and clever. He’s action. He rips and he shreds, and yet you are someone who quietly waits until you can launch—and attack. 

Which is why the air thrums. Snapping isn’t you. 

Something he must also be processing. His silence damning, tension rolling from him in heavy waves.  

You try not to focus on him. Fixing your eyes, pinning them down, on a desk as you head to it. 

"I don't wanna explain, or talk, or argue. Alright? Just, gimme a minute."

It’s hard not to notice how the desk is shrouded in dust. Leaning on it, fingers leaving prints—a mark. It taking a while to register the feeling of wood under your fingertips.

Your thumb slides, discovering chestnut brown and you feel a sharp tug, a twinge. A thought slams into you, suddenly wondering if underneath the wood your initials are on it. Carved with the tip of a knife that was never yours, placed inside a heart, with other initials that belong to someone who likely isn’t alive now. 

“Now, wait a goddamn min—“

You shoot him a look. One as dark as he often fires at you, one laced with both pleading and poison. 

“Joel. Just for once—please.” 

And he does. Only shoving a disgruntled sigh your way. Shifting his gun from his shoulder, the sound of the strap sliding from his jacket echoes in the quiet, before it’s followed by boots. Ones which squelch—likely leaving the same watery stains as you until he’s beside you. 

You feel it, the heat of his body. 

The familiar aura he has—the same one which tells you when he’s close. When he’s waiting in the dark when you’ve told him you would be fine—that you can handle yourself. 

On another day, it would bring you comfort, him being here. You’d allow it to wrap itself around you, finding solace in it in the centre of a once-familiar place. 

It doesn’t. 

If anything, it puts your teeth on edge. The contrast and merging—old life meeting new— makes your spine tense, all ready to crack and crumble. 

“You knew this place.” 

Digging your teeth into your cheek, you don’t stop until you taste iron. Until it floods your mouth, settles between your gums and coats your teeth. 

Then you close your eyes, not wanting to let anything fall down your cheek. Instead, you let tears mould your bottom and top lashes together, simmering on the edge of your lash line—threatening to spill. 

You hold on through grit and determination as you nod, short and sharp. An answer, but not permission to continue. 

Because it’s four words, yes. Four simple words, and they have become your undoing. His acknowledgement is a further arrow to your shield. 

An acknowledgement that he can read you too—cares enough to do so, even if he acts like despises you. 

“We can stay a minute.”

“No, it’s—“

“We’ll stay a minute.” 

He leaves little room to argue, to protest. 

So you nod. Opening your eyes, temporarily seeing the flashes of forgotten people bent over books and giggling teenagers huddled in corners. Each blink makes the ghosts of the past slide from view. Curling your nails against the wood, you grow desperate for splinters to sink into your pads. Something to stick, bury itself in you. To make what’s left of this place become a part of you.

A place where you’d hoped for more for your future. A nice house, a family, a husband— 

And then you feel him.

One hand. Placed on the lowest part of your back. His fingers slowly spread out, one by one. Then he stills, having given you all he can. 

Turning your head, you let your eyes meet his, swallowing back a new lump that has formed as you tell yourself you have enough. This is enough. 

He’s enough. A spot of light in a sea of darkness and horrors. 

A fixture you hope is permanent, even if hoping now doesn't get you far.

[sparks-chaotic-cove]

Okay people hear me out

"Writing on the Wall" by Will Stetson but with Malitae, Deltavera, and Fable.

Reasoning is that they're all gods that create! the artists of the gods, if you will

Lyric analysis underneath cut!

---------------Malitae----------------

Palaces of silver and gold Cannot be designed overnight - Palace of light for Vikesh It's like the saying I've often been told "No matter the cost, do things right" - Malitae with Rae's skirt

You have to be careful You have to be diligent - Malitae painting, drawing, etc all the paintings Planning and measuring every detail - Different portraits Creating is drawing, erasing and drawing again - Portrait, portrait smudged, another portrait And I've never been in it for fame or attention I only work hard, so the structures won't fail - invisible hands sewing But seeing it finished is worth every mora I spend - Malitae with Wolf/Fenris's new outfit!

Within every building made with pride The architect lives on inside - sketches of Malitae's Island Shining paint, a marble heart - Frog with hat, dragon That's what makes a work of art - the sun-moon thing! We build and we play Sculpting dreams out of clay - maybe with what malitae is making rn? With the hope that our towers don't fall That we won't have to see the writing on the wall - TBD

---------------Deltavera----------------

The more you work, the higher the stakes And the bigger the sorrows to drown - Delta caring for the nature 'Cause one mistake is all that it takes For the walls to come crumbling down - Delta ascending, eyes glow?

You have to ignore them, the echoing voices - Delta making more animals That cackle and curse as you toil away - humans being confused by the new creatures Cover your ears and focus on boxes and lines - Enderian walking up And the shadowy figures, they're nothing but shadows - she looks him in the eye, he nods Like ink on a page, they have nothing to say - he walks away, fades to black But maybe, just maybe - Delta looks up They're trying to give me a sign - the ender dragon looks down

That in every building made with pride - Delta looks upon the bear cub The architect remains inside - He pats it's head, ruffling the hair Peeling paint, a heavy heart That's what makes a work of art We scream and we pray Sculpting dreams out of clay As we try not to look at the scrawl - (I'll figure this out later) The message of doom, the writing on the wall - Delta dying

[ there's a little bridge here- so maybe Delta's soul winding around trees and eventually into the little bear cub! Then it'll go to Fable's portion ]

------------------Fable------------------------

Every day, we play this game of chance - Fable smiles at one of the lodestar grove inhabitants Whirling through a desperate dance - switches to Fable talking to Momboo and Ocie Sketching visions in our heads - Fable talking to Rae Just to see them ripped to shreds - Glitches to Icarus yelling at Rae This road that we share - Icarus and Ven in the Cathedral, Ven's already been hit, Icarus panicking Doesn't lead anywhere - Icarus and Fable flying away But there's nothing an artist can do - Centross walking into the cave, a snarl upon his face When you swing your brush, you have to follow through - Close up of Fable. Blood fades into appearing on it

Within every building made with pride The architect is trapped inside Bleeding paint, a shattered heart - Aurelius's death, Taking Rae's shards That's what makes a work of art - stepping through the portal, Isla and Enderian in the background I'll fight for control But the right way takes a toll And still, at the end of it all I can't escape my fate, the writing's on the wall - Will be decided later on! TBD

[bicycle4two]

built to love, but broken now || Arkhamverse!Jason Todd x F!Reader || soulmate au

Summary:

"-you had your monsters. I only had this connection to you." . . . or Jason and you are soulmates but the connection you share has done more harm than good and maybe the universe is wrong about this pairing, that maybe two people can be too broken to love.

...

tags: soulmate au, hurt and comfort, healing, lonely characters, mentions of abuse and torture, reader blames jason for their pain at first, swearing, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, post-batman: arkham knight

...

Read on AO3

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Word Count: 11K+

...

Before

It had brought you some solace, the words on your skin.

They appeared suddenly, the letters slightly ticklish, like a ballpoint pen gliding across your skin, maybe even just a feather with how light and gentle it was. You’d been in class when you first felt the sensation, saw a list of food and toiletries being jotted down the palm of your hand. By your wrist, a quick computation followed by a couple of snacks being crossed out.

It was confusing, alarming, but at the same time, comforting.

Because these words, no matter how simple, how random, how inconsequential, kept you company in your loneliest moments.

In the darkness of your room, the ink on your arms, sometimes drawings, other times quotes from books you’ve never read before, made you feel like you were seen, that someone wanted to let you in.

And even when the ink was replaced by wounds, cuts, and bruises that you watched heal and fade, you weren’t scared. You felt the pain, the impact of the injuries, but instead of worrying about yourself, about how you were getting hurt without doing anything, you couldn’t help but think that this, this is only a fraction of what it felt like on the other end.

Because you aren’t alone in this. There’s someone out there who used to write poetry for you, lyrics of songs that you’d hum to yourself on the school bus, and that person is fighting and hurting, and how can you feel anything but worry, sympathy, for the person whose scars now litter your own body.

There’s a story out there of pain and suffering, maybe even triumph, and you can do nothing but read between the lines on your skin, piece together the clues it gives you, how the skin hardens to protect itself and how ugly it can get the more its torn apart.

…

You wake up in the hospital and for once, you don’t panic. By now, it’s a familiar, almost like home. The white walls, the steady beeping of a monitor, the murmured chatter. In a twisted way, you feel calm, relaxed, peaceful. Because no matter how isolated you are, how lonely it is when no one is there to welcome you back, at least you are no longer in pain.

Maybe it’s the drugs they’re pumping into your blood stream or maybe, maybe you’ve been out for so long that you’ve healed, come back to earth good as new, or as good as you can be. Chipped, cracked, but not broken beyond repair, not yet.

But you know it won’t last long, that the pain always comes back.

If you didn’t know the cause of it, you’d almost think you were cursed, that maybe you had offended some deity or witch. Because this pain is different from before. Before, the pain only took your breath away, stopped you in your tracks. Sometimes, it knocked you out, but you’ve only ever woken up with a headache after. Nothing some Advil couldn’t fix. But now, now it feels like a joke, like you’re somebody’s plaything. The pain inflicted is like a test—a little experiment to see how much you can take, how far the human body can go before it gives up.

There were days when it felt like you were being electrocuted, your body crumbling to the ground, convulsing, and you’re left with nothing to do but scream while the people around you call for help, watch in horror as you’re attacked by an invisible force. Other times, you’re knocked out of your seat, head flung back, nose bleeding, jaw aching.

And maybe if it was just that, shocks to your system, blows to your face, your gut, that would be okay, because if the scars on your body had anything to say, it would show that you’ve survived at least that much.

But this, this constant torture, makes you think that you only have so much fight in you, and you’re tired and afraid. You’re scared to leave your room, scared that some outside factor could hurt you, too. That maybe you’d feel a hit in the ribs so hard, so strong, that you’d trip down the stairs, fall into traffic.

And maybe the impact on your side would push the other person over the edge, aggravate what already fatal injuries they have, and it could be the last straw.

Because this, this phenomenon—blessing? miracle? voodoo? curse?—is rare, almost unheard of, a fairytale, and there’s no telling how it works, the extent of it, the connection. What once was just simple doodles across your skin was now a black eye, broken bones, a burst appendix, internal bleeding.

And from the pain in your chest, the way it’s become so obvious to you that you’re breathing, that something that’s supposed to be reflex, natural, now feels like a great effort to do, you think that this, this could be the end. That any more of this and you’re not going to make it to tomorrow.

“Do you want us to call somebody?”

“It’s alright. I can make it back on my own.”

“No, I mean, should we get someone from the police to come? Are you safe at home?”

The doctors and nurses look at you in sympathy, concern, making up their own stories in their head. You tell them that you’re clumsy, that you were probably born under an unlucky star, but there’s only so many injuries that you can pass of as consequence of losing your balance, of not looking where you were going, of the natural misfortunes of living in Gotham City.

You don’t want to get anyone involved, don’t even know what to say to the police if they asked, even the doctors can’t figure it out, how a person’s body can just hurt itself the way yours does. How can you explain the scars around your chest, wrists, and legs, the way it looks like you’d been tied down with rope and barbed wire? The bruises on your back? The way it looks like you’d been beaten with a bat, maybe even something stronger, with sharper edges? The scar on your check, the raised skin spelling the letter J?

Even you don’t know how to cover that up, in all sense of the word. You stare at it in the mirror and somehow it glares back at you as if it’s supposed to mean something, remind you of something. It feels like a label of sorts, a brand.

And of all the stories the scars on your skin can tell, this is the one you want to hear the most. And yet, you’re scared to know what’s behind it. Because it can’t be good. Surprisingly, it’s the worse of the marks on your skin, worse than the gash down your leg, the new bullet sized one on your chest.

Because this, this simple letter, somehow carries a weight to it. It’s heavy on your face, distorts your features. And maybe that’s why it’s ugly. Because it’s taken something from you, made it difficult to recognize yourself, to remember the person you were before it was forced upon you.

And it’s this stupid J that made a connection that once brought you comfort, made you feel less lonely, dirty, tainted it in ways that you feel like it will never be clean again, never be the same, never be beautiful again.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part I

Jason knows what to expect with cheap apartments in Gotham City—a shitty living experience.

The shower water is cold, if there is even any coming through the pipes at all, the floorboards are creaky, and the walls are thin. Which is fine. Jason prefers that he knows what the people around him are doing anyway, would hate to be caught by surprise. And, he won’t admit it, but nowadays, silence unnerves him, leaves him with his thoughts, which, haven’t been good to him recently, for a while now.

And frankly, it’s entertaining, listening to the petty squabbles happening in the apartment to his right, how they argue over the trash piling up, and why the TV only seems to be broadcasting porn. The drug dealers living above him were a talkative bunch, too, always laughing, bragging about some kid they recruited last week, how fast he was, how easy it was for him to get away from the cops. There were talks about bringing along his sister, someone less inconspicuous. At least, that was before Jason took care of them.

Again, there is some benefit to the lack of privacy his apartment building provides. In this part of Gotham, people tend to keep to themselves anyway, have learned that it’s better to mind your own business. So, the other tenants may choose to ignore the kind of activity that happens in the back alley, turn a blind eye at sketchy neighbors, the kind that walk funny, smell a little weird, but Jason’s always been able to handle himself, always knew how to fight people so much bigger than him.

All things considered, after everything, Jason has been doing okay for himself.

Sure, he isn’t great. He still has his nightmares to keep him company at night, still has this rage bubbling inside him, the feelings of hurt and betrayal still leave a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s okay. He’s alive, at least.

It helps that he can keep himself busy. That the criminals on the street, no matter how many guns they carry on them, no matter how much armor they have on, are still scared of things that go bump in the night. And Jason has been trained to work in the shadows, knows how to use them to his advantage.

…

It was like a mouse was living next door.

Jason knows that the apartment to his left is occupied, hears the quiet signs of life through his living room wall, but he’s never seen them. They shuffle around their room, their footsteps light, careful, almost deliberately silent, the music they play is always just a soft hum, gentle vibrations that lulls Jason to sleep when he’s staying on his sofa, beat from the night out. Sometimes he hears them when they’re about to cook, pots and pans being placed on the stove. Other times, he hears them rearrange the books on their shelf, the sound almost therapeutic, and in the early hours of the morning, he can hear the typing of a keyboard, the clicking of, well, a mouse.

But other than that, Jason’s never heard them speak, never heard the front door open the entirety of his stay. Chances are their times have never matched up, that they leave and come back while Jason’s out, but still. If Jason didn’t know better, he would think that maybe the apartment next door was haunted by a ghost cursed to go about the motions of its previous life.

Which is why, he’s uncharacteristically caught by surprise when he sees his neighbor in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around a brown grocery bag. It’s late, Jason’s just about to head out to follow up on a lead, and his neighbor, a girl no older than he is, is just coming in.

She looks up at him when she feels his stare and the first thing he notices is that half her face is covered by a surgical mask. The light blue fabric somehow highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the fading bruise on her temple. Jason thinks he should probably avert his eyes now, go back to what he was doing, leave before she does something he’ll regret, like strike a conversation.

But something about her keeps Jason in his place.

It’s probably because she’s looking him over too, her tired eyes studying him from head to toe. And Jason has to wonder what she sees. Because like everyone else, she looks at him warily, sees his large size, the scowl on his face, the bruises on his knuckles, and knows that he’s bad news. There’s this aura about him that tells people that they should keep their distance, to mind their own business. And somehow the scar on his face helps seal the deal, makes him look like someone you don’t want to associate with.

And people in the halls, on the street tend to look away once they see the pale, puckered flesh, their eyes twitching to look at anything but him. And he waits for her to do the exact same, waits for the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath before she scrambles to get back into her apartment, away from him.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, the moment her eyes land on the J, a series of emotions play on her face, and none of them fear. He doesn’t have much to go on, the mask obscuring most of her tells, but her eyes, her eyes are expressive despite being worn out. They’re sad at first, almost weepy, and Jason knows this look, loathes being pitied, but in the next second, there’s a fire in them, anger. And that’s familiar, he’s seen that same look in the mirror more than once, which is probably why he should have seen it coming.

But honestly who would have expected his mouse like neighbor to attack? To go absolutely feral?

…

There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, and you always thought that when you meet them, you’ll know the exact words that would come out of your mouth. You figured you’d introduce yourself, maybe even explain this connection you have, ask if they want to be friends because something as special as this cannot be ignored, dismissed.

But what comes out is a snarl, a sort of inhuman noise that perfectly fits your actions.

You didn’t think you could actually take him down, he’s so much bigger than you and obviously stronger, but if you could maybe get a scratch in, wrinkle his clothes, rip a bigger hole in his jeans, then you’d feel better. Never mind the fact that whatever pain you inflict on him would come back to you, at least this time, you tell yourself, this time you’ll see it coming, this time it’s going to be your choice.

But of course, things don’t go your way. Because of course this man’s reflexes were quick, catching you and twisting your arms in such a way that they were now behind your back, immobilizing you. His grip is strong, almost painful, but you don’t care. You’ve had worse and frankly if he hurts you, then that would be the best wakeup call he could have. Because you’ve been so careful over the years and he probably didn’t even know you existed, how strong this link between you two is, and if he breaks your arm then you’ll get to laugh in his face when the same thing happens to him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He growls out.

“You are!” You bark back, pulling against his hold. He only tightens his grip to an almost bruising extent, and you feel yourself smile when he lets out a hiss. “Painful, isn’t it?”

“What the heck are you doing?”

“Pretty sure you did that, big guy.”

And he’s quiet after that, probably confused, you can’t tell with him standing behind you, but you feel him test his hold on your arms, varying the strength of it. And it hurts, sometimes, but you let him figure that out on his own. When it goes on for too long, you take matters into your own hands. You twist your wrist so that you can pinch the skin of your forearm and he yelps, releasing you.

“Stop that.” He says with a sour look on his face.

“You stop it,” you retort childishly. He obviously doesn’t appreciate your tone, but you don’t care. You have bigger problems, like the fact that he looks like he’s leaving for the night. Which isn’t good news. “You’re going out again aren’t you.”

He turns his nose up. “What’s it to you?”

And you really want to hurt him, but again, you can’t, which is getting more frustrating the longer you’re in the same vicinity.

“Do us both a favor and don’t get your ass kicked, will ya?” You gesture to the bruise on the side of your temple, the hit you felt knocking you out of your seat while you were working. You had seen stars, almost missed a deadline because of it.

You don’t give him a chance to respond, reveling in the almost guilty look on his face, and you march back to your door, unlocking it with little difficulty, thankfully. You don’t know what you’d do if you somehow messed that up in front of him.

It’s only when you’re in the comfort of your living room that you realize that you left your groceries on the floor outside.

“Asshole.”

…

Jason doesn’t realize how lonely he’s been until he had someone else’s welfare to think about.

Back then, before…before, he had a partner, a family, and he made sure they didn’t get hurt, tried his best not to get hurt either if only just so they don’t worry about him, have to take care of him when he can’t do it himself. And, it was good, back then, he remembers how nice it felt to have people to depend on and to be depended on as well.

But it’s been so long. And he’s been on his own for years, the people he worked with were nothing more than colleagues, employees, only there because they were beneficial to him and vice versa. Now, recently, he’s been going out without caring about what happens to him, not really. Yes, he’ll make damn sure that no low-level goon gets the best of him, and he won’t let the likes of Batman’s ex-rogues get away without a fight, would make damn sure that if he’s going down, they’re going down with him, but he’s only human and although there was a time he felt like after all he’s been through, he was invincible, maybe even thought that he could live forever, he has a clearer mind now, a better grasp at reality.

Not the best, but thankfully better than before.

Which is why after a moment of confusion, of disbelief, of denial, he can now admit what his mouse of a neighbor is to him, what she’s supposed to be, and he’s trying to be better now, doesn’t want to hurt innocent people, so he’s a little more careful at his job because of it, because of her.

Which is a good thing, all things considered. He dodges quicker, that’s for sure, thinks of better, sneakier ways to subdue criminals, to keep the fight from getting too big, too chaotic, and really, it’s all he can do to avoid the worst of injuries. He really can’t say the same for his fists. The guns are more efficient, sends a better message, but really, when someone gets too close, punching the daylights out of them is more of a reflex than anything.

Bruised knuckles are ten times better than a black eye or a shot to the knee so he’s not going to be picky about it, tells himself that she would know that it could be worse.

And for the past few weeks he’s been good, comes home whole, the heavy-duty stuff in his first aid kit mostly untouched, but he’s not made of stone. When he gets shot in the arm, he bleeds. A lot.

It’s really the voice of Alfred in his head that forces him out of his sofa to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. It says a lot about his injury, the amount of blood he’s lost, that that wasn’t his first instinct when he got back. Really, he’s just so tired that all he wants to do is go back to sleep.

And although he isn’t psychic, doesn’t know shit about what his future holds, he knows that this isn’t how he’s going to die, alone in his apartment, swimming in his own blood, so, he moves, sluggishly, but he’s further from the sofa than he once was so that’s progress.

It’s the series of knocks on his door that stops him halfway through his journey. He thinks to ignore them, that whoever’s outside is going to grow tired, probably think that he’s not even home, but the knocks continue, there’s an insistence to them, a demand that he open the door.

And Jason would hate for that noise to be in the background while he patches himself up, thinks that it would probably make things worse somehow, agitate him. So, he drags himself over, angles his arm in a way that the person on the other side won’t see it, and opens the door with a glare.

It’s her. The mouse.

“About time,” she says by way of greeting, pushing past him easily. Jason sees that she has her own first aid kit in her hand and her arm is wrapped in bandages. It’s the same arm as his, almost like looking in the mirror, only he’s still bleeding all over his floor.

And maybe, maybe that’s why she’s here. She knows he needs help, knew the minute he got hurt, and she could have ignored it, dealt with her own injury, and call it a day. Yet she’s here now.

And Jason sags in relief, glad to know that he isn’t alone tonight.

…

It would have been easier to pretend he was still some stranger on the other side of your link, some faceless figure, if he wasn’t so nice to you.

But he just had to leave new groceries by your front door. He just had to fix your broken lock when he saw you struggling with it the other day. He just had to glare down the creepy tenant on the fifth floor, the one who looked at you for too long whenever you passed by, threatened him, told him to mind his own business, to not bother you.

He just had to be careful.

It doesn’t escape your notice that it’s been a while since you’ve been hurt, since you’ve felt a punch in the gut, a hit to the head. So long that your bruises have finally had the chance to fade and your skin looks almost like it did before. It’s never going to be the same, time cannot heal the scars, but at least you’re no longer black and blue.

That’s why when you’re jolted out of sleep with a scream inducing pain, you know something’s wrong. The blood no longer scares you, no longer makes you sick, but your hands still shake when you gage the damage, clean it up, and wrap it. And it’s supposed to end here. There’s nothing you can do now but go back to sleep, hope that you’re not woken up by another mystical attack.

But you can’t. The apartment next door is quiet, empty, and you find that you won’t be able to rest until you know he’s back.

So, you don’t care about the ruckus you’re making in the early hours of the morning. You don’t care that the parents down the hall are glaring at you through the crack of their door, the sounds of a baby crying are quiet compared to your knocking. You don’t care. Because he’s on the other side of this door and he could be dying and no matter how angry you were, are at him for getting the both of you hurt, you can’t just leave him now that you know he’s right there.

“I have so many questions,” you say when you’ve finished your wrapping. It took longer than you would have liked, but he aggravated it on his way back from wherever he was, and you had to make sure that it wouldn’t get infected. You don’t know what would happen to you if it did. “But something tells me I won’t like the answer.”

“Smart girl,” he rasps out. He’s tired, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t let himself rest. He watched you the whole time you worked, probably making sure that you did it correctly.

“But I feel like I deserve it. You don’t know how it was like, getting hurt without seeing what it was that was attacking you.”

And it’s obviously the wrong thing to say. Because although he wasn’t relaxed, at least he wasn’t angry. He seemed all too happy to let you patch him up, probably delirious from the blood loss, unable to turn you away, but now that he’s no longer bleeding all over the floor, he has the strength to glare, to scowl. And you should probably be scared. But you know he won’t hurt you. Can’t. So, you stand your ground.

“Are you in some sort of gang?”

“I don’t have to answer you.”

“I don’t think you work for the police. You have that lawlessness to you. So, what is it? Drugs? Mafia? One of those costumed freaks outside on the street?”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t look like a follower though. I doubt you’re some goon. Maybe you’re new, been training for this moment. Are you some up and coming villain here to take over Gotham now that Batman’s de—”

And you choke, his hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing. It’s not enough to kill you, no, of course not, because then that would be counterproductive on his part. It’s just supposed to scare you, to keep you quiet, the way his fingers tighten. And you think that the connection you share somehow dampens the effects the receiver gets from the original source because he doesn’t look the least bit affected by his hold. That, or he’s been through worse. Which wouldn’t surprise you.

You really should have kept your mouth shut. The original plan was just to take care of him and leave, a sort of repayment for the groceries, the door, the creepy tenant, but you’re angry, have been angry for so long. Because all his good deeds these past few weeks don’t erase the hurt you’ve experienced the past two years. Old feelings of resentment bubble to the surface and you don’t care that your life is in his hands right now.

“You don’t know anything, little mouse.” His words are low but the stillness in his apartment makes it easy to hear him, to feel the impact. “You think just because we have some voodoo link, I won’t hurt you?”

“You won’t kill me.”

“No, of course not, mouse. But I can make you regret ever speaking to me like that.” His grip tightens slightly. “You think I’m scared of a little pain? I’ve crawled out of hell myself.”

And you imagine that this sneer shakes people to the core, the way it twists the simple letter on his face. But you have the same thing on yours and you feel pity instead. Because along with all the anger, there is hurt, and sadness, and confusion, and loneliness.

Because this link was supposed to be a gift, a miracle. At least that’s what the books said, the old folktales, and it was, it was something to celebrate, to cherish. Until the years tainted it, mangled its magic in such a way that something that was supposed to be, had potential to be, love left you broken.

“D-don’t underes-estimate me.” You say between struggled breaths. “Y-you may not ha-have se-en me b-but I, I was there, t-too.”

You don’t expect to be let go so you crumble to the floor, knees taking the brunt of your fall. You see him twitch slightly but other than that, he seems fine. Physically. He’s staring you down like he doesn’t know what to do with you, what to make of you, and you can’t blame him. You don’t know what’s happening either, what’s going to happen. Because everything’s a mess and you don’t know if the two of you are tied together because you’re supposed to be together or you’re supposed to ruin each other.

“It—It wasn’t my fault.” He grits out like the words are painful to say, like they’re tearing through his vocal cords. “I, I didn’t choose to be tortured.”

And you want to say that neither did you, but you have enough tact to keep quiet because this, this is one of those things that you’ve wondered about for so long.

“You think you understand, but you weren’t there, not really. You didn’t see these monsters, what they did to me. You didn’t see the looks on their faces. They—they were angry with me, hurt me for things I didn’t do. And for the things I did, they did so much worse. And, and they were happy to do it. Glad that I couldn’t fight back, that I wasn’t in my right mind, that I was bound. Helpless. For all my training, I couldn’t do shit.”

“So don’t you dare put this on me, mouse. I’m not to blame here. I’m as much a, a victim as you are.” he spits the word out like he hates the fact that it’s the truth, that it’s a part of him as much as anything. Because you can see now that he’s built to fight and although you don’t know him, not really, not at all, you know that he was made to protect. That for all his anger, his glares, his scowls, his brute nature, he was someone who could do so much more, that he was someone who once never thought of hurting anyone who didn’t deserve it.

And maybe it’s the link, maybe it’s the way you can see him clearly now that his walls have been kicked down, burned, but you can see why his presence, the very idea of him existing somewhere in this world, once brought you comfort, peace.

And you remember.

You remember the writings on your skin, the way they tickled with every stroke that appeared on your your arms, the palm of your hands. You remembered the lists he’d make, the little reminders. The doodles you can imagine him doing in class when he simply couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. You remember the quotes, the poems, the song lyrics. And you wonder how you could ever think that someone who was so gentle, who seemed so kind, could ever think to hurt you. And you think that you always knew about him, but never once did you make yourself known. You never wrote back to him, never completed his songs, never drew anything for him.

And you think that although he had kept you company, you had left him alone.

…

Jason expected the tears. He has that effect on people he’s threatened, verbally attacked. But this, this is different.

Because there’s something almost childlike to her crying, the way she curls up and just sobs, screaming like she can’t find the words to express whatever it is that she’s feeling inside, the frustration, the hurt, the anger. And, Jason understands, knows what it’s like to just want to scream at the world because it’s done nothing but hurt him. But he’s never had to luxury to do so, not really, could never bring himself to openly sob, let his emotions out as freely as she does.

Because it’s a sign of weakness. It shows that there’s a breaking point. That some things can be too much.

And he’s jealous. Jealous that she can be weak, that she can break, that she can show that there is only so much she can take. So, he lets her. He lets her cry in the middle of his apartment until she goes hoarse, until there’s no voice left in her, no tears, only harsh breathing, and the shudder of her shoulders to show that she’s hasn’t passed out on him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when she’s finally calmed down. She hasn’t moved from her spot, from the little ball she’s made herself into, and Jason thinks that maybe she can’t look at him.

“You’re not the one who did this to us,” Jason says, feeling exhausted. It’s been a long night and all he wants is to just go to sleep. Lately he’s been too tired to dream or, at least, too tired to remember his nightmares, so he’s been getting some rest. It’s not much, but it’s better than before.

“Neither did you. So, I’m sorry I blamed you.” She looks at him now. Her cheeks are soaked, her hair and the mask stick to her skin but she doesn’t do anything about it. “This link, this connection, I thought it was like a fairytale come true.”

And Jason snorts. Because he once thought so, too. When he was younger, he had found a book in Bruce’s library about links like this, the different varieties, the way it brought people together. It was nice knowing that there could be someone out there specially for him, someone who would love him. Because for so long he went without anyone on his side, without anyone who wanted him. And the idea that someone in the universe was made to love him? Well, he couldn’t be that lucky.

But he wished he was. He really wished that he was part of that one percent that had this link.

And here she is, his little mouse, and he’s done nothing but hurt her. Even if he didn’t want to, didn’t mean to, the damage was done. To both of them. And Jason has to wonder if a link can break, if the people on either side were too hurt, too angry, too broken to be put together.

“I bet it looks like a horror story right now.”

“I think I could have loved you,” she begins, and Jason feels what little of his heart that’s left twinge, ache. “I wanted to love you. But, but the pain…it was so much. I was so scared. And I didn’t know what was causing it, not really. You had your monsters. I only had this connection to you.”

She pushes herself up to sit, to look at him without her hair in her face, without tears in her eyes. And Jason, Jason doesn’t know what to do. Because what can you do when someone tells you that they wanted to love you, that the thing you wanted the most, the thing you prayed for as a child, was right there in front of you, broken?

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, not knowing what else to say. He’s sorry that he wasn’t careful when he was Robin, he’s sorry that the Joker put them through torture, he’s sorry that even when he got out, he only fought harder, didn’t care what happened to him as long as he got his revenge. But again, it wasn’t, isn’t his fault. Not all of it, really. He didn’t know she was there, that she existed. “Why…why didn’t you try to contact me? If, if I knew you were there… I…”

I would have been careful. I would have fought harder. For the right thing. I wouldn’t have been alone.

“It’s not your fault. Don’t, don’t apologize. I…I should say sorry—I am sorry.” She traces the skin of her arm with her fingers in an almost comforting manner. Like how you’d stroke a puppy, lightly, gently, with love.

“When you grow up and no one wants to listen to you, you start to think you don’t have anything important to say at all,” she explains. “I was happy when I found out you existed. I, I didn’t know who you were, of course, but I was happy you were somewhere out there, you know? I just, I didn’t want to scare you away with…me. No one really wants to stay with me.”

“What was the universe thinking, putting us together?” Jason breathes out. “What? We’re both fucked up that’s why we’re perfect for each other?”

“Misery does love company,” she says with a shrug.

But she doesn’t look as hopeless as Jason feels right now, doesn’t look betrayed. Because Jason thought this link was supposed to be good, pair him with someone who was going to love him in a way that he’s never felt before. Unconditionally. But how can she love him when he’s hurt her? How can he love her when there’s no love in him to give?

It all just seemed like another middle finger the world just loved to send his way.

“Maybe we aren’t supposed to be fucked up together,” she says breaking the silence, taking Jason out of his thoughts. “Maybe, maybe we’re supposed to heal. Together.”

And Jason hasn’t been one half of a duo in so long and, and he’s so tired. So tired of all the pain, the anger, the loneliness. And here’s someone the universe is saying could love him, is supposed to love him, and all Jason really wanted was to be loved, to be seen, and he’s broken, she crumbled to pieces right before his eyes, but maybe together, they can build something, make something that would turn all the ugliness they have into something beautiful.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part II

No matter how magical the link seemed, how the stories described it as something that brought two people together, made people fall in love, you and Jason aren’t friends. Not yet.

You don’t hate each other, don’t glare, or spit out poisonous words at one another, but you aren’t friends. It’s hard, after everything, to be anything more than neighbors, but at least you aren’t strangers. Not anymore. You can’t pour your heart out, scream into the heavens in someone’s apartment and remain strangers.

So, neighbors.

It’s an interesting relationship to have. In all your years living in Gotham City, you don’t think you’ve ever looked at your neighbors let alone talk to them in the hallway, have them help you bring your things up the staircase when you run into each other in the lobby. And. It’s nice. After being on your own for so long, it’s nice to have someone welcome you back when you’ve been gone, to ask how you’ve been even if it’s just a question to fill the silence, to seem polite.

It's nice to know Jason, to have someone make you feel that you aren’t alone.

…

It’s late.

You’ve always found that you work better in the night, that editing videos with all the lights turned off, with nothing but Gotham’s city noise to keep you company, was so much easier than it was in the daytime. Maybe it’s because you know no one would disturb you this late, that you wouldn’t receive any phone calls or expect to answer emails at this time so you can work uninterrupted, get into the zone of putting videos together, find out the best transition between clips, to make them more interesting, more engaging. Or maybe it’s the aesthetic of being dressed in your pajamas, headphones on, sitting on your swivel chair in a way that you can’t do in an office that makes you think that this, this is how an editor should work.

Either way, the point is that you’re awake and maybe that’s why he comes to you, drags himself through your open window, landing on your floor in a heap.

It’s a miracle that you don’t scream.

“Jason?” You ask dumbly, scrambling to grab your mask from your table, hiding your face from him. It seems almost fair seeing as he’s currently concealed by a red helmet. “Is that you?”

“Hi there, mouse,” he groans, stretching out on your floor, hands petting your fluffy rug. “This is nice. Where’d you get this?”

“I ordered it online—What’s happening? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Just took care of some business. Nothing to worry about.” But the way he hasn’t moved from his   spot on the floor makes you worry anyway. “You got some ice here?”

“Sure, let me—” And it hurts. You feel it when you stand, the way your ankle throbs when you put your weight on it. You didn’t notice while you worked, too focused on adding animation to the video to make it funny, to emphasis a joke, but now, now it hurts. It’s not blinding, not to the point that you can’t walk. It’s the link, you think. Whatever injury Jason has, you get the dampened version of it, which says a lot about how much pain he’s really in, what he isn’t showing you. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

“Nah. I doubt it. I just landed wrong.”

“You don’t normally make that mistake,” you say.

“I’m only human.”

And it’s the way that he says it, the edge in his tone, that makes you drop the subject. You limp out your room and make quick work getting the things you need to ice and wrap both your ankles. When you pass by the mirror outside your room, you pull your mask down to check if Jason has any other injuries he isn’t telling you about. Luckily his helmet shielded him from most of the damage, but it seems like he’s bit his lip. You lick the blood off your own before slipping your mask back on.

“I can do it myself,” Jason says when you reach for the clasps of his boots. You see the guns he has strapped to his thighs but think that like any gun wielding person you see in Gotham, it’s none of your business. “Mouse. Stop.”

“Let me help you.” you say, suddenly tired. Your own ankle is nagging at you now, your position on the floor isn’t doing it any favors, and you wish you had at least finished your draft because you don’t think you’ll be getting back to your computer tonight. “Please, Jason, let me at least do this.”

“You’re hurt, too.”

“Not as bad as you.”

And, finally, he lets you take care of him. And you think that it’s been a long time coming. That you were always the first person to know when he was hurt, when he needed help, and finally, finally you’re here to do so. It’s not much, he’ll definitely be better off at a hospital, but something tells you that he isn’t going to go to one even you have to drag him there yourself. So, you do your best. He helps you remove his heavy-duty footwear, and you wince at the swelling.

“This is more than a bad landing,” you say, icing the ankle. You have a timer for twenty minutes already counting down on your phone.

“It’s two years’ worth of bad landings.”

You know that can’t be true, that there’s more to that statement. That the weeks you’ve been bedridden because you couldn’t walk was because of his monsters. That wherever they kept him, they made sure he couldn’t leave. But you keep quiet, knowing that Jason doesn’t do well when prodded for answers, that he’ll tell you things on his own time.

“Well, you better decide what we’re watching this week because we’re not leaving the bed for some time.”

And Jason laughs, a low chuckle that makes a shiver run down your spine. You look at him through your lashes and you hate that you can’t see his face right now, that you don’t know what he looks like when he laughs.

“Now, mouse, if you wanted to get me into bed, you only had to ask.”

“Oh my God. Shut up. You’re the worst.” And your glad that he can’t see your face either. That he doesn’t see how affected you are by him.

“You love me.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. You see the way he stiffens after the words leave his mouth and you don’t have to see his face to know that he’s cringing, grimacing. And you should ignore it. Act like you didn’t hear him. It’s the polite thing to do. You’d probably want him to do the same if the tables were turned.

But, at the same time, you think that maybe, just maybe, this is a chance. That maybe this link between the two of you hasn’t twisted in such a way that it can’t go back to how it was before, that it can still be fixed, cleaned, brought back to its former glory.

“Not yet,” you tell him quietly, almost like it’s a secret, something that only the two of you should know. “But I could, Jason Todd. I want to.”

…

“Hey, you didn’t forget the dog food, did you?”

“How could I? Your reminder took up my entire forearm.”

“I wanted to make sure you got my message!”

“Well, I did. So, congrats. What do you need dog food for? I thought mice only ate cheese.”

“Haha. Very funny. It’s for the puppy that stays by the back door. She makes me want to cry.”

“Oh. You should have said so. I could have gotten some toys, too.”

“And a bed? And treats? Wait, I’ll write it down.”

“Paper! Write it on paper!”

…

Jason hears the scream in his dream.

It breaks through the scene, distracts him from what’s happening, and it tears him out of the dream almost violently. He shoots up from his place on his living room floor, his breathing quick, gasping, almost panicked, and he has to tell himself—out loud so that it’s real, that it’s not just wistful thinking—that it’s over, that it’s all over and he’s free. That by some miracle he’s okay, he’s safe.

But the screams weren’t from him, weren’t caused by his nightmares. It’s coming from next door, his little mouse’s apartment, and he’s moving before he knows it, practically tearing out his door in the process to get to her.

(It’s a good thing that her apartment is practically baby proofed, her table’s corners guarded with soft padding, because Jason hip checks into one in his rush. It’s something he’s been meaning to bring up for a while, how her apartment is carefully designed to keep her safe from those small accidents people have with their furniture—stubbed toes, bumped hips, pinched fingers. He doesn’t want to be cocky, to think that this thing between them is more than it is, that the link is just that, a connection, doesn’t dictate what they are to each other, not really, but he wants to think, believe that maybe, just maybe, she did it for him. That she tries her best to not get hurt so that he wouldn’t either.)

She’s awake when he reaches her room, knees to her chest, hands covering her face, shoulders shuddering with every exhale. She looks smaller like this, somehow, more vulnerable, and Jason, Jason has never been good at handling things that were fragile, breakable, but he wants to try.

He thinks that she was with him in hell, and she survived, so she won’t fall into pieces just from his touch.

But honestly, it’s Jason who’s having a hard time reaching out. It feels like he’s going to fall into pieces because it’s been so long, too long since he’s touched somebody without it hurting. And maybe, maybe it would be the same for her, maybe she’d rather he just stay in the same room, comfort her with his presence, maybe he’ll even find the right words to say.

But he remembers the way her fingers trace over her skin when something’s bothering her, when she’s distressed. Thinks about how she grabs hold of her own hand, squeezing it to ground herself. And he thinks about how his writings used to bring her comfort, how she said they always made her feel less alone.

So, he grabs a pen from her table and slowly, carefully, writes the first thing he thinks of on his arm.

I’m here for you

I’ll always be here

…

“So, you edit videos for…vloggers?”

“I do commercials for small businesses, too. But yeah, vloggers.”

“Vlog…gers. Video bloggers.”

“It’s not that strange.”

“Why would you want to watch what people do in their life?”

“I don’t know… maybe it’s entertaining to see how people live outside Gotham City? I edit for a Metropolis vlogger. I saw Superman in the background of some of her shots.”

“I just don’t get it.”

“You watch reality TV.”

“That’s only because I lost the remote and you know it.”

…

It’s easy to forget with how he carries himself, confidently, dangerously, like he’s bigger than everyone else, that Jason slouches, that he walks with a hunch in his shoulders, that his back curves in a way that can’t be comfortable.

It’s not so bad when he wears his brace, when there’s something to support him, but some days, some days he can’t bring himself to put it on. That he’s just so tired from the night before—maybe even consecutive nights when things in Gotham City get too hectic, when the bad people get cocky, in over the heads— that he just chooses to be in pain. Or he just can’t help it. That maybe staying on the floor, on top of his new rug that you ordered for him, was better than moving.

Which is frustrating. But it’s not like you can wrestle him into one when he doesn’t want to wear it. You learned quickly that you can’t force Jason to do anything, that it’s a surefire way to end the day in a bad mood, so you think that there must be another way to help him because no matter how much he brushes it off, no matter the fact that pain is something he’s used to, he doesn’t have to deal with it.

“No, mouse. No drugs.” Jason says weakly when you kneel beside him, warm compress, massage oil, and some pain relievers in your hands. The internet said it should help. You even looked up some stretching exercises.

“You sure?”

“Definitely. I hate that shit.”

And you don’t ask. You think that it’s related to his monsters, to those two years, so you tuck the pills into your pocket and gently coax Jason back on his stomach. It would probably be better if he were on a bed, someplace more comfortable, but he’s never been able to relax on one, not really. He’ll sit with you, sometimes long enough to finish a movie, but he’ll never stay, never let the pillows cushion his head, never tuck himself under the duvet.

Jason visibly sags in relief when you apply the warm compress on his back, lets out a low groan. His eyes flutter close, and you think this, this is what he looks like when he’s at peace, when he feels safe and, well, warm. You think that Jason Todd deserves to rest, that he of all people needs a break.

“How is it you’re not in pain?” He mutters out after a few minutes, one eye cracking open to look at you.

“Maybe it’s like a loophole in the link,” you say. You move the warm compress away when the timer rings. “Like how you don’t feel my period cramps.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Nothing compared to what we’ve been though, no. But they’re inconvenient. How are you feeling?”

Jason stretches a bit, and you hear a pop. He lets out a sign, melting into the rug once more. “Better.”

“You think you can get up? Want to put on your brace?”

“It’s better if I do.”  

“I’ll go get it.”

You don’t remember when Jason’s apartment started becoming familiar. You think that it’s normal to think so, that your apartment has the same layout, but it’s different. You know Jason’s apartment, every nook and cranny of it, the things he keeps on display and the things he prefers you don’t know about, or at least see.

You know where he keeps his medical equipment, all the places where he’s tucked a first aid kit, where he keeps his everyday braces, the ones he has for his back, his knees, his bad ankle. They’re different from the ones he wears to “work.” The more heavy-duty ones are in the room you try to stay away from, scared that you might touch something the wrong way, set something off.

You know how he likes to keep his books organized, putting away the paperbacks he’s forgotten to tidy up when he leaves, making sure the bookmarks don’t slip through the pages. You know how he likes to put his groceries away, how he organizes his pantry so that the items close to expiring are in the front, so they don’t get forgotten, don’t go to waste.

What you don’t know is how long ago you and Jason have moved on from simply being neighbors, how long it took for you to know his life as intimately as you do now, to know how he lives in his little world on the other side of yours.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

Jason asks when you come return to the living room, still lying on his stomach, not in a rush to move, to disturb the comfort he’s found himself in.

“Like, outside?” You look out his open window, see that the sun’s behind the clouds but it’s still bright. It’s been a while since you thought Gotham as bright, having lived in its shadows for so long. “I heard the park has been renovated.”

It reopened last week and you’ve seen nothing but good news about it online. People were excited to see something nice, something new, untouched by the incident.

“We can,” Jason begins, pushing himself off the floor. You reach out to help him, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. Somethings, he prefers to do by himself. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He looks nervous. Almost shy. Which is cute if not a little unnerving.

“How about we move? Move out of this apartment?”

“Together?” You’re surprised that you’re not opposed to this idea. In fact, you like it. A lot. “That’s, uh, are we ready for that?”

“We’re at each other’s place all the time anyway and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe. With me.” He scratches the back of his head, eyes darting away from you, blush crawling up his neck. “This place is a shithole, mouse. We can get some place better—better plumbing, better ventilation, better security.”

And you smile. “Getting sick of the cold showers, huh?”

“I just wanna feel clean, mouse. I miss hot water.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

And Jason, you always thought Jason was good-looking, beautiful in that rugged way of his, but when he smiles, looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s always wanted, he’s breathtaking.

…

“So, how do you propose we move our things?”

“You have a car in the garage don’t you? Why don’t we just use that?”

“Oh yeah? Who’s going to drive it?”

“You? Mouse, it’s your car.”

“No. It was my dad’s. I don’t know how to drive.”

“How can you not know how to drive?”

“I’m barely out of high school, Jason. Why can’t you drive?”

“Bruce and Alfred never got around to teaching me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to look up moving companies then.”

“…You’re, you’re not underage, are you, mouse?”

“I’m nineteen. Twenty this August.”

“Oh. Good, good. Same.”

…

This, this is difficult.

The bed. He’s not used to it. There was a time when he was excited about it, after living on the streets for so long, the bed at the Manor was godsend, never believed he’d ever touch something so soft yet firm with such a high thread count. He imagined that his old bed was something Goldilocks looked for, the exact bed baby bear had.

And there’s no doubt about it. This bed in their new apartment is good, comfortable, one of the best that they could afford. It’s just, Jason can’t sleep on it, can’t get himself to relax, to allow his body to accept the comfort. Because it’s been a long two years with nothing but wood or concrete to pass out on. Jason’s even found himself hanging on a meat hook once or twice, dozing off from the blood loss, the beatings. And maybe back then he’d give anything to be back on his bed, even the one he had before he was on the streets, the old lumpy mattress with the springs sticking out.

But now, now all Jason wants is to move to the living room floor, to sleep on the rug they brought over.

“Jason?” She asks from outside her bedroom door, voice sleepy, barely above a whisper. She has her hands up to cover the lower half of her face, probably not expecting to see Jason out this late at night. “Is that you?”

“I have to ask, mouse, what would you do if it wasn’t me?” Jason asks from the shadows, from his place on the floor in front of their sofa.

“Scream. Then you’ll come out and beat the intruder’s ass.” She shuffles closer, her bedroom slippers muting her footsteps. “Are you okay?”

And isn’t that the million-dollar question? Jason thought he was. He thought he was getting better. He thought he’s moved on from the worst of what’s happened in the abandoned wing in Arkham Asylum. He thought he’s moved on from that Halloween, moved on from the Arkham Knight. Yet here he is, on the cold living room floor, unable to fall asleep in his own goddamn bed.

“Y’know, I never thought about it, but this is pretty comfy.”

All of a sudden, she’s next to him, the throw blanket over her shoulders, corners held up to cover her face. She’s made sure that there’s still space between them, that she doesn’t sit too close, but it’s enough, enough to feel her warmth, to know that she’s there.

“It sort of feels like a sleepover, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever been to a sleepover, mouse?”

“Don’t be rude. You know how much people scare me.”

“Not so much anymore though, right?”

And although he can’t see it, he knows she smiles. Because she’s still his little mouse, still a bit skittish around strangers, but she’s trying, she’s getting better at meeting people’s eye, at returning greetings. She’s even made friends with the kid across the hall, helps her with her homework sometimes.

“Not so much, no, but I live in fear of the water bowl trick.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the worst. I see it in movies all the time. So, you wait for someone to fall asleep first, right? And you warm some water…”

Jason doesn’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late. Doesn’t realize the way the gentle tone of her voice lulls him to sleep, her steady speech providing some comfort he didn’t know he needed, wanted. And Jason never really liked the silence, not like before, no longer found comfort when all he could hear were his own thoughts. So, this little story, some nonsensical tale about warm water and waking up in a wet bed, allows Jason to relax, allows him to succumb to his exhaustions, allows him to sleep.

…

When Jason wakes in the morning, the first thing he realizes is that he feels well rested, his nightmares decided to give him a break for once, finally let him experience what it’s like to not wake up tired. The next, the blanket she was using was now thrown over him, tangled in his legs. Last, she’s cooking.

It’s nothing extravagant, nothing like the breakfasts he’s had at the Manor once upon a time. But it’s enough. Jason’s been having trouble with food again. Some days it’s hard to stomach the heavy stuff, the greasy kind of food he used to salivate over when he was younger. He’s glad that she somehow knew this, predicted that he needed something light after last night.

And he’s grateful. Thankful. Thinks that this, this is what he read about in those books all those years ago. Thinks that this is what the link promised him.

…

“I know it’s none of my business but…”

“But?”

“But you should know that, that it’s okay. It’s okay to show your face around me.”

“I, I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”

“I have it on my own face, mouse. It’s not like it’s going to surprise me.”

“I know. I, I just thought it would be harder to look at when it’s on me.”

“Mouse. You’re always going to be easy on the eyes.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true. Just, think about it, okay? I mean, I’m no stranger to masks. I get it. I just wanted you to know that it’s okay. You’re okay. With me. I, I’d like to see your face if you’d let me.”

…

It’s quiet tonight.

Gotham, for once, is quiet in a good way.

It’s almost like everyone decided that tonight, tonight was going to be a break from, well, everything, and for that, Jason is grateful.

He’s tired. He’s been tired for so long. And it’s nice that he gets this moment of peace. With her. In the quiet.

And it’s different than usual. Because although it’s quiet, Jason’s thoughts aren’t hounding on him, aren’t reminding him of what he’s done, what’s been done to him, aren’t telling him that this peace he’s found with her is temporary, that this link they have is too weak after all its been through, that sooner or later it’s going to break and she’s going to leave. Because of course she’s going to leave him if there’s nothing tying them together. Because they always leave. Because why would anyone want to stay—

And.

And Jason can finally tell his thoughts to shove it, to go back in that dark corner of his mind and to stay there. Because he knows, he knows now that this connection is stronger than they thought, that no matter how much they went through, no matter the bruises, the scars, the trauma, it only got stronger, only held them that much tighter. And Jason knows that she isn’t going anywhere, that she’s here to stay. With him.

“I think this link is getting stronger,” she says in a whisper, almost like she’s afraid to disturb the quiet. “I can hear your thoughts from here.”

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking?”

And she smiles, a shy little quirk of her lips that makes Jason want to shield her from anything and everything that can threaten to take it away from him. Because he earned that smile, longed to see it, and if he could keep her smiling, keep her happy, keep her at peace, then he’ll know he’s doing something right.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll let you know if it’s the same thing I know.”

And what is Jason supposed to say? Is he supposed to tell her that after so long he now feels safe? Warm? Wanted? Is he supposed to tell her that he’s dreamed of her since he was a child, that he’s longed to have someone out there who was meant for just him? That the universe saw the two of them and thought that there is no way that they should not be together?

And Jason thinks that the answer is yes, yes, he should tell her that. Because she deserves to know. But, but can he really? Is he really capable of the feelings he has swirling inside of him? He’s been angry for so long, hurt for even longer, believed that he was broken. Could someone like him feel this way about her?

“Hey, Jason, why are you crying?”

He thinks of the way she was once curled up in his living room, screaming, tears running down her face. He remembers thinking that she cried in almost a childlike way, the kind of cry you do when you don’t have the words to express everything that’s in your heart. He remembers being jealous. Jealous that he couldn’t do the same.

But maybe, maybe he can. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. Maybe the child in him just couldn’t sob openly the way she could. Maybe, just maybe, the child in Jason could only cry quietly, could only cry without gaining attention so he wouldn’t get into trouble.

And isn’t it a relief that when the tears slide down his cheeks, wet the pillow he’s lying on, she doesn’t scream, doesn’t get angry. She only coos, speaks to him in a gentle way, in a way that makes him know that this, this is okay.

“It’s okay, Jason. You’ll be okay.”

“Can, can I, is it okay for me to feel this?”

“Feel what?”

“Because, for…for so long, all I wanted was to be loved. And, and I thought that I didn’t deserve it, that after everything I’ve done, no one could love me and…” The words are difficult, almost painful to say, but he has to, he has to try because she has to know. “And I thought maybe, maybe I was too fucked up, too broken to love, but mouse. This, this feeling. These feelings I have for you, what else could it be? How can someone like me feel this way? How is it even possible?”

And she’s quiet. Thinking. She wipes his tears with the soft pad of her thumb, traces his cheeks like he could break if she pressed too strongly. And it took a while before he allowed her to touch him like this, allowed her to treat him with such kindness. Because he’s gone too long without it and it scared him. But now, now he looks for it some days. Craves her touch, the warmth, the kindness. And he revels in it.

“I think,” she begins, her voice shaky, like the words are trying to come out all at once and she’s trying to get control of them. “I think you are love, Jason. For so long you had to be tough, you had to be cold and hard and unfeeling, but I think, I think if you were only given the chance, you would have been nothing but love.”

“I was made to fight. To protect.”

“No, Jason, you were built to love.”

And there’s no way he can keep it to himself now. No way that he can keep it from pouring out when she tells him that, looks at him like that.

“I love you,” he rasps out. “Is that okay? Is it okay to love you?”

“It’s more than okay, Jason. I love you, too. So much.” And she laughs, a weepy sort of laugh, but she looks happy, so happy, and Jason has a hard time believing that it’s because of him, that he can make someone as happy as she is right now. “Even without the link I think I would have found you and I would have loved you. You make it so easy to love you, Jason. And I love you. I love you. I love you.”

…

When Jason wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he’s in bed. He’d fallen asleep next to her, wrapped his arms around her in his sleep, pulled her close so that her back was pressed against his chest. It’s a first. Sleeping in bed. Sleeping with her. The next, he realizes that he’s in love. So, in love that it almost feels like a dream, but he knows dreams and this, this isn’t one of them. This is real. Last, he’s okay. More than okay, really. He’s finally happy.

...

author’s note: the conversation about jason not knowing how to drive is inspired by scaryscarecrows post. also jason's broken ankle and bad back is from lananiscorner

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ps. want to see more of these two? check them out here

[thepenultimateword]

Eyeteeth Part Four

I gotta say, this is probably one of my favorite stories I've written on tumblr. Thank you to the person who requested part one. When I first started writing, I wasn't sure I could fulfill the request, but soon enough I was completely in love with it.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

CW: Gore, death, killing, destruction

Civilian smashed spine-first into the barstools, toppling two down on top of them with a bruising clang that was immediately lost in the cacophony of screaming people and breaking stone. They coughed on the flakes of drywall raining down from the blasted wall, blinking white flecks from their lashes.

As they slowly lifted their head, the crumpled frame of their glasses slid askew down their nose, a cracked lense on the right and an entirely missing one on the left leaving them half-blind. Yet, even squinting, the mess of rubble and terror around them was crystal clear.

The little diner, a warm, bustling place only seconds ago, was no more. One wall was completely destroyed, covering the ground in broken brick and shattered glass. The force of the blast had split the U-shaped countertop into several pieces, only a single chunk left intact. They should be grateful one of those massive slabs hadn’t landed on top of them. The thought came dazedly as Civilian stared numbly at the limp and bleeding figure pinned in front of them.

“What a dismal little place,” croaked a masculine voice, deep and grating like the very mountains scraping together. "Is this where people go for respite these days?"

Civilian cranked their neck toward the sound, but one glimpse into those coal-black eyes, and they wished they hadn't. Invisible fire flooded their nervous system, burning their insides to hot, nauseating jelly and reducing them to a shuddering heap against the gritty tile.

Yet, as soon as the pain passed, they dared look again--they weren't getting out of this by cowering-- but this time more carefully.

The man--if he even could be called such looking so barely human--hovered a couple feet in the air, toes pointed downward, the blackened ends of his paper white feet just shy of brushing the destruction. He wore a tattered white robe that hung limp and oversized on his skeletal form. Somehow the ill fit came across more disturbing than ridiculous. Darkness spread through his veins, as if they were filled with tar instead of blood, and subsequently, the deep hollows of his cheeks were colored charcoal instead of pink. And those eyes...

Civilian was careful not to meet them directly this time, but they seemed almost crossed out, violent black slashes cutting through them and inking the irises dark before continuing upward and bleeding across his shorn scalp.

An ancient. And a corrupted one at that.

The amount of ancient sorcerers that still existed was in the hundreds, many of them stretched thin by infinite existence. They craved power like a parched man thirsted for water. A yearning to fill the empty parts of them that could never be satiated. At least that was what the books said. The rune bracelet had only been a precaution, a barrier to shield Hero's magery from bigger fish, but never in any of Civilian's dreams had they thought they might see one of those ancients face to face.

Wait. Hero. Where was hero?

Civilian's eyes skimmed the room rapidly until they spied the shock of red hair peeking out from the rubble a few feet away. They weren't moving.

Civilian crawled forward, the muscles in their limbs screaming at being used so soon after such a vicious attack. It didn't matter. Even if it left Civilian permanently damaged, it didn't matter. They needed to reach Hero.

They clawed at the floor, ignoring the glass chunks embedding in their palms as they dragged against the weight on their back. A couple more desperate pulls forward, and the barstools slowly shifted, landing on floor instead of flesh.

Civilian yearned to catch their breath, just that small effort had them winded and agonized, but stopping wasn't an option.

"Where are they?" the ancient said, almost a sort of raspy sing-song. "I can feel their presence. I can hear their blood. It sings to me."

Civilian reached Hero's arm, grasping the child's shoulder with one trembling hand.

"H-Hero."

Why was their voice so small? Was the growing terror in the chest blocking off their throat? Their chest shuddered a little as they summed up another attempt. "Hero."

They struggled into an upright position and pulled at them with as much force as their weak muscles would allow, cradling the top half of their body in their lap. No response.

Civilian's fingers slid numbly along their throat, searching for a pulse. When they steady, thud, thud, thud beat against their fingertips, they almost fell back in relief. Alright. Hero was alright. Now for the other panicked question: where was Villain?

"Oh, what providence. You found them."

Civilian's head shot up, barely dodging the ancient's direct gaze before they could recollapse into another helpless pile of pain. They fixed their eyes on an ugly black splotch in the middle of their forehead, like a rot spot in a piece of fruit. They clutched hero tighter, leaning over their body to shield them from view.

"You can't have them," Civilian croaked.

The ancient sucked in a long breath of air, nostrils flaring. "Hm. Mortal. What could you use them for? Their blood is little more than water for the likes of you."

"They're mine." Civilian wasn't sure what they were saying, but it slipped out anyway.

The ancient stiffened.

"How dare you," they whispered under the breath, as if taking a moment to taste the offense. Then louder, "How dare you! A mortal laying claim against ancient right?"

The light bulbs popped over head, a shower of sparks sprinkling the air for a matter of seconds before the entire diner was bathed in darkness. Those still conscious screamed again.

A cold chill, like a set of longer, icy fingers curling around their esophagus, clutched Civilian's throat, holding their next breath captive.

Civilian squeaked. Tears sprung to their eyes as they struggled to force the breath out their mouth but could not. What an idiot they were. They dreamed of adventure, of daring fights, and brilliant scholarship in the face of death. They thought they were so important and brilliant helping a real life hero, but when it came down to it they were simply a librarian. An insignificant mortal just like the ancient said. They felt better about their averageness by butting into matters that had nothing to do with them, but that didn't magically make them a hero.

They were going to die.

A deep growl ripped the air, feral, guttural, and loud enough to make Civilian's ears pound. A flash of bottle green streaked across the dark, and all at once the breath burst out of Civilian's throat.

They gagged, coughing so violently they might actually puke. After several seconds, they wiped a string of saliva on their sleeve and squinted in the little bit of light streaming in from the streetlamps at the scene in front of them.

Villain clung to the ancients front, claws sunk into their shoulders and teeth sunk deep into their jugular. Tarry blood burbled from the wound, staining Villain's lips and gushing down the front of the ancient's white robes.

The ancient's mouth gaped, seemingly in pain, but then, in a moment, an explosion of power burst out of them, accented with a high pitched shriek similar to a kettle boiling over.

Civilian closed their eyes against the new wave of flying dust and rubble. When they opened them next, Villain was on the ground.

"You insignificant fleabag!" the ancient cried, choking and gurgling on blood.

Civilian almost cried out, but Villain was back on their feet quicker than they could form the sounds. Their eyes glowed strangely, as if in direct contrast to the shadowed curtain the ancient pulled over all of them.

The ancient stretched forth their hand, but Villain was already crouched to the floor before the invisible wave of destruction punched a smoking hole through the back wall. Then they were several feet in the air when the next blow, blasted the title to smithereens.

Premonitory ability, Civilian thought in awe.

Villain was on the ancient once again, claws raking down their belly,. They pulled them from the sky like a stubborn star, pinning them against the floor with a sharp crack of breaking floor.

"Their eyes!" Civilian heard themself shriek. "Take their eyes!"

Without hesitation, Villain clawed up the ancient's chest and, stretching their jaws wide, scraped those long fiamora eyeteeth across their face.

The ancient wailed with the same tone of the howling wind. But this time no explosion of power protected them. Ancient mages used to concentrate their power and life force into one part of their body, an efficient way to channel power if not a significant Achilles heel. The corruption around this particular ancient's eyes had given Civilian a pretty good guess as to what part of their body they preferred casting with. Not that it would hold them back permanently. They were still a magically blooded being.

"Now their head!" Civilian cried next. "They can't die unless you take their head."

Villain did more than that.

Civilian buried their head into Hero's body, wishing they could block out the wet tearing of flesh and the crunch of breaking bones.

A heavy silence drew thick over the building.

Civilian peered up, glasses barely hanging to the end of their nose by this point. A gory, clawed hand stretched out in front of them. They slowly raised their eyes to Villain's face. Their front was absolutely soaked in gore, and Hero's concealing enchantment had worn off, leaving the pair of menacing saberteeth jutting over the lip and glistening with blood.

Civlian swallowed the bout of nausea tossing their stomach and gathering hero closer against them, accepted the offered hand with trembling fingers.

Villain immediately pulled them close. Their tail wrapped tight around their thigh and their other clawed hand braced around the back of their neck, clasping both Civilian and Hero against them.

"I'm sorry," they said licking Civilian's grimy hair a couple times before pressing a careful kiss to their head, "I'm sorry. I had to let them see you. It was the only way I saw that ended with all of us alive."

Understanding slowly seeped through Civilian's skull. Villain had waited to attack. They waited until the ancient was distracted with something else. With Civilian.

Civilian body racked violently. They heard heavy sobbing, but they didn't realize it was their own until Villain's clawed finger wiped away the hot tears blurring their vision, leaving a long streak of chilly ancient blood along their cheekbone.

"I needed to keep you safe," Villain said, almost a plea. "Both of you."

They knew, didn't they? They knew exactly what Civilian felt toward them in this moment. And that knowledge was almost more painful than the ancient's attacks.

***

"All tucked in," Villain said.

They were waiting in the living room when Civilian came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in a clean university sweatshirt and pair of sweats. Their spare pair of glasses were a little too tight and pressed uncomfortably into their temples, but they were just glad they could see clearly again.

Civlian stared at Villain for several long moments, imprinting this clean, wet-haired version of them across the last gory memory. They had always known what fiamora could do; they'd written an extensive chapter on bloodshed, both hunting and territorial rights, in their thesis. But it was very different seeing it in person.

Those fangs did not have the potential to kill. They did kill.

Maybe they stared to long because Villain said quietly, "Civilian?"

Civilian jolted to attention. "Right. Thank you. Did they wake up at all?"

Villain shook their head, twisting the hem of their borrowed t-shirt and flinching when their claws made little holes. "No. But they will. If they weren't, I would feel it."

Civilian nodded.

It had not seemed a good idea to bring Hero home to their family unconscious and covered in building dust. It wouldn't have only exposed Hero's crime-stopping stint but could have also brought up a heap of troubling questions as to why Hero had been with Civilian in the first place. There was also Villain in the mix, making things even more complicated. In the end, they'd come to Civilian's apartment. Villain had cleaned up first, seeing as they were covered in blood, and Civlian had sat shuddering in the kitchen with Hero spread awkwardly across their tabletop. Once Villain returned, they'd quickly slipped off to the bathroom themself, hoping the hot water and some clean clothes would kick their nerves straight.

They still felt on the point of breaking down, but at least they could look Villain straight in the face again. They could recite to themselves all the things they loved about them. Bottle-green eyes, wild untamable hair, fluffy ears, gorgeous, sharp eyetee--

Civilian stopped short as they remembered those teeth taking out the ancient's eyes in one bite. Instead, they focused on Villain's outfit. Also sweats, but topped with an oversized t-shirt with a brightly colored bookshelf printed across the front and captioned LIBRARY SQUAD. A leftover from the book club Civilian had tried and failed to create at the school a couple years ago. Also, since there was no tailored opening in the pants, Villain had stuffed their tail down one leg, and it thrashed against the fabric every so often like an uncomfortable snake. Civilian couldn't help but smile a little. It was sort of funny seeing Villain dressed so casually, in Civilian's own clothes no less. It was intimate and warm, and Civilian probably would have liked it much better if it wasn't just following a near-death experience.

Villain smiled cautiously in return. "Um, I figured you'd want them somewhere comfortable, so I put them in your room. Is that alright?"

"In my room?" Civilian repeated numbly. Stupid. Of course. It wasn't like they owned another bed. "Ah. Yes. Of course. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

If they could even sleep at all. They didn't know if they could get that ancient inhuman body and ghastly eyes out of their head. Just like fiamora, they knew these things existed, but...how did they go on knowing they could come in at any moment and kill them all in eyeblink?

Villain's claws brushed Civilian's elbow, green eyes flicking up to meet theirs. "Would you...like some company?"

Civilian's heart pounded faster. Villain was dangerous. They knew it more than ever. But...did that actually change how they felt about them?

They shoved the scent of blood and the sound of crunching bone to the back of their mind.

"Sure."

Villain nodded evenly, but the relief in their expression was almost palpable. "Do you have a first aid kit, I think we're both a little more beat up than planned."

"Heh." Civilian rubbed their sore palms together. "Just a moment."

They went off the kitchen to retrieve the little tin box under the sink, a tray of ice cubes, and a box of ziplock bags. When they returned, Villain was sitting crisis cross at the center of their couch, watching the door anxiously for Civilian's return.

"Come here," Civilian said, sitting across from them and shaking a few ice cubes into a ziplock bag. Villain leaned in a little, and Civilian held the bag gently to a large purple bruise forming across Villain's brow bone.

Keeping their head bent into Civilian's touch, Villain popped open the first aid tin and fished out an ointment tube and bandages. They dolloped a drop of syrup scented ointment across their fingers and gently massaged it into Civilian's free hand, careful not to nick them with the sharp points of their claws. When they finished off with some bandages, Civilian switched the hand holding the ice pack, and let them treat the other hand as well.

"You're very frightened of me now, aren't you?" Villain said, peeling back the wrapper on a bandaid and pressed the clean cotton middle to a particularly nasty slice on the heel of Civilian's hand.

Civilian felt sick.

"It was a frightening experience," they said slowly. "I...I don't think you did anything wrong... I'm just a little shaken."

It wasn't as if Villain was the only one with a part to play in this death either.

"I'm the one who told you what to do."

Maybe that was what bothered them most of all. Not the bloodshed itself, but that they had been capable of directing it. Wasn't it wrong to hurt someone? Was it wrong that they had known how to do it? Maybe they were studying the wrong things.

"Civilian," Villain said, maybe hearing the sickness in their tone. "You were only protecting yourself. Protecting everyone. Hero. Those people. Me."

Civilian swallowed hard on a lump of emotion forcing its way into the open.

Villain continued. "That thing was out for blood. You know more than I do about people like that. Tell me honestly, do you think we could have reasoned with him?"

"No." Their voice croaked pathetically. "He would have killed Hero no matter what. As well as anyone who got in his way."

"And you stood up to him anyway." Villain stroked their arm up and down soothingly.

"Only because Hero... They were going to..." They took a deep breath. "Villain, if that kid died, I don't know what I would do."

"And me?"

Those green eyes seemed to pin them to spot, making it hard for Civilian to breathe.

"I haven't known you that long," Civilian said quickly, ducking their head toward their lap.

"I know," Villain said. "I don't expect you to be as dedicated to me as you are Hero. But out of curiosity..."

Civilian thought about it a minute. Imagined how they'd feel tonight if Villain hadn't survived their fight with the ancient. If they weren't safe and sound across from now.

'"I would be very upset. For a very long time. In fact, I'm not sure if I'd ever get over it."

Silence.

Civilian flicked their gaze back up to Villain to see the fiamora staring at them, mouth parted, beautiful eyes wide.

"That deep?" they murmured.

Civilian flushed a little, shoving at their spectacles even though they were already firmly in place. "Apparently."

Villain was just a name a few months ago. A faceless fiamora to build tactics against, but now they were a person. Civilian's person. And they'd protected Civilian with their life.

Civilian leaned in closer, eyeing Villain's fangs carefully, mentally measuring a safe spot to aim for. Then they pressed a gentle kiss to Villain's lips.

They pulled back just a little to see Villain's expression, but no sooner did they catch the violent twitch of Villain's ears and the fiamora was tangling their claws in their hair and pulling them in a second time.

The flat of Villain's right fang skimmed their lips, sending a shiver down Civilian's spine, but Villain was very careful, never letting the points touch them. Of course, a creature with such deadly teeth would know how to maneuver them.

When the kiss ended, Civilian found themself somehow leaning against the arm of their couch, Villain sprawled comfortably on top of them. The ice pack lay forgotten and melting on the floor.

"Um." Villain shifted a little, resting their head against Civilian's chest. "Is this ok?"

Civilian nodded. They actually felt safer this way. If only their face wasn't so traitorously warm right now.

"W-why don't you tell me about these ancient things. I know about fiamora ancients, but I didn't know it was possible for a human to become one."

"Was that a stutter?" Civilian said.

"What? No. A catch in my throat."

"You're nervous too." Civilian had no idea why that was so satisfying.

"Of course I am, you're so close. N-now tell me the lore."

Civilian grinned. "It's thought that every mage has the potential to reach immortality through a natural increase of their power over time. Unlike fiamora, human mages are naturally inclined to a shorter lifespan, so they have to reach a level of power where their magic is strong enough to keep their body from declining. It's like they flip a switch in their natural make up that turns everything more permanent. Usually, this would be a sign of purity, the hard work taken to naturally develop one's magic, but many corrupted ancients received immortality by forcefully consuming the power of other mages. However, once they consume another mage's power, they must keep consuming it. Another's magic is like a drug, and they become addicted. Back in the day, there were sacrificial rituals of young mages to corrupt ones. In fact, there was one city that was so culturally influenced that--"

They stopped short with a loud gasp.

"What?" Villain said, cupping their longer eyetooth and raising their head a little to look Civilian's chest up and down, as if worried they might have knicked them with a fang point.

"My book." Civilian threw their head back against the arm rest with a long groan. "I left it in the diner. Do you think it's alright?"

Villain sighed in relief and snuggled back in. "Is that all?"

"'Is that all?'" Civilian repeated furiously. "Do you know how valuable--"

"Shhh," Villain said, wrapping their arms tightly around Civilian's waist. "I know. I'll go look for it in the morning. But for now, keep talking."

Civilian pouted a moment, but eventually, they fell back into their explanation. They stopped every once in a while, thinking that Villain might have been bored to sleep, but then the fiamora would pipe in with a question or a simple, "What else?"

Each time, Civilian warmed inside and went on, talking and talking until their eyes were too heavy to keep open and words felt like sludge in their mouth.

The night's bad images faded to the fringes of their mind, and they drifted softly into sleep.

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @last-ditch-entry @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany

[thunder-threnodies]

🌹 ( @waterlogged-detective ) Detective Doe very taken but he likes making friends! And getting ideas for poems by listening to people's romantic stories. I have a short explanation/character sheet/personality thing in my pinned comment but I can also send more if you'd like!

There was a Song. Interesting as songs are words aren't they? Not Words, tho. But words nonetheless.

Jonathin was roaming the streets of Spite, rumor has it something strange started to happen some time ago and he decided to look into the matter. Not that anyone asked them directly or hired him but there was something about this case that was amusing: lyrics of an Unkown Song started to appear on Spite's houses walls, seemingly without a regular or predictable pattern.

Doe was fascinated by this. The words appeared on walls and various other surfaces written in a bright, slightly luminous Apocyan.

Sometimes it smelled like ozone, like as if a thunder struck them into being but the Storm and his thunder were quite silent lately. So what could have caused this?

The false-night creeped in, so he heads to the Medusa's Head to check on the local stories: who's a better source of stories than criminals, dockers and general landlubbers?

The air in there is dense and difficult to breath, but the mood is absolutely sparkling; dances, fights, card games and a pirate violinist sitting on a barrel playing a delightful tune. Jonathin takes a sit in a decently lit table, close to the bar.

The singing and the violin started to sound familiar around the time the drink he ordered lost all it's bubbles and has grown stale.

Is it?

Is it the song appearing written on the walls?

It is!

Doe followed the lyrics all through Spite to Wolfstack Dock and at Zee after that, too. It lead him to the Mourns, something deep stirring within him. Not Words, mind you but he was sort of mumbling and singing to himself the tune of the mysterious song.

Up and up from the shores goes Jonathin, flocks of Blue Prophets circling high above, nearer to the Roof than to the Zee, the feeling of an invisible wind pulling and pushing him higher and higher.

At the very summit of the Mourn, a makeshift route made of ropes leads to another peak, secluded from the main one, and there, a circle of many, many figures.

Pirates! So many!

And in the middle a bonefire and a very strange pair of performers: an Unfinished Woman, her skin completely covered in ink and writing, and a Captain, blond-red hairs and Cosmogone spectacles. The woman is enacting a tale as she sings it, and the Captain is playing the violin.

A pitch black surface behind them, like an obscured mirror, lights up from now and then, especially when the two sing the same lyrics.

Remembrances, ghosts in Apocyan, dance in the air as the two sing and dance and play.

WORDS!

Jonathin takes a seat amongst the zailors, the light of the fires lit and alive in the false-night.

Tales! So many tales! Of romance, lost love, lost treasures!

A Drownie falling in love with a Pirate!? Oh how hauntingly sweet it is, when the very same Drownies rise up from down down down below, from the deep Zee to add their point of view to this story!

The Words are alive! Oh such a wonderful place to be, to feel warm and listen to such inspirational material!

The Violinist looks at Doe and he notices their eyes are the same deep colour of the depths of the Unterzee! They bow down to Doe and smile, changing tune. Silvery lyrics appear on the rocks all around this wild gathering, telling a story:

Long ago, there was a Sailor. And a Chess Player. The Sailor loved her so much but never told her. She played a game but not any game: a Great Game.

They departed and never seen each other again as a City Fell. Fell? From above they say, betrayed and sold!

The Sailor made friends and loved and searched for her far and wide.

A mountain! A mountain made of light? Oh beautiful visions of light and love! But it also takes. Love can take away not just give.

Ten years lost to the Light, the Apocyan ghost turning Violant now, dancing with the Violinist Captain, telling about their struggles, now!

Struggle with the light to let them go, to return to Violant eyes and auburn locks of golden hair! Are these belonging to the same person? Or not?

A reunion! A Lost one, killed for a Cup of blood. And seven dead love stories! It rings a bell and Jonathin cannot help but shiver a little remembering his own fights.

Ghosts of a young lady of golden Cosmogone and one in Peligin of the Violinst but younger, less scarred, dance as the Pirate Poet and the Captain sing the last verse. The ghosts bow to the audience, hug each other and disappear in a shower of cosmogone and peligin sparks like a firework in the night.

The Captain catches Doe's eye and silently form a few words, directed at him alone:

"Welcome to the Requiem, Jonathin Doe."

On the returning trip to London, a Violant Winged Bat will bring him a small book, Apocyan in colour, with an inscription:

"Take the stories of tonight with you, Poet and make them yours. My Words for your Words. May this be the beginning of a wonderful friendship. Yours truly, Captain Francis Dargor Morgan"

[palladiumfragments]

midnights (inspired by taylor swift's midnights)

i. after dark

like a long lost home my entire life comes crowding itself into its deep indigo ribs until a crescendo of thoughts threatens to split open my skull. tossing, turning, pacing, trembling— at war with the quiescence ensconced on the walls. a thousand ships fades into view, each begging for a name in my secret sky before sailing away into oblivion. i write their elegies in invisible ink on my wrists and let the stars kiss them good night. 

ii. pause 

drops of neptune dapple the sheets, a candle burns meekly on the corner illuminating a row of black-spined books. smoke wings unfurled, gone are the phantoms that nip my ankles everywhere i go. one april night tucked away from the languishing world, i slipped through the back door and floated in space. 

iii. haunted 

the moon's marmoreal gaze, flickers of a familiar face, and long mental corridors that only lead to burning rooms. they said escape is for those who know what they're running from but you're a fool to think naming your beast could tame them. i've been in the labyrinth long enough for it to build itself under my skin.  

iv. a wisp of smoke 

the summer when it dawned on me that i’m no longer thinking of you, i was sitting on the balcony of a hotel watching the wind ruffle the surface of the charcoal sea. it felt strange, almost like committing a cardinal sin to find no traces of you in me. i remember the grief, the solace that came shortly after, but most of all the guilt— because where do i lay to rest the habit of using every lovely thing i see like gentle waves breaking softly towards the shore as a metaphor for you? 

v. the curse of icarus 

i had my eyes on the sky ever since i can remember, children born in cages do. the first time i stood on the parapet with wings of songs and foxing pages i was a young god, not even a shower of flaming arrows can strike me down. i casted one last look at the lighthouse that witnessed all the shipwrecks that marked me, took a leap, and soared. but the sun did not kiss me that day. i lived past the end of the myth. too many seasons have come and gone and lately i find myself replaying the memory over and over. a new sun calls at 22 and i don't know if i'll make it again this time. the curse of icarus still thrums in my veins. 

vi. abandoned bridges 

i think about the friends that simply drifted too far, a love forever trapped in scents and photographs. there's a romantic kind of melancholy in the way my hands run over the shapes of their names. it reminds me of the city i grew up in but don't live in anymore— the streets, the landmarks, the houses that all look the same but no longer feel the same (because these things are as continually altered by time as we are). i miss them sometimes but the feeling doesn't endure as much as i think i want it to. it was over the day we promised to see each other again.

vii. december night

the anticipation, the holding back, the knowing smile. you followed me to the stairs and there we agreed to try again. 

tunnel vision, flushed cheeks, drunk on your whiskey eyes. there in the dim space i memorized the details of your face.

the first kiss, the ecstasy, bloodshot eyes. you were unconsciously tracing the veins on my wrist when i told you i'd be spending Christmas in the country. 

paling sky, in the balcony, black coffee. a sacred beginning was writing itself in the morning mist. 

[ashtrayfloors]

I love writing. I thought, “I’ll be a news writer.” That was why I went to grad school.

This is why I quit grad school: I learned that there are only four stories and there’s only one way to tell each but no matter what pen I used, new stories came out, seditious and unwieldy, and I still can’t stop finding new ways to tell them.

This is why I correct typos for a living while others depict glorious international events in black, white and read Virginia Woolf the other day; she said for a woman to write, she must first kill the angel in the house.

The grad school chair was too alive to be an angel, but given another chance I’d fix that and drive a red ball-point like a stake through his shriveled black heart and watch the ink run out then wash my hands.

I still read. I read all the time. I read the newspaper. On the bus. Over the shoulder. Of the person sitting in front of me. Today, it’s Wednesday but the paper’s stuck on Sunday. You’ve got to figure, though, with the speed of information these days, it was out of date on Sunday even for speed readers, outmoded even before the ink was dry and here’s the headline: NIGHTMARE IN BAGHDAD: A WOMAN SEARCHES FOR THE TRUTH ABOUT THE GULF WAR.

Do you believe everything you read? Do you believe anything you read in the newspaper? Teen Pregnancy Up, Moral Decay in America Up, Rate of Incarceration of Black Males Up, Dear Beth, Why can’t he get it up? So, there’s a NIGHTMARE in Baghdad. Wake up and the nightmare’s gone It’s not like it affects property values here in Baghdad-by-the-Bay and it’s about a woman anyway and it’s in the newspaper and she’s looking for what really happened to her son or something like that I’m sure because it’s a woman and women are only news when they have sons or husbands or they’re dead and I’m sure he’s not really dead since no one ever really dies in press rhetoric and anyway it’s only one woman “searching” for the “truth” so she’s obviously a kook or a martyr or both and we can make her disappear by turning a page we can make thousands of deaths disappear by talking about collateral damage we can make thousands of deaths disappear by not writing about them at all; wasn’t Bosnia last year?

It’s hard to turn the page of a newspaper on the bus. You hit the elbow of whoever is sitting next to you, jostle the hair of the woman putting on eyeliner in front of you. It’s messy, yes, and difficult, but a search for a story, even just one, is like that keep turning those pages next page

Headline: 70 YEARS AFTER SUFFRAGE: WHAT DO WOMEN WANT Why don’t you go ask the angel in the house? All she’s doing is reading Cosmo, which won’t cover AIDS since women aren’t really at risk no one really dies in the glossy pages with perfume strips and why dwell on that when you could be talking about seven ways to drive him wild in bed or six ways to flatten your stomach or five ways to love your body (as long as he loves it) or four ways to dress for dinner or three new hairstyles or two pages about knowing when it’s over or one story that the angel knows as she lies on her bed, looking so pretty. All stretched out, wearing her high, high ivory pedestal heels. Look at her pretty painted mouth twist in an O as I pluck her wings feather by feather—it’s painful, yes, but I guess it’s going to be like that— and I pull a feather and she’s saying there’s a story— that one about the woman who bit an apple and ruined the world and I pull a feather and she’s crying that in the beginning there was the father, the son and something invisible and I yank a handful of feathers and she screams that in the beginning there was the law, the father and I shove the feathers in her mouth and tell her, quietly, that here is the beginning and we have a murder, a motive and a body of evidence that here is the beginning and we have blank walls to write on that here is the beginning and we have blood.

—Daphne Gottlieb, “Death and the Maiden and the Information Age” (Pelt, Odd Girls Press, 1999)

[critical-reflex]

♡♤

♤: can you lose your wallet and still have an identity?

♡: it matters who people think you are.

♤: what about who i think i am?

♡: irrelevant.

♤: what about you?

♡: i'm reading the writings on the walls. some of the ink has turned colors.

♤: and so here you are.

♡♤: waiting for the moment i confirm or deny.

♡: well, for the first five months of twenty-twenty i slipped into a dream and it was so meticulously crafted that i didn't notice the bizarre irregularities as i went on about my business.

example. the dream deli where i loved to tickle Jimmy's beard for a cold sub was situated at Roswell and Hunter. that's not accurate at all in reality, it's between Cheshire and York. but who cares, names are names.

i carried on doing what felt right. i worked at my desk. i was a good little boy and said excuse me every time i passed gas. i took Frogger out for a walk along his favorite route. no one stared at him weird for only having three legs. in reality he had four. numbers are numbers mmm.

at night i took out my contacts flawlessly - amazing because i never learned how. i washed my hands with the invisible water rushing out of the faucet. the heat pouring over me was a sure sign that it existed. and that's when i knew you were real - well, thought - because when you put your arms around me and snuggled me safely into your wings, i rediscovered love.

safety and love are rarely different.

and now that i'm awake, shaking from deep inside bone marrow, seeing constellations and mountains disappear without notice or news reports, segments of the sky being torn down like 80's wallpaper, i'm still a little iffy about a couple of things ...

♤: like when will i see you next?

♡: of course.

♤: if you're lucky, at the next meteor shower or blood moon.

♡: and what am i supposed to do until then?

♤: as you were. dreaming.

♡: dreaming is the only option i ever had.

♤: have you tried making music out of the chaos and destruction?

♡:

♤: hold my hand.

■

[dismalzelenka]

Febuwhump 2 - Solitary Confinement

Context for this one: Miriam's been subsumed by Hadar as a consequence of betraying her pact and has been brought back by her sister with some questionable divine help.

Her magic is volatile, and there's a lot of holes in her memory, and even though Eleanor checks on her every day, she doesn't remember the visits.

This contains spoilers for one of the available companion endings.

Pairing: Gale/Tav

CW: briefly mentioned failed suicide attempt

Read From Beginning || Previous || Next

"It didn't work." Eleanor stands at the altar, arms crossed as she wills Gale's avatar to come face her. She's found he tends to appear faster if she kneels, but this time, she refuses to offer him that courtesy, not when he owes her a massive explanation.

He answers with a faint whoosh, the charged scent of Karsite magic rippling in the air as he materializes before her. It's an odd space Eleanor occupies these days, because by all conventional definition, this is the god she worships, if it could even be called that. She prefers to consider them allies in pursuit of a common goal, but she supposes the nature of her divinely inherited powers these days doesn't particularly care about that little nuance. Sometimes, she thinks, neither does Gale.

"Explain," he says. "I sense her presence here, so I assume something must have gone according to plan."

"I've reconstructed her body using the theories we've discussed, it's true." She pauses, studies the body language of Gale's avatar in fascination. She wonders idly how many people in this life have had the experience of playing sister-in-law to a god. "Her mind is in tatters. I fear the Far Realms have taken something from her that cannot be recovered."

Gale's avatar ripples, becomes more corporeal, shrinking into something deceptively human. His skin loses its lustrous pallor, his eyes fade into their old soft brown with a tiny smattering of wrinkles at their edges. Grey streaks thread through his hair. In this form, he almost looks kind. "Show me."

---

Miriam doesn't know how long she's been in this room. It's a familiar room, familiar beyond the fact that she's been trapped here so long she can feel her mind unraveling. The clock above the polished mahogany desk circles the same hour every hour, and try as she might, she can't seem to keep track of the minutes that it does measure.

She's tried writing them down, but the parchment always vanishes when she puts it down; and she's tried holding onto it, but her mind wanders so erratically that she forgets what its doing in her hand within seconds of rolling it up. She's tried carving notches in the wall, too. That would have been an effective solution, except at times she finds herself carving them into other shapes, and by the time she comes back to herself, the orderly rows of lines she's been carefully curating has become a jumbled mess.

The worst is the silence. It presses in on her like a vise clamped around her ears. Sometimes she screams to break it -- obscenities, hysterical laughter, poorly recreated songs she only remembers a handful of words at a time -- but inevitably all that does is break her more when she runs out of sounds.

There is a balcony on the far side of the room. Sometimes she steps beyond the doors and finds herself looking across a harbor she doesn't recognize. She'd tried to throw herself over it into the water below, once, but there is an invisible enchantment that ripples with power that locks her in. Sometimes the sunlight is soothing. Mostly, it's another reminder that she's lost something she cannot wrap her mind around.

There is a blank section of the far wall that once housed a bookcase she's long since torn down piece by piece in sporadic fits of rage. Now there is only a messy scrawl of black ink across the stone:

my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam MY NAME IS MIRIAM MY NAME IS MIRIAM

How many times can she repeat a name before it, too, becomes lost in the endless wash of history that refuses to straighten into an order that makes sense?

---

"You've locked her in my old study?" Gale almost sounds amused as Eleanor leads him to the scrying screen she's installed beside the door. "You do know this is where her entire plight began."

Eleanor clamps down on a familiar ripple of annoyance. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd know it's also the only room warded heavily enough to weather her outbursts of magic. I require further testing to be sure, but I suspect the traces of the True Weave in her blood are directly at odds with the magic that brought her back." Your magic, she thinks darkly to herself. "It took me three weeks to restore your old bedroom after she spent one night in there."

"Curious." He runs a hand along the scrying screen, and Eleanor wants to scream at how detached he sounds. She barely stifles a cruel, vindicated laugh when he jumps at the sound of something slamming against the door.

"Let me out!" Miriam screams. "Please! You can't keep me alone in here forever!" Her sobs never get any less heart wrenching. "Is anybody out there??" Then the pounding begins anew, and Eleanor steels her heart against what always comes next.

"When was the last time you saw her in person?" Gale asks, and with each blow that rattles the wood as Miriam throws herself against the door, his porcelain visage finally begins to crumble.

"This morning," Eleanor says. She means to sound as detached as he always does, means to try to hurt him with how little he's made her care, but her words come out as a choked whisper. "She never remembers me."

[c-c-cherry]

Tell me about that reigen and ritsu thing on the backburner, I'm curious!

(In exchange, have a picture of Scrungly Lola, my gecko.)

Chef!! It’s been awhile!! Thank you very much for the Lola. She’s very lovely and sweet. I have many many thoughts and fics in the back of my mind right now, but here is my little half-baked Reigen and Ritsu idea that I've been chewing on:

(General warning for talk/mention of suicide in the context of miscommunication/misunderstanding)

Alright alright alright. For those who have seen the OVA (the train OVA, my beloved OVA, the OVA where we get a smidge of Reigen canonically suffering), you know that Reigen is trapped in this spiritual dimensional cursed version of the train in his sleep. As the episode goes on, he becomes more desperate and hopeless and blah blah blah you’ve seen the episode you know what happens. 

But there’s a moment where Reigen writes a note. And when the other espers come in to save him, Reigen tries to hide that note. I wasn’t really sure what it said, but weeeeeks ago @cryran88 sent me an English translation and if you haven’t seen it already, it is SAD. 

Now…post-train OVA. This could be as post-canon as I see fit. Ritsu is helping out in the office for whatever reason (mob is sick, studying, some event, literally any reason) and Reigen asks him to grab something out of the filing cabinet where they keep the info on previous jobs. When Ritsu opens it, a shit ton of files fall out because its way too unorganized, which he picks up with help from his powers. 

A specific folder catches his eye, though: the one from the hot spring trip, filled with spilling papers and an under-the-table receipt and every other document that had to do with the case. He’s sorting it all back into its folder with his psychic abilities when a little glimmer makes him stop. He pulls out one of the papers, trip itinerary on one side and blank on the other…until he looks closer. With his powers aiding him, some kind of writing appears on the blank side, almost like invisible ink. 

Key words stick out to Ritsu as he floats it into his hands and reads it. “Sorry,” “useless,” “gone” ...as he reads closer, he recognizes it to be Reigen’s handwriting. What is this? Why does he have this in here? 

“Have you got it yet?”

Ritsu jumps as he hears Reigen’s voice across the room. In a panic, he shoves everything back in the cabinet, taking the one slip of paper and slipping it in his back pocket.

“Yeah—yeah. I’ve got it.”

He reads it again when he gets home, at night, when he’s sure he won’t be interrupted. He concludes it's a suicide note. He isn’t sure how Reigen did this or how he concealed it without powers of his own, but it has to be one. 

After that, Ritsu becomes completely obsessed with Reigen—monitoring him, making sure he’s okay, obsessively looking into details in the note to try and undo the damage he thinks has been done. He feels responsible. No one else knows about it, and the guilt and worry of being the only one to know drives him up the wall. Did he do something to make him feel this way? Ritsu never really hated Reigen. He thought Reigen was happy where he was. He didn’t want him gone. 

There are more unspoken details with other characters and moments and build-up I would write in between of course, but the fic would essentially peak with Reigen catching on and finding out that the note he wrote on the train somehow transferred over to become visible in this realm due to psychic interference. And now it’s in Ritsu’s hands, and it’s really, really not what it looks like.

At first, there's the age-old lesson of "you're a kid, you're not responsible for adults and how they feel," and "you can always talk to me," and "I promise I'm not feeling that way, and if I was, you shouldn't burden yourself with issues I should be working out with help from other adults."

But then there's another issue. To convince Ritsu that he really is alright and doesn’t plan on leaving them like that anytime soon, he would have to explain why he really wrote it. He can no longer sugarcoat his experience on the train. He doesn’t want the kid to have to know about this terrible stuff he went through, but he realizes he has no choice, no other way to convince him. He has to tell the truth.

Juicy, hurty, comforting in the end, you get the gist. I’m not sure what other characters I would bring in and what roles they would play just yet, but Ritsu walks out with more of an empathetic lens towards someone he initially kind of resented, and Reigen is forced to be weak. Those are two things I just love.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings!! I don’t even know if there would be an audience for this type of fic, but I think it would be fun to write regardless! Anyone else got any juicy ideas? I always love to hear them.

[buryustogether]

shrike

daryl dixon x gn!reader

summary: a bookstore run proves successful.

inspired by shrike by hozier

“ remember me, love

when i am reborn

as a shrike to your sharp

and glorious thorn ”

The Virginian horizon did not offer the promise of thunderclouds and drizzles often, but when it did, well… as they always said back before the world crumbled to its feet and humanity’s cries for help had silenced, when it rains, it pours.

The clouds overhead emptied themselves like weeping lovers onto the empty streets of a downtown set of blocks, washing away the brown and red stains that marked the concrete and tarmac. Abandoned cars sighed through the downpour, and buildings half-lost to fires and the beginnings of Mother Nature herself threatened to fall permanently. Stray cats took shelter beneath sewer drugs and a number of rain pipes sang their sweet metallic songs. No walkers here, at least for now. There was no sign of the undead and their curse they had brought onto the world - only an empty void once occupied by a species now forgotten.

Your hood let fat drops of excess rain water spill onto your face as you pushed it back, turning your face upward to the ceiling of the short building. It smelled of yellowing paper and ruined ink; precisely what might become of a bookstore after the end. At your back, your companion swung the heavy door shut behind him - also soaked through his bones - and stuck a nearby metal rod through the handles to keep outsiders out. He turned to face you, and you cast an eye to the expanse of the store.

Silence.

Daryl let the arm of his bow clang noisily against the cash register to his left.

Still - silence.

“Thank god,” you muttered and began to wipe water from your face. It still dripped from your nose and landed at your feet. “I just want to go home and get out of these wet clothes.”

He gave a grunt in response, which you had come to learn meant his acknowledgement. From his tattered jeans pocket he produced a folded piece of paper, mindfully pulled the pieces apart, and handed it to you. Despite the fact that you wore gloves - a precaution you packed just in case the weather decided to take a turn - you felt his fingertips graze over your as you accepted the offering. Neither of you acted upon the shock of emotion that soared through your veins at the touch - if he had felt it, too.

But you were sure he had.

You had been an elementary teacher before the fall, and he was an unemployed soul that wandered, but never too far so that the chain around his neck choked him. While you taught little ones to read and write, he would find odd jobs as a mechanic and a repairman, lumbering through crowded areas with his head low and his voice silent.

It had taken time to coax him from his hideaway of a gruff personality and one-word answers; the same way it took time to bring out the starry eyes of children who were struck and taught they had no place in the world. In some ways, you saw that child within himself, hidden from view by the silhouettes of the men that kept his bruises hidden and his tongue quiet. You wondered what he would have been like, if he’d had a good home, a good brother, a good life before all this.

Over the months, then the years together amongst the walking dead, you’d gently, tentatively, prodded until you found a hole within his walls. And from there, they had come apart for you. Trinkets and gifts arrived for you from his runs, his darkest and most horrendous secrets had come to the light that you provided. A kiss on the cheek here, a lingering touch there.

Yet neither of you had the bravery to venture further from there.

The graphite of the pencil Eugene had used to make the supply list was nearly invisible, run off and almost ruined by the rain. Blinking a few times, you held the paper up to a small hole in the ceiling that allowed in a tiny waterfall of light - and rain. You knew this spot was plotted out because the children were in need of new workbooks for their lessons, and the tiny library in the house on the corner was bare as an early born dawn in winter. Rick and Michonne also requested a few specifics they wanted for Judith, since she was just beginning to read the letter magnets on the fridge.

Just barely, you could make out the names and titles of the requested books.

“Most of these are kids’ reads,” you said and motioned Daryl follow you with a jerk of your head. “The children’s area is probably in the back.”

Like a loyal canine, ever the silent guardian, Daryl trailed after you without a word. The faint sound of the rain accompanied your footsteps on broken glass and books spilled from their shelves. Most everything was still intact, even after all this time; you supposed books weren’t a necessity when it came to the apocalypse.

Another glance at the list had you rolling the titles over in your head, mulling through them amidst the comfortable silence you both shared.

“I read quite a few of these to my kids before everything,” you spoke and pushed the list into your own pocket. A fond, nostalgic smile spread across your features as you rounded a self-help area and beheld the children’s area; a little nook bedazzled with small shelves, stuffed animals, and toys galore. Fairytale paintings adorned the walls, and there sat a small semicircle of chairs fit for tiny legs and small bodies. An obvious stage for storytelling.

Daryl emitted another grunt as he let his eyes wander over the plushies, slinging his bow across his back. Then, he followed it up. “Had a teach tha’ would read us crap like this all th’time.”

You made it a point to yourself not to lift your head from your hunt through the picture books for Rick and Michonne’s prioritized request. “Yeah?” you said, keeping your eyes on the colorful spines. You knew if you looked at him, he would clam up and wander off, embarrassed and frustrated for exposing himself.

“Mm,” he agreed. With a large, sinewy hand, calloused with endless days’ worth of manual labor, he grasped a stuffed dog and examined it with hooded eyes. “Nice lady. Used’ta give me sugary stuff after lunch.”

“She sounds nice.” Your fingers stopped their skimming when they ran across the spine of a familiar forest green book. Eyes widening and breath catching in your throat, you gave a small noise of delight and pulled the title from its hidden space on the shelf.

Setting the stuffed dog back in its place, Daryl turned his head at your tiny exclamation. “What?”

Propping yourself on a knee and shifting your pack on your shoulders, you swiped a hand to clear the dust off the cover. Depicted on its glossy surface was a small bird with a band of black across the plane of its soft face. “This was my favorite book as a kid. I can’t believe it’s still - well, was still in print.” You stood and moved beside him to show the front, your arms touching and feet just inches apart.

He tilted his head slightly. ‘The Shrike’ was printed above the cartoon bird in a childish font, one that nearly made his expression twist just to read. “Hmm.”

“Oh, don’t ‘hmm.’ It’s a good book.”

Daryl shrugged a stiff shoulder and turned away. You could have sworn the tips of his ears had painted themselves with a faint shade of blush. “Sure.”

Pursing your lips, you took a quick glance around the rest of the bookstore. You were the only souls within its four walls, save for a few toads that had made their homes within the damp carpets. Somewhere outside, let in through the gaping hole in the ceiling, a bird whistled and cried.

You adjusted your gun belt, then took a seat in one of the child-sized chairs in the semicircle and opened the book across your lap. Daryl released a sound of protest, but you ignored him and flipped through the blank first pages.

‘The shrike hatched from its egg in a big, roomy nest. He saw the blue sky, and the green grass down below. But he was all alone. The other baby birds had already learned to fly, leaving the shrike all alone.’

“Will ‘ya at least give me th’list?” came Daryl’s voice through the picture in your head.

In response, your own voice answered him - this time soft and gentle, a wistful lilt upon your tongue. “He reminds me of you.”

“…The damn bird?”

“Mm.” You took a breath and skimmed over the last few lines of the page.

‘So the shrike taught himself to fly, without anyone to help him. And he became the best-flying bird amongst the skies.’

You rose to your feet and padded to Daryl across the soggy carpet, leaving a faint trial of footprints in your wake. He watched you incredulously, hands hanging at his sides. You set the book back in its place, then reached up on your toes to cup your hand against his stubbled jaw. The touch was not sudden, nor rough, nor unwelcome. His eyelids fluttered slightly, senses heightened through the roof and skywards.

“Oh, Daryl,” you breathed. His expression wavered, electric blue eyes searching anywhere but yours. The way his skin heated beneath yours told you he was not reluctant to indulge in your spoilery, but rather frightened. “You are the best man I’ve ever met.”

It was obvious he had to stop himself from leaning into your touch. Instead, he sniffed and said nothing.

Your attention was drawn to your right when, like a message from the heavens themselves, a small songbird flitted in from the hole in the roof and came to perch on a nearby shelf divider. It chirped, just as it had earlier, and preened a feather or two before crying again and taking off deeper into the bookstore.

Unable to control the golden glow emanating from your heart, you smiled gently and dropped your hand from his face. “Sorry. Just… a little nostalgic.” You cleared your throat, then pulled the list from your pocket and opened it up. “Let’s get these books and get out of here. I’m freezing in these clothes.”

You didn’t see, and would only realize later that evening upon finding the book on your kitchen table, that Daryl pulled ‘The Shrike’ from its place on the shelf and tucked it into his bag before following you.

Watching you both with black, soulful eyes, the songbird chirped and trilled before taking flight back out into the rain.

[mega-magolor]

when i was younger i liked to write bill cipher quotes on the walls in invisible ink