#the was way easier to write since i didn't have to come up with a plot XD

[not-freyja]

Afterwards

Today, the 30th of May, 2025, marks exactly one year since I published the final chapter of This is an Adjuration. In recognition of this strange anniversary, I would, my dear, dear class, like to tell you another story.

Called many things—The Adjuration, "Freyja's fic," and The Damn Fic—This is an Adjuration is a 300k word beast of a story about grief and inevitably, yes, but mostly about love. About choosing to love, as a radical act of defiance, no matter the cost. I can, and will, talk about this book all day.

But I'm not here to do that. I'm not here to talk about the story.

Instead, today, one year since its completion, I have gotten out my keyboard to talk about writing it.

I have always been a story teller. A childhood spent inventing worlds and plots to pass the time in the woods. Scary stories around campfires. And when I was twelve, I took my first crack at writing a novel.

It wasn't very good.

But that feeling, that indescribable feeling of having written—it was the best feeling in the entire world.

So, I chased it.

I wrote everything, everything that I could. I wrote poetry, short stories, music. I attacked each piece of English homework with the tenacity of a rabid dog. I started writing fanfiction.

And then, one day, I got brave enough to start posting the fanfiction. To take the piece of my heart that I had carved out with a fountain pen and place it in the digital commons for others to read.

(It still wasn't very good.)

And I want you to know, I do not mean that as an insult to my younger self. They were doing the best that they could, and getting better at it day by day. But the work that I was writing as a middle schooler did, in fact, read like it was written by a middle schooler.

The comment section responded in kind. The internet can be a cruel place. But that didn't stop me.

Fast forwarding, I grow up. Life was what life is. Big and beautiful and painful and messy and—

For the sake of my dignity, I will skip the details; but by 2019, I was… not okay. More than not okay—I was bad. Very bad. In fact, I was actively suicidal.

I kept writing, though. Kept telling stories. Kept trying to make sense of the world through the eyes of people that don't quite exist. I don’t know why, not really. Maybe it was because reality was gentler, easier to swallow, through eyes other than my own. Regardless of why, I kept at it, a compulsion that seemed as inevitable as the dawn.

The world turns, and Freyja writes.

And I kept living.

More bad things happened. Some small, some life changing. And so much joy, and beauty, though it was difficult to see it at the time. But then the worst thing—out of all the terrible things I will keep to myself—happened:

I stopped writing.

I put the pen down. More than that, I wanted the pen gone. Broken. De-nibbed. I tore through my ao3, deleting work after work. I chucked notebooks in the fire. In hindsight, it was madness, but at the time the logic was painfully, brutally simple: my words were me, and I wanted me gone. I hated myself, and everything I touched. I bathed myself in shame, and rage, and I thought poison to be a shield against the weight of the world.

…It was a bad time.

Fast forwarding again. It's 2023, and Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom comes out. I play it, of course—LOZ has been a longtime love of mine. I could, and have, written entire essays on that game and its merits (and faults) but… what matters is that I felt it, that old love of storytelling, again. That feeling—it came back to me, playing that game. That old familiar feeling of a story welling itself up inside of my chest and begging to be let out.

I decided to be brave. I decided to pick the pen back up.

First, I wrote the ending, something sorrowful and tragic and final: the exact feeling inside of my own heart.

Then I wrote the prologue, that first step through a one way door for Link.

And I wrote, though I did not know it at the time, that first step for me as well.

See, what you have to understand about me, class, is that I get a bit too attached to fictional characters. I know that they aren't real, that they are constructed vessels for abstract ideas, but even so, I get attached. Very attached.

So with one hell of a story to tell about my dear friend Link, I had a goal. Simple, achievable, and brutal. I would tell his story, and then I would die.

Yeah… surprise, the damn fic started out as a very long-form suicide note. Started out, I say, because it didn't stay that way.

Link—Legend, rather—and I were bound together. He and I stumble into the narrative in the depths of depression and suicidal ideation, the only thing keeping him alive is the fact that he has too many responsibilities to die. The narrative (the act of writing it) gives both of us one more mark of accountability.

Legend is convinced that he will die on this quest. I am certain I will after it. Neither of us had any idea how wrong we were.

In the first chapter, the prologue, I sent us (Link and I) on a quest. His was to save himself. Mine was—I thought—to tell a story. There was a non zero chance that we both failed. The odds were stacked against poor Rulie, and the Chain entire. I hadn't written in years.

In the second chapter, I dragged Legend out of retirement. But more importantly, I dragged myself out of retirement. Adding a second chapter felt like a promise. A commitment. This wasn't just a few words slapped together anymore, this was a narrative.

And the narrative continued.

Chapter after chapter, I shouted into the void in a combined caterwaul of Link's struggle and my own. There were times it grew difficult to write. Arcs and scenes and deaths came that were a true struggle to write, technically, and emotionally. As I said, Link is, to me, a very dear friend. Hurting him so brought me no pleasure (though some of the class' reactions did spark joy—back to that later).

But the narrative continued.

There were days where I was the problem. Where the darkness in my own mind had claws. Where sharp objects and chemical induced oblivion sang like a siren. Life was too much, and too little, and I didn't want to be here anymore. On those days, I wrote twice as fast.

And the narrative continued.

Humans tell stories, you know? It's one of the things that makes us human in the first place: that driving need to weave tales, to search for metaphor and truth in fabricated reality. A tradition that stretches back to the first campfire, the first story.

The story teller talks, and the audience listens, huddled up together in the dark.

That was the image in my mind, as I posted chapter after chapter. I sat before a campfire, telling a story to myself, staring into the flame for fear of what could be waiting in the darkness.

And slowly, people came to sit next to me. They came in the form of a familiar username, leaving a comment after an update for the fifth chapter in a row. Questions. Debates between readers about theories. Drawn out conversation in the comments, breaks in the narration spent not with my own thoughts, but with the audience. You were there. Link and I were no longer alone.

Here, the pressure increased manifold. For adjuration is a word that means two things, and one of those things is a promise, solemn vow. The other is a plea, an earnest urging. I promised Link that I would finish his story, no matter what. I begged him not to leave me while I did. Link and I had a deal, an understanding even, writ large across the story in entire. That this—this work of fiction—is an adjuration.

And then there you were, class. And our adjuration expanded to hold you. "Don't abandon the story," you pleaded.

"I won't. I couldn't," I promised.

The adjuration went the other way, too. "Stay with me. Trust me. Come with Link and I to the end," I begged you.

"We're here. We're listening. Around the fire," you vowed.

And we all kept our promises, didn't we?

The narrative continued.

Somehow, readers became friends. Some of them became family. What was a collection of anonymous usernames are now—somehow—the people I love most.

I will not go on to highlight any specific person, any particular relationship. If I were to begin, I would not stop, and this would become a very long afterword. (Yeah, yeah "15 chapters," I know.) But if you are sitting here, wondering if I am talking about you when I speak of my friends that I made on ao-fucking-3… yes. Yes, I am.

I shouted into the void, and you called back.

Through over three hundred thousand words, eighty six chapters, and ten months, we saw the story through to the end. Link's journey was over. And as for me, well… I had finished telling the story. The metaphorical campfire banked low.

I looked up, at my audience, and I saw how many of you there really were. I tried to prepare myself for the dissolution of our fellowship. Our reason to be together was concluded. People that I had now come to know, to love, had no further use for me.

It was time for you all to leave.

But you didn't. You threw more logs into the fire. "Thank you for the story," you said. "Would you like to listen to mine?"

I would. I really, really would.

It's been a year, now. With no "use" to these relationships. You came for a story, I told it; when it was over, you stayed.

Writing that story was my purpose, for a while. My literal reason for living. Now, a year later— where am I? Who am I?

Well, if you read the Damn Fic, then you know. I am every version of myself that I have ever been. I am a kid who likes stories. I’m a student. I’m a teacher. I’m an addict. I’m staying up way too late writing. I’m in line for a ride with you at Disney World. I’m laughing at a stupid joke. I’m 16 and thinking I won’t live past 25. I’m on the phone with my friends, playing the dumbest game. I’m way past 25. I’m at yet another funeral. I’m at a wedding. I’m getting dumped. I’m falling in love. And I’m so much more, all at once.

And I'm still alive, here in the afterwards, one year past my expiration date.

I have so many more stories to tell you guys. I hope you like them. I hope I tell them well.

The narrative continues. I’m sticking around, and that is an adjuration.

[stereopticons]

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: May 30

2018

have you met my family [david/patrick, T, 3,374] by TheSuperDandy

‘David knew exactly how attractive he was – it was his personality that was forever letting him down. But Patrick…Patrick honestly seemed to have no idea how that spoon in his mouth felt like sex to David, how the bright arc of his smile cut the world open. Or had it cut David open? Either way, it made David feel painfully awake. Patrick continued to watch David, and the quality of his smile changed. Okay, so maybe he knew.’ David and Patrick eat a lot of ice cream.

2019

Take my Heart, Make it Strong [david/patrick, G, 5,354] by @erandi

“Have a seat, we need to talk.” His dad gestures to the empty seat in front of him and David sits. He knows exactly what this talk is going to be about, his dad only uses that tone of voice for one thing. It just so happens to be the one topic that David would rather eat glass than discuss- which is saying a lot really, considering some of the things he’s done- but he knows from experience that it’s easier to just let his dad say what he wants to say. “Son, your thirty-fifth birthday is coming up in a couple of months, and we all know the timeline that we’re working with.” “Yeah, yeah. Twenty years to break the curse otherwise we’re stuck like this forever.” or The Rose family is cursed and the only way to break it is to find David's True Love.

Three is a good number, maybe [david/patrick/ted, G, 413] by AmyriadfthINGs

Ted likes Patrick.

2020

And if you're fallin' down [david/patrick, T, 456] by @spiffymittens

When David's looking at Instagram, he can't stop messing with his lips. It kind of makes Patrick walk right into walls. A little ficlet for the Jukebox prompt: "the first time Patrick sat in David's lap" Title from Noah Reid's new song "Got You", which is a total jam.

And the moon will keep my secrets [david/patrick, T, 2,837] by @petrodobreva

David just came back from visiting Alexis in New York. It didn't go well. Patrick is worried about it.

Can we always be this close [david/patrick, T, 590] by @kiwiana-writes

And suddenly, suddenly he understands what David has been trying to tell him for weeks, about letting go of expectations and doing what makes you feel right. Or, the first time Patrick sat on David’s lap.

Off-Book [david/patrick, T, 614] by bigficenergy

Patrick is up late running lines, and David just wants him to come to bed.

Take Me Out [david/patrick, G, 1,719] by @roberttchase

Ronnie’s halfway to first base and almost falls as she stops herself to look at him, the whole field and bleachers suddenly deathly quiet. Shit. Of course it’s Brewer who gets hurt. Of course it's her fault. She might not be his biggest fan, but she would never intentionally hurt him.

The Hackathon [ronnie/the florist, T, 3,184] by another_Hero

"Come on, baby," Dulce said over ice cream, "I want to see your town!" wherein Ronnie invites the florist to a fundraiser for the Schitt's Creek curling team uniforms.

This is Nice [david/patrick, G, 627] by @delilah-mcmuffin

David has climbed into Patrick's lap countless times. It’s his safe space, completely enveloped in the arms of his person. Sure, sometimes David feels a little ridiculous, like Gulliver curling up in the lap of a Lilliputian. But Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, so neither does David.

2021

Bells Falls [david/patrick, E, 16,482] by @picassofoxpeachy

Patrick has just broken off his engagement with Rachel and moved to Schitt's Creek. They were great as friends but any time their relationship progressed, instead of becoming closer they grew further apart.Thankfully, he came across an ad looking for a part-time mechanic at Bob's Garage. It had been so long since he had to opportunity to work on cars. He found himself actually excited about the chance to do something different, if even for a short time.Patrick figured he'd be able to do a couple months in Schitt's Creek, get himself sorted out and move on.But that was before he towed a car belonging to one David Rose, a man who caused Patrick to reassess what it is that he actually wants. NOTE- as of the conclusion, I did some editing that I couldn’t before. It’s great what avoiding something for over 2 months will do! I hope it reads a little bit better now though.

Everything You Need [david/patrick, E, 3,271] by @blackandwhiteandrose

“You’re killin’ me here…” David mumbled, leaning in just enough to nuzzle at Patrick’s jaw. Patrick chuckled, “Almost there. You can wait a little longer.” “No, I can’t,” David insisted. “Oh, I think you can.” -OR- Back in their hotel room after attending a black tie wedding, Patrick takes charge.

finally finally finally finally finally [david/patrick, G, 100] by @seadeepy

David gives some advice to Ted that might also apply to himself.

Grape wine [david/patrick, G, 1,125] by @picassofoxpeachy

David and Patrick are at a small business convention together. David tries a wine that’s amazing, but turns out to be from Herb Ertlingers winery. He has to make a decision about whether to start selling Herb Ertlingers win in Rose Apothecary or not.

It Won't Let Go [david/patrick, M, 12,619, CW: domestic abuse] by @fand0mfancies

Patrick kept going back to Rachel for 15 years. Why? And will he go back again?

save it from the funny tricks of time [david & moira, G, 1,114] by @hullomoon

While David helps her pack up her wigs, Moira reflects on their relationship.

Suddenly you're mine [david/patrick, E, 1,774] by @rmd-writes

Patrick doesn’t give him an answer and instead starts playing the piano, the song sounds familiar but David can’t place it until he hears Patrick singing quietly. “I never understood before, I never knew what love was for, My heart was broke my head was sore, What a feeling …” “Patrick,” his voice is just a whisper. Patrick looks at him, smiling as he continues to sing, his eyes both loud and soft, and fond. *** David and Patrick steal a moment after their wedding ceremony; and Patrick surprises David with an unknown skill.

what right feels like [david/patrick, g, poem] by elifisher96

I kissed a boy. to be moreprecise, he kissed me but does thathonestly make a difference?

2022

Getting What You Want [david/patrick, E, 2,393] by obsessedwithdavrick

It took Patrick a while to admit how much he loved cum. Now that he has, he is leaning in. David helps. And so do a few others.

Losing Control [david/patrick, E, 8,515] by @a-noble-dragon

David and Patrick have a little competition going to see which of them comes first. Who will win? Round 1- The first one to lose control and come loses. Featuring masturbation and dirty talk. Round 2- No talking! That means you, David. Round 3- Finger sucking. Round 4- Phone sex. Round 5- Overstimulation.

The Rush Before We Touch [david/patrick, E, 1,085] by @alienajackson

David is horny. Patrick (eventually) helps.

2023

[Art] "I know why you came here" [david/patrick, M, fanart] by @lizzie-bennetdarcy

David visits Patrick's glassblowing studio and receives a very warm welcome. Inspired by Molten Glass Hearts by Januarium

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017 or 2024 2018: 1 fic/3,374 words 2019: 2 fics/5,767 words 2020: 7 fics/10,027 words 2021: 8 fanworks (7 fics, 1 poem)/36,693 words 2022: 3 fics/11,993 words 2023: 1 fanart Total: 22 fanworks (20 fics, 1 fanart, 1 poem)/67,896 words

[whattraintracks]

Look, I know what the people want, okay? The people want a self-indulgent HPI Morgadec rewrite of Castle S4E7.

Yeah, it's me. I'm the people.

Say hello to my newest obsession that I told myself I wasn't going to write fic about but A) I'm a dirty liar, B) I have lots of stuff to procrastinate right now, and C) I just finished all the seasons currently accessible in the US and this is my grieving process.

I don't know who the audience for this is other than myself, but I had a lot of fun writing it and felt like sharing!

Cops & Robbers Pt 1 - Next

Warnings for guns and hostage situations.

[]

"Ugh, Théa. Why did I have to come here?" Morgane trudges up the stairs to the bank with no small amount of disgust.

"Because I needed a ride," Théa repeats for the fourth time since they parked.

"Couldn't you have taken the bus?"

"No."

Théa informs the bank teller she's come to open her own account, and they're led to a cubicle where a man in a poorly fitted suit spouts financial drivel at them. She can't imagine how Théa can listen to a man who says things like, "It's all about interest."

She pops her bubblegum. "And there goes mine." Pushing out of her chair, she stage whispers to Théa. "If you need help, blink twice."

Théa looks supremely unamused, so she shrugs and wanders out of the cubicle. Propping her hip against a table covered in brochures, she settles in to people watch. Except. She's in a bank. No one here is interesting enough to watch. She pulls out her phone, clicking her nails against the case for the two rings it takes him to pick up.

"Karadec speaking."

"Tell me you need me," she begs.

Silence rings on the other end for a moment. He sounds short of breath when he responds, "Pardon?"

"Théa kidnapped me, and now I'm stuck at a bank. Please tell me that there's a murder somewhere I could be solving." She glances around the room. The only person who looks remotely interesting is a man in red scrubs and a trench coat. It's the get-up really. Intriguing, if only for how out of place it is.

Karadec sighs. She bets he's smiling, though. The way he does when he can't help himself. "Ah, no. Sorry. Just paperwork."

"Interesting paperwork?" she presses. Not that she'll help even if it is, but she can sit around the office and talk while everyone else works.

"Standard reports. A lot of them, though." He lowers his voice, and she leans in as if the phone isn't already pressed to her cheek. "Céline has the worst of it. She lost her coffee mug in the mountain of files on her desk."

"Oh gosh," she says, thrilled by his conspiratorial tone, "paperwork and an undercaffeinated Céline? That might even be worse than this place."

He huffs a laugh. "Sorry, Alvaro, you'll have to find stimulation elsewhere today."

She has a witty reply—really, she does—but she gets distracted by the front door swinging open to admit a woman with a surgical mask around her neck. She's wearing indigo scrubs and a trench coat. Like the man she noticed earlier. In fact, she walks past that man and nods as he rubs his nose.

She gasps, "Kara!"

"What?"

"This bank is about to get robbed!"

"What."

She creeps away from the table to hide behind a column, glancing behind her to check on Théa. "There's a man and a woman dressed in scrubs and trench coats. And. They both have suspicious bulges in their jackets."

"Alvaro. You should not sound so excited about this. Where are you?"

She doesn't quite register his question, watching the woman get in line for a bank teller. What was the secret signal for if they aren't doing anything yet? "They must be waiting for someone," she mutters.

A heavy clank has her whirling around to the door, where, sure enough, a third man in scrubs and a surgical mask slams a bike lock on the handles. He turns around, cocking an assault rifle. "Everybody, get down on the floor!"

Her sparked adrenaline bursts into an inferno of fear. Karadec curses, the man's demand no doubt loud enough to carry over the phone.

"Well." She crouches, whispering. "I was right."

"Alvaro, tell me what's happening. Tell me where you are."

The other two robbers pull their masks up, revealing their guns and shouting at everyone to come away from their stations and get on the ground. Morgane tucks her phone against her shoulder, returning to the cubicle and ushering Théa behind the banker's desk. Once out of sight, she rattles off the address. Rubbing a hand down Théa's back does little to soothe her nerves as she hears Karadec tell Gilles to call in the bank robbery.

The female robber tells everyone to slide up their cell phones. Morgane notes her Indian accent but remembers the man who locked the door sounded British. All of them hold their guns confidently, and she starts to get the impression that these people are professionals.

"Alvaro," Karadec prompts.

Théa tries to peek above the desk, but Morgane pushes her back down. A man spots her, staring wide-eyed at the phone pressed to her ear. She gestures desperately at him to keep quiet. He hesitates. Then nods.

"Morgane!" Karadec says urgently.

She gulps, "I'm here."

"Is Théa with you?"

"Yes." She turns to look into her daughter's frightened eyes.

"Good. Stay together. Can you tell me what's happening?"

"Right, yeah." She takes a breath, looking back over the desk. "We're hidden, but I can see everything. The robbers are in scrubs. One is emptying the cash drawers. Another is going for the bank manager." She pauses, watching the robber in red. "He's got the manager's key, and he's going to the back."

"Okay. That's good, Morgane. Do you know how many there are?"

"Three," she replies confidently. "And they all have—"

Théa gasps beside her, and she freezes at the sound of a gun cocking behind her.

She brings a hand to her mouth, confidence shattered by the metal pressed against her skull. She fights through her trembling lips to tell Karadec, "Make that four."

Karadec falls silent, as does the rest of the room, when the robber behind her declares, "So you're the hero I'm going to make an example of."

The other three robbers turn to the man behind her and she realises he must be their leader. Because Morgane couldn't just piss off any old criminal with a gun, she had to go and piss off the criminal in charge.

Her phone is pulled out of her hand, and a tall man in light blue scrubs steps around to face her. "Sorry," he says into the phone, "Your friend can't talk right now."

Before he can hang up, Karadec's voice rings out, "I wouldn't worry about her. You should worry about yourself. I've got patrol cars on their way."

"Supercop?" Théa whispers hopefully. Morgane nods slightly, tucking her daughter under her arm.

The man pulls up short. "You're a cop?" He says into the phone, then turns to her with a glimmer of agitation in his eyes. "You called a cop?"

"Of course not." He raises his gun to her face. "I swear!" she yelps, "We were on the line before you came in."

"Listen to me." Karadec draws the robber back in with a voice she's heard in dozens of interrogations. "So far, nobody's hurt, and nothing's been stolen. If you leave the way you came in, you can just disappear."

The robber scoffs, "And what? You'll promise not to come looking for me?"

Karadec's voice tips into something cold and sharp that sends ice down her spine. "I won't look for you. I will hunt you down. And trust me, you don't want that. So leave now, and this'll be a blip in the evening news."

Morgane stares into the barrel of the gun as the robber considers Karadec's threat.

Finally, he chuckles, "Sorry. Supercop, was it? I'd rather make headlines." He crushes her phone beneath his heel, and she laments how much it'll cost to replace it as he drags her and Théa to their feet.

But Karadec—swift, reliable Karadec—wasn't bluffing about the patrol cars. The four robbers turn in unison at the sound of sirens approaching.

"Alright, doctors." Their robber pushes her and Théa into the center of the room with the rest of the—oh gosh, they're officially hostages now. "We trained for this. You know what to do."

She stumbles to the ground, dizzied by everything that's just happened. Her thoughts sluggish amid the muffled tears and harsh breaths from her fellow hostages, the shouted orders backed up by guns, and the police lights and sirens muted by thick, frosted windows.

Théa reaches for her hand.

[demodraws0606]

Okay so I have made a really bad post trying to descredit Eden taking the tape as something super important so I'm just gonna drop the actual post I was preparing instead of trying to catch Eden!Culprit theories with a half baked post.

The main issue I'm having with Eden!Culprit theories right now is mostly because of stubborness that since Eden took the tape then she HAS to have done it even though if she was the culprit it would make 0 sense as to why she wouldn't just take the tape after Teruko and Ace left the room ? Like someone could've easily told her to take the tape, it's not that hard and it just makes more sense with the other evidence layed out for us.

The main reason I accepted Eden as the culprit before is because there were no possible culprits since Levi was pretty much confirmed innocent and there was still a likelyhood of Eden working for someone. However, this pretty much now rendered null and void. I swear all of this makes it sound like I have some grudge against this theory but I really need to put this subject to rest before the answer is probably revealed to us on friday. I want to make sure this theory is dead in the ground even if it's just for me personally, because it just has too many holes for me.

Also sorry if this seems mainly just a repeat of stuff I've already said, I'm not really good at structuring my posts :')

I've seen the argument that Arei actually wasn't knocked out with the turpentine because why would they bind her wrist then. However, we know she had to have been knocked because there is no struggle shown, either on her body or the floor of the playground. Weither she was suffocated or knocked out, the tape was still used on her wrist so this can't be something to be used against the idea of turpentine knocking her out. This means there is high likelyhood that it was used because it would make no sense for the culprit to just suffocate Arei before killing her (and again suffocating would show more signs of struggle than what we see on the crime scene).

There's also no other items that Arei could've been suffocated with other than the rope which would've left marks, the ball of starch clearly is stuck together most likely by turpentine which means it would've been used to knock out someone.

This would mean the culprit had to have used the turpentine to knock out Arei as well, meaning the culprit had to have gotten their hands on the turpentine.

I also refuse the idea of Eden trying to kill Ace, not only because I just find it ridiculous from a character standpoint but mainly because we know it was Hu's murder weapon that was used against Ace (the wire) considering there is no evidence of any other wire existing in this killing game that would be sharp enough to slice someone's throat. Hu's wire is part of the weapons which is evidence alone that it would be sharp enough to harm Ace bc otherwise what purpose does a wire serve. I don't believe for a second that Hu would just have her weapon lying around for anyone to yoink, unlike the turpentine which we know had to have been used by Nico and Rose when they were painting together.

In fact the story has made it clear how complicated taking someone weapon's is by having Arei's weapon only being available after she discarded it. The same can be said of the turpentine which was used out in the open and would make it easy to take with Rose's absent mindedness. If taking someone's weapon was just as easy as that, they wouldn't have given us the scene of Arei throwing out her rope like that in the first place.

Eden also has no reason to want to replicate Ace's murder onto Arei, there's basically no logical motivation behind that. In fact the progression between Ace's attempted and Arei's succesful murder proves alone that it's the same culprit (if the turpentine's existence wasn't enough). We can see the progression of the culprit trying to avoid the same mistakes they committed with Ace's failed murder (trying to snap Arei's neck to avoid the possibility of her getting saved last minute like Ace, bounding her hands potentially to make her more stable to lift upwards).

We don't even know if she figured out how the murder even worked considering it was completely undone when Teruko and Eden saw it.

Even the timing of when Eden knew about the clothing is off. We know the ball of clothing is probably sticky due to the turpentine because there is no other leads to explain why this ball of clothing is even a thing in this murder case. Turpentine is both clear and sticky, which would explain how the ball of clothing is both clear of stains and sticking together like that. Considering also that we know for a fact Ace was knocked out, and I don't think the culprit straight just shoved a jar of turpentine on his face, they most likely used some sort of tissue to smother them with (meaning it couldn't have been used to asphexiate Arei). This means the ball of clothes was used in Ace's attempted murder.

Eden only knew about the clothing change from Hu, we can only assume the same day that Ace's was murdered and probably not long before the attempt. This both clears Eden going to the changing room as the ""ball of starch"" was most likely already created before that, the only arguemnt it could be used for is that she was trying to retrieve it but it barely makes sense.

In terms of the timing of when Eden knew about the clothes and Ace's murder, if Hu only told her the same night that Ace was almost murdered it makes the timing insanely more difficult to justify. Unlike Hu who would have the pieces ready way more in advance.

All of these contradictions cannot be debunked by saying "well Eden took the tape", as it could easily be explained by the culprit asking her to take the tape from the gym or her just taking it without purpose and then the culprit getting their hands on it later.

The Eden!Culprit theory is barely hanging onto one piece of shakey evidence that can easily be broken by one justification.

If Nico can't be the culprit despite having the turpentine (well I don't think they do but 99 pourcent of Eden!culprit theories rely on Eden not really committing the attempted murder of Ace) then Eden doesn't have to be the culprit taking the tape.

The only way you can argue Eden is the culprit is if she tried to kill Ace, however this is impossible because of Hu's weapon. This is basically the summary of my main issue with the whole Eden!Culprit theory.

[acid-ixx]

Getting hyper fixated on the loving family series i was wondering if you could write a scenario in which the reader is kinda forced to appear at an event where Bruce is and he and the rest of the family watch as the reader shows up with Clark and Jon with a beautiful suit/dress (preferably a suit but either is okay) and the outfit so stunning the rest of the room can’t help but stare in awe and the batfam has to sit there and watch while the reader is living their best life and perhaps some smug attitude from Clark as Bruce notices some not so hidden love bites on the readers body. And death glares from the bat siblings as Jon is being super cuddly and loving with the reader to purposefully rile up Damien and the others???

all eyes on the prize p.t. 1 (a loving family, an unpalatable desire two-shot)

ft. yandere superfam x gn! neglected spouse reader x yandere batfam

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist !

— a/n: implied nsfw between clark and the reader but no actual smut scene. also, interpret the reader as any gender!!! i personally put them in a suit cause it's not only classy but it's a very flexible and stylistic choice when it comes to fashion. clark is described as way larger, broader (due to kryptonian genes) than the reader but not taller, same with bruce, but i still tried to keep the reader as neutral as possible when it came to their appearance.

being the affair partner of a pulitzer price winning journalist was no easy feat.

being recognized by fans of his in public and having to sign their favorite articles of his was an alright task for you, having candid photos taken without your knowledge at every small outing you have with your little family was a fate you've already prepared for, even bump ins with other aspiring journalists who wish to live under clark's shadow, hearing them ramble about their passions on the side of the street whilst begging you to promote their own written entries to your partner was at least tolerable—

because those instances were far more easier to cope with than an upcoming gala.

because at least those moments still guaranteed your mental stability since all you really had to worry about were deranged conspiracists with no real power over you — over clark and his naturally protective kryptonian instincts which easily signals him to drop off his current missions and to swoop you in his loving arms whenever he senses you're truly in trouble — who can only ever type in newer theories that are quickly disputed by the fans who were always in favor of your current affair over your miserable marriage from months ago.

so yeah, it was safe to say that over the course of the months where you were safely tucked in your new home life, back when bruce and the others weren't aware of your affair; you'd never really had an excuse to worry about anything else.

really, clark's strong hands wrapped protectively around the expanse of your waist whilst he flies you around metropolis on one of your little dates, alongside jon convincing you to take him out to buy another tub of ice cream were enough assurances that your domestic life right now is all a perfect bubble that could never be popped by whatever bullshit the wayne's might've planned against your little family could ever do.

really, you thought you were so cunning.

— but a charity event hosted by the bruce wayne in acknowledgement for the daily planet all of a sudden? a gala you're sure would guarantee the presence of your ex-family, aware of the infamous affair you had with clark kent?

a gala where your new family was required to attend, not just for the sake of publicity, but because the invitation contained thinly veiled threats admitting that clark might — or would — lose his job if he didn't bring you along?

an invitation sent to him a week prior, that he'd kept hidden from a cabinet you rarely open. to which he thought you wouldn't notice his skittishness for the past few days, except your human intuition begged your intrigue, to investigate upon your partner's sudden source of stress.

so here you are now. breathless in the middle of your bedroom, stunned as you feel blood rise to your head.

and as much as clark comforts you through his warm chest covering your entirely shaken body as he softly coos on your neck, warm breath fanning against the sudden cold washing over your body; as much as jon tries to reassure you that you've nothing to worry about as his tiny, yet strong hands, tries to pry off the crumpled piece of paper in your grip, reeking of bruce's favorite cologne you'd always have to endure when sleeping in the same empty bed of his back then, as much as conner jokes around right beside you, holding your arms and helping your levitate with his telekinesis in case you might collapse from the shock— as much as your family tries to feed your disillusioned thoughts that everything is okay, even they couldn't deny the cold, hard truth: you all are attending the wretched gala either way.

the company's head passing on the message that clark and, in implied provocation and extension, you, are going to be the star of the show was enough of a guarantee that your family had to be there.

the ornate, black box laced with silken ribbons of your favorite color, laying upon the simple, white bedsheets of your shared bed with clark, its fancy design clashing with the simplicity of your bedroom and standing out, lid slightly ajar, revealing a decadent pair of pearl earrings – no doubt real, and expensive and taunting – and the infamous diamond encrusted ring you thought you'd thrown away was enough of a mockery, enough of a warning that there's more than just rivalry between clark and his old friend—

but a simple statement that even if you managed to temporarily dislodge your old family away from your life, even if you'll push and shove away at your ex-children's attempt of communication with you, even if you wrote off your last name as kent; you ultimately still belong to the wayne's.

and that's enough of a statement which brews a bitter storm inside of clark's heart. makes him want to retaliate, not with a physical fight against the bat, no, he doesn't want you to worry your pretty head anymore than the cruelty his old comrade had already done; but with his own little statement against bruce in this gala, with his own twist which he knows will floor his rival's jaws to the floor once the scheduled gala will come the day after.

for now, though?

he gestures conner with a look, one he often shares to the other kid of his: where he wants him to take jon elsewhere, preferably far away from the house, and leave you two couples some space to think through your choices.

one that says, "i'll have this handled," without so much a word uttered, as conner nods in reply before ushering jon with the same look and a gentle promise that they'll play some games overnight in his apartment instead. jon, as hesitant and oblivious as he is to let go of his tight grip on your shirt, pouts and releases his hold, but not without flying to kiss your dampened cheeks and whispering: "you'll be alright, dad/mom. we'll keep you safe."

then they both leave within the flashing seconds.

when your confused, downward gaze, eyes lined with a fresh wave of tears shifts to the scene in front of you — the family working in tandem with no verbal cues — just right before you could even question clark what he's planning; he shushes you, kissing the crown of your head with the softest smile he could plaster upon his face, a mask ignoring the cruel urge to fly over to gotham, redirecting the rage, transforming it into the adoration he feels for you at this moment, at every passing moment.

at least in the safety of your bedroom, his ultimate prize is still in his arms: willing and gilded in a way bruce could never earn.

he'll make sure the man knows of this the next day.

for now, he turns you to face him as his hand directs itself to the back of your waist, squeezing reassuringly, his other palm cupping the fat of your cheeks, swiping away the salty trails until his thumb and index reaches your bottom lip, pinching lightly. you stare back at his slightly squinted eyes, no doubt capturing you in slow motion just to embrace every little feature of yours, and hold on to his broad shoulders, relaxing from your hold.

but it's you who still doesn't calm down, it's you who still needlessly worries. and clark doesn't like it when his sweetheart thinks of anything else if not him and your family.

not the wayne's.

"what now, clark?" you graze the furrowed crease of his brows with your thumbs, massaging. he hums, laughing at your antics of helping him relax, then leans in to peck your lips, exhaling heartily when you pout at his refusal to reply.

what you didn't notice, though, were the hands suddenly wrapped around your thighs, your thoughts too messy, mind too slow, to comprehend your back pressed against the mattress and the fancy box discared on the rug with a gentle thud.

his breath tickling the core of your ears was the first thing you sensed.

"what now, you ask?*

both your clothes were discarded faster than the heat crawling up your face and the shivers running up your spine.

his mouth made immediate work on your neck all the way to your collarbone, sucking your vulnerable skin until it turns into deep shades of purples clashing with yellow. he bites a little harder when you squeak and tangle your fingers on his messy curls, then teases you with skilled fingers kneading your inner thighs.

he pins you down, you can feel the hairs of his chest pressing against your bare ones, and yet you don't push away, finally realizing the implications of his actions. what he intends for bruce to see, for the world to see.

"—i say we need to show bruce what he's been missing out on this whole time."

a longer, more passionate kiss was enough to set the deal.

the flash of the ever-so insisting paparazzi were as overwhelming as you can expect.

loud, insistent, buzzing with energy at the latest gossip and questions enough to hurl even great thinkers into a mind numbing spiral. they picture your every move, record your every reaction, and twist words spoken into their spit-encased microphone into delirious titles for the media to digest.

yet as invasive as they were, it was one of the legal ways he can obtain your pictures without you or clark suspecting a thing or two for these past few months; living in your own space without doubting if your private life was as private as you'd thought it'd be.

what with damian sneaking off and hitching a ride with jason on his motorcycle just to watch you from afar, standing right outside your apartment with baited breath, going as far as picking your locks and entering just to get a whiff of the life they'd miss without you? or tim hacking through surveillance cameras in areas you frequent, capturing every little smile of yours and pasting it in a bulletin board as a means to gain inspiration? all in the guise of needing you alive—?

suffice to say he was grateful for the media's thirst for drama. it gave off less suspicions, made it so that superman doesn't feel the need to be following his tail after unneeded circumstances where his own children had been caught in the same space as you in public.

it helped track you down: the constant headlines mentioning your name, vicki vale and a bunch of other no-named journalists would often be caught in the spiral of keeping the internet interested in the tale of your affair.

their performance was satisfactory.

and yet it doesn't dismiss the fact that because his life had always been centered around yours — and in his due ignorance, his missed priorities, it was he who was also the reason as to why you left the safety of your manor — that also meant his involvement in the internet's latest drama.

he always has been, but sometimes, even he gets tired.

bruce wayne can handle the element of crime, can help sweep off blood-soaked streets, fund the countless hospitals rattling with new patients of the villains he had dealt with, pay for students' debts, and rehabilitate victims of the corrupt system—

but he can never control the public and their opinions.

especially when it came to him and his... ex-spouse.

bitter as the title tastes on his tongue, right now, he feels their prying eyes swarming his body as he stands by the high arch of the entranceway, sculpted body illuminated by the moonlight stretching across the horizon, reflected by the dangling chandeliers casting a sickening orange light; quite frankly, the warmth of the colors doesn't bring comfort upon the anxiety creeping right beneath his skin.

he can hear the gossip and expectations for what is to come, the crowd's own speculations all but mere background talk to him as he focuses solely on the countless of familiar faces passing between thick, mahogany doors, initiating greeting with every entering folk; a false smile plastered on his weary face, a controlled crinkle of his eyes, overly saccharine hello's burying the barely disguised disinterest in their brief conversations before another wave of people come in.

the earpiece tucked in his right ears are flooded with anticipatory conversation about when or if you're going to arrive.

he can't deny his own patience waning as his eyes scan the countless piercing ones amongst the crowd, singling out his children making talk with other guests as a way to pass time.

tim's entertaining the guests, used to the constant socialization required due to his upbringing, he emits a hearty laugh at someone's joke: light, yet empty at the seams. duke tries – but fails – to follow his lead, adjusting to the change in scenery; he pretends to be shocked by the drama occurring between the socialites, sneering under his breath at their ridiculously obvious bragging about another new, undeserved property bought, preferring to focus elsewhere.

damian's doing well under dick's guidance, making an actual effort to disguise his contempt for the crowd, communicating with some and faking awe, yet whenever he scoffs openly, dick subtly glares at the smaller child as warning which prompts him to shut up momentarily. meanwhile, jason is properly hidden behind the sculpted columns, hawk eyes assessing every known guests and providing updates to the family in the comms for suspicious activity.

barbara chose to fancy herself in the batcave, with access to the security cameras plastered on every corner and outside the venue's premises. steph and cass are together, munching on the buffets and assessing which pastry dish is the best, they ignore the other guests trying to talk to them whilst they play with the fancy clams displayed in the corner of the table.

all of them, committing to their own, unique way of passing time—

and yet they all share the same, disinterested gaze as bruce.

choosing to return brief eye contact with him, raising their brows, as if they're all asking the same question:

"where are they, bruce?"

(because, after all, the only purpose of this gala, and their willingness to cooperate with one another without bickering, is to finally share the same space with you after months of silent treatment, months of your lack of cooperation for a counseling session between troubled couples with bruce, months of being held in another man's arms, littered with kisses that aren't his own, spending moments with another child— superman's, no less. and under his protection and attention, you are no doubt invulnerable for any opportunities of kidnapping. at least, in this event, even if it's just for a temporary moment. for confirmation, maybe, that you're safe and sound and happy and thriving without them, and that maybe they'll be glad that you chose clark and his family over them).

them and their undeniable sin of ignoring you.

sure, they should've been glad you left and never turned back. he should've been grateful that there was one less person worrying over him.

(but he knows, deep down, bruce knows it in his sick, twisted mind that it's never what they wanted. bruce knows that they needed you).

so when you finally entered the fray, it was no denying that they all felt the same, compelling and magnetic pull that you've always had — that they chose to turn their backs on, that they discovered all too late was something they yearned for — garnering all of their sporadic attention into one singular being: you.

"oh my god, bruce... they're..."

gorgeous? quite the eye-catcher? the moment everybody's all been waiting for? the reason why this event was hosted in the first place? there's no need to voice out the obvious, no denying that more than anything, you weren't anything less than desirable for the eyes of many.

god, he gulps and feels the parchness of his throat, feels perspiration sliding down his adam's, sinfully he admits that his hunger for you tonight might've multiplied.

his shaky blue eyes share a brief, yet cutting contact with yours, at your dismissive ones staring at him before it ultimately returns to your partner— and he feels the same spark he's felt all those years ago, the same gluttony, the same green envy at every person who shares a close relationship with you prior your marriage to his.

then he remembers why he's willed himself to turn his back on you: you're the reason why bruce forced himself to avoid you— he was afraid, unprepared that the moment you stepped into his life, that if he felt your skin's electrifying contact with his, if he heard that fucking voice of yours tempting him to take a break from being the bat and instead spend a night with him in bed, in your arms, if he feels so much of your warm breath hitting against his bare skin? he might lose himself in the plot; given up his entire life just to feel your body fused with his.

he knew the risk, he wasn't simply ready to take it, wasn't ready for the domesticity of it all.

and now he realizes, his life's always been devoted to you. and also, he's ultimately fucked up his chances of bringing you back into the family without complaints.

"you'd think they change for the worse or so, but no... they're still as charming, bruce— just better now. look, nobody's taking their eyes off of 'em, and they even bought the little kid–"

"— fucking hell. bruce, if you don't move your ass to greet them right now, i'm going to—"

dick's momentary lapse of amazement was interrupted by a series of swears from jason. sworning at him too, probably, about his ultimate talent for fumbling his best asset, about him losing someone so hellishly tempting, about why he's glued to his place, stunned to even plaster a welcoming smile when he hears your polished, black pointed shoes clacking across the marbled floors.

but he doesn't focus on their blurring words and conjoined awes. he doesn't even take his eyes off of your own fingers intertwined with clark's, the silver wedding band he's seen in the pictures still attached to your ring finger, instead of the diamond ones he's sent over to your apartment as a means of apologies.

his attention doesn't waver at all, not when he's too busy losing his breath over... you.

not when he zeroes in at the sickening sight before him—

dazzling as you were, adorned with a loose, white shirt – unbuttoned, just to give bruce and the crowd around you a glance of your clavicle – peeking out of the layered, gray vest, a blazer draped over your shoulder, and a tie sits loosely at the base of your outfit to complete the simple look; as if that would distract everyone from the sight of the fresh love marks littering the entirety of your neck all the way to the exposed clavicle. as if the sight of your slightly swollen lips doesn't suggest that you've probably made out with your affair partner before even entering the premise, not when he can already pinpoint the equally, if not more, bitten lips of clark and your favorite gloss unwiped from the side of his mouth.

fresh, newly gifted marks for the world to see. bruce can picture it, your heated flesh bitten and sucked over and over again the night prior to the event. how clark could easily conjure sweet noises from the back of your throat, how he must've known, must've burnt the taste of your saliva, sweat and salty, pleasured tears into every pore of his tongue until all his appetite caters only to you.

and you're wearing the same damn lapel pins. one of your favorite flowers that he's seen his own comrade wore before in a similar event. it's not just his own rival claiming you, it's you openly showing everyone that you've already been taken.

clark and his children, not yours – he can accept being cheated on, but he'll never allow you the comfort of replacing your own children – conner and jon, stand beside you, sharing the same colors for his own outfit. the man's nose held high, way too high for a man who pretends like he didn't just snatch off his own damn spouse right behind his back.

yet all he could do was squint his eyes, glare profusely, ignore the hastened thumping in his heart, the green envy flooding his vision. teeth clenched in controlled irritation, he's positioned perfectly so the camera's wouldn't easily capture his reaction, but even then does he feel the need for a mediocrum of control, but he can't. he can't control the visceral urge to pull out his kryptonite reserves hidden temptingly inside the batcave; he can't deny just how crazy you're already driving him despite having never felt your own touch for a long, grueling time.

he only snaps out of his stupor when you're only two strides left. when the light hits your sparkling eyes and reflects your obviously lovelorn gaze at the man whose biceps you wrap your hands around, who returns the gaze with a deeper intensity until your attention ultimately shifts to your own husband in front of you.

suddenly, the deafening whispers hollowed itself out.

suddenly, your eyes become dull and lifeless under the chandelier's warm glow.

not unforgivingly bitter, not even a hint of rage— but empty and unthinkingly cold, like the wick of a candle fully blown out. like the silence right after a wave of fireworks.

a warmth that yields, reminding bruce of your love that burned away for year without anymore fuel to sustain it. unrequited, like the presence he never graced you with.

decades worth of training and fighting on the cruel streets of gotham could never prepare bruce for the hammering beats of his chest, it could never quite dull down the feeling of heartbreak encapsulated in one single, desolate stare. he's sure clark could hear his own hastened pulse, his eyes flicker quickly to his own friend's victorious, yet still worried gaze; but nothing else quite matters other than your own swollen lips struggling to make out words and the subtle furrow of your brows at just what to say to the man you thought you'd never see eye to eye.

you look so perfectly dolled up despite being so disturbingly marked up from head to toe.

nothing else matters right now other than having to greet them like normal, he convinces himself, except the fact that he could feel his own sweat running down his flushed neck and his own teeth biting down his lower lips, and his squinted eyes drifting lower and lower from your eyes all the way down to the pridefully displayed hickeys.

nothing else matters, except for bruce's own thoughts meandering on his own fantasies of just what your body would taste like once he's sought out to forcibly take you away from clark's arm and back into his own.

nothing else matters, other than the thoughts of possibly wanting to give you another child when he sees you momentarily distracted by jon pulling on your blazer and whispering about his boredom, only to be lightly scolded with a gentle graze of hands atop his curly hair, or conner's grumbling from beneath his breath about just ditching the greetings and flying off to the buffet, only to be met with your fluttering laughter and a pat on his back, whispering into the boy's ears— that bruce can't pick up with just his hearing, he reminds himself to go over the camera feed soon to enhance the audio, just to hear that lovely voice of yours — words enough to make the metahuman surrender for just a moment; the scene awefully reminds him a lot of the way his own mother used to tell him off with just a loving hush and a pinch of his cheeks—

goodness, you're everything his own children need right now. a guiding light, a dutifully great figure to discipline their rebellious attitudes.

and he gulps, then suddenly, the slacks he chose to wear just feels a tad bit tighter. suddenly, he's grateful that he chose to wear something more loose tonight.

"pleasure to see you, too, bruce." instead of your voice greeting him, instead of bruce finally having to hear you for the first time outside of the cameras his family has set up or hacked all throughout the places you frequently visit, it's clark's voice which breaks through the immersion when it should've been yours greeting him.

"what's up, mister wayne? how's life in the manor without my lovely parent, huh?"

conner follows through with his unwelcoming, all too lighthearted, all too mocking with his question before clark could even silence the young, all too passionate boy's unneeded comment, as if shoving bruce's mistake right in his face would prove something.

it's enough to irk him, really. he really has to remind himself to hold off on the kryptonite, for now.

and right now, all his focus should be on at least charming you enough tonight to convince you to return to your rightful family, as he ignores both clark and conner's greetings, immediately aiming for your wrist to bring it up to his lips.

your surprised yelp doesn't deter him from kissing your knuckles deeply while keeping eye contact with you, the abundance of cheers from the comms attached in his ears doesn't either.

all that matters right now, is that he has his eyes on the prize, and he's not willing to give it up any further.

a/n: firstly this first part is dedicated to both @luffyadolover and @neerathebrightstar !! since it's the former's BIRTHDAY !!! and if you're reading this, i wish to greet you with the happiest celebration with the yummiest cake and hopefully this fic is enough to make u even happier too !! and for the latter, neera, i'd love to thank u for ur unwavering support and talking to me and allowing me to yap about my own series' ! thank you both for your love, mwah mwah 🩷 <3

otherwise, leave comments please ? 🥺 my confidence in my writing has been at an all time low sadly, though i admit that i loved writing about bruce go from angsty to horny to straight up both. this was supposed to be a short fic, why did it suddenly become really long erm??? the second part will be posted tomorrow night !! for context, i always post around 12 to 4:00am at gmt +8 since i'm most active at night !! love y'all ! don't forget to leave remarks since i love reading through them it's like my main motivation.

taglist: @imjustasimp132 , @mimiiiiiiiiisstuff , @chericia , @queenofspades403 , @naina326 , @neerathebrightstar , @lilyalone, @nickey-diano , @tsuniio , @ssak-i , @kore-of-the-underworld , @lollipoppersposts , @peptox , @kdjhubby , @weirdcore-fantasy , @thypplover , @asdfghjklgayblog , @prince-nikko , @phoenixgurl030 , @antionwithadrawingpen , @circe143 , @ferchu0406 , @kittzu , @yuyuzi-ling , @moonieper , @esthxio , @ryuushou , @nickey-diano , @ssak-i

[thegoldencontracts]

Hi sorry to bother you, but can you please make a part 2 of the courting fic where the prefect realizes what they were trying to say and "un-rejects" them?

Love your writing, keep up the good work!!

So happy to see people on the same page as me here, because I wrote the fic right before going to bed and my immediate thoughts were (I feel so bad so themm... wait but they're also being kinda stupid shit GUYS LOCK IN)

Anyways Part Twooo to this fic let's gooo! Featuring them getting a taste of their own medicine because I thought they deserved it (affectionate)

Cultural Exchange

—"You could have just said you liked me."

Characters: Leona, Ruggie, Floyd, Azul (same as in the first fic)

Notes: Let me I tell you I had wayy too much fun writing the little intro for each section I thought I was sooo clever didn't I

Leona:

—Humans are known to give flowers to their objects of affection. Bouquets, particularly those containing roses, are a common gift given to someone a human wishes to date.

Your phone, you noticed, was already open. A google page laid in front of you. Did Leona try to look something up and forget to close it? No, as slothful as he seemed, being careless like this just wasn't in his character.

But the phone was opened to-

Lion beastman courtship rituals.

The page stared you in the face, daring you to read.

"Lion beastmen," it said. "Have extended courting rituals. They stake out their desired mate and spend time building relations."

Wait. Those weeks the two of you had spent together...

"When the time is right, beastmen will often roar to declare their intent. They show desire by pawing, nuzzling, and-"

He'd roared beforehand, hands all over you.

"Biting."

Goddamnit you just fumbled Leona Kingscholar.

You wanted to crawl into a hole. You wanted to apologize. And you kind of wanted to yell at him for not just saying that like a normal person when you asked what was going on.

But that would have to wait for another time.

For now, you'd have to find some way to make it clear you returned his interests.

Flowers. Everyone, boy or girl, old or young, broke prefect or genius lion prince, could probably appreciate a nice bouquet.

So you stopped by Heartslabyul and the Seven themselves or whatever the deities of this world were must have been smiling down upon you, because they had a bunch of extra roses from some growth spell mishap they needed to get rid of.

"Good luck with your boyfriend," Ace had said, snickering.

So here you were. Outside of the Savannaclaw common room, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

"You gonna eat that?" Ruggie, standing in front of you, looking at the flowers scrutinizingly. Noticing the expression on your face though, he just laughed. "Jeez, I'm just joking with ya! I can get my own food. Maan, you're so dense... shishishi, no wonder Leona-san's obvious signs went right over your head!"

Speaking of Leona-

"Can you take me to him?" You asked, and Ruggie nodded.

"'Bout time. Leona-san's been in a mood since you shot him down." You didn't shoot him down, you just asked what he was talking about! "He's been sulkin' all day."

You had a feeling Ruggie was just saying that to embarrass him.

"But anyways, come on! The sooner you lovebirds kiss and make up, the better."

The door to Leona's room was locked. But Ruggie just pulled a hairpin, fiddled with it, and-

Of course he picked the lock.

"Your mate, Leona-san!"

"The herbivore's not-"

And Ruggie was gone. Just you and him now.

Leona stared at you from where he was lounging in his bed, tail flicking expectantly.

"You saw it, right?" He asked, voice deceptively impassive. You nodded.

"This all would've been a lot easier if you just explained what you meant. "I mean..."

You pulled the small bouquet of roses from behind your back.

Leona just stared, confused.

"Are you- callin' me an herbivore or something?" He asked. "You tryin' to say I'm fragile like the flowers?"

What.

He had the gall to expect you to understand these lion mating rituals or whatever, and he couldn't even understand what flowers meant?

"Lighten up, herbivore, I'm just jokin' with you," he said, taking the bouquet. "I do my research."

Unlike you was left unsaid.

"I really am sorry Leona-san," you said. "But how was I supposed to know you biting me was a mating ritual?"

"Well, it's more obvious than flowers," he huffed. You had to disagree, but since he was following your, uh, 'courting rituals'...

"I guess I should return the favor," you said, grabbing his arm. His face flushed ever so slightly, barely noticeable on that tanned skin of his.

And then you bit. He stared, shocked. But not the good kind.

"That," he said. "Was the weakest bite I've ever seen?"

"Huh?"

"You really are an herbivore," he said, before putting his head on your lap. "I'm going to sleep."

His tail flickered contentedly, though.

Cute.

Ruggie Bucchi:

—Humans give food items to their prospective mate, particularly sweet items with either a heart-shape or a heart-shape container. To highlight their affections, the sweet items are often made by hand.

Ruggie had been avoiding you. It was clear as day.

The excited little "Morning, Kantokusei-kun!" whenever he saw you had turned into a chorus of excuses about Leona calling for him and whatnot. His constant visits to your room had all but vanished.

You were getting fed up with it. What did you do? Did you accidentally eat his donut or something?

It all came to a head when you bumped into Leona in the greenhouse.

"Hey, herbivore," he said. There was something almost unnerving about the calm in his voice, the way he scrutinized you like he was picking apart the very fiber of your being.

After a while, though, he laughed.

"Ruggie's got himself up in a twist over nothing," he said.

"Um, what?"

"You," he said. "Do you know," he trailed off. "What hyena beastmen do—"

"—When they find someone they want to mate?"

Where did this come from?

"The guys do this thing," he continued. "Step forward and step away. Then they cross their legs and present their scent."

Oh.

He'd crossed his legs, telling you to join him on the bed...

"Seem familiar?" Leona said, a languid grin. "Good. Now clear this whole thing up. Ruggie's being a pain."

You accidentally rejected him! Goddamnit!

Well, if he'd just been a little more clear, you wouldn't've-!

Whatever. You needed to make it clear you liked him back, you supposed.

And what did you do when you liked someone? Make them chocolates! Heart-shaped ones for good measure. Plus, Ruggie liked food gifts, so that seemed like something he'd appreciate.

So you got to it. Made your chocolates, and off to Savannaclaw you went.

You knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Maybe he wasn't there?

But no; you heard a muffled yelp, from none other than him.

He wanted to hide. Unfortunately for him, in the time of your friendship, you'd long since learned how to copy his lock-picking technique.

Hairpin in the lock. Another one to serve as a tension wrench. And with a little bit of fiddling...

The door was open. Ruggie was staring at you, eyes blown wide.

"Hey, uh, pal!" He said, opening the window. "It looks like Leona-san needs another tonkatsu sandwich, and-"

"I'm sorry," you said, rushing to block the window before he could jump out of it. Well, hopefully that wasn't actually what he was planning, but you could never be too sure. "I mean, you were being really really vague, so honestly it was kinda your fault, but I- you know-"

You sighed.

"Just take this," you said, shoving the box of chocolates in his hands. "This should tell you how I feel."

You didn't know how you expected Ruggie to respond, maybe eat the chocolates happily, maybe say something about the changed nature of your relationship—

But you didn't expect him to stare at the chocolate like it personally offended him.

"What's this supposed to mean?" He asked. "You tryin' to butter me up so I owe you later or somethin'?"

What. What was he talking about. What was going on in his head when he said that.

"They're- They're heart-shaped chocolates," you said. "Do you- not feel the same way anymore or something?"

Ruggie stared at you like you'd just said the sky was green.

"Heart-shaped-" he stared at the chocolates. "Wait, m so iss this like- uh- it could be- you givin' me your heart-"

You saw the moment the puzzle pieces clicked together in his head. He probably didn't have the completely right idea, but eh, good enough. His face went bright red.

"You, shishi, didn't have to- go all this way, y'know," he said. "Not that I'm conplainin'."

He popped one into his mouth, and you could tell he liked it from the way his face brightened.

"Good?" You asked, and he just shoved the uneaten half of the chocolate into your mouth in response, the imprint of his sharp canines clear as day.

You chewed for a few seconds. It really was good. But more importantly...

"That was an indirect kiss, y'know."

"Indi-what?"

"Indirect kiss. Your lips and my lips touched the same thing."

"Talk about weird," he said. "Sharin' food like that's completely normal!"

And then, popping another chocolate into his mouth, he continued:

"Can't you humans just sniff each other like any normal person?"

Floyd Leech:

—Humans will often use humorous expressions of desire with prospective mates in order to gauge interest. These are known as "pick-up lines".

Floyd had been avoiding you all week now. You had absolutely no clue what you did. Was he really that upset you'd told him to just be honest if he was bored with your rambling?

But still, the fact remained that he was avoidant, and just generally in an awful mood. Maybe something else had happened? Maybe it was just a mood?

Your question was answered when Jade cornered you after school, a toothy smile that most certainly didn't reach his eyes.

"I hear you've had quite the spat with my brother, Prefect," he said. "I understand that you may not return his feelings, but I would advise you to apologize for your harsh words. My brother is not, as you insinuate, the sort to court another so casually."

Wait.

Court?

"What do you mean, 'court'?" You asked. "I was talking, he started yawning, he asked me to dance out of nowhere, and then he got angry and left. Simple as that. Where do you see courting?"

The gear seemed to turn in his head for a while, before realization dawned upon him, mouth widening into a little 'o'.

"Prefect," he said. "Are you aware that moray eels open their mouths wide as a sign of desire?

"Huh?"

"When a moray eels sees a prospective mate," Jade re-iterated. "They open their mouths. And as a finalization, they perform a mating dance."

Mouth opened wide... Mating dance...

"Holy shit," you said. Jade just stared at you, still slightly threatening.

"You're telling me he was trying to tell me he liked me and I pretty much called him a fuckboy."

Jade nodded.

"Indeed, you did."

You could only sigh, long and low.

"Damnit."

"I do suggest you, ah, clear the air," Jade said, though his tone made it clear this was more of a demand. "Make it clear to him what I realized."

"Yeah, yeah." You still thought he should've just told you what he wanted.

Jade nodded, satisfied.

"Then I'll be leaving," he said. But before he left, he turned back, for just a split second.

"Prefect?"

"Yeah?"

"My brother and I both lack very little in terms of comfort," he said. "So I think you'll find that actions and words shall both speak louder than any bribes you attempt to bring."

And with that cryptically delivered piece of advice, Jade was gone.

You got to work. No point in making something, you recalled. Best to just bring yourself and your own sincerity.

Floyd was near impossible to track down. You really thought you deserved points just for doing that. He really put you through the wringer, after all.

"Floyd!" you said at last, trying your best to stay calm as he scowled. "I have something to say."

"I don't wanna hear it."

"You- You do!" You said. "Listen, I know you're annoyed because I called you a playboy, but have you ever considered-"

"Shut up."

"-That it was actually your fault for being really really vague while also managing to misunderstand me in the worst way possible?"

Floyd looked like he wanted to snap your neck. He also looked intrigued, though, which was a good sign.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that I didn't know you were trying to tell me you liked me!" You said. "I mean, you looked like you were yawning, and I don't know jackshit about moray rituals, so what the hell was I supposed to think? All I know is—I'm talking, you're yawning, and suddenly you want to dance. Of course I'm going to think you're bored!"

Floyd stared at you for a few seconds.

And then he burst out laughing.

"F-Floyd?!"

"Eheh, you're so stupid sometimes, Koebi-chan!" Very nice. "But you've got some guts for a shrimpy. Maan, I remember why I like you so much now."

In an instant, he was back to his typical, lackadaisical mood.

"Use your head a little more next time, alright? I really thought you were trying to say I was some flaky little guppy," he said. You shook your head vehemently, pushing down your urge to tell him that he was the one being ridiculously vague.

"No, I know you're not like that, I mean- I like you too!" Now what. "Uh- Uh-"

"You know, Floyd," you said. "They say the tongue is the strongest muscle."

Now, he just looked confused.

"It's not. When it comes to strength by size, the masseter-"

"So," you said. "Wanna wrestle?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Tongue-wrestling would be boring. Why're you even bringin' wrestling up right now? Lame."

Did- Did he seriously not get it?

"Our tongues should wrestle," you re-iterated. He shook his head.

"How'd you even do somethin' like that?" he asked. "Just, like, put your lips together-"

You didn't even have time to realize when it all clicked for him because he grabbed you.

"Changed my mind. I wanna tongue-wrestle with you, Koebi-Chan!"

"And you were calling me the oblivious one?"

Azul:

—Humans will often initiate contact between their lips and the lips of a prospective mate, a phenomenon known as "kissing". When done for an extended period of time, this is called "making out".

Azul did not act particularly different.

But you could tell he was upset. It was written all over the slight strain of his saccharine smile, the way he laid it on just a little bit too thick when he attempted to ingratiate himself to you, and the slight bags under his eyes—a sign he was overworking himself in an attempt to distract from his problems.

Yep. He was definitely upset.

And of course, inevitably, the twins cornered you.

"You did somethin' weird to Azul," Floyd said, glaring at you. "Fix it or I'll squeeze ya."

Jade snickered from behind him.

Of course. Welp, you had absolutely no clue what you did, sooo...

"Is this because I offered to take him to the Doctor's office when his arm kept changing color?" you asked. "Seriously, I knew he didn't like getting help, but- ugh, isn't that too far!"

"Why'd you do that?" Floyd said. "Man, Koebi-Chan really is mean, tellin' Azul he's sick for wantin' to make you his mate."

"What does changing color have to do with, uh, mates?"

Floyd looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or slap you.

"You do know a little octopus like Azul changes color because he wants to be your mate, right?"

...

That couldn't be. That just- it-

"Indeed," said Jade. "Octopi will also often grab their prospective mate from behind."

His arm was changing color. He'd grabbed you from behind.

"Goddamnit," you said. Couldn't he have been a little more specific?!

That was it. You were not dealing with this stupid misunderstanding any longer! This stupid, insanely intelligent, oblivious octopus was going to know you liked him!

You stomped away.

"Where're you going, Koebi-chan?"

"Oya, going somewhere, Perfect?"

"Clearing the air," you said. That seemed to be an answer they approved.

"Actions speak louder than wor-"

"I know."

You cut off Jade's attempt at delivering cryptic advice before storming over to the VIP Room. There was Azul, working on some contract or the like.

"Azul."

"You're not allowed to be in here, you know. There's quite a hefty fee."

"Azul."

"Yes?" He looked up, looking entirely unhappy to see you.

"I didn't realize that thing you were going last week was a part of octopus courtship, you know," you said. "You really should've told me."

"What are you-"

"Let me show you a human courtship ritual to set things straight."

And you kissed him. It was not the sort of kiss that I initiated fireworks, nor was it anything like the novels you'd read. In fact, it was an exceptionally awkward kiss, because Azul was an awful kisser. You didn't entirely mind, though, it was cute.

You both had to pull away because Azul was out of breath, gasping and wheezing like he'd been made to run a mile for P.E.

"Does that make my feelings clear?" You said. He just huffed, looking firmly at his contract.

"I- suppose we can work something out..." He muttered, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Why don't you take a seat?"

The offer seemed simple, but the truth of it was clear.

He was considering that relationship.

So you sat, enjoying the contented silence and the resolved misunderstanding. But there was one thing you had to get off your chest.

"You know, it's insane how bad you suck at kissing."

"Shut it."

[ddlydevotion]

THE MAN NEXT DOOR

Being the object of Remmick’s desires…

currently listening to: Man Next Door by Massive Attack

a/n: I deleted the last fic I wrote for him since I wasn’t too happy with it but I decided to give it another shot. Also, I’m not a Sinners blog so I won’t write for Remmick all of the time 💌. Also, these are headcanons!!

When it came time for Remmick to finally turn you, make you his for eternity, he cradled you as if you were a fragile lamb. He didn't hide the fact that the process would hurt, but he wanted to diminish the pain as much as he could. He swayed you back & forth in his arms, cooing at you and whispering words of reassurance, rubbing your back with a large hand. y'a did good, sweetheart. real good. It's over now his buttery voice whispered to your aching form.

It didn't take all that long for you to find out what Remmick truly was. He was your neighbor, he lived further down the dirt road but close enough that you'd still be considered neighbors of some kind. It was the coldest night of September when he first knocked on your door under the guise of just wanted to introduce myself! It'd be rude for me to live so close and for us to be strangers. It was a sweet sentiment, yet you couldn't help but notice the fact that your all-too-nice neighbor only ever came around when the moon decided to take over for the night.

now, why do you only ever come around when it's night out? Does work have you out all day? your smoky voice questioned him. Let's just say you got your answer by the end of the night.

Remmick put in the work to get to know you before he revealed his true intentions, I mean, you knew he was interested in you because of how obvious he made it, but you surely didn't know that his skin burned when he walked underneath the sunlight. He listened to every little thing that you told him and hung onto it, storing it for future reference. Anytime that you opened up to him about past trauma, familial issues, work stress, or life in general, he'd react as if he was the one being negatively affected.

Y'know those videos where people are poking fun at attentive listeners for their facial expressions? They're talking about Remmick.

At times you'd feel as if he was the only person who truly understood you. Who you were, who you wanted to be, what you wanted, why you wanted certain things. Something deep inside of his rotten soul wanted it to be that way. He not only wanted to convince you that he was the only one who understood you, but he wanted you to believe it.

The amount of eye contact this man makes is insane. He'll give you the most heartfelt compliment and keep direct eye contact with you the entire time. He wants to make sure that you heard him and are registering his words.

Well, aren't you pretty? You are, why are ya lookin' at me like ya don't believe me? Oh, c'mon, look at me. You can't get all shy now, it's too late for that.

you're a whole lotta woman, ain't ya, darlin'?

(nsfw) Remmick drools like a damn hound when he finally gets his hands on you. His crimson red eyes focus on the sight of your flushed pussy making a creamy mess on his fingers, the noises of your sensitive center sucking his fingers back in makes him groan and let out a guttural fuck look at you, baby. His strong, unforgiving hands grip your thighs, wrapping your quivering legs around his waist. The feeling of his bulbous tip teasing your aching clit makes you keen, a strong hand grabs your cheek, look at me, sweetheart, he orders. yeah, just like that, want'chu to look at me when you cum.

we already know this man was stalking you like it was his damn job before he stepped foot on your porch. Thanks to his invasive habit, he knew incredibly intimate details about you before he even uttered a word to you. He knew what you wore to bed, how you touched yourself to fall asleep easier (just me? okay so y'all hate me.), he's become familiar with the friends you have come around, the music you put on before cooking dinner/cleaning, he picks up on which dresses of yours are your favorite.

He knows far more about you than the so called "friends" he sees you bring around & hears you speak to over the phone.

When the two of you were just getting to know each other, he decided to do his usual nightly visit to your house. Unbeknownst to him, you'd just started your period that exact night. You were left curious and a bit upset when he scrambled out of the front door while hurriedly saying oh I just gotta go, sweetheart. I forgot to do somethin' back home. It didn't take long before you finally found out why he left in such a hurry that night.

[accioharrington9]

we can't be friends (but i'd like to just pretend)

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

prompt: four times you spent a holiday with your best friend Steve Harrington and one time you didn't and missed him.

word count: 10.2k

warnings: friends-to-lovers, everyone can see it (including steve and reader but they're both kind of in denial), mutual pining, characters in their mid-twenties, fluff and (some) emotional angst, steve uses a cheesy nickname for reader, mentions of partying and alcohol consumption, some swearing, no use of y/n

notes: hi all, this is the first reader fic that i publish here, so bear with me, i tried my best <3 in light of the year-end celebrations, this fun little idea of a fic came to me and i decided to give it a shot, so i hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

🥂🥂🥂

“What are your resolutions for the new year?”

You looked up from your glass of champagne when Steve asked you that question out of the blue. You were both leaning against the kitchen island at Nancy and Jonathan’s apartment, distractedly observing your friends playing a drinking game you had both stepped out of.  You were glad to allow your friends their fun, but mostly, to have a reason to get some alone time, just the two of you. A silent agreement, as always.

“You know I don’t believe in resolutions,” you answered before bringing a flute smudged by your red lipstick to your lips.

“Oh, come on, kitten, humor me for a second.”

You raised an eyebrow at him while he waited for your response with a cheeky smile. You heard Robin burst into laughter from the living room, but you were too focused on Steve’s loose strand of hair and the woody scent of his new cologne to acknowledge it.

“Fine,” you obliged him. “Well, I resolve to quit drinking coffee, exercise more, and buy a new and well-functioning car.”

“You’re full of shit,” Steve laughed. “Like you’re ever going to get rid of Gina.”

“Of course I’m not getting rid of Gina, she’s my ride-or-die,” you said, referring to your personified old car.

“Yeah, emphasis on ‘die’ – you're missing a rearview mirror in there.”

You nudged him playfully, briefly losing your balance but Steve helped steady you immediately, putting a hand on your hips that hovered there longer than necessary. You chuckled for good measure but couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your face.

Everyone knew you and Steve had a thing for each other. It had been that way since high school – lingering looks in the hallway between classes, overly tactile during a mundane conversation, pretending to forget something at the other’s house to have a reason to go there again… Everyone knew it, was used to it, and never mentioned anything about it – you and Steve included.

Nothing had ever happened because the timing was always off. If it wasn’t Steve who was dating someone, you were; then you moved away to go to college, and when you came back to Hawkins after graduating, Steve had just left for an internship in New York. Eventually, you grew tired of the never-ending “what-ifs” and made your peace knowing that Steve Harrington would always be more than just a friend but less than a lover. A fine line you both tiptoed in and out of too much over the past eight years.

“What about you?” you eventually asked Steve. “You’re corny as shit, you must have a lot of them resolutions in mind.”

“I only thought of a couple, and they’re not that corny.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Steve laughed again, running a hand through his hair as he reflected on what he’d say. You admired him while he did so. It was frustrating, still having that teenage crush on your longtime friend, not being able to let it go, not entirely at least. You sometimes wished you could be his friend the way Robin was to him, or Eddie was to you. It would make it all so much easier, so much less painful than this in two minds you were both stuck in, this blatant desire for more, this fear that it could all be ruined in seconds, poor decisions fragmenting the illusion of a blissful friendship.

“I thought about learning how to play the guitar.”

“Cliché,” you teased. “What else?”

You could see the turn the conversation had taken when Steve hesitated before talking – looked nervous, even.

“Moving out. Getting my own place.”

You stared at Steve, quiet. You couldn’t say you were surprised – he’d been roommates with Eddie since they both enrolled in community college a few years ago. Even after graduating and getting a job, they stayed that way, because it was simple; splitting the bills, having someone to talk to after a lonely day. But it could only work for so long. It was only a matter of time until one or the other got bored and needed a change of scenery. To you, it was no surprise Steve had that revelation first.

“You sound serious,” was the only comment you could express.

“Because I am,” Steve said. “I started looking at one-bedroom apartments to rent in the neighborhood.”

“Does Eddie know?” you asked.

Steve pursed his lips as he shook his head from left to right. You hummed and couldn’t help but look at the young man in question, with his curly hair tied back in a bun and his poor imitation of some football player his team had to guess the name of. You loved this friend group – you loved the dynamic, the hijinks, and the stability. You loved hanging out with Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan at Eddie and Steve's apartment. You loved everything about it and the thought of losing your bearings, of disrupting your habits, made you too sad for the 31st of December, five minutes away from another midnight of confetti, embraces, and promises.

“You’re the first person I told,” Steve eventually said, breaking the silence that had settled between you two. “I thought you could share some of that wisdom you have to advise me.”

You snorted, lazily knocking your shoulder against his arm. “You buttering up to me, Harrington?”

“Only if it’s working.”

You got lost in his beautiful brown eyes, aware of the subtlest things, like his pinky finger brushing your hand timidly, the mint toothpaste on his breath, or how perfectly he wore the sweater you gifted him. It felt so right, standing close to him and toying with the possibility of the unknown. It always did with Steve.

“Okay guys, it’s officially one minute away from midnight, gather ‘round!!” Nancy exclaimed, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention.

Reluctantly, you left the little bubble of peace and happiness you had created in the kitchen, Steve following closely behind. As you started counting down from ten, surrounded by all your closest and dearest friends, you only had eyes for Steve.

It had become a habit since you first celebrated New Year’s Eve with him years ago – you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d kiss you at midnight. It was a fantasy you’d entertained ever since you were eighteen, the final and first thought of each year that passed without ever becoming real. Each year, naively, you thought it’d be different. But each year, it was the same old song all over again.

As the clock struck midnight and cheers erupted among the friend group, you hugged everyone. You saved the best ‘til last, heart beating frantically as Steve wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face in his neck, getting drunk on his cologne – pathetic, disillusioned.

“Happy New Year, kitten,” Steve whispered in your ear before kissing your cheek – soft, tender, and terribly platonic, as usual.

“Happy New Year, Harrington,” you kissed his cheek in return, the trace of your lipstick leaving a mark on his skin like a temporary tattoo.

And you were too busy thinking about the undone to notice that this year, Steve held you in his arms a little longer than usual.

🌹🌹🌹

“Bro-lentine’s Day?”

“Is that one of those boys band they keep talking about on the radio?"

You held back a laugh at Steve’s question and Eddie’s comment regarding the odd suggestion Robin had just made. The four of you were waiting in line at a Wendy's drive-thru in Steve’s car, the crescent moon shining its feeble light in the night sky above.

“Why would you even think about spending Valentine’s Day with your loser single friends when you have a beautiful girlfriend you could shower with gifts?” Eddie asked, to which Steve, behind the wheel, concurred immediately.

“I mean, I obviously love you guys, but I mostly suggest that because Vickie’s working a night shift on the 14th and I figured it’d be nice to hang out together, the four of us, instead of just… I don’t know, being alone?” Robin admitted.

“Oh, so we’re your stand-ins?” Eddie exclaimed, feigning offense under your amused attention. “Classy, Buckley.”

“That sounds a hell of a lot like a pity party, Rob,” Steve pointed out.

You laughed along as Robin kept putting her foot in her mouth. It was often like that – Robin and Eddie gently bickering in the back seats while you exchanged knowing looks with Steve, in your designated seat at the front of the car.

The only difference was this time, when Steve searched for your eyes to have a silent laugh with you, you avoided his gaze, pretending to look in the distance, thinking about something you needed to say to him but couldn’t find the courage to.

“Okay, fine,” Eddie eventually yielded. “Let’s do this thing. But I have one condition – we go to Steve’s new apartment.”

“Excellent idea!” Robin exclaimed, enthusiastic.

“I told you guys, I’m not done unboxing my stuff, the place is a mess,” Steve argued as he started the ignition to move forward.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You say that like you have a thousand boxes.”

“It's his plethora of hair products - they take up a lot of room,” Eddie teased, which made Robin snort.

“You’re both hilarious, seriously, I can’t stop laughing,” Steve said with a straight face.

“So, it’s a deal,” Eddie said. “Bro-lentine’s Day at Steve’s new place – no, I’m sorry Rob, you’ll have to find another name, I hate how it sounds when it comes out of my mouth.”

“What do you think, babes?”

You only focused back on the conversation when Robin called your name, looking away from the constellations in the sky.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry babes but count me out of this one,” you said with a sorry smile.

Robin laughed, thinking you were probably messing with her. Steve was driving slowly now that the line ahead finally seemed to clear.

“Right, because you have something better to do on Valentine’s Day, of course,” Robin joked while Eddie chuckled.

You tried not to take offense because you knew it was some innocent banter, but it didn’t stop you from frowning.

“Actually, yes, I do,” you contradicted. “I have a date that day.”

The car braked abruptly, causing a blast of horns from the vehicle behind and surprised yelps from the back seats.

“What the fuck, Harrington??” Eddie ranted. “That’s why I keep telling you you’re a shit driver, seriously, how did you manage to get your license, man?"

“Sorry, I got… distracted for a sec’,” Steve apologized.

You couldn’t bear to look Steve in the eye, so you toyed with the bracelets around your wrists and stared at your shoes, waiting for your friends’ reaction to the news.

“Is it someone we know?” Robin asked bluntly. “It’s the cute guy from the music shop at the mall, isn’t it? I knew he had a crush on you, you’re the only one who got Like a Prayer for half price.”

“It was… actually a twenty-percent discount,” you corrected, even though none of your friends cared about that information.

“Who even asks someone out on Valentine’s Day?” Eddie asked himself out loud. “We have three hundred and sixty-five days a year, why choose this nightmare of a commercialized day deliberately?”

“I think it’s cute,” Robin shrugged.

You attempted a smile, but it was nowhere near convincing. Robin and Eddie weren’t even paying attention to you anymore, discussing with each other the pros and cons of a first date on the 14th of February. You gathered the courage to look at Steve, decipher his expression. He might’ve been trying to get your attention a moment ago, but now, he was just staring in front of him, both hands firmly holding the lower part of the wheel.

“So, you’re really going to abandon me with these two idiots, huh?”

Your laugh at Steve’s rhetorical question was a mix of amusement and relief. If there was one thing that meant more than anything to you, it was the harmony between you two. You knew that as soon as you or Steve dated someone, that harmony was threatened. It had happened before. It was a fatality.

“You’ll be just fine,” you assured softly. “It’s just one night.”

Steve chuckled, finally making it to the pickup window. “Yeah, you’re right. Just one night. Easy-peasy.”

At that moment, you couldn’t have imagined that on the 14th of February, you’d find yourself knocking on Steve’s door at ten in the evening, makeup ruined by your disappointed tears, holding tight to your coat and shame in the cold evening air.

When Steve opened the door and saw you standing before him, he blinked at the unexpected sight of you sniffing and shivering.

“What are you doing here, kitten? Is everything okay?”

As soon as you heard Steve’s voice and the concern he displayed, it was out of your control – another tear rolled down your cheek.

“Oh no. Come here.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice- when Steve opened his arms at you, you dived in, letting him hug you tight, accepting his warmth and empathy.

“Dude stood you up?” Steve asked, voice muffled as his face was buried in your hair.

“Worse,” you said. “He was there.”

Steve huffed, because it could’ve been a funny anecdote if not for the dried mascara that ran under your eyes.

“So, we’re not going to the music shop again, huh?”

“I never said it was the guy from the music shop,” you pointed out.

“You never denied it either.”

You snorted and you felt Steve smile against your head. He was the first to part from your embrace, but you were under the impression he could’ve stayed like that much longer.

“What’s taking so long, dingus?” Robin shouted from the living room. “You need help with the pizzas?”

“It’s not the pizzas,” Steve retorted as you stepped inside the apartment.

Both Robin and Eddie turned around on the couch and looked equally surprised to see you there.

“Is it okay if I crash Bro-lentine’s Day?” you asked sheepishly.

“We’re not calling it that!” Eddie said in a singsong.

“You’re more than welcome to crash Bro-lentine’s Day, babes,” Robin told you while wrapping her arm around your shoulders as you sat next to her.

“I give up,” Eddie sighed before heading for the kitchen.

“What did the loser do to get you like that?” Robin inquired, touching your face where the tears had dried.

“Honestly, he wasn’t even that bad,” you explained. “He just… wasn’t what I expected. I guess I’m tired of getting my hopes up and ending up disappointed every time.” You paused, reflecting on that state of mind. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Robin contradicted with a sympathetic smile. “It’s Valentine’s Day, anyone would’ve expected a perfect date.”

“Hence why you don’t date on that doomed day.”

“Can’t you just let it go already, Eddie??”

You smiled softly at your friends’ innocent quarrel, and you realized in the end, there were no other people you’d rather spend the day of love and romance with.

So, you settled comfortably on the couch in Steve’s new apartment, surrounded by dozens of wrapped boxes and your closest friends with a glass of wine and a cheesy movie to watch, sharing the details of your date with them.

“Well, his loss, darling, not yours,” Eddie said in conclusion to your story.

“Definitely,” Robin nodded.

You smiled lightly and you thought maybe, just maybe, they were right.

“Why are you smiling like that, Harrington?” Eddie then asked.

“Hmm? Oh, no reason,” Steve answered casually before finding a tiny spot between you and Robin on the couch.

🎉🎉🎉

There was nothing more frustrating than being late to meet your friends and having your car’s engine make that hideous sputtering sound as you kept putting the key in the ignition without it ever starting.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” you echoed in sync with the car’s noises.

“I see Gina’s being cranky today.”

You glared at Steve, sitting in the passenger seat and enjoying himself a little too much.

“It’s too hot outside, she doesn’t like it when it’s too hot,” you explained to yourself more than Steve.

“It’s the 4th of July, kitten. It’s always hot on the 4th of July.”

“Thank you so much for this enlightening forecast, Harrington, have you ever considered a career in meteorology?”

You bit your lip when you realized how harsh your comeback had sounded. You slowly turned your head to lay regretful eyes on your friend.

“Sorry,” you winced.

“You’re good. I think I know why Gina’s cranky today – she takes from her owner.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother denying it.

The sun was starting to set in a sky adorned with pink and orange hues only summer could take credit for. The air was hot, crickets chirping and bees buzzing while the whole town was already busying itself in preparation for the incoming festivities.

For the past six years, on Independence Day, you’ve met all your friends by the lake on the outskirts of Hawkins to have a barbecue with beers and watch the fireworks. It was a tradition you all honored religiously each Fourth of July.

Except this year, Robin was celebrating with Vickie’s family, Eddie was working at the music camp, which meant you were spending the evening with Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve, a group hangout that looked an awful lot like a double date, and it worked yourself up into quite a state.

“Did you get the Buds?” you asked Steve as the ignition still wouldn’t start.

“Packs in the trunk,” Steve answered straight off.

“And the blankets?”

“In the backseat.”

“The radio for the music?”

“Nance’s taking care of it.”

You fell back in your seat after failing one too many times to start the car and just closed your eyes, sighing heavily. You wiped your hands on your shorts, the summer heat getting the best of you, chest heaving and patience hanging by a thread.

“We can take my car tonight, maybe Gina needs the rest,” Steve suggested. It irritated you even more.

“We always take your car, tonight’s the one night a year we take mine,” you argued, putting the keys in the ignition again.

“We’ll take yours another time, then, it’s no big deal.”

“No,” you just said.

Without a heads-up, you got out of the vehicle. Steve followed you as you opened the hood to check the engine. You were rough in your endeavor, hair falling out on your face and hands quickly stained with oil.

“Why are you being so stubborn today?” Steve asked you, tone cutting sharp like a knife.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! You can tell as much as I can your car’s not going anywhere tonight, mine’s parked right behind and ready to go, so why are we losing time for nothing?”

“She’s just being picky right now but I’m getting there. She needs a little boost and she’s good to go,” you insisted, wiping the back of your hand on your forehead before realizing it’d smudge the oil.

“Yeah, sure, at this rate, she’ll be good to go for Thanksgiving,” Steve said ironically.

You shut the hood close abruptly, shooting daggers at Steve as he stood in front of you with his arms crossed. He looked just as irritated as you did.

“You’re being an asshole,” you stated matter-of-factly.

Steve snickered, eyebrows raising like he couldn’t believe what he just heard.

“Oh, I’m the asshole in this situation? You’re a fine one to talk!”

“Are you seriously turning the tables on me right now?!”

“I’m not, you’re clearly in a mood today and you’re taking it out on me! Last I heard, I’m not a punching bag!”

Your face twisted into a scowl because Steve annoyed you a great deal, but mostly because he was right. You were far from being good company today, and today was meant to be fun, chill, eventful. You could blame it all on Gina, but you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg.

“I’m just saying I’m going to get the car started just fine, all I need is a few minutes to figure it out. And we’re already late anyway, they won’t hate us for the extra ten minutes,” you said as you opened the hood again.

“This is not about the car and we both know it,” Steve stated, sure of himself. Of course, he was – he knew you like the back of his hand.

You closed the hood as soon as you opened it, walking closer to Steve to face him properly.

“Maybe you should take it easy if you want her to work, you know,” Steve remarked.

“Why don’t you just say what’s on my mind, Steve? Since you apparently know it better than I do,” you hit him with your words.

“But that’s just the thing! I don’t!” Steve exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now and you won’t tell me a goddamn thing!”

“You already know what’s going on with me, I made it perfectly clear – I want my fucking car to start so we can go and meet our friends, as we do every year!”

“And I made it perfectly clear that we can take my car, so why are we still arguing about this??”

“Because it’s the way things are supposed to be!!”

The silence that followed that revelation felt intrusive. You couldn’t wait for Steve to tell you off, to argue with you some more, but instead, he didn’t say another word and just stared at you, dumbfounded. It allowed you to reflect on your behavior of the past ten minutes and you immediately dropped your eyes to look at your shoes, ashamed.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked you then, voice softer.

You sighed and looked in the distance, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s the tradition. On the 4th of July, you come to my place to help me pack everything, we take my car to pick up Eddie and Robin on the way to the lake, we meet Nance and Jonathan there, then, you and Eddie set the barbecue while Jonathan and I take care of the music, and Nance and Robin lay the blankets to make us cozy. And we eat and drink until they shoot the fireworks from downtown – it’s how the day is supposed to go.”

“Right, and it’s how it’s going to go today,” Steve assured, confused.

“No, it’s not. Rob and Eddie are not there this year, and because of Gina, we’re late and missing out on the sunset.” You paused, taking a breath. “It’s what I look forward to the most. Watching the sunset on the lake with you guys. All of you.”

Steve relaxed his shoulders and breathed out like he finally made sense of the underlying problem. He stepped closer to you and his hand cupped your face, willing you to look him in the eyes.

“Okay, I’m going to take a wild guess and assume it has something to do with Nancy and Jonathan talking about moving to Chicago next year for Nancy’s job,” Steve said. “Am I boiling or getting colder?”

The rhetorical question elicited a weak smile on your lips.

“I know Chicago’s not that far from Hawkins, but… I like the way things are right now, you know?” you explained while Steve listened, nodding. “I like that we can hang out whenever we want to, show up unannounced at each other’s place, and whatnot.”

“You can still do that if they move to Chicago. It’ll just take you more than three hours to get there,” he teased you.

Steve did it – he made you laugh. “I’m not so sure Gina would survive the trip.”

“I’ll let you borrow my car, then,” Steve whispered, and even though you were bantering, it sounded like a promise.

You chuckled, the knot in your stomach coming undone as Steve put his thumb to your forehead, stroking where you had wiped the oil stain earlier.

“You look like shit,” he told you unceremoniously.

“And you’re a shitty friend,” you bit back, making you both smile.

Friend. The denomination never felt strong enough to define what you and Steve meant to one another. Yet, it was the only one you used, the only one that brought you comfort, especially in those blurry moments that kept you wondering why that boy had always been so sweet and kind to you, even when you felt undeserving.

You jumped at the sound of a car honking from the street, bringing you back to reality as you and Steve turned your heads to see what happened. You felt amused, and somehow relieved when you saw Nancy popping her head out the passenger window of Jonathan’s car like a beautifully staged interruption.

“Oh my God, you guys are late too?” Nancy shouted at them. “I told Jonathan to go over the speed limit, and as you can imagine, he was not happy about it.”

Steve laughed, and you followed suit because it was almost ridiculous, how perfect the situation had turned out. Sure, things felt different this year, with winds of change impending, and the future of your friend group unclear. But at least, you were all on the same page.

“While we’re here, get in the car with us!” Nancy offered, gesturing for you to come closer. “Maybe we can still catch the sunset.”

You exchanged an amused look with Steve, silently agreeing that your uncooperative car and your latest conversation would remain a secret you’d share only between you. Your friends didn’t need to know the reason why you were late.

So, you and Steve hurried to put everything in Jonathan’s car, climbed in the backseat, and made it to the lake just in time to admire the remnant of sunset and put everything into place to wait for the fireworks.

And as you put a blanket over your and Nancy’s shoulders, the fire crackling in the quiet of the evening around you, you couldn’t help but search for Steve’s eyes. He was already looking at you, sitting across the fire next to Jonathan. You smiled when you realized, and he winked at you, playful, secretive.

Maybe you were lying to yourself, in the end. Maybe you didn’t mean it when you said you liked things the way they were. Maybe there was one thing you wouldn’t mind changing, you thought as you looked away from Steve to look up at the fireworks now erupting in the sky above.

🎃🎃🎃

“I’m not sure I get it, Robin – who are you dressed as?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question, Nance? Marty McFly? Don’t tell me you still haven’t watched Back to the Future!”

“I didn’t have time.”

“In five years, you didn’t have time to watch a two-hour movie?”

“I work a lot, okay?!”

You were only half-listening to Robin and Nancy’s bickering as you finished getting ready for the Halloween party that your high school classmate Tina and her best friend Vicki Carmichael threw every year.

Usually, on the 31st of October, you would just crash at Steve and Eddie’s former apartment with the group, stuffing your face with popcorn and watching horror movies. But this year, the boys didn’t live at that apartment anymore and it was the last Halloween you’d all spend together in Hawkins before Jonathan and Nancy moved to Chicago next January. You all agreed it called for a memorable celebration, hence why you were now getting ready with the girls at your place.

“So, you mean to tell me you haven’t had time to watch Back to the Future, but you had it to watch all three Star Wars movies, judging on your costume?” Robin asked while Nancy grunted in frustration.

“I told you last week, me and Jonathan are wearing couple’s costumes – he’s Han Solo and I’m Princess Leia, obviously,” she explained while pointing at her long white dress and peculiar hairstyle.

“Couple’s costumes,” Robin repeated. “Kids these days, they’re just talking nonsense.”

“It’s romantic and fun, you’re just jealous you didn’t think about it for you and Vickie,” Nancy retorted as you were starting to think you were in the middle of playground taunts.

“Oh yeah, I should’ve asked Vickie to dress as Doc, it would’ve been crazy romantic,” Robin sassed.

Once the heels were at your feet, you turned around on your chair to stare at your friends.

“You two realize how stupid your fight is, right?” you chipped in.

“We’re not fighting,” Robin and Nancy said in unison.

You rolled your eyes and turned back around to face your vanity and finish your makeup, but it was too late – you had involuntarily drawn the attention to you.

“And who are you dressing as, hot stuff?” Nancy cooed while smirking at your reflection in the mirror.

You hummed the Dirty Dancing theme song to answer her question, and she nodded approvingly, taking in your pink dress and silver heels.

“I love it,” Nancy smiled.

“Thanks,” you said as you stood up. “And you two look equally great, so stop biting each other’s heads off.”

“So, if you’re Jennifer Grey, does it mean Steve’s dressing as Patrick Swayze? I could see him pulling that off.”

Robin’s question took you aback for it came out of nowhere. You gaped at her, face warm and thoughts racing.

“Hmm, no, he’s not. That’d… be a great couple’s costume, for sure. But we’re not a couple, so…” you stammered, awfully self-conscious.

“Well, yeah, but you might as well be.”

“Robin,” Nancy reprimanded her with warning eyes.

“What??” Robin exclaimed while you watched, confused. “It’s not like she doesn’t know what I mean, it’s been going on for years, this… whatever this is. And honestly, we’re all tired of pretending like we can’t see it.”

Nancy blushed, embarrassment written all over her face as she rubbed a hand over it.

“I don’t… understand,” you admitted, tugging at the hems of your dress to anchor yourself in the moment.

“There’s nothing to understand, babes,” Nancy said softly. “Robin was just joking. Right, Rob?”

Nancy was now glaring at Robin, who had no option but to concur. It felt like you were missing something there, and you didn’t like it. Were your friends talking behind your back? Were they annoyed at your relationship with Steve? Annoyed at the ambiguity, the unsaid, the attraction? Was it all that obvious as of late?

“I’m sorry, guys,” Robin said with a sigh. “I had a fight with Vickie earlier today and it messed me up a little bit.”

“Oh, babes,” Nancy softened, hugging Robin from the side.

“I know that’s no excuse for being a jerk,” Robin winced in your direction.

“You’re all right,” you said with a sympathetic smile, and both Robin and Nancy seemed relieved.

The three of you talked Robin through her problem until it was time to meet the guys outside. Nancy was the first to exit the apartment, but Robin lingered by the front door, hand hovering hesitantly above the handle. Eventually, she made up her mind and turned over to face you.

“I just want you to know that I’m really sorry for earlier,” Robin told you.

“It’s okay, Rob, I get it. You were upset about your fight with Vickie and said stuff you didn’t mean. It’s fine, it happens to all of us,” you said, wondering why Robin had felt the need to bounce back on that.

“No, but see, that’s the thing – I did mean it,” she contradicted. “I just didn’t say it like I should’ve.”

“And how should you say it?” you asked with a frown.

Robin looked uncertain now, fidgeting where she stood. You imagined that if Nancy were still in the room with you two, she’d probably give Robin an earful.

“When I said that we’re all tired of pretending like we can’t see what there is between you and Steve, I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she elaborated under your undivided attention. “It’s just… We’re your friends, and you know, as friends, we want what’s best for each other, I’m sure you feel that way about us too –“

“Robin, cut to the chase, please,” you interjected before she could lose herself in her explanation.

“We just think if you two admitted what you’re both obviously feeling for each other… You could be very happy together. And the rest of us would be too because damn, we’ve watched it happen since high school and it’s about time one of you does something about it, babes.”

You stared at the door behind Robin, wishing to run away from this conversation that was too much for you to handle. It was the first time one of your friends confronted you on the matter, upfront, and you had no idea how to react.

“I’m not expecting you to say anything, don’t worry,” Robin added. “I just wanted you to know what everyone else is thinking. Do what you want with that information.”

You opened your mouth to respond but you heard the distinctive sound of Eddie’s van parking on the street, your sign that it was time to go and end this conversation for good. You rushed to the door, opening it before Robin could and hurtling down the stairs to some extent on your heels. Once you were outside, you breathed in slowly, calming down and processing what one of your best friends had just confided to you.

You and Robin met Nancy on the curb as Eddie slid the van’s side door open to let you in the backseats.

“Evening, ladies,” Eddie greeted.

“Wow, you’re Elton!” Nancy exclaimed after studying Eddie’s costume, a white ensemble with feathers and glitter that was the singer’s signature.

“You could get that but not mine?!” Robin exclaimed, almost offended.

“Move on, Rob, and let’s have fun tonight,” Nancy teased her while sitting near Jonathan, dressed in the easily identifiable Han Solo outfit.

Robin took the passenger seat next to Eddie, leaving you with no choice but to sit next to Steve at the back of the van. Of course. Almost like it had been on purpose, you thought to yourself.

You settled next to him and you were almost insecure, something you’d never felt around him. You resented Robin for not knowing best, and not keeping her mouth shut.

“Hey, kitten,” Steve welcomed you as you smoothed the edges of your dress.

“Hey, Harrington,” you said in return, attempting to smile at him.

You studied his costume as he studied yours. Aviator sunglasses on his head, green jumpsuit, sleeves rolled back under his elbows – Maverick from Top Gun. You'd gushed over the character when the movie came out, and you wondered if it happened to be a funny coincidence or if Steve had picked that costume on purpose.

“Baby,” Steve suddenly said.

“What?” you choked out with widened eyes.

Steve frowned. “Your costume,” he clarified. “Baby from Dirty Dancing, right?”

You processed the information and chuckled awkwardly, feeling stupid. You let Robin get in your head and you hated it.

“Right,” you breathed out as Eddie drove away.

Something passed in Steve’s eyes, and you were not sure what it was. Hesitation, desire, resignation… You watched and waited, fingers laced on your lap, heartbeat echoing in your ears.

“You look… very nice,” Steve told you in a hushed voice.

You knew neither Nancy nor Jonathan could’ve heard it – they were engaged in a vivid conversation with Robin and Eddie in the front of the car. It was an intimate declaration, meant for you and you only.

Your lips parted subtly, but Steve’s eyes caught it regardless. It did not soothe the rate of your beating heart.

“Thanks,” you croaked it, throat tight. “You’re not too bad yourself."

Steve smiled briefly, then did the strangest thing. He leaned in, his face awfully close to yours, and you thought; this was it. He was going to kiss you. Right then, right there, in the back of Eddie’s van dressed as the guy from Top Gun on the way to a Halloween party.

And as much as you wanted him to kiss you, it wasn’t how you wanted him to do it. Not the place, not the time. Maybe Steve realized it too because he moved away as quickly as he had gotten closer to you, clearing his throat and watching out the window like nothing happened.

The party at Tina’s villa was loud, messy, and packed with former classmates – some you were glad to run into, others you made a strong case of avoiding. You had a nice chat with your high school sweetheart, even though you could feel Steve’s eyes on you the whole time. When you couldn’t bear the weight of his yearning gaze, you took a sip of that rum punch Vicki Carmichael had made – a few times.

You fled to the bathroom around eleven to freshen up and have some alone time. You were reasonably drunk, but still conscious enough to notice someone was already in the room when you barged into it.

“Oh, so sorry, I didn’t know someone was in there –”

You cut the apology short when you recognized the person’s reflection staring at you in the mirror.

“Becky, hi,” you said, surprised.

The girl greeted you back, the sound of your name imperceptible amid the party people shouting in the hallway. Now, you were reasonably drunk and very uncomfortable.

Becky was the last girl Steve had dated. They had been together for two years and seemed happy until Becky broke up with Steve overnight. Everyone assumed she’d probably met someone else, but you always felt like that was too simple and there was another more plausible explanation.

“You okay?” Becky asked you.

“Y – yeah, I just needed to cool off,” you mumbled.

You assumed Becky would urge you to clear off and leave her be, but instead, she stepped aside to give you some space in front of the sink.

You closed the door behind you and stood in front of the mirror, silently watching Becky perfect the mascara on her lashes. You quickly gathered she was dressed as Madonna in the Material Girl music video.

“It’s… been a while,” you said to break that awful silence. “What are you up to these days?”

“Small talk, huh? I thought we were way past that.”

You chuckled, ill at ease and too drunk to have a proper conversation. Out of all the girls Steve had dated, Becky was the one who unsettled you the most. You never knew what to expect of her.

“How’s Stevie?” Becky then asked before reapplying some lipstick.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was Becky's inquiry, but something turned your stomach. You always hated it when she called Steve that name. It reminded you of a jealous version of yourself you’d rather leave in the past.

“He’s good,” you said casually, no matter your inner turmoil. “You know. Same old, same old.”

Becky’s lips turned into the semblance of a smile.

“I take it you two still aren’t together.”

You felt your heart drop at that comment. What did she mean, “still”? And what was up with everyone and their insights regarding your relationship with Steve?

“It sounded a lot less petty in my head, I promise,” Becky said when you stayed silent.

“It’s not that,” you replied. “I’m just… surprised you would say that.”

Becky sighed and turned around to face you. It looked like she was about to get a lot of things off her chest, and you were not sober enough for that.

“You know why I broke up with Steve?” Becky asked you, and she obviously wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Why all the girls he dates eventually break things off with him?”

You blinked. You didn’t want Steve’s ex-girlfriend to share that information with you. You had absolutely no desire to detain such knowledge. Yet, you shook your head, permitting Becky to say what she really thought, too curious to pretend you didn’t care.

“Because it’s painfully obvious he’s in love with you and we’re just here passing time until he finally has the balls to tell you.”

In love. You had thought about it all with Steve – he thinks I’m pretty; he’s attracted to me; he likes me more than a friend. But never in your wildest dreams had you dared fantasize about these powerful little words.

He’s in love with you, Becky’s voice repeated like a broken record on a loop in your mind. Taunting, hopeful, too good to be true.

You found yourself sitting on the bathtub’s edge, both arms at your side, speechless. Becky leaned against the wall across from you and chuckled like she'd just shared the funniest story.

“Don’t tell me this is shocking news.”

“I…” you started without finishing your thought. You were at a loss for words and your head started spinning, the fateful sentence seeping into your mind faster than the liquor in your system.

“Look, obviously, it wasn’t my place to tell, but you know, despite everything, I always liked you,” Becky confessed. “You were always nice to me, even though I could tell it was not easy for you.”

You lowered your eyes, apologetic. It was true – you had always been nice to Becky. After all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault if you had feelings you’d never dare confess to your best friend.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” Becky resumed. “I’m trying to help you two out. This whole faint-hearted act was probably cute when you were sixteen, but you’re adults now. Are you waiting for him to get married and start a family with someone else to tell him how you feel?”

The mere thought made your heart ache. You didn’t want to picture Steve married to someone else. It made you nauseous.

“Sorry, that was harsh,” Becky apologized.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked her in a whisper, feeling like your head was about to explode. “Why are you telling this to me and not him?”

Becky stared at you like you’d just said the most nonsensical thing.

“Because he’s an idiot and a coward. If you’re waiting for him to make a move, you’ll wait a long time, honey.”

You spaced out for a moment, and when you returned to your senses, Becky was gone, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts in that bathroom.

Becky was right. Steve was an idiot and a coward. The inebriation clouded all your good judgments, so you got to your feet and walked out of the bathroom to look for Steve. After everything that happened tonight, you were confused, upset, and even angry.

You found him outside by the pool, joking around with some guys from his old swim team in high school. You marched to him, bold and determined, and he didn’t notice you right away, so you hooked your fingers to the fabric around his arm and dragged him behind you. You ignored the guys whistling at you both or Steve protesting and asking what had gotten into you until you walked into an empty room on the side of the villa and closed the patio door behind you.

“Okay, what the hell was that about??” Steve exclaimed, his voice loud in the quiet of the room, away from the party noises and the music. “Have you lost your shit??”

“You’re an idiot,” you told him in an accusing tone.

“Tell me about it,” Steve sassed you.

“And a coward!”

“Oh, so you have a whole list, huh?”

“That’s what Becky said.”

Steve looked at you in silence, processing what you just said.

“Of course, you talked to Becky….” he sighed. “Let me guess – she said I stole her INXS tape? She needs to let it go, she clearly lost it, she can’t keep blaming me for –“

“I don’t want you to get married, Steve,” you interrupted him, blurting out what you had been obsessing about for the last ten minutes.

Steve froze and looked at you like you were insane. And you might just be, you realized. You took a step back, dizzy and embarrassed.

“I… was not planning on getting married any time soon. Where is that coming from?” Steve asked you, stepping toward you.

You bit your tongue, holding from saying another stupidity you’d immediately regret. Suddenly, your choice to confront Steve and isolate yourselves in a bedroom didn’t look like the brilliant plan it seemed to be five minutes ago.

“Forget it, I’m drunk, and I don’t know what I’m saying,” you stammered, head low as you walked toward the door.

“Hey,” Steve brought you short by taking your hand before you had the chance to leave. His touch was tender, your hand fit perfectly in his, and you understood what Becky meant when she said "still not together".

“Talk to me,” Steve urged, lacing his fingers with yours. It was unbearable, how natural it felt. “You used to tell me everything, and now, I have no idea what’s up with you anymore.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, wishing you could go back in time and stop yourself from putting the two of you in this awful situation.

“Come on, kitten, we’re friends, you can tell me anything.”

Friends. You loathed the word that normally comforted you. You couldn’t stand to hear it.

He’s in love with you. How could he say you were friends when he was the one you called first when your car broke down, when he’d snuck out of college to comfort you after you got dumped by your ex-boyfriend, when he drove you across the country to see your sick grandfather for the last time? How did he have the audacity to minimize what you meant to each other after taking such a significant place in your heart for years and years?

“We’re not friends,” you mumbled.

You looked at him and thought you could see heartbreak in his eyes. You’d hurt him. You’d hurt him badly.

“We’re not?” he asked, his voice breaking in the inflection.

You held your breath as Steve questioned you with glistening eyes. He didn’t understand what you were trying to tell him, and it was killing you.

“You know what I mean,” you breathed out, unable to say the actual words.

He’s in love with you. It was so simple. Why couldn’t he just admit it?

You’re in love with him too, why can’t you say it?  you admitted to yourself.

Because no, it wasn’t that simple. Steve wasn’t the only coward in this situation. After all these years, it was so scary to admit, even more to say out loud. How could you expect him to say it when you were terrified of doing it yourself?

Eventually, Steve let go of your hand, an almost insignificant gesture that shattered your heart into a million pieces.

“Actually… No. I don’t know what you mean,” he said, defeated, before leaving the room.

You did it. You ruined everything, you thought as you sat on the floor and cried your heartbreak away.

🎁🎁🎁

It was supposed to be the merriest day of the year, with children's laughter filling the air and countless presents to unwrap. Yet, your heart was not in it, and you had to hold back tears during dinner that night at your parents’ house.

You hadn’t talked to or heard from Steve in almost two months, and it was officially the longest you’d spent without seeing each other. The thought was excruciating. He was your best friend in the entire world, you were head over heels in love with him, and the absence of him was like gasping for air on the verge of drowning.

But today was a merry day. Today was all about spending time together, eating a nice homemade meal, and reuniting. So, you played the part – you ate dinner, played board games with your cousins, and chatted with your uncles and aunts. You did what you were expected to do, and nothing more.

When you returned to your place, to your sad and lonely apartment, you sat down on the floor, still in your red party dress, back to your couch with a glass of wine, and flipped through a photo album Nancy and Jonathan had given you for your twenty-fifth birthday.

It was a recollection of happy times Jonathan had captured with his camera throughout the years – from graduating high school to renting your first crappy apartment, taking your first trip to New York with the group, and celebrating various occasions with them.

You took the last photo from the album, holding it between your fingers to get a closer look. It was a picture of you and Steve on New Year’s Eve the year before. You were posing for the camera, smiling from ear to ear. You were looking at the lens, but Steve only had eyes for you, holding you in his arms with rosy cheeks. When you looked at it like that, in retrospect and from another’s perspective, it seemed so evident that the guy in the picture loved the girl posing next to him.

You were fully crying now, blurry eyes and stuffy nose in contradiction with the holiday spirit. You were about to put the picture away in the album when something in the back of it caught your eye.

There was a note in the handwriting you would recognize anywhere at any given time – Steve’s. Your heart skipped a beat. It had gone unnoticed the first time you’d looked through the album at your birthday party and none of your friends had mentioned a thing about it. You started to look at a handful of pictures to see if others had something hidden on the other side, but they were all blank. All except for one.

You took a deep breath, pondering. Maybe Nancy and Jonathan were unaware of it, but Steve not saying anything didn’t make sense. This note had been there, forgotten in an album gathering dust in your bookcase, for months, and it could’ve gone on for years had you not felt nostalgic on that specific day.

You wondered if you should read it or pretend you’d never seen it. It was only a few words; they were probably some meaningless inside jokes or more personal birthday wishes. But they could also be something more, much more.

You knew you couldn’t live with the uncertainty, so you gathered your courage and read.

Happy birthday, kitten! Don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I want you to know you’re my favorite person in the entire world, and I love you. Yours always, Steve PS: stop being a sourpuss just ‘cause you turned 25

It had been there. Right there, under your nose, all along. Yours always.

Before you could think it through, your coat was around your shoulders and you were behind the wheel, ready to drive to Steve’s place and tell him how you felt. Screw the stability and the uncertainty – you loved the boy too and you needed to tell him tonight.

It was past midnight, the air was cold and the streetlights reflected in the puddles on the pavement as you drove a little too fast toward Steve’s building. Your heart was racing in your chest, anticipation mingling with excitement while you rehearsed what you’d say in your head.

You were going to confess your true feelings to Steve. Nothing could scare you anymore.

Except, perhaps, the ominous sputtering sound your car made when you tried to restart at a traffic light.

“No, no, no, no, no, come on, not now!!” you begged desperately.

The ignition wouldn’t turn over, and you could’ve screamed at the sky. Was it some sort of cosmic sign preventing you from making the biggest mistake of your life?

You got out of the car to check the engine under the hood. When you opened it, it did something it’d never done before – it gave off fumes.

You coughed violently as you stepped away from the car, looking all around you and realizing you were alone on the street in the middle of the night with a kaput car and wasted opportunities.

“This is a nightmare,” you told yourself out loud. “This can’t be happening to me.”

Your eyes burned as you were about to cry again, disheartened and pathetic. Then, some headlights on the other side of the road caught your attention.

A maroon car stopped next to you and turned the ignition off. You held your breath, recognizing the vehicle instantly and wondering if the universe wouldn’t happen to be messing with you.

The driver exited the car and eyed yours up and down before chuckling.

“I had a feeling Gina wouldn’t make it through the year,” he said.

You laughed, the sound choked up in your throat at the improbability of the situation. You couldn’t believe Steve was there, rescuing you even without meaning to, always being there when you needed him to, the constant one in your life. As luck would have it, you thought.

“What are you doing here this late at night?” you asked him.

“Could ask you the same thing,” he remarked with a smile.

You returned his smile, nervously fixing your hair. The wind was rising, and the air was filled with change and expectations.

“I was… on my way to your place, actually,” you explained, somehow shyly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

A few seconds passed until Steve spoke again like he was processing the information. “That’s funny, I was on my way to your place too.”

You swallowed, unable to stop hoping. “You were?”

“Yeah… Of course, I was,” Steve shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, and I realized I never got a chance to give you your present because we weren't speaking to each other, so… Anyways, I can just give it to you now.”

“We’re literally in the middle of the road, Steve.”

He looked around at the empty and silent street for good measure. “Yeah, and it’s not like it’s rush hour right now, I think we’re good.”

You opened your mouth to retort but opted against saying anything else. It was your first interaction with him in weeks, it was out of the question to ruin it just to have the last word.

The young man got something from the backseat of his car and immediately handed it to you. You took it carefully, turning it over in your hand to try and figure out what was beneath the wrapping paper.

“I… don’t have your gift,” you admitted, crestfallen. “I mean, I did get you something, but I didn’t think to give it to you tonight.”

“It’s okay, kitten. Just open it.”

You complied, slowly unwrapping the paper with trembling fingers and shortness of breath as Steve observed quietly.

You were now looking at a book’s front cover, and it might’ve seemed unremarkable at first glance, but it was not some common paperback.

“First limited edition,” Steve explained, even though you already knew. “You talked about it at Eddie’s place a couple of months ago, that it was almost impossible to find today, and you’d love to have it. So, I went to every bookstore in town to ask if they knew where to get it, and one of them gave me their counterpart's number from England, they had to send it all the way here but… Yeah,” Steve concluded, face red and hands in his pocket. “I found it.”

You looked up from the book to lock eyes with Steve. He seemed expectant and abashed, almost anxious of your reaction.

“You went to all this trouble for me?” you asked in disbelief.

He pursed his lips and nodded as if it was that obvious.

“You’re well worth the trouble.”

All this time, you had expected blatant signs, big gestures, and declarations, when Steve had been telling you how he felt in his own way for years. It had always been there – in fleeting touches, longing stares, and understated actions.

“I read it,” you eventually confessed.

"The book?" Steve asked, puzzled.

“No," you laughed. "The note you wrote in my photo album. I read it tonight.”

You noticed the way Steve held his breath at that revelation. Suddenly, you no longer cared that you were standing in the middle of the road with your dead car by your side. Suddenly, all that mattered was the pretty boy standing before you and what you felt for him.

“It was corny, right?” Steve said with a nervous laugh. “I know you don’t like it when it’s corny but –“

“Can’t you just be serious for one minute, Harrington?” you cut him short with an amused eye roll. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel here.”

“I know,” Steve breathed out. “I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel for months now, but I never find the right words.”

In the elation of the moment, your words got a mind of their own, and you heard yourself saying: “Show me, then.”

Friends. A designation you held onto for the past eight years, a status that put things into perspective whenever Steve introduced a new girlfriend to the group, a word that freed you of your guilt when getting into relationships yourself, a term that helped you when you would yearn for something more, something you thought to be unrealistic and unreachable.

That word no longer held any power over you now that you were in Steve Harrington’s arms and he leaned in to seal his lips with yours into a long-awaited and overdue kiss, the promise of a cherished and beautiful future.

You'd envisioned the scene time and time again in your mind, but none of the imaginary scenarios your fantasies created could measure up to that kiss. It was sweet, yet demanding, like you were the air he needed to breathe. He kissed you like he loved - sincerely, tenderly, and intensely. You smiled against his mouth, and your heart melted when he did it too.

When you parted from him, lips swollen and eyelashes fluttering, you felt like everything was finally right and mourned the time you wasted being scared of changes.

“So… What now?” you whispered, getting a strand of hair out of Steve’s face to look at him better.

The boy held your gaze, enamored and enraptured like you’d never seen him before. You enjoyed it while it lasted because it was a momentary bliss until reality caught up.

“Well, first, we’re going to call a tow truck," Steve said as he entwined his fingers with yours. "And then, you’ll bid farewell to Gina,” he nodded toward the car.

Your heart tightened in your chest. You’d almost forgotten about your car. It was truly ironic, how you needed to say goodbye to your oldest partner while embracing a new beginning with your best friend.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” you asked while batting your lashes at him.

“Hey, just because we’re going to make out a lot from now on doesn’t mean you get to do that,” Steve jokingly scolded you while gesturing at your face.

“Do what?” you asked, coy and amused.

Steve laughed and put his arm around your shoulders. “Come on, kitten, I’m taking you home.”

At first, it didn’t feel like much had changed between you and Steve. You were still teasing each other, spending time with the group before Nancy and Jonathan’s departure, and arguing about what car you should buy now that Gina was in a junkyard.

But things had changed for the better, and you realized it on New Year’s Eve when Steve kissed you at midnight, as he would for many new years to come.

❤️❤️❤️

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

Extremely self-indulgent. For the neurodivergent girlies. English isn't my first language, so my apologies for any mistake. I also have no idea how to write a Scottish accent 🧘🏻‍♀️ bear with me

You knocked on the dark hardwood door as you've had done plenty of times before.

It has been almost six months since you've signed that contract. That one, the one where you forfeited 4 years of your life in exchange for stable wages and proper housing.

For someone with no life, no family and no friends (besides the online weirdos you'd talk to from time to time), that was kinda good, if you could say so yourself.

You had stability, even though it came with the cost of being tied down to a military base chock-full of people who didn't really understand you.

That was fine though. THAT, you were used to. It comes with the neurodivergence: the side eyes, the whispers and the isolation.

What you weren't used to, however, was how your heart would race like a rabbit on a run for its life whenever you knocked on that one door. And you had to knock on it quite a lot of times.

You rapped your knuckles against the hardwood once more when you got no reply, cracking the door open just a little bit to peek inside.

"Cap?" You said, voice almost a whisper. After a few seconds, you heard an answer.

"Come in, love. Didn't know it was you." A strong, booming voice came from inside and you swallowed the lump on your throat that always formed whenever you had to go to Price's office.

Not because you were afraid of him, no. On the contrary. Maybe Price and the rest of the task force were the only ones who didn't treat you like an aberration – probably because they were aberrations of their own merit.

Maybe it was stupid of you to get giddy over being treated well by some of your coworkers, but when the bare minimum was so rare, you latched onto it like a dog with a bone.

And in spite of yourself, you couldn't control your own heart. It would be racing like a schoolgirl with a crush whenever you went to visit any of the men from the task force. You gave up on trying to tame it.

"Hi Cap" you said, with a small smile, approaching his desk. On the corner of your eyes, you saw the other three burly men that made up 141 and waved.

"Hey, lass, good ta see ya!" Soap hollered, voice loud as ever. You could probably feel it vibrating inside your bones if he spoke for a little longer and you loved it; as much as you envied it. What wouldn't you do to be just a little bit outgoing like that? Maybe things would be just a tad easier.

"How can I help my favorite secretary?" Price asked, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled, crow's feet getting a lot more pronounced in a way you probably thought of more than you should.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"I'm your only secretary."

"Doesn't make my statement any less true."

You shook your head and placed a manila folder in front of him.

"I need your autograph, Cap."

"What for?"

"Because I'm your biggest fan and I wanna put it on my refrigerator...?" You answered humorously, and Price raised an eyebrow. You sighed. "We need to authorize the training of a few new recruits and they need your approval. So I need you to sign it."

Price huffed out a low chuckle and began leafing through the needlessly thick document. You poked your finger into the folder, fishing out the last pages, and walked towards the other men sitting on the other side of the office.

"I like today's dress, love." Gaz was manspreading on one of Price's armchairs, head resting on his palm as he gave you an once over. If it were anyone else, you'd probably hate the way you were being perceived – it usually made you feel like a bug being watched through a magnifying glass. But under his gaze, you just felt like a doll being admired.

"Do you, now? It's one of my favorites." You bowed dramatically while holding the hem of the dress. It was just another one of the black frilly dresses that you wore like a signature. It flew around you as you spun on your feet to show the black ribbon on the back.

"Adorable as always. If I wasn't selfish, I would say it's wasted inside this base, but I like to have you around way too much." His eyes gleamed with mirth and, in any other situation, you'd think he was secretly mocking you – but not Kyle. Not any one of them. You knew the compliments were genuine, even if they didn't understand why you insisted on sticking out like a sore thumb when it brought you so many problems.

You knew they would never really understand how masking could hurt you, but you were grateful they still defended your decision on just being yourself.

"Look at tha' key on yer neck." Soap pointed at your necklace. "I ken what's tha' for. It's the key to my heart, aye?" He said with an exaggerated wink and a smile that could blind you.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." You rolled your eyes, smiling, and pushed a paper into his hand and did the same with Gaz and Ghost.

"I need your autographs as well. You heard my explanation already."

" 'm not built for a life of fame, love." Simon grunted, shifting on his seat right beside Soap.

"Too late, the spotlight already found you. Now you gotta give me your autograph or I'm gonna cancel you on social media."

He huffed.

"Don't ya think I should have been canceled a long time ago?"

"Probably." You shrugged, and handed him a pen. "I like my favorites problematic, what can I say."

Soap barked out a laugh, mindlessly scanning the document and Ghost merely shook his head.

"Do I gotta sign this? Don't really feel like training new runts." The masked man muttered and you shrugged.

"Don't shoot the messenger. I don't really want new young men around me either." You walked back towards Price's desk after collecting the documents and placed them neatly inside the folder after he was done surveying every single fine print.

"What do you guys want for lunch?" You asked as you tucked the documents under your arm. Price clicked his tongue.

"You don't have to keep bothering with making food for us, love. We can all eat at the canteen like everyone else." The older man leaned back on his chair, folding his arms.

You looked to the side, with a small pout on your lips.

"But if I make you guys' lunch, then I can emotionally blackmail you into eating with me at the kitchen." You mumbled, avoiding any and all eye contact.

"So it was all a ploy to keep us nearby? I thought you were doing that because you liked us. I'm so hurt, dear." Kyle spoke up from his seat, a dramatic hand over his chest as he leaned his head back. You put a hand over your mouth, hiding your grin.

"Maybe I'm just learning a thing or two from hanging around tacticians?"

"Aw, Captain, come on. How can we leave the poor doll hangin'? And we get ta eat actually good food, not that canteen slop! Come on!"

Price sighed, shaking his head in defeat.

"Anything you make will be great, love."

"As long as it has proteins and carbs." Ghost added from his seat and you snickered. He had already seen you eating your comfort foods before and, needless to say, he didn't approve of them.

"As long as it has proteins and carbs." Price repeated, with a nod.

"Proteins and carbs, okay, got it." You said with a fierce nod, walking back towards the door to the older man's office. "Meet you guys at the kitchen?"

"1200, sharp." Price said, with eyes as soft as the smile under his moustache. You gave him a small salute on your way out.

"Yessir."

This will probably be a little anthology of scenes I think of, involving poly!141 x neurodivergent reader who works for them as a secretary. They might not have much continuity but I'm using this as a self-healing, self-indulgent blog, separated from my main. Expect mostly fluff and angst from me.

[muqingslover]

I just wanted to ask you (since I saw this prompt before and I wanted to hear your take on it), in a Cherry Magic AU setting, MC can hear the thoughts of the lads men. Who do you think would have the most unhinged train of thoughts/ stream of consciousness?

I just have a feeling that Zayne would be the most surprising/unhinged since he's so calm and collected, even cold on the outside, so he has to keep a lot inside. (Or maybe I'm just biased because I'm a Zayne girlie and he's my pookie)

I absolutely love the way you write! The flow is so nice and easy to follow. Overall, it's relaxing and entertaining to read what you write!!

[ AAA THANK YOU SM FOR THE KIND FEEDBACK! it means everything to me I'm so so so glad you enjoy it! 💕🫂 I actually didn't know what Cherry Magic was but omg?! it's so cute!? I just had to do this! ]

Coming in hot in first place we have the IT boy himself.

His thoughts are not technically unhinged as they are just OVERWHELMING.

You would be having lunch and Caleb's sitting across of you like 😊 while his mind is filled with so much stuff.

'Their lips are a bit redder today...Is it because of the spice? I should tone it down next time, oh but they look so cute like that. Their eyes are all watery it's so damn cute, so cute so, so so cute— Huh? They're staring? Oh *I* am the one that's staring. Look away look away, yeah, alright, smooth.'

His thoughts are extremely noisy all. the. time. It's pretty much about everything, but especially you.

I also feel like he repeats a lot of words regarding you like he'd immediately go 'Cute, cute, cute cute cute—' when you laugh at what he said or have an internal panic if you did something to tease him 'Too close oh god— They're close, close, close, too damn close— I can feel their body warmth—'

CATCH HIS LYING ASS POOKIES, I mean ahem.

Guys this man will have the most innocent smile on his face when he claims he'd never do something and when you take a peek inside his thoughts he is most definitely thinking about doing it.

"I have no reason to steal your clothes. C'mon now pipsqueak— Yes, yes, I pinky promise I'm not messing with you this time."

'Shit shit shit shit shit. I didn't have time to wash it yet— Why are they doing laundry today anyway? They usually only do it on Friday nights.'

Second place belongs to none other than to the neighborhood freak.

Now Xavier is a mix of absolutely empty no thoughts at all to freaky ahh stuff.

He will have a nonchalant face but his thoughts? oh dear lord.

"My throat feels a bit sore because of the weather recently."

"Let's buy some cough drops for you on our way back."

'I wonder if I can still do it tonight...I wouldn't want them to hurt their throat more. Oh. If I cover their mouth shouldn't it be fine? What should I use...Wait, I should ask them later about it...........I wonder if they'll sit on my face again.....that was nice..........Kinda sleepy.'

He is also the only one of the crew that is not particularly embarrassed, freaked out or even worried that you can read his thoughts.

If anything, Xavier believes it makes communication a whole lot easier. Sometimes he's so tired that even speaking takes a lot of energy from him so being able to tell you what he wants just by touching you is an advantage.

Yes, he will absolutely think about freaky things on purpose only to see your face turning red.

I think fishie takes third place.

#Meangirl alert. /hj

Rather than it being about you it's more about his brutal honesty in general. Lord have mercy when he is grading projects from his classes.

Rafayel is someone that calculates his words (and actions) A LOT, which means this is a nightmare for him. He doesn't want you to see past the fun, sassy persona he shows you.

Especially if the subject about his past came up because then things could get real ugly, real quick.

"I would never hurt you like that, Raf."

'...That sounds like a cruel joke. You don't know that. You don't know anything about me. About us. How is this fair? How can I tell you about what you did— About what *I* had to do when you look at me like that?'

"...I know. I trust you."

You would also realize he is actually a lot more apathetic towards others than expected. The humans' opinions/ problems are simply not something he can bring himself to genuinely care about unless they affect him or you directly.

Lastly, he hums and sings A LOT in his head. Usually they're very old, beautiful songs from his homeland and it's really nice to tune in his private radio station.

Maybe controversial but this man's thoughts are clean as a whistle.

Unless he is actively doing something sexual Sylus is not thinking about anything remotely dirty.

Personally I believe his mind is quiet in general. He has an internal "To-do list" and that's what you will hear for most of the time.

'Oh, their water bottle is cracked. I should get them a new one soon. The twins' new jackets are being delivered today, that's good. It's getting colder already I don't want them to get sick again. The new supplies will need my signature so I must return before the sunrise. Tomorrow the new restaurant they mentioned opens, I'll make sure to ask them for dinner. '

On the other hand, his thoughts can also be quite vulnerable and insecure towards your relationship with him.

Almost every night when he holds you in his arms you will hear him think 'Please stay with me.' and he sounds so genuinely afraid.

You will also hear him think a looooot of 'I love you' during the day at random times. He's just a large, lovestruck puppy looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The calmest thoughts but the cutest of all of the boys.

Like, you don't understand he's sooo damn cute.

Zayne may look like he'd rather be anywhere else but here and then you touch him and what you get is

'...I wish I had gotten the limited cat keychain from the cafe. Perhaps they'll rerun it next spring. I'll take them with me then........We could get matching ones....Well, if they agree to go with me. Or I could bring it to them as a gift, that would be nice too.'

Another one that has an mental "To-do list". During work hours he's extremely focused and his thoughts rarely, if ever, stray from what he's doing.

When with you his mind is calm (unless you're teasing this poor man because then his mind is going into OVERDRIVE.) and his internal comments are suuuuper soft and loving.

'Their hair is styled today...it looks really nice. Should I tell them? ....No, it's best not to. Hm....Oh, right. I have some leftover candy from my appointments today, I'll give them some instead.'

10/10 experience guarantee.

[solelifauna]

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

-

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

[yamujiburo]

Here's an arc I thought about doing but won't do because, it'd be a bit too sad and also it's too similar to the Turing Point Arc I already did and also it would be long. But I'll write it here for you angst enjoyers. This ended up being longer than I thought.

Despite getting the "okay" from Ash to date Jessie, Delia still worries that she's not doing the right thing or being a bad mom. Up until now she'd convinced herself that she had the right to be selfish for once after knowing only sacrifice and putting herself last.

Jessie and Ash, while not as antagonistic towards each other, still go at it. A Pikachu zap here, an angry "twerp" being uttered there. The guilt settles in for Delia and figures that it's best to just cut things off before things potentially get worse or before she gets too attached to Jessie. Her son comes first after all. That's what she signed up for when becoming a parent.

She sits Jessie down, eyes watery (it's the first time Jessie's ever seen Delia come close to crying). Delia says she thinks they should end things. Jessie is stunned but accepts it quickly. She sucks it up in the moment, puts a resigned smile on her face and tells Delia she'll leave immediately and not to worry about her. Delia's also broken up about it but promised herself she'd never cry over a goodbye and she wasn't gonna start now.

Jessie goes to James and Meowth's place greeted similarly to this, lightly teasing her about blowing it with Delia, and she breaks down sobbing. Oops it's real this time. James and Meowth do everything in their power to make her feel better. They let her know that things like this happen and they're ready to go wherever she wants to go (knowing that it'd likely be to painful for her to stay in Pallet). As much as she wants to leave, she doesn't want James and Meowth to lose the good thing they have going. She's not in the right headspace to make any decisions so she'll get to it later.

Ash returns home after doing a little training at Oak's lab. He notices Jessie's not around and asks his mom where she is. Delia is about to tell him but can't quite bring herself to say the truth out loud yet. She simply says "I don't know". Ash looks disappointed. "Aw man, I wanted to see if she wanted to battle. She makes a good battle buddy for all of my newer, baby Pokémon." Delia perks up that this. As quickly as he came, he leaves again to go train his Pokémon.

Later, Delia approaches Ash, asking him if he really meant that what he said about Jessie being a good battle partner. He gives her an enthusiastic "yeah!" and tells her that it's been nice having another battle ready trainer around since there's not many in Pallet. Delia starts to pry a little more. "I thought you and Jessie didn't get along?" Ash is confused, and tells Delia they get along great! "Jessie doesn't steal anymore! And she's getting better at battling which is cool." Delia brings up that she's head them argue before. "Oh... well I guess that's just how we are. I'd be weirded out if she was suddenly too nice to me all the time. Jessie's actually a lot like Misty. But taller!" This gives Delia a lot to think about but what's done is done and it's no use pressing on. It's easier this way.

The next morning Delia's getting ready for work. She must not have noticed that she was acting weird but Ash picks up on it. "What's wrong mom?" Delia's shocked he noticed (he's not usually this perceptive). She tells him it's nothing and that she just slept bad. "Hm. But Jessie says that when you're upset you get really quiet and intense." Delia notices that she was pretty intensely mixing the pancake batter. "Jessie told you that?" Ash nods. "Hey speaking of, where is Jessie? Haven't seen her since yesterday." Delia stops mixing and tells Ash that she and Jessie aren't together anymore. Ash is confused and upset at the idea of Jessie doing something that would hurt his mom enough for them to break up. Delia lets him know that Jessie didn't do anything like that and that them breaking up was just for the best. But Ash questions this, pointing out that he's never seen Delia as happy as she was when Jessie was there and also how Delia looks really sad now. Delia can't argue with that but then tells him that it's complicated. Ash, to Delia's surprise, looks a bit disappointed. He's bummed he wasn't able to say goodbye first and asks if she thinks Jessie would still be willing to come by and train with him sometimes. Delia asks him once more if he was really okay with her and Jessie dating. "Yeah I thought I said that already? Jessie's pretty cool when she's not being evil. And she really likes Pokémon which is a plus!" Such simple criteria. Delia's now worried that she might've made a mistake. She finishes making breakfast and heads to work.

At the restaurant she's met by James. She can feel an awkwardness hanging in the air. She knows that James knows. Before she can say anything James tells Delia thank you for employing him and helping him, Meowth and Jessie get back on their feet but that he's going to quit working at the restaurant and that they'll likely be leaving Pallet soon. Delia's heart sinks. There's now a ticking clock and she has to decide what she wants to do SOON. She asks James where Jessie is. James hesitantly tells her that she's at his and Meowth's place. Delia pleads with James to work the restaurant for one more day at least and to cover this shift. She has to go talk to Jessie. He agrees, hoping that this is a good thing.

Delia runs to James and Meowth's place. She knocks on the door upon arrival and waits. It takes a moment but she hears the door unlock. Jessie opens the door, disheveled, tears and snot all over her face, draped in a blanket. Jessie notices it's Delia and, frightened, slams the door. Delia's stunned for a moment and goes to knock on the door again but before she can the door opens. This time Jessie's tears are gone, her hair's fixed and she ditched the blanket. "Oh hey, Delia! What brings you here?" Delia can't help but be charmed. But this is serious. She shakes it off and asks if they could talk. Jessie invites her in. They get to the couch and Jessie starts frantically cleaning up all the crumpled tissues and dirty dishes off the ground. "Heh I caught a cold yesterday. A one day cold. I'm fine now." Delia doesn't call out the obvious lie and gets straight to the point.

She tells Jessie that she's worried she made a mistake. She made a panicked decision that she was hoping would protect Ash and her future self. But now realizes that she was afraid of the idea that she'd made a selfish decision by dating her. It was a selfish decision but that didn't mean it was a bad one. She was the happiest she'd been, Jessie and Ash were learning to get along and were getting along much better than she'd though. She acknowledges that Jessie has been there for Ash in a way that she can't quite be and is also grateful to her for managing to keep Ash home a little longer. She asks if Jessie would be willing to take her back (despite the distress she caused). Jessie starts sobbing with happy tears. She tearfully says she'll try even harder to get along with Ash and be a better person. Delia reassures her that she's doing just fine.

They kiss passionately but then realize it's weird that they're making out in James in Meowth's place and say they'll continue later. Delia tells Jessie to head back home and that Ash is looking forward to battling with her (and she also needs to let James and Meowth not to quit their jobs).

The end~

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller. Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

The snow hadn't melted yet. It lay heavy and whole across the landscape, an unbroken layer of white pressed onto the earth. The mountains in the distance were pale and still, touched by the sharp blue light of morning. Everything looked hushed.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was climbing with that late- winter defiance— bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. His voice was casual, he wanted Joel to say yes. Like he needed proof they were moving toward spring.

Joel didn’t answer. He kept his gaze forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue. Then he saw something, just a break in the white, a shape that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it— something old and hardwired in his gut pulling taut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle. Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, his hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. For anything.

There it was— a pulse. Faint, but steady.

And then he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested. It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry. They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. The wind cut sharp between their shoulders, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself. Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

The room was small— bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the corners. The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still.

Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves, focused, professional. Maria stood just inside the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman—checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection— protocol, as always— and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. His jaw was tense, arms crossed.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria finally spoke. “You did good,” she said, her gaze moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. The snow outside had hardened under the afternoon sun. His boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, the wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, his voice careful, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit— especially in the cold— but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use. His movements had a practiced efficiency.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm, reassuring.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast— someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. Somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells— an elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room— took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful— like they'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands.

“You’re becoming a bit of a celebrity around here, you know that?” Tommy said, his voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, the sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house, stretching across the table in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, your hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth forming. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you should hear them. They’re convinced. You know how many people around here have lost toes? A few have lost more. And you— nothing. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“You saved me,” you said, voice quiet. “You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle? ”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s something. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started calling you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time— an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson. Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small— barely there— but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He hasn’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Tommy said, slowly . “But I told him where you were staying. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just thoughtful.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks ago. She’s been fussing over it— putting up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything until you were feeling better. It’s not huge or anything— two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dining hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I’m not saying Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We thought you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. “Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “ just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs. The space hummed with life— forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, the thrum of conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt .

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest. You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt steady, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they lingered at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency.

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running   between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen—understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way— it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift— more like a softening than a transformation— but it was there. The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not the kind that came from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure— quietly sure— that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Spring was arriving in slow intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a quiet sort of purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. It was a comforting kind of noise, the human kind. You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you. Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse. Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction— just once— so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one— just enough to ground yourself.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. The rest of the room continued on around you, but the sound seemed to stretch out, soften, as if the distance between you and him was insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause suspended between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment— his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, his voice rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor of a long-abandoned room.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before— shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like it might steady you.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“I already got food,” he said plainly.

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being warm and don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought— maybe— you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind but unreadable.

And then nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened.

You waited. A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair. 

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

You blinked. Not from surprise— exactly— but from the sting of it.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now but no less certain. “ You don’t have to thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there. You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now. Her energy filled the space immediately, like she’d walked into a room she already owned. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open and mildly amused.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said. Your voice was even, but you felt the warmth rush to your face. The sharp kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller. 

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

The sky had the muted tone of brushed steel, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The wind carried a chill that felt out of place for spring, like the season was unsure whether it had permission to stay. The air was crisp, not cold, but enough to sting faintly when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot—more than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides. Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was something careful about it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs. “He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house  with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door, soft and unhurried. A pause, and then a voice— lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened. Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile—more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure. You glanced at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly, like she was trying to gauge your intention. “He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you said, lifting the basket slightly. “Just to thank him. Nothing more.”

She watched you for a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated. 

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were perched on the front steps of Joel’s porch. The basket sat between you like a third guest. For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited.

The air was crisp, the sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation—something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, not quiet either. Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. He didn’t see you at first— his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either. His face remained unchanged, impassive.

He let out a quiet exhale—not dramatic, not performative. Just a sound that suggested he was tired. 

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch. The logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt. “Hi,” you said.

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable, the same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“I told you it was okay ,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a finality that pressed against your chest.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What are you doing here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But y ou could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“You don’t have to thank me again,” he said, cutting you off.  “What I did... Anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said.  “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, more softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath— this one heavier, but quieter. He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you. He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards. His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back—just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her gaze lingered on you for a second, something unsure flickering across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling faintly, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path. You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full. Conversations hummed softly around you—people passing mugs back and forth, chairs dragging against the floor, the scrape of metal spoons on ceramic. Outside, the light was still thin and cold.

Maria was seated across from you, her posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising gently from her tea.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it’s not about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really want to do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped. “I am healed,” you said. “Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a kind of tempered amusement.

“All right, but what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you—like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean—I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at following orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—something half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said, voice warm but steady. “That’s good to hear. I might have something in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place with care. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies—nails, paint, tools.

The space downstairs was broad and functional. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs—not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were cracked open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing faintly behind one of them. You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t hesitate. He knocked, three times, sharp and confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—something about that startled you more than it should have. 

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly in acknowledgment, a short-lived smile curving across his mouth. And then he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, his voice low.

Tommy grinned a little. “I’m bringing you help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what ?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I’ve been hallucinating, you’ve been complaining every other day about how much you’re juggling on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinating, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I thought the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget. Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away.

“What exactly is she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She’s not strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She’s not here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep putting off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things moving.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry—more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer the name carrying just a thread of insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, imitating his brother's tone.

“Joel,” Tommy said again.

Joel blinked once, as if trying to clear something from his head. “Isn’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You’ve got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His gaze finally moved—just briefly—to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops working."

Tommy turned to glance at you, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that resembled a smile. “So? What do you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you—like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door, your steps measured, not rushed. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you—Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs, the wood familiar under your fingers. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes,” Tommy replied simply.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Then he looked at Joel directly, something pointed in his expression. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle—seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested heavily on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt in a way that felt unintentional. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinking I’d want everything within reach while we were working. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way. There was something questioning in his expression, like he couldn’t quite figure you out—or maybe he just didn’t want to try.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that sharp edge of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Your voice was steady, not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work around here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anything away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely looking over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

divider by: omi-resources

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[devotedsweetheart]

・❥ I TOLD YOU NO , PIPSQUEAK

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: caleb goes through your phone and finds out something he most likely wasnt meant to find out . frustrated , he ignores all your attempts to flirt with him ... that is , until it gets too much .

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , porn w/ no plot , dom!caleb , sub!reader , use of y/n , overstimulation , slapping , oral sex (reader receiving)

a/n :: tysm for everyone who voted on the poll for this ! i apologize for taking so long to write it , been busy w/ personal things . hope you enjoy nonetheless 💋

it all started when caleb found out you were sending the pictures of yourself looking all cute to other men. he didnt know what to expect when going through your phone , but it definitely wasnt that .

he should be the only one you're talking to .

he's spent the last few hours sitting in silence & staring at his ceiling , contemplating whether or not to confront you about it or stay silent and let it build up . his time for thinking ends abruptly when he hears his door creak open and views you walk in . it's late at night but it's not rare of you to come in because of a bad dream ... but your reasoning of barging in is a lot more sinister than something so innocent like that .

you close the door behind you and lean your back against it , making eye contact with him before beginning taking small steps toward him , swaying your hips purposefully just to have the pleasure of watching his eyes roam down to look at them .

once you reach his bed , he breaks eye contact as you sit on the edge of the it; too upset to look you in the eye . not thinking much of it , you twist your body to lay a hand gently on his thigh . "caleb," you utter, trying to make him look at you . "caleb, i have a favor to ask .." at that , he props himself up on his arms to meet your gaze with his .

"what is it, pips?" he asks with furrowed brows and a tone with just a hint of irritation , something you can only pick up on . "i dont really feel like talking to you right now , let alone do something for you . " he says and you can see the frustration on his face now , eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a straight line .

your eyebrows rise up to your forehead , your hand flying to your heart . "oh, you're mad at me ? what'd i do ?" you question with mock innocence . at that , he scoffs and brings his arms out from under him so he can fall back down on the bed . "im really tired , could you let me get some sleep please ? it's been a long day . thanks . "

you smirk at his response , letting out the smallest snicker . "woah there , i didn't think you were that mad at me to ignore me .." you mumble , fixing your eyes to look down at the bed and bringing your hands to your lap; gazing up at him through your lashes . "do you want help getting it out of your system ..? i can surely assist with that."

you're almost sure you can see the way his body tenses up once he hears that.

he swallows hard and you can view from where you are the way he hesitantly shakes his head , crossing his arms over his chest . "no , pips . not tonight .. im exhausted and i was about to go to sleep before you came in . leave , please , now ." his voice is asserting , or at least ... attempting to be . after looking over the images you messaged those men , truth be told he has had a boner ever since and instead of going to bed like he told you he was ... he was actually just about to jerk off . thank god you havent noticed .

"oh come on, dont be so lame . we both know thats a lie," you point out , shifting your body completely to make it easier to slip your hand over his thigh once more , sliding it higher and higher . "let me help you , caleb ... if you wont tell me why you're angry then at least allow yourself to let it out in a way thats healthy ."

"my god, y/n, give it up already!" he yelled , the sexual frustration in his voice clear . he jumped up from his laying position into one that was on his knees , standing up rather than sitting down on them . before you knew it , he was grabbing you by the arms and slamming you down into the mattress beneath him. "you want this so fucking bad, huh? you're such a damn slut, arent you? say it . tell me you're my slut."

all that comes out of your mouth is a gasp, your brain short-circuiting at the pace of which things just switched around . you're hastily sliding your eyes over his face , taking in the crazed look in his pupils , the way his nostrils are flared , his lips in a scowl ... taking in how divine he looks when he's angry .

"i-... i dont-" you whisper , your voice box not capable of saying anything above the tone .

"i didnt ask what you know , i asked you to tell me how much of a whore you are . coming into my room , unannounced, in a skimpy little outfit ... trying to make my dick hard by touching me the way you did . if anything , we both know you know what you are," he says , leaning in to whisper in your ear . "a touched-starved little pipsqueak ."

you shake your head in submission, knowing how scary he could get when he's mad . "no... i-i'm sorry, caleb, i'll leave you alone . i dont know why i even messed with you in the first place ."

almost immediately after those words go through his brain , he leans back up on you and slaps you hard enough to definitely leave a mark . you squeal , bringing a hand up to your face to feel where he hit . before you could reach your cheek , he grabs your hand and pins it up above you; swiftly dragging your other along with it .

"quit talking , y/n , it'll only bring you more trouble to lie . be a good girl and stay quiet while i punish your perfect little pussy for being so needy all the time . you can do just that one thing for me , cant you ? don't make a sound . " he purrs into your face , breath hot against your skin before he crawls down lower; taking your hands with him to rest on your stomach . once he meets with your core , he uses his free hand to briskly take off your scrap of lace that you call panties with his pointer finger . looking up at you , he grins when he sees the look of resistance written all over your face . "spread . now ."

he looks down to make eye contact with your cunt again , taking in the wetness glistening in the moonlight . he takes it upon himself to lean down and blow a flow of cold air right onto your needy clit , making you thrust your hips into his face . he doesn't react , though , only laughs a greedy laugh at your attempt .

"you're only making this worse for yourself , baby . stay still and silent for me and this will be over before you know it ." and with that , he brings his head down to suck on your clit .

it's such a perfect feeling you cant help but moan , tipping your head back and allowing your eyes to flutter shut . the moment of bliss is stolen as quick as it came when he slaps his hand on your thigh , making you jump .

"make a sound and i'll stop ."

------

over an hour has he been torturing you . an hour . sixty minutes .

it's long after you've cum (multiple times) on his face , but he still won't stop . you're thrashing and squirming , crying and screaming , kicking and begging at him but nothing works . you're convinced he's committed to making you pass out ... and maybe he is .

he won't talk to you , won't stop you from pulling at his hair , all he does is pull your thighs closer around his face; using all the strength he has to keep you there .

you can see how hard he is and the evidence of his release on the bed , but he refuses all your offers to make him cum in an effort to get him to stop . he refuses everything and anything , all hes focused on is your core and making you pay for all the hell you've put him through . especially those fucking pictures you've been sending to people .

at this point , his jaw hurts , and he's almost incapable of going on for longer . he finally lifts up off your poor abused core , giving you a moment to breathe and relax your muscles . he drags himself on his hands and knees over you to meet your face , moving a hand to touch under your chin; making you meet his gaze .

" have you learned your lesson yet , pips ? or do you need me to go a little longer ?" you quickly shake your head at his question, you normally would answer with a string of nononononos but you're too fucked-out that you cant . he brings the hand on your chin to your eyes and wipes a tear there . "i'm sorry , baby . i know i'm cruel . i know you'll never do that to me again ." he says , a sincere tone in his voice .

"lets go get you cleaned up ."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in conclusion :: caleb is without a doubt a 'fuck around and find out' typa guy .. :3

[icarusignite]

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

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

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

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

Word Count:  8.5k 

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

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

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

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

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

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

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

Tight, hidden, private.

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

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

But were you friends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alive.

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

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

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

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

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

You took it as a good sign.

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

That was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lifted an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

Glad? To see him?

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

He had to ask. Why.

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

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

Of course, you were glad he came back.

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

"You shouldn't be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that wasn't all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what?" 

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

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

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

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

But he kept going. He had to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, maybe you should have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn't.

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

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

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

Jason's breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was right.

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

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

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

Even now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain.

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

You’d been stabbed.

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

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

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

So very cold.

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

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

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

You didn’t care.

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

Who were you going to call?

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

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

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

It’s not like you had any friends.

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

No one was coming.

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

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

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

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

His.

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

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

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

But would he even know that you'd died?

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

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could do this. 

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

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

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

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

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

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

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

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

It was then that he saw it.

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

Blood.

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

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

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

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

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

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

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

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

“No, no, no—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

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

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

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

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

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

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

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

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

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

Then his hands fell still. 

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

You didn’t stir.

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

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

“I’m not losing you.”

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

[eclipixels]

Anyway chat where ??? Is my kaiser fics?? 😔

LET ME PYO!! YK that one scene where Kaiser is first introduced??

could you write me sum of that scene but like it’s reader sleeping on their shared bed and yk how how he’s walking out from the bathroom to take the call?? Instead of standing there he sits on the bed leaning back on the headboard caressing/twirling readers hair while taking the call?? Maybe a lil blow job at the end idk 🤷🏻‍♀️

Fidelity

Michael Kaiser x Reader

Content: Your relationship with Kaiser, how it began and where it is now

A/N: I hate this bitch so much like he's my biggest op and he's not even real. I hate him the same way AOT fans hate Gabi, I hate him the same way Demon Slayer fans hate Muzan, I hate him the same way Gojo glazers hate Sukuna. I want him DEAD like idgaf ab his tragic backstory. PLEASE come to America you German bitch, trust I got a strap for your ass you pale ass mf ima rip those fuck ass cheap at home kool-aid dyed blue ends from your scalp, you can't use your "soccer kicking" skills out of this the same way you did with those police officers. ON MY MAMA I WILL ROCK HIS SHIT if he was real. UNFORTUNATELY my bestie requested, and I had to deliver so wtvr, this is the content you get from a D1 Kaiser hater. You have been warned. Um anyway, enjoy :P

Warnings: oral sex 🍋

[3,822 words]

      It was just another Saturday morning. The sound of Michael's phone ringing jolted you awake, prompting you to grumble and yell at him to pick it up. Still half-asleep, you didn't realize he wasn’t beside you.

      You and Michael had been together for a while now. You'd known him since childhood, watching him grow while growing alongside him. It was strange, witnessing the changes in him while navigating your own.

      —

      "What's your name?" you remember asking when you first met him. He lived a few houses over on your street.

      "Michael," he answered, his voice flat, unreadable.

      "I'm Y/n," you said, offering a hesitant smile. Most of your friends were girls, it was easier that way. They were usually kind, welcoming, making friendship feel natural. But Michael was different. He carried himself with a quiet detachment, his expression unreadable, his posture stiff as if he wasn’t used to people talking to him. Truth be told, when you first saw him, you had mistaken him for a girl. His hair was long and tangled, matted in a way that suggested neglect rather than style. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, worn and slightly oversized. There was something about him that felt off, but you were too young to understand why.

      At that age, you didn’t question much. You didn’t ask why his hair looked like that or why he never seemed to smile. You just knew that he was there, and for some reason, you kept talking to him. Maybe it was because he listened, or maybe it was because he never pushed you away.

      Your mother was barely present, always chasing the bottom of a bottle or stepping outside for another smoke. Alcohol had its grip on her, and you learned early on that you couldn’t rely on her for much. You spent most days fending for yourself, learning how to navigate the world without guidance. Loneliness was something you had grown accustomed to, but when Michael appeared, that loneliness didn’t feel as suffocating.

      You started sticking around him, finding comfort in his silence. He didn’t gossip or giggle over small things. He didn’t ask too many questions. You stuck with him.

      Before he met you, Michael spent most of his time on the streets, stealing just to survive. It was all he knew, taking what he needed, keeping his head down, and making it through another day. But after you came into his life, something shifted. For the first time, he felt a strange, unspoken obligation to keep someone else safe. It wasn’t something he fully understood, only that you were his in a way nothing else had ever been.

      It was the same feeling he had when he bought that soccer ball—his first real possession, something finally, finally his to keep. You became that too, in a way. Someone he wanted to protect, to hold onto. And so, instead of roaming the streets or lurking in dark alleys, he started spending most of his time with you, in places that were quiet, safe.

      It was different with you. Not like how it was when he would eventually meet Ness. Ness was someone he could manipulate, someone who would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. A pawn. A tool. But you were not that. At least, that’s what he seemed to feel. You weren’t something to use, you were something to keep.

      While you attended public school like any other kid, Michael had never been enrolled. His father hadn’t bothered. So while you sat in classrooms, listening to lessons and doing assignments, he spent his days stealing, pawning whatever he could to get by. But the moment you came home, he was there. He always made sure to be there.

      "Today in class, we spent some time learning about history," you began, your voice carrying a hint of thoughtfulness as you recalled the lesson.

      "Hm?" he hummed in response, his interest piqued but his body visibly relaxed. Michael, who had just settled beside you after an intense session of kicking the soccer ball around, tilted his head to look at you.

      The two of you were lounging on the soft grass of a nearby public park, the sun casting a warm glow over the open space. He had been experimenting with different techniques, testing his footwork and control before finally deciding he had done enough for now. He then plopped down next to you and made himself comfortable, his head naturally finding its place on your lap, something he had developed into a quiet habit over time.

      "Did you know that the last German Kaiser was Wilhelm II, who was a cousin of Russia’s last Tsar, Nicholas II, and Britain’s King George V."

      "Oh," Michael hummed, his response quiet, almost absentminded as he rested against you.

      "In Russia, there were these people who wanted to change the way the royal family treated everyone, so they got rid of them," you explained, your voice steady but laced with the weight of the lesson.

      A revolution, born from the suffering of the abused and mistreated, had taken extreme measures to erase the rulers they held responsible for the devastation of their country. They had believed that by eliminating the monarchy, they could forge a new beginning, a birth of politics free from oppression. But in their pursuit of justice, they got carried away. Soon, the very ideals they had fought for crumbled beneath the weight of their own actions.

      Trying to hurt those who have hurt you, it’s easy to get lost in it. Once you rise from being the underdog to someone in power, the very thing you fought against seeps into you. It overwhelms, corrupts. Before you even realize it, you're no different from those you once despised. You start hurting the people around you, repeating the cycle.

      You were too young to understand it back then. Human nature—flawed, unpredictable, a subject of endless debate among philosophers for centuries. But you never expected to experience it, though.

      Once Michael got arrested, he disappeared from your life for weeks. You weren’t sure when or if you’d see him again and the thought of that hurt. But then, one day, he was standing outside your door.

      You were in your room, oblivious to his presence, while your mother was home for once. Unbeknownst to you, he lingered on the doorstep, unmoving. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating. He’d seen you a million times before, yet something about this moment felt different. Maybe it was the weight of everything that had happened. Maybe it was the fact that he never really knew what to call what you two had. He never really had friends, after all.

      Through the thin walls of your house, he could hear the yelling, your mother’s sharp, bitter voice laced with frustration as she blamed you for money problems again. Then a sound that made something inside him snap, the unmistakable clink of a bottle being raised, the threat hanging in the air.

      Before he even registered the decision, his body moved on its own. He kicked at the door, once, twice, three times, until it finally gave way. Adrenaline surged through his veins but his face remained void of emotion as he stepped inside.

      You were on the floor, frozen in shock at the sight of him.

      “Micha?” Your voice wavered.

      He didn’t respond, just moved forward, scooping you up effortlessly before carrying you outside.

      Your mother barely reacted. She couldn’t care less about you but when she finally turned, her gaze met Michael’s and for the first time, you saw something terrifying. The look he gave her was colder than ice, sharper than a blade. It was the same look of disdain you had only ever seen him reserve for his father.

      You didn’t look back. As you walked beside him, your hand held firmly in his, you finally spoke.

      “Where have you been?”

      Michael kept his eyes forward. “Do you still want to live there?” he asked instead.

      You were still only fourteen. Michael had just turned fifteen.

      “I don’t really have a choice,” you admitted.

      He exhaled, then said, “I think I’m gonna be getting a lot of money soon.” A pause. “You can live with me.”

      Your mind raced with a million questions. Where had he been? What did he mean by money? How was that even possible?

      But Michael wasn’t someone who explained things with words. He always acted first, letting the truth reveal itself over time. So instead of questioning, you simply nodded.

      “Okay.”

      He hummed in appreciation.

      It wasn’t until later that you learned everything. How he got arrested, what happened to his father, how he had been scouted by a soccer team that saw potential in him. They were training him to become something great, something unstoppable. And with that came money, a future, an escape.

      As for you and Michael, you weren’t sure where you stood.

      You called it friendship.

      One afternoon, he was lying on your lap again. It had become your thing. No matter where you were—whether on your bed, sitting in the park, or on the porch of your old house—Michael would always find his way there, resting his head on your thighs, golden locks spilling over as he closed his eyes with his arms crossed.

      That day was no different. Except, this time, it was late, far past the usual hour either of you went to bed. Bastard München had been against the idea of letting you stay in the dorms, but Michael had given them an ultimatum. Either they paid for your necessities too, or he’d find another team. And Michael was a once-in-a-lifetime player, someone they couldn’t afford to lose. So they agreed.

      “You asleep?” you asked softly, fingers threading through his hair. It was much silkier now than when you were younger. He was in cleaner clothes, you both were. You had access to things you never had growing up in poverty.

      Michael’s eyes fluttered open, blue irises peeking up at you through his lashes.

      He was quiet. You stared back, taking in the details of his face, memorizing them as if you hadn’t already done so a thousand times. Then, without a word, he lifted his head. His face was suddenly much closer to yours.

      You barely had time to react before his lips met yours.

      It was untraditional. Your eyes shut immediately, but his remained slightly open, half-lidded, just enough to watch you. He had never done this before. It was foreign to him, but he followed instinct, doing what felt right.

      Michael had never thought about kissing you before.

      The same couldn’t be said for you.

      He pressed his lips more firmly against yours, learning the sensation of your plush lips against his own. He learned that he really liked the way you tasted, a flavor uniquely made just for him.

      When he finally pulled back, he studied you, the faintest trace of saliva connecting you before you wiped it away with the back of your hand. Michael’s expression twisted into offense as he licked his own lips instead.

      “Why’d you wipe it off?” His voice was laced with mild irritation, almost possessive.

      Your face burned. The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

      “Michael, I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”

      The moment you said it, you regretted it. Your cheeks were on fire, and you had no idea what had come over you. Michael stilled, frozen in place as he just stared at you. His hand found yours before his gaze lowered, face thoughtful but expressionless.

      “What does love feel like?” He asked after a pause.

      You swallowed, gathering your thoughts. “It’s when you feel comfortable and taken care of. When your heart feels at home. When you feel happy.”

      Michael was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he settled back into your lap, arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face against you.

      “Then, I love you too,” he whispered, his voice barely audible before sleep pulled him under.

      —

      Currently, you are in bed, your body cocooned in the warmth of the blankets. Michael stepped out in his lavish robe, the scent of expensive cologne and the luxury he’d surrounded himself with clinging to him. He picked up his phone, slipping into a conversation about some program in Japan that required Bastard Munchen's assistance.

      He was different now. Fame, fortune, and luxury had transformed him. He saw himself as untouchable, sitting on a throne that no one could ever knock him off from. He imagined himself soaring higher than the stars, out of reach.

      You saw the change in him. It was evident in the way he treated his teammates, in the way he treated Ness. It was... almost cruel, and it hurt to watch. You didn’t want to believe it. How could your Michael, the boy you had grown up with, become like this? You clung to that small, sweet, innocent part of him that still lingered, that side of him you knew was still there. Maybe you were wrong to believe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. You knew the things he did weren’t right, but when he was with you, he was different. He was still your Michael, the same one you grew up with.

      But he had changed. From the underdog, the abused, the mistreated, to becoming corrupt, merciless, and mentally abusive to other people. You wanted to feel sorry for Ness, to wish for things to be different. But your loyalty, your heart, it was with Michael. You were his Kaiserin, and he was your Kaiser. And you would stay loyal to him, even if it meant turning a blind eye to the harm he was causing to others. Even if it meant sacrificing your morals and humanity to do so.

      Who was the real Michael? The one with the world, or the one with you? Truth be told, you didn’t care. It was selfish and wrong, but it was the truth. You got to see his good side, the side no one else saw, and in your eyes, that was all that mattered.

      “Micha...” You stirred, feeling the weight of his presence beside you. He had sat down on the bed, his gaze falling to you. Even though you didn’t think you looked anything special in the morning, he always admired the way you seemed so peaceful.

      He placed a hand gently on your back, his fingers tracing soft hearts on your skin. Slowly, they climbed their way up to your head, playing with your hair as if it were the most precious thing to him.

      Michael wasn’t the only one who enjoyed resting his head on your lap now. You had started to enjoy it too. You found comfort in it, in the way his warmth and presence seemed to protect you from the world. It was the little things, like taking short naps or simply cuddling, resting your head on his lap, that made you feel safe.

      And right now, it felt no different. You inched closer, letting your body relax as you sprawled yourself across his lap. He had grown more muscular over the years. His thighs, once lean, were now firm and strong with muscle, but they were soft when relaxed. It was the perfect place to rest, feeling his warmth and security surround you as you melted into him.

      Wrapped in nothing but a robe, Michael was completely exposed underneath, though you were still too sleepy to fully register it. The haze of drowsiness clouded your mind until you felt the subtle shift of his body. Michael let out a low grunt, his muscles tightening in his thighs, flexing under your weight in a way that couldn’t be ignored.

      As he looked at you, his eyes were full of desire and desperation. It was a look he reserved for you, an unspoken plea that carried more meaning than any words could. It was his way of silently telling you what he needed, what he craved from you in that moment. He was always one to convey with actions over words.

      You undid his robe as he spoke on the phone, your hands finding their way to his hard cock. It was already leaking precum, the clear liquid sticky against his tip. You and him experimented with a bunch of different things over the years, only ever having each other to do it with which is how you found out that you really enjoyed how he reacted to your touch.

      Seeing how Michael acts with others vesus you was always something you indulged in. Especially now. How he spoke on the phone to those people while simulatuously just letting you ravish him.

      His eyes watched intently as you opened your mouth to let saliva drip onto his dick. He winced as it dribbled down his tip, mixing with the precum already there. You looked up at him all innocently through your lashes, sticking your tongue out before swallowing him whole. For a moment, Michael froze, the line on the other end repeating his name to make sure he was still there.

      “I’ll make them get on their knees.” Michael spoke seductively, almost as if the message was more for you than them. He tilted your chin up away from his dick, almost passing out at the sight when he got a full view of your pretty mouth that was full of cock.

      He gestured toward the floor, a silent command that you knew all too well. Without hesitation, you slipped off the bed, your movements smooth as you sank to your knees. The thick, plush rug Michael had insisted on for your shared bedroom was surprisingly soft beneath you, its texture a welcome contrast to the coolness of the floor. You settled into it, the softness making the position more comfortable as you situated yourself before him.

      Michael continued on the phone, getting details about where they’d be staying, just general information. You didn’t listen in much on the conversation, instead choosing to focus on your boyfriend’s warm cock buried in the back of your throat. Kaiser loved the natural sounds it made whenever he fucked you, whether it was your cunt or your mouth, the noises drove him feral.

      He liked having you on your knees, it allowed easy control on what was happening to him from both you and himself. He could fuck himself into your mouth if he wanted to and you could grip his thighs and suck the soul out of him if you wanted to, which is exactly what you were doing.

      His hair feathered along this forehead as he tossed his head back, feeling a pressure build inside of him as you continued slurping and sucking him. His free hand was tangled into your hair, gathering the strands into a make-shift ponytail. Tears brimmed your eyes from having your jaw open for so long but you didn’t really mind. You liked doing this with him, you loved the feeling of his cock in your mouth, you loved it when he painted your throat white, you loved him.

      “Shit—” He cursed, trying to keep his voice steady on the line. He hoped the person on the other end of the line didn’t hear him. The person didn’t mention anything about it so he assumed he was in the clear.

      Michael was a man of endurance, but when it came to you, he unravelled almost instantly, even if he didn’t want to. That being said, fuck, it was getting hard to hold in his noises of pleasure as you gave him a really good blow job.

      “Just text me the rest of the information.” Michael sighed before hanging the phone up. Bastard Munchen had long been accustomed to his attitude. He tossed the phone carelessly onto the bed, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief. Now, finally, he could focus on you completely, giving you his full, undivided attention without any distractions.

      “You have any idea how pretty you look right now?” He murmured, his hand finding its way to the soft curve of your jaw. His thumb rubbed over your cheek, wiping away the tears that clung to your lashes. You only smiled in response, continuing to work on him, using things he liked to get him closer.

      “G’na come in your mouth, my sweet little rose” Kaiser exhaled sharply, “You’re gonna swallow it right? Every last drop?”

      You nodded in response, your eyelids growing heavier as you lost yourself in your task.

      “Such a good fucking girl for me, always are.” He groaned, behaving almost primal. When Michael got close, he usually took the lead, allowing himself to rock back and forth in your mouth and you let him. Both his hands were now holding your face, careful to not hurt you as he used your throat to bring him close to his orgasm.

      “Fuck! Ah…hah—” Michael smiled as he felt the knot in him come undone, allowing thick ropes of warm cum to land themselves deep down your throat. He was pressed up so deep against your face, your nose brushing up against the cute tattoo of your initials he got on his v-line.

      Your cheeks were hollow to provide extra suction as cum filled your mouth. You enjoyed the sensation and salty flavor it provided. He slowed down his pace, revelling in the feeling of your hot tongue swirling his shaft as you waited for him to pull out.

      Finally, Michael pulled away, allowing you to catch your breath.

      “Look at me.” He commanded, and you obeyed, watching as he analzyed your face. He loved seeing you like this, you looked so utterly his. Michael remained silent, his chest rising and falling at a more steady rate now. He needed to look at your face, searching to see what you were feeling at the moment.

      Michael wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly how you saw him, how deeply you felt for him, despite everything. He also knew that who he had become wasn’t necessarily right. But he couldn’t change the way his past had shaped him, molding him into something hardened, something fractured. While you had taken your pain and turned it into empathy, breaking the cycle, he had done the opposite, repeating it, embodying the very thing he resents.

      And yet, with you, he felt freed from it all. You’ve stayed with him throughout everything.

      "Love you," he murmured, his voice softer than usual as he lifted you effortlessly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead and then to your lips. This was his way of reassuring you that despite everything, he still loved you. And just as much, it was his way of gauging your reaction, making sure he hadn’t been too harsh with you.

      You only smiled, offering him the answer he sought without words.