#A car burning like a comet

[cephalopod-prophet]

everyone please consider a comet that looks like a car

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄 ❞

❝ I CAN'T BREATHE WITHOUT YOU, BUT I HAVE TO... ❞

✧ pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader (canon / multi au)

✧ summary: "would we love each other in every life?" it's the question you asked satoru the night before his battle, and he replied that, of course you would. but did that promise create a curse -- or were you both always cursed to begin with when it came to love?

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, jjk manga spoilers (236 spoilers), multiple lives, assassin!reader x duke!gojo, actor!gojo x singer!reader, prince!gojo x knight!reader, model!gojo x photographer!reader, oral (f!receiving) in a car, semi-public, making out in public, pantyhose ripping, canon compliant except towards the end, angsty, but also bittersweet / implied happy ending

✧ wc: 6,589

“Do you think we would be together in another life?” you ask, not thinking much of the question, as your fingers draw lazy circles against his bare chest, your head resting right between his shoulder and chest. 

Satoru chuckles, vibration against your skin, “Of course we would, sweetheart,” his arms curl around you, tugging you higher, as he gazes up at you, “you think I could live any lifetime without you?” He murmurs, his lips finding yours, “I know we’d find each other, time and time again,” 

“How do you know?” your fingers brush against his cheek, shaking as he presses his cheek into your palm, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“Because, I love you,” he kisses you again, sweet lips gliding against yours, his breath warming your lips as he parts. 

“You did say love is a curse,” you give a small smile, and he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Then I’d want you to curse me — in every life.” 

“I swear on my life,” you press the dagger to his throat, blade digging into his formerly  perfect porcelain skin, drawing scarlet to the surface, “I’ll kill you, Satoru Gojo,” 

“I’m flattered to be a target of the infamous blueblood assassin,” his cerulean eyes glinted like stars in the candlelight, flames flickering across his eyes like burning comets, “but I didn’t think you would announce yourself as you did — what if I called for my guards?” 

You scoff, fingers flexing against the hilt of your dagger, “Then you would be dead before you uttered even a single sound and do you think I left your guards to chance? All of that schooling to be a duke and you haven’t learned a single thing have you?” 

“And what have I done to end up as your target?” he hums — as you bit back a sigh stuck in your throat — you preferred your marks to be much less chatty, but all he had was his mouth you supposed, “you only target the rich and the corrupt — and while I may fit the former, I do not fit the latter,” 

“You’re certainly sure of yourself,” and he’s unfazed by your reply, as his eyes wander the only thing visible of your expression — your eyes. 

“Since you have not stated my crime, I can only assume that I’ve committed none, and the infamous assassin whose morals could not be compromised have been,” and your grip wavers a moment, and he takes advantage of your hesitance to disarm you, and pin you to a nearby chaise all before the clatter of your blade hitting the marble floor, “and now what’s an assassin’s price who has done all of this for no reward?” 

“How do you know I’ve done this for no reward?” you squirm in his grip, but it’s ironclad, and you know all too well he could have broken from your grasp at any point, but he had chosen not to — your heartbeat roars in your ears as one question repeats again and again stuck between  beats — why? “I very well may have taken a payment you don’t know of — you act as if you know of me,” 

“Because I do,” the heir replies with a simple smile, “I have followed your work for a long time, and I found myself fascinated with what you do — and why you do it,” 

“Honored to have caught your attention,” you say in mock reverence, your arm beginning to ache, “now do you plan to call your guards?” 

“Didn’t know you were so eager to die,” he stares still, as you turn your head away from his piercing gaze, “shouldn’t you keep your eyes on your target or now your captor?” 

“Do you ever shut up?” You mumble as you flinch as you squirm under his grip, sleeve riding up ever so slightly — and then he sees it. His eyes narrow, as his hand grasps at your wrist now, “hey! Don’t—“ 

In a moment his fingers nearly rip the fabric of your tunic to tug your sleeve up —  angry red cuts and purple bruises litter your arm. Your breath catches as his eyes stare for several moments before sliding back to you — no longer a placid pool but a raging ocean. 

“Who did this to you?” he says quietly, and you’re blinking, nearly slack jawed, as you try to rip your arms away, but he won’t let you, “who is it? Is it the same person who told you to kill me?” 

“Stop—“ 

“Is it the same person who’s taken someone important to you?” and you grit your teeth in silence, “is it the little orphan you adopted? Yuji?” 

And your eyes snap to his, “How do you know this? Who are you?” 

His lips curl,  “You told me yourself, I’m Satoru Gojo,” and his fingers brush your cheek, “it’s a shame you don’t remember where we first met — because I never forgot,” 

You furrow your brow, “What are you talking about? I think I’d remember you. You’re…” you jerk your head, eyes looking him up and down — lingering on his white hair and eyes, “distinct,” 

“Well what if I had black hair and green eyes, would you remember then?” And he whispers your name in your ear, and you pause, “the fireworks were nothing compared to you,” 

And your breath catches — “You? But—“ 

“I had snuck out, had a disguise and everything, and I had planned to explore the festival alone but who do I find but you?” His grip on you loosens only to pull you a little closer, “the girl who had stolen two steamed buns and pinned me with part of the blame, making me run after you—“ 

“You didn’t have to run—“ and he snorted. 

“Well, it was that or get caught sneaking out — so I chose the lesser of two evils,” you can’t help it, your fingers trace the curve of his jaw to the back of his ear, “are you seeing if I’m defective?” And you find it. 

“No, he—“ you stop yourself, “you had gotten a small cut right behind your ear, it was deep enough that it would have left a scar behind,” and he had gotten a small cut from one of the soldiers who had grabbed them, bucking him with his sword, before you wrenched him out of there. The two of you spent the rest of the night eating food and sneaking around guards. And then finally climbing up on a rooftop to watch the fireworks. 

“How did you—“ 

“One of my father’s advisers found me later that night, in exchange for never sneaking out again without telling him, he said he would keep tabs on you,” 

You have no words, but one left — “why?” 

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, “maybe it was because I’ve been surrounded by nothing but my family’s yes-men, and you were the one person who treated me like a person, maybe it was the fact that day was the only day I actually had fun,” and he glances at you, “or maybe it was because I was drawn to you,” 

And you snort a little, “Do you believe in that fates nonsense they fed all of us as kids?” 

“I think fate is a very real thing, and I think it’s up to us to seize it,” he releases you, holding your hand before bending to press the barest brush of his lips against the back of your hand, “so, will you seize it or continue to evade your fate?” 

“We’ll never be able to evade the press if you do this,” you whisper, as he presses you against a wall of a secluded pillar of whatever place they had chosen to have this awards show, “and our teams will definitely chew us out if we don’t make an—ah,” you gasp, as his teeth nip at your neck, “Satoru, don’t leave a mark,” 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he licks his lips, as he leans up, his normally messy white locks combed and parted to the side, his lips kiss bitten red from the liplock he had you in for the last ten minutes, and his white suit slightly ruffled and pressed against you, “you taste so sweet,” his thumb runs down your puffy lips, “and the desserts tonight sucked,” 

You chuckle, your fingers toying with the hair resting against his undercut, “Think you would have been pleased with receiving the award for best actor, is that not enough Mr. Gojo?” 

“The only thing that pleases me is my gorgeous wife’s singing and,” his lips find yours in a desperate kiss, and you could taste the fruity mocktail he had earlier on his lips, “and her moans when she’s under me,” his hand slides under your dress, dragging over your pantyhose clad thighs, “do you think anyone would notice if you came back without these?” 

“Yes, I do,” you gasp as he tugs at the delicate fabric, “Toru, we shouldn’t—” but your pleas are half-hearted, as his lips drift to press butterfly kisses up your jaw, “you deserve me insane,” 

“I know,” he chuckles, “that’s why you love me,” and you hum, your noses brushing before you meet lips again, “I love you so much,” 

Your fingers cup his cheek, as he leaned into your touch, “I love you too — don’t you want to enjoy all the accolades, the interviews, the congratulations? You won such a big award, Toru, I want you to celebrate,” 

“I am celebrating,” he grins, tilting his head, “I’m surprised at you, princess — and you’re the smart one between the two of us,” he teases, as he turns his head to kiss your palm, “in an entire ballroom full of people in there and all the places in the world, there’s no one place I rather be with than here with you.” 

“How did I end up stuck with you?” you grumbled, your armor weighing on you heavier than other days, as you stood in front of your prince — the little sun of this kingdom and the future king, the man you were sworn to protect for the rest of your earthly days, and your best friend, for better for worse, “if the fates have written it, I must have done something horrid in a past life,” 

“Do you really believe in that garbage?” Satoru raises an eyebrow, as he places his sword down from practice, waiving off his training partner, as he wipes off his sweat with a towel offered by a maid, “You know that stuff they fed to us so we wouldn’t throw tantrums during classes — so we didn’t turn into slugs for our next life,” 

“Why turn into one when you are one already?” you smirk, and he rolls his eyes, as he runs his hand through his hair. 

“Has a slug ever looked this good before?” and you roll your eyes. 

“Think your ego is going to be so large by the time you become king, your crown won’t sit atop your head correctly,” you sigh, rising to your feet, “now we must get you cleaned and dressed, you have a meeting with the—” 

“I actually cleared my schedule for the rest of the day,” and you blink, frowning. 

“His Majesty will not—” 

“His Majesty will be fine — old man hasn’t kicked the bucket over the last fifty things I’ve done — I doubt this will be more than a ten minute lecture on decorum, fifteen if I decide to poke the bear,” he throws you a grin, as he pulls on a fresh shirt, “come, I have something to show you,” 

“Show me?” you repeat, before his hand finds yours — his hands are smooth despite the constant swordplay and practice he put in — he supposed he owed that to the royal staff, tending to his looks as much as they did his health. The same could not be said about yours — riddled with cuts and calluses alike. Your cheeks burned as your unkempt hand held his — “your highness, this is—” 

“‘Your Highness?’” he repeats, throwing you a smirk over his shoulder, “when have you ever called me that?” 

The appearance of holding your hand as he pulled you down several hallways through the palace was beginning to attract the attention of several gawking onlookers. Your cheeks burn — and you’re not sure if it's from the stares, his words, or the fact he was still holding your hand as you both arrive outside his chambers. But you can’t stop him — but you never could stop him when it came to this, could you? It reminded you of the times he dragged you through the gardens, wanting to show you the rabbits’ hidey hole he had found in the corner of the royal gardens. 

“Well I was made an official royal guard and appointed as your personal guard yesterday so I thought a little professionalism—” he unlocks his door, turning to look at you, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“There’s no need for decorum between us, now is there?” his fingers find a stray strand of your hair, and presses his lips to it, as he opens his door. You glance inside to find a lovely decorated cake and a present wrapped perfectly on the table, “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” 

“What—but—�� and your mind realizes the date, “how did you—” 

“You think I’d ever forget your birthday?” he tilts his head, as your eyes slide to him, “it’s the day we met,” 

It was — the day you were brought from your home with your father who had been the king’s royal guard for many years, you were brought to be the prince’s — but you didn’t know you would find more than that in him. 

“I didn’t know you did this for your personal staff,” you teased, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth, “I certainly can’t imagine what they would think of you inviting a woman to your room for it,” 

“Well, you are my personal guard, you’re here to personally guard me against anything, right?” and this was the nature of your relationship wasn’t it? Teasing and goading — toeing that line of proprietary before one of you eased off. 

“It seems like I need to guard you only against yourself, your highness,” 

“Satoru,” he corrects, his eyes sliding to you, as he says your name with a softness that you wished he wouldn’t, “you had no issue calling me that before,” 

“We were only friends then, I’m your guard now—“ 

“Do you kiss all your friends?” And your cheeks flare, as your gaze refuses to meet his. 

“That was—a mistake,” you whisper the last two words, “we can’t do this—“ 

“Why not?” You turn away, your eyes sliding to the cake, a frown pulling on your lips. 

“Because you have a duty to your people and I have a duty to you,” and his fingers find your shoulder gently, giving you leave to pull away — but you can’t, you couldn’t. 

“My only duty I desire is the one to you—I love my people, but I can’t be the king they deserve if you’re not the one beside me,” your gaze still cast downward, “I will cast away any responsibility, if I could have a chance with you, sweetheart—“ 

“The king has discussed your engagement with me,” you murmur, “he told me he plans to have you engaged with a princess from a neighboring—“ And his arm is wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer — your gaze lost in the endless blue skies of his eyes, “we can’t—“ 

“I’ll find a way,” and you scoff. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you mutter, and his warm palm slides against your cheek. 

“This isn’t me promising to find a unicorn when we were five, Princess,” and you chuckle at the thought of his child self trudging into the woods with carrots in hand and what he thought was fairy dust (it was ladies’ finishing powder), “I swear that we’ll be together,” and he reaches into his pocket, and holds a small box, opening it to reveal a beautiful infinity pendant, “and this is my promise,” 

You bite your lip, staring at the silver glinting in the sunlight trickling in from the windows, “Satoru—“ 

“Finally giving in?” And you sigh. 

“How can you be sure we’ll be together?” He chuckles, as he gently turns you, making you face the mirror in his room as he places the necklace delicately around your neck, his fingers brushing against the skin of your neck before he clasps it. His arms slowly slide around your middle as he meets your gaze in your reflection, lips curling. 

His lips press a sweet kiss to your cheek, “Because I know I’d choose you, again and again.” 

“Why did they choose him as my model again?” You groaned as you looked at the list, tossing it back on your desk, “he’s so impossible to work with—“ 

“The shoots are finished quick—“ your boss replies gruffly, as he stands with his hands in his pockets, “and he said he’d only shoot with you. Said he likes your work and you’re the only one who can ‘capture the real him,’ some crap like that,” he shrugs. 

“Yaga, I can’t keep dealing with this man, can’t he shoot with anyone else?” 

He sighs, scratching the back of his head, “Look, the magazine we’re working with chose him as the model, and he said he would only do the shoot if you did it,” 

You sigh, leaning on your palm, elbow against your desk. “you’re not giving me a choice are you?” 

And no, he wasn’t. 

Because now you were at the studio for the sight of the shoot, getting everything ready that you could before your model arrived. You made sure his preferred makeup artist and hairstylist were available, you picked out his favorite snacks, got his preferred lighting (to be adjusted when he was on set), and had your cameras adjusted for his light sensitivity. 

All of which reduced the amount of time you had to spend with this man — but not even the most divine snacks would stop him from running his mouth. 

“Sweetheart,” you turned to see him, “miss me?” 

“When pigs fly, maybe,” but your words don’t faze him, a mock pout on his lips, “why do you request me to do your shoots, Gojo?” 

“Because it’s the only way you’ll see me,” and you sigh, as you continue to adjust your camera again, “you still haven’t given me a chance—“ 

“I gave you one chance, wasn’t that enough?” Before you turn to him, “look, I’m here because I have to be. I want to shoot — get in and get out and not have to—“ 

“One chance to talk to you — please, even if you don’t believe me or forgive me—“ 

“Fine,” you shake your head, frustrated, “go finish the shoot and we can talk for five minutes after,” and maybe he would stop forcing you into this situation. 

Satoru Gojo was the top wanted model by all the agencies — agencies were looking to snipe him and others were looking to have exclusive deals with him — whether it was photography businesses or brands. 

You couldn’t blame them, as you adjusted your lights and took a few test shots — he was gorgeous, even by model standards. From his skin to his body to his attitude, it was effortless for him. Even a bad angle or bad lighting did very little to detract from his flawless look. 

The chiseled cut of his jaw put statues to shame, his eyes shone brighter than the shiniest gemstones, his charm the envy of the love goddess herself, and his smile was enough to change hearts and minds alike. 

The shoots always look little time — the part that took the most time was choosing the best shots — you’d love to take one bad picture of him. Even for yourself — but that had proved impossible. Even deprived of sleep in the hours of the early morning, he was perfect. 

Perfect — except for his loyalty, you supposed. 

How had it gone so wrong so fast? And how did you let yourself become so carried away that you thought you were different from the others he bedded? 

And the shoot was over in a moment, and just like he said, Satoru was by your side as you begin to break down the equipment, as the other staff filed out, “can we talk now?” 

“If you have to,” you would give him an ear, but it didn’t mean you’d give him anything else.

“I never cheated on you—“ 

“Bullshit,” you reply, as you pick up the tripod you set up,  “I guess you didn’t the full five minutes,” 

“No, I didn’t—what you saw—“ 

“I saw you kissing another girl all over social media—“

“You saw me with Suguru,” he sighs, “and we weren’t kissing — we were hugging. You thought it was kissing from the angle of the picture, and before I could explain, you had blocked me on everything,”

You pause, “Suguru?” You repeat, as you pull out your phone and pull up the picture — black hair, hair half up, and they could have been hugging. And Satoru pulls out his own phone and shows you a selfie he took that same day, the meta data matching, “oh, oh fuck,” 

“Was that an apology? Not familiar with those coming out of your mouth so—“ 

“Satoru, I’m so sorry,” you murmur, “I saw the pictures and I heard the rumors and I assumed the worst of you,” you run your fingers through your hair, “even though I knew you better than that,” 

“You did, but I understand why you thought that,” he shrugged, “we had only been seeing each other for a month, but it meant something to me,” his voice softens.

“To me too,” you shake your head, “I’m so sorry, Satoru. I don’t know how to make it up to you,” 

“I know,” he smiles, “have dinner with me,” 

You blink. “why?”

“What do you mean, sweetheart? Everyone eats dinner, it’s a—“ 

“Satoru,” you sigh, “I didn’t believe you, I didn’t trust you, how can you forgive me like that? How could you want to be with someone like that?” 

“Well, you made a mistake — you forgave me for the other mistakes I made during our time together, and if I hadn’t let my team convince me that my fake reputation as a playboy would help sell my image — maybe we wouldn’t have been in this mess to begin with,” his fingers brush against yours, “besides, I want to believe in second chances — because I’d want to believe you’d give me one too,” 

Your fingers intertwine with his, “Even when I don’t deserve it?” 

And he lifts your hand to his lips, blue eyes glinting like an ocean dabbled in sunlight, “All the more for you make up for, right?”

This wasn’t right. No. No. 

“Satoru, Toru, please,” your fingers cupped his face, your fingers smeared with his blood as Maki pulled gou away, “no, no!” You don’t remember screaming, but you know you did because your throat was raw, your tears streaming down your face as your hands shook, staring at the dried blood on your fingers. 

He promised you he would win. He promised you he would come back. He promised you a life, a family, a home — something beyond jujutsu. 

And now you were left with nothing but that. 

“I’ll come back,” he had murmured in your ear the night before, his fingers tracing your cheek, “there’s no way I won’t. Have you ever seen me lose?” 

You give a small chuckle, “You just got trapped in a box for almost twenty days?” And he pouts, as he tilts your head up, fingers sliding against your cheek. 

“It was a one time fluke, sweetheart,” and his lips grazing your lips, “and I’m here now aren’t I?” you hum, “and I’ll always be there,” 

“In every life?” He smiles. 

“In every one.” 

In every one — except this one.  

“One would think you’re helpless, if you pout like that,” you teased, as you crawl into bed beside him, a smile on your lips, as he tugs you steadfast into his arms, “it’s only been a few minutes,” 

“It felt like a lifetime,” he presses a kiss to your head, “Is he asleep?” And you nod, a sigh on your lips as you settle into bed.

“After about twenty minutes of arguing, he passed out while I was telling him a story. He’s still not accustomed to this mansion,” neither were you — you had spent a few nights lying awake after jerking from the clutches of sleep — the paranoia still rampant in your mind. But those thoughts were a little farther now as you lie against his chest, heart thrumming under your body — the very heart you were meant to stop, and a chuckle escapes your lips. 

“What is it?” He raises an eyebrow, and you shake your head. 

“Why did you help me?” You draw circles on his chest, “you had every reason not to,” your fingers traced a line across his neck, “I even held a knife to your neck,” 

“And that was very attractive,” and you roll your eyes, “what? I like a woman who takes charge,” 

“Oh I know,” you chuckle, your lips pressing sweet kisses to his neck, “but I still don’t understand — you had every reason to distrust me, we barely knew each other, and yet—“ 

“You were still the girl I fell in love with that night,” he murmurs, “I just knew you were something special and when I saw what you were doing — trying to uproot corruption, I knew I was right. And I knew I had to make you my duchess,” 

“Well I’m not your wife yet,” you tease, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s got you pinned under him, “Toru—“ 

“Now, I told you I was going to seize my fate when I saw it,” and he kisses you, stealing every thought from your mind and every breath from your body, his touch filling you with warmth in return, “and I see it right in front of me,” 

“And what does it look like?” you smile against his lips, as he leans down to kiss you again. 

“Bright.” 

“Is it just me or do these paparazzi lights get brighter and brighter each time?” you rub your eyes as the two of you slide into your car for the night, the driver setting off towards your home. 

“I don’t know, I was too busy being blinded by my gorgeous wife,” and Satoru’s hands are all but under your dress, sliding up and down your sides, before one cups your cheek, “did i mention how incredible you look, sweetheart?” 

You hum, “about a million times,” your fingers slide against his shoulders until he’s practically lying on top of you against these leather seats. 

“That’s a million times too little — you look incredible, sweetheart. This dress was made for you,” and his lips taste as sweet as his words, your fingers sliding into his snowy locks while his slide against your bare thighs, “and I can’t wait to take it off when we get home,” 

“You’re going to take it off now if your hands slide any further up,” he draws a shiver from you as his hands do just that, daring further up your thighs, “Toru—“ 

“Don’t worry, the partition is up and it’s just you and me, sweetheart,” and he’s sinking to his knees on the floor, as his hands slide up your dress, “just keep your voice down, don’t want anyone hearing my wife, do we?” And his lips are grazing your inner thigh, his smirk against your skin, “good thing I relieved you of those pantyhose, huh?” 

“Toru,” you whined, as his fingers parted your thighs, and he could see your all too soaked panties, a damp patch and the fabric nearly translucent while it clung to your clit, “please—“ 

“So needy — and now that mouth of yours is being as honest as this one,” his lithe fingers tug aside the crotch of your panties to expose your cunt, “all this f’me? Been like this since our make out earlier? Surprised I didn’t see your cum drip down your legs,” 

And his words make you squirm, “Satoru, I swear to god—“ and his lips kiss your clit, as two fingers tease at your entrance, gathering your pre on his fingertips. 

“You don’t have to call me god, Princess — just Satoru is fine,” he murmurs as his lips close around your clit, as his fingers work inside your walls, a delicious stretch that draws a pretty gasp from your lips, your head falling back against the leather headrest. 

The sounds of the squelch of your cunt and the slurping of his lips against your clit rang in your ears — your fingernails digging into the seat as your other hand clamped over your lips. 

“That’s it, just like that, Princess,” his tongue darts out to  drag circles around your clit, while his fingers find the spot that makes you see stars. 

“I’m—“ you manage, before you’re cumming around his fingers and lips, your toes curling as you do, head back against the headrest. Your eyes find him to see him looking all too perfect even ruffled, as his lips were glossy with your release, tongue darting out to clean it, before he licked his fingers one by one. 

“And you were worried about the paparazzi noticing your missing pantyhose,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, a smirk against your mouth, “let’s hope no one saw that,” 

And there’s a sharp rap on the window, “Sir and madam? We’ve arrived,” and his lips quirk, as he adjusts your clothes, cleaning your smudged lipstick with his thumb, as you reach up to wipe his lips where the lipstick had gone. 

“Shall we celebrate my win properly?” He opens the door and slides out of the car, holding out his hand for yours.

“As we always do?” And your fingers find his, as he presses his lips to the back of your palm. 

“Always, Princess.” 

“Are you ready yet, Princess?” Your Prince’s arms slid around your waist, his lips already at your neck, as his ocean blues met your gaze in the mirror, “how lucky is our kingdom to have such a lovely future queen? And how much luckier am I to have her as my wife?” 

“We do not know if the people will approve of me still, Toru,” you murmur, eyes shying away from his, your fingers finding the infinity around your neck, “you promised me forever, but will they grant it to us?” 

“Do you have such little faith, sweetheart, in your future husband?” His fingers find your chin, tilting it upwards to meet your gaze, “I’ve already done the impossible — I charmed you over the last two decades haven’t I?” 

“More like wore me down,” and he pinches your cheek, before he presses a kiss to the affronted skin, “re-defined the long game,” and he kisses your nose, “and stole my heart and soul while I wasn’t looking,” 

“I never steal,” he smiles that same smile that was emblazoned in your memory all those years ago, when he emerged from the woods with not a unicorn, but a baby fawn he had frightened from very same thicket, “I only take what was given to me,” he smiles, “and you willingly handed over your heart the moment you let me into your life,” 

“What was I thinking?” you murmur, cupping his cheek, “now I’ll have to deal with the politics of a kingdom for the rest of my days,” 

His lips curl widely, as his lips find yours, a heat that simmers into passion and then into simple love, “I promise, in exchange, I’ll spend the rest of my days making you the happiest you’ve ever been,” 

“The happiest, huh?” you murmur, foreheads pressed together, “that’s a tall order, so you think you can do it?” 

“I know I can,” he smiles, his arms pulling you impossibly closer, “because I’ll never trying to make you happy, Princess.” 

“You’re far too happy with this arrangement,” you say through the door, arms crossed as you pressed your back against it, “I don’t want to come out,” 

“You agreed to this, c’mon sweetheart, you’ve taken countless pictures of me—“ 

“You’re a model — it’s literally your job,” you glare at him through the door, “I’m behind the camera — not in front of it,” 

“But you’re just as beautiful in front of it as you are behind it,” and you can hear his pout through the door, “if you really don’t want to, sweetheart, I won’t make you—“ 

And the door opens, your lips curled in a pout as you emerge in a cerulean gown — the same color as his eyes, the very same that widened upon seeing you. 

“Was this necessary?” you squirm in place, as he bites his lip, eyes raking over you, “Toru—“ 

And he’s in front of you in an instant, his arms winding aaaaaaaaround your waist, “I want to kiss you so badly, but I’ll mess up your makeup,” your breath catches, so his finger brushes against your lips and presses it to his own lips, a little of your lipstick sticking to his lips. 

“Toru,” and his lips quirk at the nickname, “why do you want to take pictures of me?” 

“Because, I want pictures of you that are just for me,” he gently takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your wrist, “because I’ll never have this moment with you again, but I’ll have these pictures with you,” 

“And when do I get pictures that are of you and just for me?” And he presses a kiss to your head. 

“Anytime you want,” he murmurs, “we have all the time in the world, don’t we?” 

Time — that was the one thing Satoru Gojo always lacked. It felt as if his whole life was an hourglass, waiting for the sand to run out — and the one time it came close, blood seeping like sand through his neck, he was able to turn it on its head, until time was on his side agai.  

He wasn’t sure if time was on his side now.  

He could only see the winter sky above — flecks of white he could think were snow but never be sure if that was his vision going blurry. He couldn’t feel anything — but he heard the all too distant squelch of his blood against the ground, the sounds of footsteps, the feeling of his body being lifted, a smile still on his face.

He was going home — the one person who always made his world right side up — the only person who could catch the sand that slipped between his fingers and hold it between warm palms. He forced his body to keep running — to keep going, the flow of cursed energy may have come from the stomach and his brain may be able to power his reversed curse technique — but that didn’t compare to his will to make it home — make it to you. 

“Toru! Satoru!” he couldn’t will his eyes to open, only managing the barest flutter of his eyelids, “it’s okay, Shoko’s got you, I got you,” you murmur, a soft brush that must but your lips. 

Love was always the most twisted curse of them all — and he knew it had always been a curse to love him. Anyone drawn into his orbit seemed only doomed to fall around him — whether it was by their choice, his choice, or fate’s choice. 

Fate. That was a word he never had put a lot of stock into. Suguru always said there was a certain order to things — sorcerers were made to defend humans, and that was our duty. He had replied that fate was an excuse for people too afraid to challenge the status quo. 

Maybe Suguru took that too seriously. 

When Suguru defected — Satoru knew something had to change — he couldn’t let others go even when they had that blue spring. The time that he had stayed frozen in — even as everyone else left, he still lived in those moments, and so he barely lived in the present at all. 

Not until you had shattered his self made prison. 

And it wasn’t without difficulty. 

He told you so many times that it was dangerous to love him, it was foolish to love a person like him with a constant target on their back because inevitably the target would shift to you. And he didn’t want to live in a world without you — but he could choose to, as long as you were the one who would live. 

But you were steadfast in your love, roots cracking through concrete until he was covered in your ivy, entangled so deep that there was no escape—because one look from you had stolen his reservations out from under him. Because loving you was as simple as breathing — it just was. 

“I would want you to curse me — in every life.” 

That’s what he told you the night before this battle — because he knew if he didn’t make it in this life, maybe he could be with you in the rest of them. But how many days would it take until you couldn’t remember the sound of his laugh, the smile on his lips, the way his face looked — because he always feared the same about outliving you. He would only want to outlive you, if only because he didn’t want you to have to bear the pain of outliving him. 

Love was twisted, he thought — as your lips brushed his, he could hear you whisper sweet nothings, falling on deaf ears, but heard all the same — once one found it, they cannot live without it — until they have to. 

His eyes flutter open, and he sees the blurry image of your face, scarlet smeared on your face, as his hand shakily lifted to your cheek, “I love you, sweetheart,” he manages barely a whisper, “I’ll see you again, I promise.”

Maybe he did curse you in the end — because your souls were bound together in existence — to fall into each other’s orbit and live together happily in every lifetime—

Your fingers gently shut his eyes closed, as tears streamed from your own — except in this one. 

“Is it really a curse to meet you again?” you had murmured that early morning, as dawn peaked over Tokyo, and his lips brushed against yours, “sounds like a blessing,” 

“You know that blessings often wear disguises — and words like that always carry a price—” but his lips curl, “but if the price is to meet you and fall in love again and again, I suppose I could pay it.” 

“‘Suppose?’” you repeat, and he laughs at your immediate pout. 

He kisses away your pout, as you slowly melt into his kiss, “Y’know I’d pay any price to fall in love with you again, sweetheart”

You smile, “Just stay with me in this one, that would be enough.” 

Did other lives matter when this was the only one he had fallen for you in this life? He wanted to stay with you here — in this moment, in this time — he wanted you in every life — not just all the others. 

And he vowed that he would— his fingers twitched— 

He would love you in this life too. 

✧ a/n: i hope you guys enjoy this one!! i had a lot of fun writing it. it might not be everyone's cup of tea but hey, i enjoyed it. although i questioned my writing ability a lot while writing it lmao

✧ taglist: @gojolova4eva, @xxemmarldxx, @gojolvrr34, @lilbrubby, @jaixxxsc, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @elaemae, @gojonegs, @captain-shittykawa, @sillyrabbitreads, @akumicchi, @satorustorm, @equikaz, @imaginativeghorl, , @dhoranbolt, @strawmariee, @catsgomurp, @that-goth-bisexual, @fushitoru, @dazailover1900

[jezebelblues]

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐔 ‘𝟗𝟐 | 𝐇.𝐒 ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐮, ‘𝟗𝟐. (a summer love he’ll never get back).

𝐂𝐖: allusions to smut+18 (piv), sadrry :( exrry, angst, unedited, fem!reader, time jumps between 1992-2012

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 4.5k

❏ i need to take a break from angst fr i’ve been putting toooooo much of it out lately. this fun was to write tho. love doing lyric based things. anyway! thanks for reading :*

masterlist

sometimes the heat made every breath stale. you’d inhale, and the air would hit the back of your throat in a dry, sun-scorched blow—hot and sharp as a blade through your nose. it’d coat your tongue in something arid enough that the words couldn’t bear the weight of themselves anymore. they were caught there, chafing against the tip of your tongue, dragging to a sputtering death before they even touched your lips.

but the air was saccharine, cotton candy floating from pink clouds and lingering in the breeze. every now and then, the waves would lap gently enough that it sounded like a lullaby—the sand just warm silk between toes, soft enough to fool you into thinking the world could be kind.

harry didn’t know YN, not at all. not before that summer.

the summer she fled from the midwest like it might collapse behind her, leaving only dust and cornfields and parents who thought love was autocratic.

the same summer harry visited the states for the first time, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, still trying to find himself in a world that felt too vast.

a summer, that’s it—fleeting, but heavy enough to settle against your sternum until your chest caved in. like the season tried to resuscitate that feeling over and over again until ribs would splinter under the pressure.

now it just left a hollow.

the airport was no less stale than the air outside—now just bathed in white fluorescents, cold and sterile like a morgue, buzzing flies and all.

he kissed her anyway, and she swore it wasn’t goodbye, but harry knew better. he could taste the finality on her lips—something unresolved laced with something copper, sanguine, tragic. maybe she bit her tongue to keep things together, or maybe she bit it back to prevent the three words they should’ve said to each other but didn’t.

he still remembers the tang of it; still wonders if she bled for him that day.

she didn't have the money to stick around, not for long, anyway. her whole life packed into a bag, she tore through the season like a comet. motel rooms when they could scrape together the cash, but mostly they lived out of harry's borrowed car.

a piece of shit, really. the kind of car that rattled when it hit fifty and burned your thighs on the vinyl seats. but to her, it was perfect. she loved it most at night. they’d park somewhere desolate on the shore, right in the sand—the waves crashing in whispers, the windows fogging up just enough to bare evidence to the way she’d ride him in the backseat, claiming the length between his thighs as her own.

he didn’t have as much tattoos then as he had now, but his favorites weren’t inked—they were the ones she left herself—bruises kissed into his neck, dark as midnight, tender as promises.

and the motel 6 that was on the corner of palm canyon and serra bore the imprint of their young, naive vows—right in the pavement.

the sky was painted lavender and steel blue that night, bathing them indigo underneath the cool, flickering light of the motel sign.

harry remembers her laugh—airy and light, like it came easier than breathing. she pulled him under yellow caution tape toward the fresh concrete.

“isn’t this bad for our skin?” harry muttered, glancing over his shoulders warily as the two of them kneeled down. “‘nd what if we’re caught?”

she laughed, the sky and the sign and the silver glow of the rising moon coloring her in like art. “don’t be a wimp, h.”her smile broke him, it really did. her shoulder brushed his as she pressed her hand flat into the wet cement.

the concrete was cold to the touch, thick and dense like dead flesh as she held her hand flush against it.

he followed, YN’s kiss on his shoulder pushing him forward. his handprint was so much larger than hers, like they weren't even made for the same world.

he had tried to wipe his soiled palm against the dew of the grass as YN wrote their initials underneath the imprints of their hands with her index finger, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide.

“there.” she murmured, leaning her cheek against harry bicep. “now it’s forever.”

he believed her then. he believed it in the way you believe the sun will rise, like the natural rhythm of breath—like it was written in stone.

but now at the age of thirty-nine, he knew better—knew how cement dried, how it cracked, how time eroded things. perhaps he should’ve known it was a bad omen the way it was solidified in cold petrichor, left to dry and harden just as they did.

as the years wore on, harry would come back once every blue moon, if he had the expense for it. the quiet part of the beach where they'd park his car wasn't so quiet anymore. it basked in fairy lights and neon glow, in the bustle of seaside shops; the sand stamped with footsteps of tourists that came and went.

sometimes, when he got drunk enough, he'd try to walk the path back to where they stayed. but the tire tracks in the sand were long gone, and the waves crashed farther up the shoreline than they did twenty years ago.

he could remember the way she'd slip out of the car, the door creaking faintly as it swung open, and how the dim light from the moon framed her face. her hair was a mess of salt and wind, strands clinging to the curve of her jaw and the hollow of her throat, and his sweater hung off her like it was never meant to belong to anyone else. it was too big, swallowing her, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. his name clung to her, silently.

she turned back to him, holding the door open, bending at the waist slightly as she leaned in. she tipped her head, her eyes catching the light just enough to glitter as she threw him a look—all flushed cheeks and teasing lips. “c'mon, lover." her voice was a breath. an invitation, an inevitability.

and harry didn’t hesitate. he never did, not with her.

he slid across the cracked leather seats in the back, his shoulder brushing against her arm as he dipped out, the soft brush of fabric on skin setting something electric humming in his veins. he slammed the door behind him, the sound loud against the hush of the waves.

he remembers the way the way her giggles bubbled, how the backs of her thighs felt pliant in his hands as he lifted her like she weighed nothing—like the earth itself would let him defy gravity for her—setting her atop the hood dusted with grains of sand blown awry from the wind, clinging right to her skin.

her fingers were in his hair before he even kissed her, tugging gently, threading through the curls like she was mapping him out. when his lips found hers, she tasted like summer—like sun-warmed strawberries and sugar and something he couldn't name but would chase for years. he nipped at her bottom lip, teeth pulling it back enough to meet her gaze—just to find her looking at him like he was the only thing real in the universe, like he’d been carved from air and fire and the aching edges some long-forgotten dream.

she’d wrap her legs around his waist, his chest bare and his shorts still damp from the ocean during sunset.

her fingers tightened, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp as she tipped his head back to reveal the curve of his neck, the column of his throat.

and she had pressed her lips there, a searing kiss where his throat dipped, where his pulse beat unsteady beneath his skin. her lips were softer than they should've been, her teeth sharper than he expected as she left the marks he loved so much.

he remembered the way his laughter cracked as her teeth grazed the curve of his shoulder, his hands tracing up her thighs, his dimples cutting deep. “people are gonna think m’yours if you keep leaving ‘em.” he smirked, tilting his head back down as she ran her hands down his chest, glancing up at him.

“aren’t you?”

“am i?”

she nodded, tracing the lines of the butterfly on his tummy, the wings fluttering with every breath. “until you aren’t.”

her words had knocked a breath from his chest. they weren't cruel—she wasn't cruel—but there was something devastating in the simplicity of them, the way they slipped so easily from her mouth. like she'd already made peace with whatever came next.

he narrowed his eyes down at her, watching her intently as her gaze remained distant, fingers gliding along edges and lines of his muscles he didn’t know existed until she found them.

the three words sat right on his tongue that night—sour, heavy, unspoken.

after a beat, she stilled her tracings, looking back up at him with her eyes so full of something he couldn’t quite name yet. she had pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him gently, only knocking him off balance enough to rock on his heels while she let out a breathy chuckle. “you’re overthinking it.”

he parted his lips to speak, but YN was already sliding off the hood of the car, brushing past him with a faint pat to his bum, her smile almost too small to catch.

she had lifted his sweater over her head, revealing her bare chest, her nipples tightening in the breeze, arms stretching upwards before she let it fall into the sand.

next was the bikini bottoms she had been wearing since their swim, sliding down her thighs so easily he wished he had done it himself.

she walked in reverse, shooting him a teasing look before she spun on her heel, jogging toward the water that reflected the moon and stars above, twinkling in the blue.

“move it, styles!” she shouted, dipping her head beneath the surface, her hair slicking back once she rose again. “we’ve got another thing to cross off the bucket-list!”

and again, harry hadn’t hesitated.

the motel 6 wasn’t there anymore either. it was demolished in 2007. serra retreat, it was called—an overly expensive peaceful reprieve for the rich, flanked by huge mansions that sat perched in the rolling hills, overlooking the water.

but harry and YN still existed there, only there, right in the worn, cracked pavement.

and in a way, the corner of palm canyon and serra road would always be theirs—a testament, a vow, a grave.

the weeks after she left he went back home to cheshire, a shell of the young man he was before he left. he came back a heartbroken, blubbering mess that cried for his mom.

he remembers it vividly, because then, it was the first time he sobbed into his mother’s shoulder for comfort since childhood.

and anne would try to remedy his pain, she really would. she’d wipe his tears and make him tea, listen to the stories he’d whisper if he felt up to it—memories spilling out of him in fits and starts, mumbled right into his bent knees.

for a while, he’d save up money from the small checks he’d earn at the bakery to buy calling cards. at first, he’d get at least four a month—one international call each week. she answered occasionally, maybe once or twice.

but he did it again, and again and again—whether it was her that answered or the sound of her pretty voice layered over static in the background.

hey, it’s YN! reached the right person at the wrong time—you know what to do after the beep. later!

and as the time stretched enough to let silence sit between the spaces, he’d walk over to the community library with an obstinacy soaked in hope—saturated so heavily that it would weigh down on him like the threat of an executioners blade.

he didn’t go there to study, or to read, or to pray in the small chapel nestled into the basement of the building, the exact room his grandmom had told him about after seeing only tired, distant eyes since he had come home.

“he’ll listen, sweetheart. he’ll take your sadness bit by bit and offer you solace in place of it.” she promised, (although she didn’t really have the authority to) her voice weathered with age, concern woven between each syllable.

but harry would press his lips into a tight line as he nodded politely, tuning her out after that.

he’d wear the (something he felt was no longer his) silver cross pendant against his chest every day as if it was attached to him. but, at that point, he wondered if it was just a force of habit rather than a symbol of faith.

because the less she answered, the more hopeless he felt—and the silence began to wrap around him like a noose waiting for the ground to give out.

instead, he’d go straight for the row of clunky white computers that whirred so loudly it ought of been told to hush by the librarian. his leg would bounce while it would dial up, his hands clammy as he typed in search of what he came there for—what’s the time difference between cheshire and ohio?

he had taken out his little notepad that was tucked into his back pocket, writing the answer down in the spotty blue ink just so he could do the mental math for every time he called.

and, eventually, (even after he took the time to consider time differences) it dwindled down to only buying one calling card for the month—because her answers were just becoming more and more scarce.

for a while, he’d call on the third of each month like clockwork (it was her favorite number—three). so much so, that during that summer, after one too many cheap beers they bribed the clerk to let them buy, him and YN got matching tattoos. she had gotten a small three on her left wrist, right along the curve of the bone; while harry got a small little shamrock in the very same spot—her number, his luck.

“in concrete and skin.” she smiled, the two of them walking out of the small parlor, leaning into his chest as she laughed.

“careful,” he smirked, nudging his hip against hers as they continued down the jagged sidewalk. “sounds like you’re making a vow there, angel.”

“isn’t it?”

he’d sit down atop the kitchen counter, his feet dangling as he pressed the landline to his ear. it would ring, the trilling brrrttt a taunt that sounded awfully similar to the whispers that’d pick and pry at his brain—you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame.

that’s what he thought, at least. maybe if he had just said i love you at the airport they wouldn’t be separated by an ocean, both the atlantic and a sea of regret.

the sound of her voicemail only answered again.

nearly twenty years later in july, (three weeks ago) he found himself in malibu again. it was like an attachment he couldn’t let go of, an addiction that wouldn’t set him free.

he held onto this unrealistic idea that he’d see her again—kneeling into their handprints, retracing old memories marked into the ground, as if it’d bring them to life again—just as he was.

harry knew it was delusional.

he visited the pavement every time he came, grass and weeds starting to sprout through the cracks in their initials—but it was still there.

he’d visit it like one visits a headstone, mourning what once was.

when he was back in london, in his own house now, he did something stupid. he did something impulsive, he did something he wish he had never done in the first place—he’d call her again.

it had been over ten years since he gave up calling YN. what the hell was he expecting? for her to pick up? for the number to even still be hers? he didn't know why he was doing it. maybe it was the date he'd just come back from—nice enough, but nice was the kind of word people used when there was nothing else to say.

she wasn't her, and it was starting to feel as if nothing would ever compare to the way he felt at nineteen.

he cracked open another beer, the neck of the bottle slick in his palm. he held it too tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared at his phone. his heart slammed hard enough in his chest to make him dizzy as he dialed the number ingrained in his memory.

this was stupid—pathetic, mostly. and deep down, he hated himself for it. twenty years of heartbreak over a fucking summer, over a girl he had known for basically only four months.

he took another sip.

but it’s ringing, the trill looping and looping—meaning the number was still connected. it wasn’t empty, he wasn’t calling into the void. so, despite himself, he didn’t hang up.

he’d be calling a stranger either way he cut it: either someone he had never known answering, or the older version of a girl he had fell in love with two decades ago. stupid. pathetic. pathetic—

“hello?”

his beer slipped, the bottle thunking hard against the counter. he barely caught it in time, his grip unsteady as the voice on the other end sent a jolt through him.

his lips parted as his jaw went slack, the words caught somewhere at the top of his throat. his hand shook, his thoughts racing. she didn’t sound all that different, older, yeah, but still her.

she said it again, a little sharper this time, like she might hang up if he didn't respond. "..hellooo?"

his stomach churned and his breath wavered as he forced her name out, “Y–YN?”

there was a pause on the other line, faint shifting and rustling in the background like she was leaning into the phone. “yes, who is this?”

he could barely get his own name out. “harry.”

silence.

it stretched thin and tight, his pulse pounding in his ears. he swore he heard her suck in a breath, heard her lips part.

there was a breathy stutter, as if she was fighting the words she didn’t quite know how to articulate. “how–how are you?”

and all he could do was stand there, clutching a half-empty beer and shaking like a kid, because for the first time in twenty years, he heard her voice and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

but, he exhaled a laugh, though it came out more like a nervous puff of air, and scrubbed his hand over his face. god, how would you even begin to answer that after twenty years? "uh, i'm–m’good. yeah, good." he lied.

the bottle in his hand felt suddenly too heavy, so he set it down, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter instead. "and you? how've y’been?"

"i'm... alright," she said, though there was a hesitation, a weight to the word that made him suspect otherwise. her voice had softened in that way people's voices do when they're not quite sure how much to say.

the line hummed with static as he searched for something—anything—to say that wouldn't sound absurd. twenty years had passed. two decades. and all he had was how've you been? pathetic.

"you still in ohio?" he asked finally, hating how desperate he sounded to know something, anything about her life now.

"no." she replied quietly, and he could almost hear the faint shake of her head in her tone. "no, i moved. i'm in jersey now.”

the word hit him like a quiet ache. not malibu. not where it all began, not even back home in ohio, the whole reason she left in the first place. "right." he murmured, running his thumb over the edge of his counter. "makes sense. sounds...jerseys nice."

a faint laugh filtered through the line, and he almost forgot how much he'd missed the sound of it. "yeah, it is. what about you? uk still?"

"yeah, london now. still-still england." he struggled, tripping over his own tongue like a schoolboy.

"good." she sighed softly, but it hung there like an echo, as though she didn't quite know what else to add.

silence stretched out between them, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with all the words they weren't saying.

finally, she broke it, her voice lighter, almost cautious. "harry... why'd you call?"

his heart thudded, the question slamming into him with the weight of every regret he'd carried since the day she left. why did he call? he didn't have an answer that didn't sound like an excuse or a confession. "i... i dunno." he mumbled honestly, and his voice cracked just enough to betray him. "i just... i wanted t’hear your voice, i guess."

another pause. he could hear her breathing on the other end, steady but shallow, like she was processing something she didn't know how to hold.

"it's been such a long time.” her words were as much a statement as they were a question.

"mm-hmm.” he hummed quietly. "too long."

and there it was again—that silence, louder now, the weight of two decades pressing against them. his grip on the phone tightened.

"you didn't have to wait this long, you know—to call, i mean." she murmured, almost like an afterthought.

his stomach twisted, guilt tinged with frustration unfurling like a vine through his chest. "you stopped answering.”

her breath hitched faintly, and for a moment he thought she might hang up. but instead, her voice returned, quieter, more guarded. "yeah. i–i guess i did."

he swallowed thickly, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something too fragile to hold. "do you regret it?"

she didn't answer right away, and when she finally did, her voice was heavy with something he couldn't quite place. "do you?"

his throat tightened. he could lie—should lie—but he couldn't bring himself to. "every day."

another breath of silence, and then, "me too."

for a moment, harry could feel the years peeling away, leaving them bare again, like they'd been when they were young. when it was simple. when it was summer.

but it wasn't. it wasn’t 1992. they weren’t teenagers anymore, and they definitely weren’t in california.

"it's funny," she breathed after a while, her voice a bit steadier now, though there was something in it— some hint of resignation—that made his chest tighten. "i hadn't thought about malibu in... i don't even know how long. and then you call, and it's like i'm eighteen again."

he closed his eyes. eighteen. nineteen. it cut deep. "i've never stopped thinking about it, YN." he admitted delicately, his voice low, rough. "about you."

her breath caught, barely audible, but he heard it.

"harry." she sighed, a warning in the way she said his name, like she was afraid of where this might go.

"do you remember?" he pressed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "the beach? our bucket-list? our promises? us? how we said—how we said we'd never forget it?"

she was quiet for a long time, long enough that he thought maybe he'd gone too far. "of course i remember. how could i forget?”

and for a second, it felt like he could breathe again. like the two decades of distance between them weren't so insurmountable after all.

but then her tone shifted, growing firmer, almost bittersweet. "harry, we can't go back. you know that, right?"

his chest ached. "why not?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked.

"because it's been twenty years.” she lamented, and there was something final in the way she said it, like she'd been rehearsing this conversation in her head for years. "because we're not the same people we were back then."

"so what?" he rushed, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. "so what if it's been twenty years? so what if we've changed? does that mean it didn't matter? that it wasn't real?"

"it was real, harry.”she countered, and he could hear the emotion building in her voice now, raw and unsteady. "it was the realest thing i've ever had. but that doesn't mean we can just pick up where we left off."

"why not?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "why can't we try?" he felt pathetic.

"because," YN insisted, then there was a pause, and he could hear her struggling to find the words. "because i'm not yours anymore, harry. i haven't been for a long time."

his heart dropped, the weight of her words crashing into him like a tidal wave—no, worse than that. "what do you mean?"

there was a long, shaky exhale on the other end of the line. "i'm married.”

he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“i have a husband. a life. a... a house here in jersey."

he froze, his hand tightening around the phone. "a husband.” he repeated numbly, the word foreign and strange on his tongue. "you're... you're married?"

"yes.” she frowned, and he could hear the apology in her voice, even though she hadn't said the words. "i didn't think you’d ever find out—or need to.”

his head spun, lips threatening to tremble. "does he make you happy?" he asked after a moment, his voice shaky and quiet, almost a whisper.

there was a pause, “yes.” and it sounded like the truth, but it also sounded like something she was still trying to convince herself of.

he nodded to himself, even though she couldn't see it. "good..” he trailed off, his voice hoarse. "that's—um. that’s good."

"harry..." she started, but he cut her off.

"no, s’okay.” he croaked, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "i mean, of course. what did i expect, right? twenty years is a long time."

"it is…" she said quietly, and he could hear the pain in her voice, like she hated this as much as he did.

"you've got everything now, huh?" his voice trembled, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "money, a nice house. someone who probably doesn't spend two decades thinking about a summer that's long gone."

"harry, that's not—“ she paused, clenching her jaw. “that’s not fair.” her voice was a bit sharper now, but he just shook his head, his eyes glassing over.

"no, you're right," he said flatly, "s’not fair. none of this is fair."

silence fell again, heavy and suffocating, and he closed his eyes, letting the weight of it all settle over him.

he thought he heard a sniffle on the other line before it crackled. "i…should go, harry. m’sorry, i can’t.”

"yeah," his tone was short, his throat tight. "yeah, you should."

"take care of yourself, harry.” YN murmured, and then the line went dead.

he stood there for a long time, the silence of his empty house pressing in around him. twenty years, and all he had left was the ghost of a memory, the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in two decades, a stupid fucking vow sealed into the earth half way across the world like a taunt.

in twenty years she had forgotten malibu—but harry hasn’t left since.

[sunnie-angel]

Words Left Unsaid

jason todd x f!reader

ao3 link

summary: jason todd is your childhood best friend. he dies before his Words come in, the first words his soulmate will say to him, and you have to pick up the pieces.

tags: soulmate au, major character death (temporary), grief

rated mature | wc: 8.8k

a/n: so this monster of a story was based on an ask i sent to @jasonsmirrorball a while back (don’t read for spoilers). it pretty much took on a life of its own, and now here we are nearly 9k later. it does get pretty dark in its exploration of grief, so please take care of yourselves my lovelies.

Everyone’s born with Words somewhere on their body, unreadable at first. The skin is shiny, like an old scar, the words blurry and undefined. One day, you’ll see the first words you’ll ever hear your soulmate say to you, that shiny patch of skin blooming like ink (there’s superstitions about the colour your Words fade into, as popular as astrology). The trick of the thing is, you won’t find out what your Words are until you’ve become the person who is meant to hear them. You could meet your soulmate a hundred times and not know it, not until you’ve both grown into the people you need to be. The youngest person to get their Words was seven, and the oldest 92 years young. Or so the stories go. When you’re young, still poking at your loose front tooth with your tongue, it’s a story that comforts you. It’s the story you beg your parents for before bed every night. It’s the carrot they use to get you to try new things and go new places. What if you meet your soulmate at the new movie theatre downtown? How do you know eating your veggies won’t develop you into who your soulmate needs you to be?

It’s what your mother uses to try and coax you out of the car for your first day at a new school. She’s driven you to school for your first day, a one off so she can finish up your admittance paperwork. In this moment you hate her for it. It’s February and the year is more than halfway over. The snow has melted into dirty grey slush in the streets and the pinching Mary Janes the school mandates as part of the uniform are going to provide no protection. It’s halfway through the year and you’re certain no one is going to be your friend at a new school in a new city. You’re twelve years old and to you this is the end of the world. You’re trying so hard not to cry, hugging yourself together and burying your chin in your chest.

“Come on, honey, this is a school. It’ll help you become who you need to be.”

Your mother’s voice is cajoling, trying to coax you out the same way she coaxed a stray cat into her arms. It worked on the cat, now named Haley after the comet, but it doesn’t work on you. She tries to catch your eye in the rear view mirror but you stubbornly turn your head to look out the window instead.

“Please. Work with me here. We’ll go in together, you’ll have a wonderful day and make so many friends. And after school, I’ll take you out for donuts and you can tell me all about it before your Dad gets home.”

You keep silent, continue to stare out the window at all the other kids walking into the building.

“Honey, please. Can you just do this one thing for me, please.”

She’s almost begging now, and you hate the way it makes her sound. You want to tell her how scared you are, how there’s nothing more you want to do except huddle under your covers in your unfamiliar bed and hold Haley close. But your fear is a hot ball in your chest, choking off any words that might come out. You look at her though, plead with her with your eyes to understand how much you don’t want to do this. She stares back at you, an exhausted slump to her shoulders and lines around her eyes you don’t remember being there. Slowly, you unwrap your arms from around your rib cage. Place a hand on each knobbly knee and slowly curl them into fists before nodding, once, sharply, eyes firmly fixed on the car seat in front of you. Your eyes burn, but the sigh of relief your mother heaves out is worth it.

Gotham Academy is housed in a collection of gothic stone buildings which should have been strange in a large city like Gotham but weirdly works. You just think it’s creepy. Head down, you follow your mother’s back weaving through the crowds of students. You don’t want to see the stares, but you can already feel them boring into you. Sitting in the secretary’s office, you pick at invisible lint on your knitted tights. You know your mother’s having a conversation with the secretary but it all flies over your head in shushing murmurs. Your back aches from the overstuffed chair. The Mary Janes do pinch, makes you worried that you’ve already twisted your ankles from the way they throb.

“I’ve got to get to work now sweet pea, but I just now you’re going to have a great first day. I’ll pick you up at 4:00 and we can go get those donuts okay?”

Your mother’s crouched down in front of you, eyes searching your face for any kind of reaction. She looks worried and that’s what causes you to crack. You fling yourself out of the chair and into her arms, allow yourself one great heaving sob into her shoulder. She strokes your hair and hushes you, squeezes you tight like she could make you part of her.

“Oh honey. Everything’s scary right now but I promise it’s not going to stay that way. I believe in you and you’re going to get through this.”

You draw back from her, scrub at your face with your fists. Heaving breaths don’t help but they don’t make it worse. You go with the secretary, new schedule twisted tight in your hands. She lets you discard your coat and backpack in a locker, before walking you to your new homeroom. You only hope that you’ll remember the locker combination.

You hate the way your new homeroom teacher makes you stand at the front of the room. Mr. Mulligan won’t let you sit down until you introduce yourself to the class, a thing he could have done so easily himself. Pulling at your sleeves and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, you stutter out a few basic facts. Hate the way you can feel the other students catalogue you, the way your hair doesn’t look shiny and straight like its fresh out of a salon, your too small shoes, the unfashionably long length of your skirt and the lack of designer accessories. Your cheeks and eyes are burning by the time you can slide down into your assigned seat near the back of the class. There’s only one other person sitting in your row, a boy with dark curling hair and a shy grin. He leans over to your desk just Mr. Mulligan starts the lecture.

Whispers, “Hi! My name’s Jason. I already know your name, figured if we’re going to be seat mates its only fair you know mine.”

You smile tightly and turn back to the lesson. You’re desperate not to miss anything, already feeling like you’ve been left behind. At your old school, you were in the middle of The Great Gatsby, but Gotham Academy is doing Romeo and Juliet for their seventh grade English class. You don’t have the play book, have no idea what part of the text they’re talking about, and this is the first time you’ve actually heard Shakespeare read out loud. Writing as fast you can, you try to keep up but it doesn’t matter how good your notes are if you don’t understand what the teacher’s talking about.

Usually you love English class, how uncovering symbolism and hidden meanings make you feel like you’re uncovering secret messages sent by the authors years in the past. Now it’s all going over your head and you hate it here so much already. The one class that you might have been looking forward to and you’re overwhelmed by it. You press too hard with your pencil, tear through the sheet of paper in front of you.

A notebook slides across your desk. Messy but legible writing on the first few scenes of the Act are written on it. Looking in the direction it came from, you make eye contact with Jason. He grins toothily before turning back to the front, Mr. Mulligan having moved on to a different quotation. The gesture makes your chest tight.

The rest of the class goes by uneventfully if still a challenge. There’s a short break between classes in which you frantically copy down the notes and slide the notebook back to him before your next teacher arrives. The next class isn’t so bad, still difficult and you’ve never liked math as much as you probably should, but it’s less intimidating than English. Someone must have fiddled with the thermostat during the break because the room feels colder than before. You wish you were on your old school’s schedule with shorter classes and more breaks. Sitting still for so long at your desk is making your back ache and cramp up. Math is almost over, Miss Lewis writing out the assigned homework on the board, when a wave of something comes over you. It’s an effort of will not to curl up on your desk.

The bell rings for lunch break and you just about bolt to the first bathroom you can find. Something’s wrong with you, more than just nerves over the first day. You’re cold but you’re sweating, nausea burning at the back of your throat. The ache in your back and stomach are almost unbearable, makes you want to curl into the fetal position to ward off invisible blows. Rolling down your tights in a hurry, you sit down on the cold toilet as fast as you can. Your hand is wet, and for a moment you worry that you’d lost control of your bladder on the way to the bathroom. But the stain on your hand is dark, matches the blood slick crotch of your panties. You hang your head and can feel the tears you’ve been holding onto all morning drop onto the floor. Just another thing you can’t control in this shitty new town and its stupid new school. Your first period.

The bathroom is cold, hard tile under your feet and wintery sunlight weak through the windows near the ceiling. The blood on your fingers is cold and tacky now. There’s a boundary here, between childhood and being an adult that you aren’t ready to cross yet. I want my mom, you think, only on the edge of hysteria. But she’s at work, wouldn’t be able to come if you called.

So you do what needs to be done, stop your tears as best as you can and sniffle. Wipe your face clean with the back of your sleeve and do your best to dab at your underwear with the single ply toilet paper. Layer sheets of toilet paper between your tights and underwear, build a makeshift pad in your sort-of dry underwear out of toilet paper and hope that it will hold up. Luckily you’ve escaped staining the regulation uniform skirt, so no one should be able to tell what happened. You get transfixed by the swirls of blood washing down the sink drain, hands gone numb under the stream of water. Splash cold water on your face in the vain hope it’ll calm down your puffy eyes. As ready as you can be in this situation, you eye yourself in the mirror and tell yourself to get moving before the bell for third period rings.

The boy from the back row is waiting outside the classroom for you. He looks nervous until he sees you, lights up with that shy smile again.

“Hi! I uh noticed you weren’t at lunch today so I grabbed you an apple in case you didn’t grab anything to eat.”

He’s babbling on about the cafeteria food not being that bad if you’d just try it, even though finding a table the first time can be rough. All you can do is stare at the apple in his hands, transfixed. You’re only shaken out of your stupor by the sound of him calling your name.

“So… are you going to take it? The bell’s going to ring soon and the teachers really don’t like us eating during class.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely shocked and touched.

He goes a little bashful at that, looks away as you take the apple from him. The apple’s good, sweet and crisp under your teeth. You make quick work of it in the hallway, finishing it up just as the bell rings. Jason stands right in front of you the whole time, hides you from the penetrating eyes of your classmates.

“All done? We should probably find our seats now. Monty,” and here he adopts a snooty British accent, “Archibald the Third is a real stickler for being on time. He’ll mark you late if you’re not sitting in your seat, even if you’re in the classroom.”

His impression makes you snicker and forget, just for a moment, how miserable you are. Mr. Archibald the Third is just as ridiculous as Jason’s impression of him predicted, but you get through it by making eye contact with Jason over the most ridiculous moments. Mr. Archibald really does have you call him “the Third”. It’s probably got something to do with his Words, a flowing script running vertically down the side of his face reading, “The Third, dear God how many of you are there?”. History with Mr. Archibald manages to be fun despite his absurd demeanor and your own private hurt seeming less terrible for a few scattered moments.

The final class of the day drags on, the pain in your front and back growing. Your hand moves across the page but your mind isn’t really paying attention. There’s a commotion as people gather their things and stand, already streaming out the door. You blink, stupefied, then slowly gather your things.

“Same time, same place tomorrow then?”

“—Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow Jason.”

Your mother’s waiting for you in front of the school, car idling puffs of smoke into the darkening afternoon. Your backpack lands in the back seat and you crush your face into her coat across the console. Her hands come to your back, patting and rubbing circles until your breath comes in long, even draws.

“Honey I’m so proud of you. Your first day done! Let’s go celebrate, hmm? How was it? Did you make any new friends?”

“Can we get the donuts to go? I— uh, um I— I might have started my period today?”

Your voice lifts on the end of the sentence, suddenly absurdly worried about her reaction. You needn’t have worried though.

“Oh sweet pea, on your first day too? We can go home, get you a bath and something for your cramps.”

“No, I just really want to go get donuts with you because today kind of sucked and I’ll still feel kinda shitty but at least then I get donuts while I feel bad.”

“No more swearing and we’ll get a whole box to go, okay?”

Lying in bed that night, wrapped around a hot water bottle with Haley on your feet, you think that your day wasn’t that bad. It could have been a lot worse, and Jason was surprisingly nice. You stare at the shiny patch of skin on your wrist and hope that one day it will all be worth it. You drift off to the thought of blue eyes.

For the rest of that week you join Jason at his corner in the cafeteria. Between Math and History you slowly start to get to know one another. He offers to let you borrow his notes for the upcoming test in English, gets a little sheepish when he mentions that he practically knows the content by heart anyway. Jason’s sweet and funny and by Friday you two are the best of friends.

Once your mother is confident that you can handle the commute to school on your own, she doesn’t mind if you’re home late as long as you send a text first. Something about socializing with more kids your age being good for you, not that you’re listening too distracted in the haze of victory. So the two of you hang out after school, the city your shared playground. Jason treats you to your first chili dog and laughs when you get some on your nose. In revenge, you dare him to cover his lunch in chili oil at lunch the next day. The way Mr. Archibald threatens you both with detention for being disruptive is so worth it.

It’s not until the middle of April that you get the courage to ask Jason why you. Why out of everyone in the school he chose to reach out to the new kid and make her his friend. It’s probably the most personal thing you’ve asked him yet.

“It’s ‘cause no one else would’ve. Most of the kids here, their families founded Gotham and they’re not keen on outsiders. Most of the scholarship kids, they start at the same time, form a group so the rich kids don’t pick on them so much.” He pauses here, has to look away before he goes on. “Most of the others don’t like me ‘cause I don’t really fit into either category, you know? Like my dad’s a big name in Gotham but he only just adopted me so I’m not really one the rich kids but he’s doing more than just paying my school fees. You looked just as lonely as I was,” here he turns to grin, “and I wasn’t going to give up an opportunity to make someone carry my lunch tray.”

“Hey, idiot, if I remember right it was you bringing me lunch the first time.” You shove at him indignantly, but he dodges too quickly for you.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t remember, on account of me being an idiot.” He flicks you on the tip of the nose and goes running.

And then it’s on. You chase him around the park, laughing and swearing to get your revenge on him. The two of you collapse breathlessly onto a mostly dry patch of dirt under a skeletal tree. Staring up at the sky and trying to catch your breath, you feel Jason nudge at your should beside you.

“So what about you? What brought you to the happiest place on earth?”

“My dad got headhunted for a promotion. He’s researching something for Wayne Industries and all of us had to move here for it. So mom gets a new job and I get transferred to a new school.” You sit up suddenly, look down at Jason lying in the grass. “Promise not to tell anyone?” You wait for him to nod first before continuing. “I only got into Gotham Academy because of my dad. I heard him and my mom arguing about it; he made it part of his contract that I’d get to go to school there if he accepted the job.”

“So? I’m only at GA because of my dad too. You think a kid from Crime Alley gets to go to private school without a little nepotism?”

You slump back down on to the grass, stretch a hand out to the sky and look up at it.

“To nepotism I guess.”

A hand reaches up to the sky next to yours. Slowly, ever so slowly he reaches a pinky out and links it with yours.

“To two misfits only here because of nepotism.”

School lets out in June, the city air ridiculously hot and humid. You can’t say that you’ve made any good friends outside of Jason, but there’s some girls you say hello to in the halls. You mourn not being able to see Jason everyday, but the plans you have to meet up are enough to soothe the ache.

He takes you to an arcade first, the two of you spending hours trying to beat each other at Pac Man. Tired but happy you split a basket of fries at the attached cafeteria. You’re enjoying the greasy fried goodness of the snack but you notice Jason isn’t reaching for the basket as quickly as you are. Looking over at him, you notice him staring at a pair of brothers playing a game. The younger whoops, jumps up and down in excitement. The older one ruffles his brother’s hair and challenges him to a new round. You toss a fry in Jason’s direction, surprised when he actually manages to catch it.

“You good?”

“—Yeah. It’s just, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it? But I kind of have an older brother and he was supposed to take me to the arcade last weekend but he got in a fight with Dad and just left.”

“That’s a real dick move, ditching you over his issues.” At that, Jason breaks out in hysterical laughter, almost choking on the fry in his mouth. There are tears in his eyes by the time he stops coughing but he looks slightly less like a kicked puppy.

“It really, really was. You don’t know how much it was.”

Happy that the mood has lifted, the two of you finish off the basket of fries. You challenge Jason to Dance Dance Revolution and he wipes the floor with you. He’s way more athletic than you’d expected from him. The two of you part ways happy, already planning your next hang out. It is enough.

You meet up almost every week that summer. Jason shows you the Gotham he knows, little hidden gems only locals know about. A movie theatre that only shows movies made before 1980, a diner with the best milkshakes you’ve ever tasted, the best places in the public library to read undisturbed. Teaches you about the safest places to evacuate when disaster hits, which parts of the city are most dangerous. The park and its chili dog stand quickly become a favourite for you, a place to just hang out without any responsibilities. It also becomes a kind of confessional of sorts, where you end up telling each other your worst fears and secret hopes.

You confess once, after riding out your first Rogue attack with your fingers buried in Jason’s T-shirt, that you’re worried you’ll never feel at home again. That you can never go back now to your old house and feel at home there now, but that Gotham still feels too alien to be called home yet. Your darkest fear, that you’ll end up alone one day, deserted by everyone that you know and love. Jason tells you about his fears that one day all of this, Bruce and Alfred, the manor, school, will disappear one day. That the big brother he looks up to will never start to like him. Every time the two of you bare your souls to each other, Jason will hook his pinky over yours and squeeze. It’s a friendship built on shared secrets, on fears assuaged, and worries made better.

Your last year of middle school is largely uneventful. You got to classes, have lunch with Jason, hang out after class with Jason, text Jason. You get into a routine and that brings you comfort. There’s a slight period of awkwardness right before the 8th grade formal. A weird tension envelopes you both, the nebulous question of if you’re going together hanging over you. You don’t like it, the way Jason seems almost hesitant in all your conversations these days. It sets your teeth to itching and you can’t stand it anymore.

Slamming down your textbook, you say “Okay that’s it. I can’t stand whatever this is. You and I are going to the formal as friends. We’ll get all dressed up and if it’s lame we can ditch and go get Batburgers.”

“Oh thank God. I didn’t want to say anything in case it made it awkward but then it was just getting more awkward and then I just didn’t know what to do.”

The party is lame, but the burgers make up for it. Your dress is nice though. Your mother helped you pick it out, the fitted bodice and loose swing of the skirt making you feel passably pretty. It’s been hard to feel pretty with the way your body’s changed over the year, hips widening and chest starting to grow in ways you can’t predict. Jason cleans up nice, though whoever slicked back his hair went overboard on the gel. You pose for a picture all dressed up together, faces pulled into silly expressions, your burgers held in front of you like trophies. You pin a copy of the photo up in your bedroom. It makes you smile every time you see it, something warm in your chest.

The first day of high school brings back those first day jitters. You’re not even transferring schools, just switching to a different building and still your palms are sweating. It’s not until you see Jason, sitting in the back row with an empty seat behind him that you can release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It’s different teachers and different subjects, but in some ways it’s like the day you met again. Scribbling notes until your hands cramp, Jason passing you notes in class, struggling to keep up with what the teachers are saying. At lunch, you and Jason even split an apple between you. It’s terrifying and familiar and all the more bearable because you aren’t going through it alone.

High school is different. Everyone’s more aware of each other in ways they weren’t in middle school. Girls wear brighter lip glosses and flaunt the shiny spaces where their marks will come in. Boys douse themselves in too much body spray and start eyeing up anything that moves. But through out it all, your friendship remains the same. Something about high school solidifies things, has you go from You and Jason to YouandJason. At school you’re a unit, almost impossible to think of you as separate beings. After school, you still spend time together, still explore the city, still message all the time. But you’ve still never been to each other’s houses. Never met each other’s families yet.

Jason offers, once, to have you over to the manor during the winter break, but you’re not keen on it. Crinkle up your nose and ask to think about it.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you over the holiday, or meet your family Jason. It’s just that I kind of like the way things are? My family knows that you’re my best friend, they’ve seen pictures of us, but the way things are now, you’re still entirely mine. Our friendship’s just for us. Meeting your family kind of changes that.”

“I like us being us. But would it really be that different to come hang out for a few hours? You could come over when Dad’s out and it’d just be me and Alfred.”

Eventually you agree, spend an afternoon with Jason at the manor to cram for your next round of tests. Mr. Pennyworth is lovely, keeps bringing snacks up to the library as an excuse to check up on you. Bent over your books, you miss the significant looks Alfred is sending Jason over your head and the blush that lights up his face in response. Mr. Wayne is thankfully not home. You’re not sure you could have handled meeting Jason’s grandfather and father in the same visit.

Jason makes it over to your apartment a few times over the spring semester. Your father’s always working, but your mother likes him well enough. She makes him stay over for dinner, won’t let him leave without feeding him first. She calls him a nice boy and tells him to come back any time. Still, you two prefer going out to coffee shops or the library to hang out, uninterrupted by well-meaning adults.

It’s on one of those summer nights, the two of you some of the last people in the public library, that the subject of your Words comes up. The skin across your left wrist catches the warm light of the lamps in a way that’s distracting. You’re startled by the feeling of fingers tracing featherlight over still-shiny skin.

“You ever wonder it about it sometimes? What it’ll say or who’ll say it?” The tone is unreadable but Jason’s voice is above the whisper he usually uses in the library, but with so few people around you figure there’s no harm in mimicking his volume.

“I used to. I was obsessed with Words when I was little. Couldn’t go to sleep without hearing about them as a bed time story.”

“Used to?” And Jason’s fingers are still there, drawing maddening little patterns across the thin skin of your wrist.

“Well, I’ve got other things to think about now, things that are actually within my control.”

Jason presses down, gently, with the broad of his thumb on your pulse. You snatch back your wrist, cradle it to your chest, uncertain of how intimate that gesture felt.

“Fair’s fair. I showed you mine, now you’ve gotta show me yours.” Your tone is teasing, trying to capture the earlier lightness of the afternoon.

“Oh I do, do I?”

He reaches for the top button on his uniform button down, starts undoing two more. Horrified, you reach across the table and grab at his hands.

“What are you doing?! You can’t just go around stripping in public!” Your hissed whisper may not have been said at all for all the impact it makes. Jason shakes off your hands and goes back to undoing his shirt.

“Not all of us are blessed with easily accessible Words. Relax, I just have to get the shirt wide enough to show how far the Words will go.”

Across his collarbone is a thin strip of shiny skin, reaching from one side of his neck to the other like a necklace. Whatever it will say looks pretty lengthy for someone’s Words. Mesmerized, you reach out to trace it with your fingertips. Jason shifts back before you can make contact.

“Gotta buy me dinner first sweetheart. I’m a classy lady like that.”

You flush at the term of endearment, but cover it with indignation.

“Hey! What do you call the tacos I bought for us yesterday?”

He laughs it off and the tense moment is broken. You pack up your things, smiling at the ground. You like the way sweetheart sounds coming from Jason, not that you’d give him that to tease you with. Despite how much you tell each other, there’s one secret you haven’t told him yet. That privately you hope your Words will be his. It’s so easy to fall in love with Jason, or at least what passes for love at this age. The light in his eyes when he rants about the latest book he’s read, when he shares the biscuits Alfred packs for him, the way he listens to you so intently even if he doesn’t have all the answers. You can admit to yourself that you’re hopelessly in love with your best friend, but never out loud. Your friendship is one of the most important things in your life and you are terrified of destroying it.

You don’t see Jason much after that, that summer. Your texts and calls still get answered, but he’s frustratingly vague about meeting up. He says that his dad has him in a kind of summer school, wants him to learn from private tutors before school starts up in the Fall again. Asking about what it is that he’s supposed to learn (his marks are already incredibly good) makes him cagey about it. You don’t want to push, but it feels like he’s pulling away from you. Phone calls get shorter, sentences more clipped. Your offers to just drop by the manor to see him get turned down automatically. It’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you’ve met. You’re terrified that he’s done with you. That for some unnameable reason he’s decided to end your years of friendship and there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening. Gotham seems colder without Jason at your side, the dangers more obvious and your usual haunts less welcoming.

Finally, after nearly two months you manage to pin him down, get him to agree to meet the day after his birthday. Your heart is in your mouth as you wait for him on a bench in the park. There’s a trickle of sweat running down your back. It’s a hot day but the park is a lush green, an after effect from an Ivy attack the night before. You release your grip on your present for Jason, smooth the envelope and hope you didn’t crease it with your sweaty fingers. A voice is calling your name.

Jason’s been changed by the weeks apart. He’s a few inches taller now, filled out in the shoulders more. You have to crane your neck back to see his face. The anxiety in you is reflected in his face, the way he nervously runs his fingers through his hair, his darting eyes. Uncertain how to proceed, you thrust the envelope out between you.

“Happy Birthday.”

“I— thank you.”

There’s silence again, and the awkwardness between you is a tangible thing. It’s worse than it was in eighth grade only this time you don’t know how to bridge the gap. You look down at your shoes, the toes scuffed.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you.” It comes out of him in a rush. “I’ve been a really shitty friend lately. Just, all summer my dad’s been on me about studying with these private tutors except they’re all friends with Dick so nothing I do can ever be good enough in comparison and every day I’ve felt like crap but I didn’t want you to see me like this which only made me feel worse ‘cause then I basically had to avoid you all the time which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do and all I wanted to do was have you tell me there’s nothing wrong with me and they can all go kick dirt but then I’d have to talk to you about it which I wasn’t ‘cause I was already embarrassed.” He has to pause here to catch his breath, words running together at the speed which he was going.

“You planning to breathe any time soon?”

He deflates, collapses onto the bench next to you, an arm tucked around his right side awkwardly holding the card so it doesn’t get crushed. You sigh, heavily.

“I thought you didn’t want to be friends anymore.” Your confession is barely above a whisper. You can’t even look at him as you say it.

“I didn’t— I wouldn’t. I need you to know that I never, ever don’t want to be your friend okay? I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Promise not to cut me out again and that you won’t take out your own issues on our friendship, and maybe I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“Pinky promise.”

Jason places the card in his lap, goes to link your fingers together, then winces at the movement of his arm. Suddenly sirens are going off in your brain.

“What’s wrong with your side?”

“Nothing, must have just pulled a muscle or something.” He tries to laugh it off nervously, but you can tell when he’s lying. His eyes dart to the left over your head, knee bounces almost imperceptibly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you know he’s not telling you the truth.

“You can’t even go a full minute without cutting me out! Jason, I know something is wrong. Now tell me.”

He hesitates, and you’ve had it with the lies and the avoidance and the being kept in the dark. You fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you start tugging.

“Hey! Wh-what are you doing?”

He tries to squirm away, batting at your hands but you get his shirt up far enough to see the bruise on his ribs in the shape of a boot. It’s purple going a sickly yellow, mottled and stark against the dips of his ribs. You can feel all the blood drain from your face. Jason’s pushed up against the far side of the bench, pulling his shirt down with shaking hands.

“Jason. Jason if someone is hurting you, you need to tell someone. If it's your dad or one of the tutors, we can find someone to tell together.”

“No one— no one’s hurting me, all right? I just didn’t get out of the way fast enough during a Rogue attack. I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. No one’s abusing me, okay?”

“But you’d tell me if they were?”

“I tell you everything important.”

It’s not enough, not nearly for you. From the look in his eyes Jason knows this too, but its all he’s willing to give. There’s a crossroads in your relationship here, a road where you push and push until you get the full story but shatter the tattered strands of your friendship or you accept that you’ll never have all of Jason but maybe your friendship will survive. So you do what needs to be done.

“Okay. If you say that’s what happened then I trust you.”

It’s a low blow, to twist your trust in him like a knife, but it’s your only way to express your frustration with him. You gesture to the envelope, fishing around to change the subject.

“So you going to open that or what?”

And just like that, there’s a new normal. You see Jason everyday in class but he begs off your after school hangouts as often as you two actually spend time together. Conversation is stilted, hidden undercurrents to them of subjects neither one of you wants to address. You’re wary, suspicious of every bump and bruise Jason shows up with. The ease to your friendship has gone, disappeared to the realm of the past.

At the end of October, Jason becomes obsessed with the news. Keeps checking headlines and obituaries, fearful like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. The death of Felipe Garzonas makes the news and the tension in Jason ratchets up. He’s irritable, stops paying attention in classes, blows up when you try to feel out what’s wrong. He’s apologetic every time, promises it won’t happen again until you eventually stop trying to ask questions. Hope that your presence is enough to steady him through whatever it is that is tormenting him.

He asks you once, if you’d believe in his word, no matter what the evidence of something told you otherwise. You tell him you would, always, but that answer doesn’t seem to make a difference.

Winter break comes and goes, without an invitation to visit this time. If anything, Jason comes back more irritable and closed lipped. Mutters something about a fight over Christmas dinner, his brother and Bruce clashing over something. You’re worried about him all the time now. He’s more reckless with himself, won’t look before crossing the road, reacts aggressively to every perceived challenge, throws things when he gets frustrated. He’s changing into someone you don’t recognize in front of your eyes.

April comes and there’s a new light in his eyes. It’s manic and hopeful and the first emotion you’ve seen in him other than fear in months. He won’t tell you what it is, just that there’s something new he’s found out, something about his mother. This time you hope, fingers crossed and a wish on every star that whatever has brought him this hope won’t hurt him.

On Monday, Jason doesn’t come to school. He doesn’t answer your messages or pick up any of your calls. Even when he’s been out sick he at least lets you know. On Tuesday you get called into the office in the middle of first period. You haven’t been back to the secretary’s office since the day you enrolled. The seats are still as overstuffed as you remember. The secretary is the same, a few more grey streaks in her perfectly set hair. Her eyes are red, and she’s got one of those old fashioned handkerchiefs in her hands.

“I’ve got some bad news honey, and I— I think it would be best if you sit down for it.”

“Oh— will this take long? Only I got pulled out of class and we’re reviewing for the exam next week.”

“Oh honey.” She has to pause to dab at her eyes before continuing. “You’re going to be excused from all exams next week, okay? I need you to know that the school will do whatever we can to support you through this.”

Now, now you are scared. “Support me through what? It’s not my mom is it?”

“Honey it’s Jason, Jason Todd. I’m so sorry but he passed away yesterday. I’ve contacted your parents and your mother is on the way to come pick you up.”

Her words don’t make any sense.

“But he can’t be. I saw him on Saturday. There’s been a mistake. He’s not dead.” Your legs don’t work anymore and you hit the couch, hard, sliding off the overstuffed pillows to kneel on the floor. You don’t feel any of it. There’s copper in your mouth, you must have bitten your tongue on the way down but you can’t feel it. There’s movement in your peripheries, and your mother crouches down into your field of vision.

“Mom, mom they made a mistake. She’s— she’s saying that Jason’s dead, but he can’t be. Mom he’s not dead.”

“Sweet pea, I’m so, so sorry. It’s been on the news all morning.”

It rips through you then, grief. Sobs shake your whole body, your mother doing her best to hold you together. There’s a roaring in your ears like you’re caught in a vacuum. You can’t see through the tears. Your body is trembling violently and you can’t care enough to try and stop it. Nothing matters anymore. Jason’s dead.

To get to the car, your mother has to half carry you. There’s no point in moving. You’re not sure how you end up in your bed at home but you do. You don’t sleep but you aren’t really awake either. The tears don’t stop coming. You’re nothing but an open wound, not even really a whole person. The world’s burned down to ash and you’re just floating through it. You know your parents come in to talk to you, can hear the murmur of their voices but you don’t care. There’s food put in front of you but it holds no interest to you. You might have had sips of water, maybe some broth but you don’t remember and you don’t care. The only thing you really register is Haley, nestling up to you and making biscuits with his paws in your blankets.

Jason’s funeral is on Friday and you can’t get out of bed to go. Jason’s not in that coffin, not really. He won’t be there and so you won’t be. Jason’s never coming home. Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead plays on a loop. You never got to tell him. He died without knowing you loved him. His death has ripped you open like nothing ever has before, regret a constant salt in the wound. He never told you that he was thinking of leaving, of going anywhere. It feels wrong at this point, to interrupt his family in their grief, another stranger claiming to have known their son. After all, how well did you really know him if you didn’t even know he was going to leave?

Grief swallows you whole, but over time you learn to live with it. Days blur together. The tears dry up but the not caring doesn’t. Inside of your head is a wall, separating you from the reality of a world without Jason. You’re wrapped in wool and safe behind glass, unable to care about anything. It’s easier that way.

The school passes you for the year, citing personal tragedy, and you don’t care. Summer comes and the only difference is that your mother comes in and throws your windows open every morning. It’s Jason’s birthday soon, too soon. He’ll never be sixteen but you will be. He’ll never have his Words come in. He’ll never get the chance to do all the things he talked about, make Gotham a better place, travel the world. But you can.

It makes no sense to live for a dead boy but it’s all you’ve got. So you do what you have to do. It gets you to leave your bed for the first time in months. To start eating again, even if there’s no taste to the food in your mouth. To shower and take care of yourself for the first time in ages. Your room is clean for the first time in months and the first thing you do is take down your photograph from the 8th grade formal and put it away in a desk drawer.

By September, you have gathered yourself enough to return to school despite the worried looks of your family. It is hard, the hardest thing you have ever done but you do it for the boy that will never graduate high school. You sit by yourself at your desk, you eat lunch by yourself, you go straight home after class without any detours. The school play this year is Romeo and Juliet. You take home the sign up flyer and consider it, hard. In the end you decide to leave it. Jason may have always wanted to try out for the play but you won’t survive torturing yourself with this. On opening night you tell your parents you’re going to see it and get drunk on the gymnasium roof.

You make it through your last two years of high school a ghost. Administration tries to pressure you into meeting with a therapist but you refuse. You don’t want to experience your grief at all. Numbness is the only way you are going to survive this, your new reality. You do take them up on their suggestion of volunteering. Working with the Martha Wayne Foundation for Underprivileged Children gives you a sense of purpose. Of helping other Crime Alley kids without the benefit of nepotism to get them into places like Gotham Academy. It stokes the first emotion in you other than numbness, and that’s rage for all the ways in which these kids have been failed.

You accept a full scholarship to Gotham University. Your parents couldn’t be more proud of your achievement but you can barely muster the energy to smile. Keep up the volunteer work while rushing through your degree in two years instead of four. With nothing else to drive you, you’ve got nothing but time for school. The Martha Wayne Foundation offers you a position in fundraising, and you accept. It’s not what you envisioned for yourself, but it’s a path forward with purpose.

You move out, into your own apartment in an area that’s probably too dangerous for a girl of your age but you can’t stand to be at home anymore. The job consumes your life and you are grateful for it. It’s important work, even if some of the policy meetings on accepting donations from the Red Hood make you want to fall asleep. You make use of your Gotham Prep connections, rubbing elbows with the rich for just as long as it takes to pry open their wallets. It’s ridiculous but the higher ups trot you out to entertain at fundraising events, a pretty young face to pull in more donors. Occasionally you see Bruce, or Dick, or the newest ward Tim at functions, always across the room before you quickly excuse yourself. The numbness carries you through your life but there are limits to it and you’re not eager to test them.

Even five years later, you can’t go back to the park. You’ve never had another chili dog, though you’ll hire the vendor to cater community events. You’ve worked your way back into the public library, but still avoid the alcove on the second floor in the encyclopedia section. There’s a handful of arcade tokens in a plastic bag in your apartment still unused. Batburger is still your favourite, but you still can’t set foot in the location nearest to the Academy.

You keep yourself so busy that when your Words come in, “I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know…”, you barely give it a thought, just pulling the cuff of your shirt lower to cover your wrist. Carry on with the rest of your morning routine and head into the office. From that point on, your sleeves are always long and your gala outfits gain elbow length opera gloves. You never bother trying to read the rest of it. It doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s a cold February morning. The bus broke down two stops from the office and now you have to walk the rest of the way in the snow. Standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, you pass the time by scanning the headlines on the nearest newsstand. “Lost Wayne son found alive” screams out at you, tearing into your heart bloody. You lose grip of your work bag, but manage not to lose your mind in the street. Picking your bag up out of the slush, you run into the nearest bodega bathroom and lock the door with trembling hands. Shove a fist into your mouth and scream as the tears pour down your face. You’re shaking, worse than you were all those years ago. Snot blocks your nose and you have to stop screaming to breathe. So you do what needs to be done. Fumbling with your coat pocket, you pull out your phone and call the office, call out sick. It’s the only time you’ve done it in all the time your supervisor has known you but the tremor in your voice and frequent sniffles must alarm her enough.

In a fog, you somehow make it from the bodega bathroom to the front gate of Wayne manor. It doesn’t look like it’s changed at all since your last visit over five years ago, except for the heaving mass of press. You circle round the property and enter through the bushes, the way Jason showed you years ago on a tour of the property. You slip on the snow, fall to your knees but get back up. This is the only thing that matters now. The back door has an elaborate knocker that takes both of your hands to lift. It takes what feels like ages for someone to answer the door. It’s poor Mr. Pennyworth, looking more ruffled than you’ve ever seen him. You’re indescribably rude to the poor man, pushing right past him and into the building. Only one thing matters now and your vision has narrowed out anything outside of achieving your goal.

There’s voices coming from somewhere inside, up the stairs and in the direction of the library. A hand, probably Mr. Pennyworth’s, tries to grab at your wrist but you’re too quick for that. You’re running now, clutching at the bannister as though it will pull you up the stairs faster. A shout from behind and the tone of the voices change, a door slamming in the distance. Finally, finally you reach the library but a body tries to come between you, stopping you in your tracks. Years of grief, anger, and battered hope come roaring through you at the thought of being denied seeing Jason, alive after all this time.

Your voice when it leaves you is dangerously low. “Dick, I presume? You don’t know me, and I’ve heard very little about you from Jason and what I did hear I didn’t like. I’m going to make this simple.” The door behind him cracks open, but you soldier on anyway. “Jason Todd was my best friend and first love.” The body stiffens, but that doesn’t matter in this moment. “You are going to step aside and-” anything else doesn’t matter because a door is thrown open and there is Jason.

Eyes wild, a good deal older and more scarred than before, but he’s alive. And then nothing else matters but the feel of his arms warm around you, the imprint of his jacket on your face, the smell of him largely unchanged. He’s alive and he’s real and you can touch him. You draw back to look at him, drink in the sharpened angle of his jaw, the blue-green of his eyes, the white streak in his hair. He’s grown taller and broader than he had over that wretched summer so many years ago. What catches your eye is the writing at the hollow of his throat, a stark black spreading across his collarbones exposed by the v of his t-shirt. Jason Todd was my best friend and first love, it reads.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you felt the same.” He says and your wrist starts to burn.

[javiersprincess]

tags: 18+ minors dni / fem reader / fingering / reader is mexican / spanish / religious imagery / aftercare / hinted virginity loss / penetration /2.6k/ pwp - let me know if i miss something.

synopsis: javier escuella feels an all encompassing desire to have you. you feel it too, maybe even more.

Javier laughs into your lips, you are kissing him with the reverence of the faithful. You kiss sweetly, gently with the undercut of hunger he is all too happy to sate. Your form is soft beneath his hands, flesh pillabe like the strings on his guitar and the trigger of his revolver - the hollow of his palms filled with the curve of your hips. Javier nips at your lip until he can hear you hiss from the sting among your sighs from the pleasure of having him suck on your tongue.

“I can’t believe you - all I did was kiss you,” he stops to puff a breathe against your lips snickering at the dazed look on your face and the glistening spit on your lips, “and now you’re letting me fuck you.”

You whine, high and embarrassed but so unbearably needy and pressing yourself up against him like a cat in heat. There’s a little gold necklace threaded along the slopes of your collar - it glints against your untouched and unblemished skin like a comet, looping along your form in a circle until completion where it stays in perpetual orbit. Javier doesn’t know if he should be jealous of the thin necklace or not.

Your nightgown is off, spread out on the ground and Javier’s eyes are caught on the pendant that holds the face of La Virgen that glints in the lowlight of his tent - his eyes meet hers and he feels a shiver against his spine. Of course she would be there, looped above your too-good heart and appearing before him. It almost pains him to touch you, the holiness of your skin burning his palms that are too greedy to stay away.

You gasp his name and it brings him back to you - it brings his lips to your chest and you sigh as your hands twist on the fabric of his shirt clad shoulders like you are scared to touch him. You still have your bloomers, the white cotton stark against his tan hands and he presses another kiss right above your heart as it stutters tucked away in your ribs.

“Esta bien hermosa - you can touch me.” The pet name makes you tremble, whining when the word graces your flushed ears. Hermosa, meaning beautiful or gorgeous in the language your mother would sing you to when you were a girl. Your nostalgia brings desperation and it only serves to make you needier, wanting for more of the man above you like how priests desire the light of God. You think of that ill-stricken Reverend that wanders this camp and something aches in your chest as you let your hands go over the curve of his shoulders and anchor yourself there. Teeth aching with each suck on your tongue you don’t notice it when your bloomers are off until the brisk cool night breeze dances on your bare thighs. The skin there is hot and growing more so when he lets his hands settle on the smooth skin.

It’s almost comical how perfectly you fit in his roughed hands, his callouses from his knife so seamlessly accepted by the plush of your thighs. Like the velvet cushions rich men sit in their gilded train cars and golden stagecoaches. You go from velvet to wet silk with simple touches and you moan something sweetly into his ear as his face goes to your chest and his hands in between your thighs. The backs of his knuckles tease the wetness of your slick that leaks like honey and Javier lets his lips kiss the bud of your nipple softly but not without letting his teeth have their own kiss at the edge to make you whine.

“You are so wet, leaking for me - you’ll make a mess on my pants mi amor.” His teasing is endless and you can hear that smile you see whenever you blink. You jumble out a half-assed apology and it makes Javier laugh at you again. He must have you in quite the state if it’s making your perfectly trained manners fall off like wool when faced with sheep shears. His fingers have made their way to where you are the most needy - letting them pet along the slit and cup at your mound. You moan his name, oh so, softly when he squeezes gently, cradling your most delicate part the same way he cradles the neck of his guitar.

“Javi - please, please.” The shortened version of his name makes him grin, shivering pleasantly at how affection given only to him melts into his ears like syrup.

“Ya se, ya se. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.” Dark eyes are wicked at how they glint in the low orange light of his tent as he lets one finger slip in. He reclines himself back so he can watch how you take him.

Javier does not profess how he would take care of you every night for the rest of the nights you have in your life.

You whine thinly into the air, and it makes him hiss at how tight you are around his one finger.

“Relax, chiquita - I can’t take care of you when you’re all tense like this. Shh, shh,” he murmurs to you and in return you whine with a nod; pliable and sweet for him as you let your legs shuffle more open, working on letting him in and letting him deeper. One finger turns to two, and they curl into you cruelly without respite for how you weep and sniffle at the pleasure he tugs from you like music from his guitar strings. Your mouth is hanging open, drool shining on your lips as you let out thin little sounds.

You feel full, and pleasure dances along your spine as his thumb plays with the glimmering pearl of your clit. You whine - no sing his name like gospel and it makes something inside his stomach preen like a peacock.

Javier is dedicated, giving you an even pace and deep curls of his fingers to make you soft and loose for him. Dark brown eyes watch you with the precision of a predator - eagerly taking in how sweat drips down the middle of your breasts and how your jaw drops to make out little pants of his name just for him to hear. His fingers do just enough to bring you to the edge, and you stutter over your words as you push at his wrist with the desperation that is unbecoming of you. Etiquette and education are long gone from your mind as you beg him with an addled mind.

“Please, please not - not like that,” you stutter and let out soft little moans in between each word as Javier remains unmoved; letting his fingers stay inside you at their same pace, dark brown eyes taking in how even this almost makes you weep in pleasure. His cock stirs in his jeans at how it will be when he’s inside of you, filling you well beyond anything you’ve ever had.

“No, like this - it will hurt if you don’t cum now.” He mutters, voice thick with lust as he watches your hips twitch and jump when you have begun to hit the highest peak of your pleasure. Your body is eager for his fingers, tightening and fluttering around them as you leak down to his palm. Javier goes to shush you but you’re a good girl he realizes, watching you with a grin at how your hands shoot up to your mouth to muffle your long winded whines when you crash and cum for him. His voice is soft, reassuring you as you ride out your pleasure with the trembling of your hips and the quickened rising falls of your chest.

“Just like that - like that. There you go, there you go. Cum for me, give me this one and I’ll give you another.” He promises you, his accent thick as he watches your eyes go dark and unfocused as you burn with hot desire for him until he hears your broken voice mumble; “There’s more?”

He laughs. Teasingly, adoringly, lovingly and so many other words he can’t quite say.

“Si mi vida, there is always more with me. That I can promise you.”

Again, he laughs at the way he feels you twitch around his fingers that have stilled inside at the prospect of what more entails. He won’t admit to how his cock twitches in time with you tucked away in his pants.

You whine at the idea, hot at the image of being filled with all of him and whine again when his fingers slip out of you. Gossamer strands of your cum follow them, only to break and splatter along the inside of your flushed thighs. Javier smiles the same charming smile as when he sings and soothes you by rubbing your thigh with one hand while the other goes to undo his belt buckle.

You don’t see the length of him, only feel the heat of him against the petals of your cunt and it’s enough for you to yelp like some poor animal caught in a trap. Javier is bent over you, the build of his slim body covering you with his elbow supporting him above your head, eyes attuned to the half lit scene before him. You, sweating enough to make strands of your hair stick your flushed face with your eyes half lidded and mouth parted. His hips move without him thinking, coating his length in your glimmering release and rubbing against your still sensitive clit that it makes you flinch - mewling his name in a wet and defeated tone that makes him huff in half fondness-half teasing.

“Javi-” you whine, hotter than you have ever been and voice cracking when the head of his cock brushes past your entrance and makes its way in. You gasp into his mouth, one hand coming to cover your eyes and the other gripping at the fabric of his shoulder. Javier sighs against your lips and kisses you to muffle his own noises - higher pitched than he’d like to admit they are lost in between your two mouths as you take another inch of him. He is long, he knows this and you are tight ; tighter than anyone else he’s ever been with due to your lack of experience so he is slow with you despite how he wants to devour you entirely with one stroke.

Javier is tactical when he wants to be and is more than practical when he has to be so he controls himself, letting you have him inch by torturous inch. You are panting, throwing your head back in a way that lets him catch the tears that make it down your cheek and are uncovered by your hand. With one hand he bats away yours until your face - glistening and flushed is revealed to him as your mouth shines with drool from pleasure. His thumb goes to wipe away a tear and you move to feel the warmth of him more closely.

“Why are you crying hermosa, hm?” He asks you, sighing at how you take more of him so sweetly. You don’t respond only squealing and squeezing around him as you lose more of yourself on his cock. Half of him is seated inside you, enough for you to moan his name brokenly as you beg for more despite you wincing when he moves. Javier grunts and stops, letting the half of him that’s inside you stay still to let you breathe

“You can,” you pant, “you can put the whole thing in - please, please put it in.” You beg, and a thrill goes up his spine at the idea of seeing you weep from his cock being too much runs across his mind before he pushes it to the side. You are far too sweet, too delicate to be treated so roughly by him. You aren’t a working girl he can forget about come morning but the woman he wants to wake up to, which is why it’s easy for him to do what he thinks to be best.

He denies you.

“No, this is -” he sighs deeply at the way you feel around him - slick and wet and wanting for him to give you more until it aches. “This is enough. You’ll take the rest next time.” You whine at the thought and whine again when he pulls his slim hips back to fuck you like that. He gives you slow, careful thrusts with the hand that cradles your face sneaking down to rub at your pulsing clit with gentle precision. It’s almost too much for you, he notes and he feels bad that the sight of you weeping on half his cock, losing your mind with your eyes glassy from tears is doing it more for him than anything else.

You’ve always been a proper girl, ever since he saw you on your horse in the snow of Colter looking at him with the sweetest eyes framed by snowflakes. There’s a sick pleasure tugging at his stomach at how he has you now, manners gone and all you are now is debauched and drunk on him. It’s almost enough to make him finish and clearly it’s enough to get you there too by the way you weep out the little nickname you gave him.

“Javi, Javi, ’m going to -” He cuts you off with a punched out exhale, grinding his molders to keep from cumming inside by how you keep tightening around him like a vice.

“Go let go for me, mi amor - you’ve been so good.” With that you break, voice so ruined it cracks when you whine out babbles of precious thank yous in his ear as you come to completion a second and last time for the night. It’s painful, the last drag he gets of your cunt before he tugs at his sticky and slick cock to shoot his spend against the mound of your cunt. The sight of him dripping down to your twitching lower half more than makes up for it and he is more than willing to bend back over you to press gentle kiss after kiss on your panting lips. Your eyes had fluttered close and you babbled mindlessly under his gentle touches as you slowly came back down to look up at him with blearily eyes. Javier smiles at you with all the tenderness of the world when you wrap your arms around his neck - he manages to settle on his side with you in his arms and you tuck your face into his neck. You nuzzle the skin and sight softly, eyes red and half lidded tired from all he has pulled for you. Javier is soft with you, spoiling you by letting his nails scratch your scalp the way you like.

“Rest mi vida, I’ll clean you up.” he murmurs into your hair, presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You hum, murmur his name and a soft little confession of love before your eyes slip shut. You shiver when the soft fabric of a pocket square wipes at the mess of your swollen cunt and whine when you are moved to have your nightgown pulled over your head. Through your fussing Javier remains gentle, whispering praise as he settles you to his chest to sleep. When you awake you’ll be faced with teasing you thought you were quiet enough to avoid but that can wait. Now your eyes are heavy and Javier’s heartbeat is soothing - anything else can wait as for now you want for nothing else.

[copperbadge]

[ID: Four images; top left is a bright white light mounted on the ceiling of a shower, and the top middle is the remote control for it, mounted sideways on a wall. The top right is an overhead light in my front hallway, which is an unusual shade of green. Bottom image shows a window in the corner of my living room, with a star-shaped lamp hanging in the middle of it, gently glowing with light.]

Ironically, this is all photography of the stuff I didn't intend to do today.

I've been considering getting an offsite storage unit (more on this in another post) and it turns out some good friends who live nearby were also, but neither of us need a TON of space, so we decided to go in halves on the unit. They're a little more prepared than I am to move in, but they also have a car and will help me move my stuff when they move theirs, so for the next week or until the project is done, I'm mostly going to be packing big plastic bins with stuff I'm taking to storage. And all the bins I currently own have my full name on them in big block letters, so I won't be photographing those.

A side-effect of this, however, is that in the "DIY" bin (which will not be going to storage but needed weeding) I uncovered a light bulb that fits my star light, which had been flickering due to a dying bulb. So I got out Darth Ladder and changed the bulb. I figured as long as the ladder was out, I'd replace the bathroom lamp with a remote-control version, and that's a whole comedy of errors, but suffice it to say this one, which has a remote and doesn't NEED good motion sensing, actually has great motion sensing. So while I hung the remote on a magnetic bracket nearby, I probably won't need to use it much. I had to hang it sideways to get it to work, so now it does kind of look like my toilet has a control panel.

I found one other lightbulb in the DIY bin, a Kasa smart bulb -- I bought one for my bedroom floor lamp so I could turn the light on without getting out of bed, but they come in packs of two and I'd just kind of stashed the other one to deal with later, then forgot about it. As long as I was already running around risking death on Darth Ladder, I thought I'd install one in my hall lamp. I have two hall lamps on one switch, but I like to leave the front-door lamp on when I go out so that I don't come back to a totally dark hallway. This way, I can turn the smart lamp (nearer the living room) off so I don't have two unnecessary lights burning.

Also as you can see, it has some rad color settings, so if I want to have a little hallway rave, I can.

I sometimes find listening to new podcasts kind of challenging, so today I had some comfort-listening: The "Art Nouveau" and "De Havilland Comet" episodes of Well There's Your Problem. The Art Nouveau episode is a "bonus episode" you get with a Patreon membership and that episode alone is worth the $2 a month.

[naffeclipse]

Wave

Reader x Mer!Map Bot

Commission Info

I have the honor to write dear @craykaycee's Mer Map Bot OC set in the world of Deep Dreams with a reader who suffers from memory problems! This has everything from hurt/comfort to good ol' angst, but it's sweet in the end, don't worry. This was so much fun to write, ah! Happy reading!

———

The stars glimmer around you, rippling in a space like a black, engulfing sea full of comets and far planets that pierce the distance with their tiny light. You float within it, held safely in a large, clawed hand. Only three giant fingers with razor-sharp talons surround you. How strange. How beautiful. You want to admire him for a little longer.

Your dreams have never been kinder to you. 

A face looms above you, colossal and dream-like, but adoring. Eyes, pale and silvery like moonlight upon water, soften as he looks over you. Though you are held in a giant’s palm, you hold no fear. Though you have no memory of this place, of this being, a reassurance of safety blossoms in your chest. A sweeping warmth like tide pools sitting under the sun covers you, and you smile back.

Go to the water.

You tilt your head in confusion. What is he talking about?

Go to the secluded beach.

He is almost urgent. He lowers himself towards you on your hand, but the speckled stars of the dream are beginning to fade. The creature’s brow pinches. He warbles a low sound of a plea but gradually, slowly, your eyes close, and the darkness takes you under.

With a jolt, you sit straight up in your bed. A brush of something distant but so terribly close to your dream is at your fingertips. As you clutch the edges of the covers, you feel it slip further and further out of reach, until you are only left with a foggy recollection of something. The outline of a missing piece. The emptiness of a hole.

No. Come back.

A pang of sadness fills your heart.

What was it? Where did it go? A memory or a dream? 

A heat pulses behind your rib bones. You hold still, anchored by the comfort, but where it comes from, you can’t say.

Through the haze of your memory, a phantom voice lingers. Though muffled and inarticulate, deep within you, you hear the urge as if discerning words from a whisper across the room, shielded behind hands.

Go to the water.

An image softly presses into your thoughts. A secluded beach as viewed from out at sea, like a boat coming in to dock at the harbor. Not just any secluded beach—the one you’ve been spending most of your time at. It’s your vacation, after all, and you get to choose how you spend it.

But why do you burn with such a distinct need to return?

You don’t often trust yourself to wander out alone. Yet, you’ve always found your way back somehow. It’s all so strange.

Inexplicable, you have had very little to fear while upon this group vacation upon an island lost to time. There’s so little that feels like regular life here, filled with noisy phones and clicking computers. It’s been reclaimed as a tourist destination, and you’ve had so much fun with your friends who are well aware of your injury that still haunts your head.

The car crash was over a year ago. It busted your skull and banged your brain, and recovery takes a long, long time. Longer than you can remember sometimes. The doctors could only tell you to be patient, but it’s difficult when at times you forget who you are or what you’re doing or where you are. 

Sometimes you’ve wandered away, almost lost until your friends spread out and search for you. Sometimes a chore you’re in the middle of doing gets set down and forgotten about for days until it stinks, and you remember just what you were in the middle of. You trust your friends. They help you and take care of you. 

It wasn’t their fault a week back that you were carried away by a wave while everyone else was diving off of the boat, drinking and laughing. You hardly understood what was happening until the boat was only a speck and your limbs were growing tired from fighting to get back. Then… you don’t remember. Not even your friends know how you returned to shore the next morning, safe and sound and strangely, dry.

You lower your head in your hands and rub your face. You want to go to the water. The urge is not just outside of you but within. You have to see what’s there, how you keep finding yourself safe despite the precariousness of your injury. Maybe you’ll remember.

There are plans with your friends today that you can’t simply brush off. They wouldn’t want you going off alone to a beach by yourself regardless, so it would be best for you to wait until the evening. A rippling warmth within you spreads. It feels good. It feels right. 

Okay. This evening then.

You get dressed. If you don’t come downstairs soon, someone will come to check on you. You shouldn’t worry your friends more than you already do. 

You glance at the desk in the room. A jar sits there. You brought it to collect seashells in—that you remember, but there are other objects stored inside. Slowly, you walk over and touch the cool, curved glass. A broken seashell, a shiny carved stone, and a braided palm tree bracelet are all stuffed within. You unscrew the lid with a soft sound of air. The strong scent of the sea wafts into your nose. Where did you get these? Why does the sight fill you with such happiness?

A vague recollection filters into your mind like fog, and soon, you can see nothing but the denseness concealing what’s within. Shreds of joy are littered all about. You slowly re-screw the lid on and leave it before you grow too frustrated with your limitations.

You won’t let yourself forget this. You will go to the water and find why it’s so important to you, why can't you ignore this need deep within your chest.

A lingering image hangs in your mind of stars. Someone is holding you carefully. You stop to try and hook the memory, but it drifts away from you, lost to the sea of foggy recollection.

*

You slip away quietly, a hand clutching a napkin full of the rest of your dinner as you make your way toward the water. The water here is beautiful. In the setting light of the sun, it becomes darker with bright glints of orange catching on the tips of waves. The secluded beach is flanked by tall, towering palm trees and a dense foliage of leafy shrubs. Jutting out into the water is a creaky dock. The wood is gray and splintery but the supports are solid and damp with the tide splashing against it. 

Slowly, you make your way towards the end. It’s been good today, mostly. You only had brief moments of forgetfulness that your friends easily guided you out of or corrected. A little jog to your memory can put it back into place. They’re kind enough to take you with them here. It’s work, but they manage with you.

Sitting down, you kick your legs over the water. It’s darker, somehow. At the depth just below you, you remember swimming in the water beside the boat. You remember something below. There must be all kinds of fish in the sea. You imagine rows of teeth and tall dorsal fins. 

You flip the napkin open and take a bite. A little snack eases the jumble of your nerves, forcing you to focus on chewing and tasting the morsel in your mouth. It’s okay, right? You keep munching on the remainder of your dinner until there’s nothing left.

As the sun dips lower, you shiver under a slight breeze. The constant lapping of the ocean against the support beams lures you into comfort. You slowly ball up the napkin and shove it into your pocket. The horizon is bleeding red and the last of the light is golden. 

In the dark water, something strange shifts below the surface. A faint purple glow. Waves begin to rise. They start crashing against the support beams of the dock and you start. Blood pumping in your veins, you jump to your feet. 

A terrifying, unimaginable form rises from below. Your feet are anchored to the worn-down dock. A great crest of white, frothing water builds before breaking as a creature the size of a leviathan emerges. Your heart skips a beat in your chest until you realize pale, silvery eyes are gazing back at you. The being emits a brilliant purple bioluminescence about his towering body.

A flicker of memory. A warmth trickles into your chest.

You gawk in pure, unadulterated awe as a being from the very depths gathers himself at the surface. His eyes squint slightly against the fading sunset, but his attention remains entirely on you. Thick waterfalls crash off of him and back into the water. Slipping closer with a mighty flick of his sleek black and gold tail, the being easily matches the dock with his height.

You find yourself eye to eye with a mer.

The stunning creature is light yellow with golden markings on his cheeks. Frills with thick, black, and purple webbing in between spread upon the sea monster’s head like a sunhat. Two whisker-like tendrils twist and wave upon the creature’s face, purple and searching for stimuli. Darkness marks the being's body, splattering its golden color like dots of stars. A strange seam crosses where its mouth would be. 

Your heart warms with his presence as he knows you. Like he’s been waiting for you. The feeling is inexplicable and undeniable. You are terribly small under this beast’s gaze. You could easily be crushed underneath the palm of his hand, but you admire the finned tail he sports, flicking gently just below the black waves.

Beautiful.

How do you know him?

“Who… who are you?” you speak, amazed you can even find your tongue in the presence of such a great being. You only marvel at his appearance. Deep down, you feel no danger.

A forgotten song echoes in the back of your head, unearthly and dream-like, and then it disappears in a flash.

The creature’s brow pinches. Despite apparently lacking a mouth, the being appears wounded for a moment. You shift, uncertain, and almost wishing to comfort whatever hurt you caused. An echo of pain ripples through your chest. You hug yourself with one arm, confused. That couldn’t have come from you, could it have? 

As you stare a moment longer at the leviathan, an itch begins in the back of your mind. An answer to the question you asked. Standing here, on this dock, is familiar. You know what it’s like to behold such a creature and have no doubt that he will not harm you.

But why?

He leans closer to you. You almost step back, the scent of sea salt and something deep and dark emitting from him as if he belongs in the depths where no sunlight can pierce his milky eyes. Can he see you? 

A pang of emotion rings through you distantly. It is not your own.

The ripple of a memory brushes against your thoughts, and you grow still in the presence of them. There’s a sea, darkening with the sunset. There’s a boat, and your friends as they drink and laugh loudly. You remember, nudged by the familiarity. You were buzzing with alcohol and exhausted. Somehow, you’re looking up at yourself from the depths. No, not you. Him.

The strangeness continues in the vision with how you falter, your limbs growing heavy after struggling for so long trying to swim back, and a sensation of care spreads through you, warm like rain in the summer. 

Giant hands reach for you, three fingers on each appendage gently cupping you into his palms. You don’t remember this—your eyelids flutter and you briefly turn, held up from the surface as water drips from between his fingers, and gaze up at him in your weariness. Then, you succumb to your exhaustion. 

Rescued you.

The short, blunt words enter your mind as if a bell was rung. The place where his mouth should be doesn’t open despite knowing that he speaks to you. You almost stagger back, stunned by the connection.

“I… I remember,” you murmur, and touch your temple. You lift your eyes to his pale gaze. “Where did you take me?”

Patiently, he warbles a low sound, and another vision sweeps over your mind. You felt the seaspray as he carried you gently over the waves, swimming carefully to a secluded, perhaps undiscovered islet off the coast of the island. He swept into a cove to take refuge, cupping you to his chest as he rested, half submerged in the shallows that would have drowned you. 

He waits for you and sings. The song fills your mind as he sings again, layering the distant memory with the reality of his ethereal song. Your heart beats in time with his tune. A great heat fills your marrow, and you gasp softly.

When you woke up in his palm, he saw you, and you saw him. You remember.

“Wayfinder,” you breathe. His name is whispered to you through a connection that transcends oral tradition. 

A pulse of joy rolls through you and you understand now that this is an echo of himself. A song knitting you two together somehow. Magic, perhaps. You’ve heard stories of mers but you thought they were only told to the tourists who came here for a sunny vacation and lots of sand. 

You remember me.

He says simply, but you understand how he cherishes the fact. You do. Slowly, you step back to the end of the dock. Wayfinder follows you with his large eyes though he squints, as if finding it hard to focus on you in the golden light. His expression is curious as you carefully sit yourself back on the edge, your feet kicking over the sea. The mer gently lowers himself to remain eye-to-eye with you. Though he has no lips, you have the undeniable sense that he’s smiling. 

Gently, he lifts a clawed hand. You go over his three fingers, how they are ancient and otherworldly, but hold no fear with the wicked talon drawing near you. You hold perfectly still. He crooks one finger. A slickness to his gold and black flesh gingerly brushes against your cheek, almost engulfing the entire side of your face before he draws back, watching you closely. You reach up to touch the ocean water now drying on your skin. 

“Wow,” you say, unable to help your marvel. “You’re so soft. Wait.”

You jerk your head up, searching his expression for answers.

“Did we meet here before? Have you been visiting me?”

Wayfinder gently dips his head. The frills upon his head are stunning, purple on the underside, and dark up on top. You can’t help but notice a speckling of brighter purple bioluminescence as the darkness descends. The sight triggers a surge of understanding or a memory—you know he thrives in the darkness. 

Yes. Often. Here.

Here. You glance down to the worn-down dock and run your hand over the weather-beaten wood. The blanks creak and you remember the sound echoing when you stood before him, and you had felt his gentle touch before.

His tail flickers softly behind him, chopping up the waves rolling up to splatter against the support beams of the pier. You are overcome with a longing to run your hand over his slick skin and giant fins, feeling the parts of him that help him maneuver through a great and terrifying ocean. 

The mer lowers himself slightly and reaches down into the water below the dock. You follow his movement carefully. What is he doing? His clawed hands dig through the sand before he finds something. His frills flicker once. His eyes, half creased as if the light is too bright, shift back to you.

“What is it?” you whisper.

A gift. For you.

He gingerly overturns his hand and in the center of his massive palm sits a chipped sand dollar. You gawk, again. How many times will your mouth hang open in wonder? 

Wayfinder gingerly maneuvers his claws, and turning his hand again, he pinches the shell with a delicateness that betrays his leviathan size before he drops it a few inches into your waiting palms. 

You gape as the wet seashell sinks into your hands. It is beautiful, perfect despite the chip in its side, like the broken seashell in your jar—

A flood of memories returns. Each evening, a new gift. A broken seashell. A shiny carved stone. A braided palm tree bracelet. All given to you as you stood upon this very dock. A thickness gathers in your throat. And now the sand dollar.

You look up and adore him.

“Thank you, Wave,” you say wetly. The nickname rolls off your tongue but there is no doubt you have called him such a thing before. “You gave me gifts before, didn't you?”

I have.

The answer is soft and gentle. Ripples of care flow through you, and you wish you could hug him properly, but your arms can’t even fit around his golden-marked face. He struggles to focus on you, but the sun is nearly gone. You worry for his poor eyes in this level of light. He’s built for the deep depths and darkness, and yet, he’s here for you, patiently guiding you back to the memories you both made.

You want to cry but you convince yourself that would be messy. 

In the remaining light of the sun, the leviathan extends his hand carefully to you. You stare at it. Looking up into his expression, his eyes a bit brighter now as the day gives way to the night, you break into a smile.

Distant memories return to you like the tide crawling back up the shore, washing over you bit by bit until you’re dripping in them. All the times Wayfinder has carefully carried you so he might share with you the things he cherishes. Beautiful hidden spots around the island, tucked away from prying eyes. A cave opens to the open ocean as the moon reflects off the water.

He gently tapped your chest, and your heart, and touched his own to explain, in the best way he could, the connection you both share.

You fill with warmth. Eagerly, you accept his hand.

[authorcoledipalo]

OC Most Likely

Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks

Rules: answer which OC is most likely to apply to the given prompts, then give three more prompts to the next people!

1) Most likely to burn themselves out trying to meet all of their obligations.

Raymond. He is always burnt out, but that's normal to him, so he's always functioning no matter how little sleep he's on.

2) Most likely to play with LEGOs.

Me. Oh you're talking about my OC's? Joy maybe, she's a kid, kids like those right?

3) Most likely to enjoy a peanut butter and pickle sandwich.

Yeah, definitely Joy as well.

BONUS: 4) Most likely to hit someone with a car.

I saw this in the original post and just wanted to say that Whitney would definitely hit someone with the van in the last act...

Your Prompts: 1) Most Likely to trip while running. 2) Most Likely to neglect a garden. 3) Most Likely to finish their fifth grade science project the night before it was due and still get an A.

Tagging @aintgonnatakethis @gioiaalbanoart @48lexr @kaylinalexanderbooks @honeybewrites @thecomfywriter @writeblrfantasy @emelkae @the-golden-comet @i-will-write @drchenquill @jev-urisk @katenewmanwrites @leahnardo-da-veggie

+ Open Tag!

[tamblerdraws]

YALL

So yknow the whole "What celestial thing is Joel" debate

And how some are just using the car and how some say comet

I have

A proposal

Shooting Star

Shooting stars are similar to comets

They also burn bright and firey and stuff like Joel

You got the rhyming scheme with the winners still (tho we are rhyming stars with star but potatoe potato)

And. And also

[shamelesstragedyenjoyer]

Hi!! Do you have any fav Jason Todd- centric fic recs?? I like your taste in Jason's hc and takes hehe

Needles or Pines by Lanternwisp.

Sometimes Little Reds walk the path of needles, forbidden forests are urban jungles, the Woodsmen don't make it in time and disobedient children get eaten by wolves. It's when the story doesn't have the decency to end there that things get complicated.

No One's Son by Lanternwisp.

When it's revealed to Gotham's underworld that Red Hood is the second Robin and without the Bat Clan's protection, it's not long before every gang, cartel and rogue he's pissed off has him in their crosshairs. It's almost as bad as the "family"'s determination to find him first.

"Maybe Mike had been right after all - Jason is a Gotham kid. A real one, assembled and built with dirt and blood and dark alleyways, and he can't be washed clean of what's him."

Ugly Organs by One_Step_Closer_To_Death.

Jason Todd’s love is a wretched and terrible thing to be on the receiving end of. His grief, on the other hand, is incapacitating.

"How do you say – I think when you held me last, your rib fused with mine, and my marrow now creates your blood, my heart beats in tandem with yours – bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, brother."

Things That Make it Warm by One_Step_Closer_To_Death.

“I’m not ordering Hawaiian,” Jason says immediately as he pulls up the menu for the local pizza place. [...] “Not even if I say please?” “Fuck that.” Jason says, and orders Hawaiian anyway.

All Roofs of Uncertainty by Kieron_ODuibhir.

For all the blood on his hands, Red Hood was never just a villain. And Nightwing never gives up on family, not for good.

Reclaiming Innocence by MurtaghMorzanson.

Jason Todd was kidnapped at nine-years-old and given two options. Work for his keep, or be forced to to work for his keep.

When Everything's made to be Broken by WorkingChemestry.

Nobody knows Jason Todd, not really, but there are a few who know these three facts: Jason Todd is a comet—frozen, poisonous, gas and fragmented rock that burns and evaporates as it passes closer to the sun. Jason Todd is a dancer—spinning spinning spinning on shattered bones and slipping on the blood that soaks through his slippers. Jason Todd is laughter—red streaked giggles ringing like tinnitus in a roaring crescendo that drowns out even his own heartbeat.

And since I know you are into SamBucky (stalker-ish of me to be aware of, I know) here's my top 5;

Not the End but The Start Of All Things by Notcaycepollard.

They keep driving, for lack of anything better to do. A mission, Sam had said, and maybe that's true; maybe wherever they're headed is the way out, the way up.

Guard The Angel by Silentnun.

"但警惕心还是有的，他尝试性掀起一边眼皮，然后发现整个眼球都肿胀得厉害，太阳穴底下像藏了个不正常的兔子中士，一跃一跃，不得安息。"

A Couple Rebel Top Gun Pilots by Notcaycepollard.

That seems to be the thing that breaks the ice between them; Bucky's never really hung out with Sam before, past being jammed into a too-small car for six hours and then two uncomfortable months in a safehouse trying not to get on each other’s last nerve. [...] He doesn’t notice, is the thing; doesn’t notice how ever since Sam's slept on his couch that night, he’s been letting Bucky closer bit by bit. That, as Bucky’s been wondering about the boundaries and structures of friendship, Sam’s been drawing in.

"There are weeks where he and Sam don't talk, where Bucky realizes they've gone days and days without seeing each other, and it always makes him think of the interiority of Sam's life. All the people he must know who Bucky's never met, the friends he has that are just names in his mouth.

It leaves this strange ache in his chest.[...]And he remembers what it was like to pour himself into somebody, the boundaries of their life and his blurring until it’s difficult to find the edges."

Diving Blind by Yukla.

Sam's about to exit out of the page and nag at Sarah for becoming a gossip-rag-follower when a voice starts piping out of his phone’s speaker. “Breaking news on our favorite superhero couple,” says the host of the show, bright and plasticky under the studio lights. “That’s right, folks! We’ve got solid evidence that the Cap and Winter Soldier romance is real—” Sam’s finger slams down on the pause button. What, he thinks, the hell.

I want to Feel Your Hearlines by Notcaycepollard.

The first time he watches Sam fall asleep, they’re in the stupid tiny car on the autobahn. Bucky stares at the back of Sam’s head, ignores how cramped his legs are. Watches Sam’s head slowly sink back and sideways until it’s slumped into the gap between the seat and the window. If he triangulates between the wing and rear-view mirrors, Bucky can see Sam’s face, slack with sleep, mouth soft. He wants to look and he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Sam Wilson at all, knows only that he doesn’t trust Bucky - an accurate assessment of Bucky’s threat level, Bucky thinks - and that he does trust Steve (also accurate, although probably stupid). Sam looks vulnerable, like this.

“It's fine,” Bucky says again, and means, you're warm, and means, you make me want to be gentle, and means, touch me again like I'm a person. Like you can take comfort from me."

"They sleep, and they sleep, fitting together in every bed for months, breath mingling and heartbeats blurring together until Bucky thinks Sam must carry both their hearts in his own chest."

[panda-writes-kpop]

the dreadful need in the devotee ~ lee gahyeon

a/n: sorry for all my international folks, I know I'm late (curse you comp sci homework for taking hours to complete) but happy Gahyeon day!! here's your daily dose of existensial dread and sadness in case you haven't felt that way recently :] (all jokes, but apparently I was in my feels when I wrote this)

tw: fluff to sadness, main character death, car accident, some religious elements, we almost got a happy ending folks

acknowledgements: inspired by hozier's talk and the pjo series on Disney plus!

word count: 2.8k

summary: a recollection of the five times you couldn't look at Gahyeon and the one time you did, but it's staged during a modern retelling of one of my favorite greek myths of all time (5+1 trope my beloved <3)

♡ Masterlist ♡

As the burning taste of alcohol travels down your throat, you think about why you’re here on a Wednesday night.

Here wasn’t home, the place you most often were found. Home was your paradise, your inspiration for your work - but you had been in a rut lately. Nothing seemed to spark your creativity, not even a hot drink and a warm bath would do.

So you wandered down the street, hoping to find something that would make you and your work feel alive again. Instead, the couples you passed on the street only chose to dig at a wound that you had covered with the patchwork of self-isolation.

Since tonight was an utter failure, much like most nights this month, you turned to the one thing that made everything a little better - booze. A drink sounded nice, especially as the last couple you passed discussed their wedding and future together.

You slid into the first bar that you found that was not too far from your apartment. Five blocks was a new record for you, considering that every store you needed was only two or three blocks from your apartment. Maybe you’d print out a certificate so you’d have some marker of success to hang on your wall.

World’s Most Introverted Person Travels Two Blocks Farther Than Usual!

You need another hobby besides drinking and bad jokes.

You’d turn to art, but blank pages and screens peek out at you from every corner of your apartment. That wasn’t an option, and you had already used all your daily wanderlust to find a bar, so drinking would have to do.

It wasn’t like the bar was busy or anything - weeknight traffic was slow, especially on Wednesday. You were sitting at the bar, making occasional idle chatter with the bartender and another patron who seemed to be in a worse state of despair than you.

You were fine in your bubble, and it wasn’t like anything would pop it any time soon-

Then you see her.

Your eyes landed on a group of girls sitting in a corner, but the girl that draws your attention is everything you had imagined and so much more. With bright pink hair, it was impossible to see anything but here.

She was a beautiful white lily among the tall grass, a sweet melody floated over syncopated beats. She was the sun, and you were a comet that was about to crash into her orbit. She was everything, and you were nothing.

…And she was looking right at you.

Fuuuuuck.

You immediately look away when she bounces up to you - she’s probably going to talk to that other person, right?

You couldn’t look her in the eyes, even when she, in all of her beautiful glory, was right in front of you. 

“Do you want to join us for drinks?” Her eyes are inviting as she holds her hand out to you.

You try to find a reason to say no, but she sparks something within you. Something warm and kind, buried under the safety blanket that you wrapped your heart in.

She wasn’t your inspiration, not yet, at least. A muse, perhaps?

Whatever divine intervention brought you together was well needed.

Even though you couldn’t look her in the eyes until you were both drunk enough to forget everything but each other.

~

Gahyeon, her name was. 

Even though the headache fucking sucked (but was so worth it, considering the extra phone number in your contacts), things started to look up for you. You could actually produce art, which meant that you could pay your landlord on time.

Your apartment was a mess while you were in a funk - a proper decluttering was in order. If you weren’t inspired to do art, you definitely weren’t inspired to do household chores. You shudder as your mother’s voice reprimands you about keeping your place tidy.

Perhaps sending proof of life would get her voice out of your head. Yet again, she’d probably call you and then want to visit, which would make things worse.

Suddenly, doing the dishes instead of mentally stalling doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Tedious doesn’t begin to cover your feelings towards the stacks upon stacks on dishes, which hadn’t grown mold or attracted flies, thank god. You decide to set your phone aside (you’d checked it three times since you decided to do the dishes, maybe you need to get a safe to throw it into) before filling the sink with water.

As you add soap to the water, your phone chimes. You shut off the water, as flooding your apartment would be worse than cold water, you reason.

You were sober enough to put Gahyeon’s name in your phone, but your capitalization skills were a bit… questionable.

gAhyEOn: hey u up?

    some friends and I went drinking last night, and I need a pick-me-up.

    you wanna go for coffee?

Coffee? As in a coffee date? As in you’ll be face-to-face with Gahyeon alone, after you probably made a fool of yourself a few nights ago? 

Well, you don’t remember much about that night, do you?

God damn you, vodka, you taste good in too many mixed drinks.

You quickly respond with a ‘Sure! What time?’ after contemplating what to say for an uncomfortable amount of time.

gAhyEOn: Does thirty minutes work for you?

    I’ll send you the address, see if you can make it there in time.

Your phone buzzes, and afterwards, you plug the address into Google Maps - it’s only a block farther than the bar you met Gahyeon in. If you quickly scrubbed a few dishes and put proper clothes on (the Pokemon pajamas were cute but not ideal for a “first date”), you could make it there in thirty minutes if you run-walked.

You send her a confirmation text, telling her that the time and place will work. You manage to finish a quarter of the dishes (you’ll totally finish the rest of the dishes instead of continuing your latest masterpiece) before throwing on a comfortable outfit that’s perfect for a first date. You grab your wallet and phone before heading out of your apartment. 

The walk to the cafe takes a lot less time than you had considered, but that was probably because you were going through a hundred and one different ways that you could make a fool of yourself.

Although you nearly ran headfirst into a pole when you saw Gahyeon waving at you in the distance, you had made it to the café.

Even if you were a bit too embarrassed to look her in the eyes, a bit sweaty from run-walking here, especially after she told you off for being late.

“You’re five minutes late. I thought I told you thirty minutes, not thirty-five-”

“In my defense,” You raise your hands in the air, “I’m worse at directions when I’m sober.”

“If you buy me coffee, I may forgive you.”

“Let’s test that theory, huh?” You open the door for her as she gracefully smiles.

You let out a nervous sigh before closing the door behind you. You’ve got this, right?

Maybe the gods would push some luck in your favor.

~

Gahyeon didn’t think you were a total loser, so that was a plus.

She even agreed to a proper first date, and then a second, next a third, and you’d somehow convinced her to become your girlfriend… which meant that she would be moving in with you since you’d been dating for a year and a half.

Time flies.

“Can you help me with these boxes, babe?”

After shoving more of your supplies (holy fuck how much shit did you own) into a spare closet, you join Gahyeon at the door to receive the box that she had in her hands.

“I got it,” You say before immediately swearing after the box rests in your arms, “what did you put in here, a bowling ball?”

“Three, actually,” Gahyeon offers a sweet smile as you shake your head, “it’s just the first box of my clothes. You can set it in the bedroom, if you would.”

“The things I do for you.” You scoff before shifting the weight in the box (seriously, what was in here?).

You take a few steps forward as Gahyeon wanders around your apartment. She peeks into the room you just left before letting out a gasp.

“You didn’t move your work so I could have more space, did you?”

You pause, not turning to meet her eye, as she accusingly charges toward you.

“Yah, babe, I told you to leave that stuff there! You know how much I love seeing your work.”

You hightail it to the bedroom before she tackles you into a warm hug. You both dissolve into giggles, heavy boxes and caring anger set aside, as you enjoy her presence.

“I love you.” She whispers before kissing your lips.

You wonder what god of love was paid off in order to match you and Gahyeon, but you didn’t care. Everything worked, you two worked, and your work spoke for itself.

That’s all you ever needed.

~ 

A wedding ring was the other thing you needed.

You had fiddled with the ring for ages, wondering when would be the right time to propose. 

Gahyeon deserved the best, after all.

So you just asked her one day, when the moment was right.

And she said yes before bursting out into tears. You were quick to comfort her, of course, but you felt like you had ascended to another plane of reality.

Finally, everything made sense.

Your creative energy was at a high, so you were producing plenty of work. You were ahead on rent, enough so that you could save up for a house and a wedding, eventually.

Gahyeon stood in the kitchen, admiring the ring on her left hand, as you wrapped your arm around her waist.

“The ring’s pretty.” She says absentmindedly as you squeeze your arms, which makes her laugh. “What’s up?”

“I got bored. Something told me to go out here and check up on you.” You give a small shrug before kissing her cheek. “What are you up to?”

“I’m going to head to the store by my old place to pick up a few things. Do you want anything?”

For some reason, your stomach sinks. But why, you wonder? She made this trip often, what was so awful about it now?

“Are you sure you don’t want to go down the street, to the convenience store?” You try to convince her as she shakes her head and manages to escape your grasp.

“I’ll be fine, babe,” She turns to give you a quick kiss on the lips before grabbing the car keys on the table, “are you worried about me?”

“Maybe.” You give a noncommittal answer before checking the clock. “Be home for dinner!”

“I will, I promise.” She walks away and grabs the doorknob before turning back to you. “Hey!”

“Hey what?”

“I can’t wait to marry you.” Gahyeon winks at you as you look away in embarrassment. 

It’s crazy that she still has this effect on you, years later.

She laughs before shutting the door as you stare at the front door to your apartment like a lovesick golden retriever waiting for their human to return.

You couldn’t wait for her to return back into your arms, so you could make dinner and spend the rest of your night together.

~

Four hours.

It had been four hours since Gahyeon left.

Should you be worried?

She would’ve texted, called, told you if she would’ve been late. Gahyeon expected the same of you, even though you weren’t the most prompt person at times. 

You should stop pacing before you have to add carpet replacement to your laundry list of things to buy. The sun had gone down, but that meant that traffic must’ve been heavy, right?

You need to take a walk before you worry yourself into an early grave.

You grab a light jacket before exiting your apartment. Taking a walk around the block has always helped clear your mind, but your heart pangs with a new hurt as Gahyeon always liked to go on walks with you.

She was fine, she had to be fine.

You round the corner, only to want to immediately retreat back into your home.

A car accident.

The worst part?

Gahyeon’s car was among the wreckage.

Police officers pushed the surrounding crowd back, and you scream when you see an EMT pick a bloody ring out from among the wreckage.

Not just any ring.

Her ring.

You can’t look anymore.

~

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks.

You hadn’t created anything since the day she died.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Five-hundred and four hours.

Thirty-thousand, two-hundred forty minutes.

You can’t breathe, can’t think.

You need to open a window.

The light casts a gentle glow over your apartment.

It’s a wreck. You’re a wreck. 

How fitting.

Your phone rings. It’s probably your mother, asking why you didn’t come to Sunday dinner for the third time in a row.

You can’t tell her about Gahyeon, you could barely face her parents and tell them what happened. You were choked up then, and you hadn’t felt much better since.

Your heart had been ripped from your chest.

You pick up your phone anyway.

“Do you want to see her again?” A deep male voice echoes from your phone speaker as you sigh.

“You have the wrong number. Have a good day.” You say with no emotion as the voice quickly replies.

“It’s Gahyeon. I have Gahyeon.”

“Who are you? Where is she?”

“Go to the bar where you first met. I’ll meet you there and take you to her.” 

“Hold on, how do I know you’re not-”

You pause as you hear the other line beep repeatedly. 

He hung up on me. What a dick.

~

“What do you want?” You gruffly ask as you slide into a booth opposite a man dressed in an all-black suit.

He fixes his silver locks for a moment before looking you up and down.

“You want the girl back?”

“Gahyeon,” You correct, “and I want her here as much as her family does.”

“Would you do anything for her?”

“Yes.” You answer immediately as the man smiles.

“Good, good.” He snaps his fingers as the scenery around you changes. 

You’re forced on your feet as the booth disappears behind you.

“What the fuck-” You look at the walls, which expand in every direction and then disappear behind walls of fire and stone.

The man walks forward as a set of stairs appears before him.

“Who are you?” You ask as the ground underneath you begins to shift.

“Death, not the devil.” He answers after sitting down on a throne made of fire and magma. “I have a proposition for you, since your love for Gahyeon has moved my wife. I’m feeling rather…. generous, shall we say?”

“What’s the catch?”

“You have to take the long way out, with you leading and her behind. You can’t look back to see if she’s there, you have to trust yourself and trust her. Understood?”

“I-” You pause while weighing your options.

Could you lead her out of Hell? A dangerous adventure, sure, but it would be worth it to bring her home.

“I accept.”

Death snaps his finger before a door to your left appears.

“Walk through that door and begin your journey.” 

You place your hand on the door before looking back at him.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until you get to the other side.”

~

You didn’t expect walking through hell to be a cake walk, but you were absolutely exhausted. 

Who knows if death himself didn’t trick you in the first place? 

You couldn’t look to see if Gahyeon was behind you, and you couldn’t hear her speaking as well.

You just had to trust yourself and trust her.

You trusted Gahyeon, of course you did, but did you trust yourself enough that you wouldn’t have been fooled?

Everyone in hell is looking at you as you climb up towards the exit.

You can do this. You should do this.

Is she really behind me?

You should keep going. You have to keep going.

Your footsteps begin to slow as your breath becomes ragged. You were tired, but you were almost there.

You see the light, see everything that you would have again.

You reach out to embrace the light, you’re almost there.

Is she there?

Gahyeon gasps as your eyes connect with hers.

“You… were there.”

“I always was.” She softly answers before backing up towards the darkness.

“I made a mistake.” You try to reach out and grab her, but she’s fading away from you.

“I know.”

“I love you.” A tear falls from your eye as she disappears into nothingness.

“I know.”

Just like that, she was gone, and you were alone.

[mysticstarlightduck]

Unusual Associations Tag!

Thanks for the tag' @thecomfywriter (here)!!! I'll go with Damon Vaille from Scrapyard Boys for this one!

Seasoning: Coffee or Basil

Weather: A warm summer night at 3AM with a pitch-black sky lit up by orange street lights

Color: Graphite Grey

Sky: Comforting night skies, either smoky in the middle of a city or starry in the middle of nowhere

Magic Power: Umbrakinesis/Shadow Manipulation/Shadow Waponry Generation, Teleportation, Augmented Speed, Night Vision

Plant: Pastel pink roses

Weapon: Bare fists, baseball bat, shadow weaponry, pocket knife

Social media: His setting's version of Youtube and Spotify

Candy: Strawberry & Cream candy

Fear: Being unable to protect his friends/losing his loved ones, being forced to obey his worst enemies, being forced to relive the past

Method of long distance travel: A beat-up hover-car

Art style: Cartoons

Stationary: Stickers, scrapbooks and paint

Celestial body: Blue-Straggler Star

Tagging (gently): @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@the-golden-comet, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@topazadine, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

Taglist for Scrapyard Boys below the cut 🧪

Scrapyard Boys Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites, @lassiesandiego, @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3, @sleepy-night-child

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri, @lyutenw @finickyfelix

@thecomfywriter, @the-letterbox-archives, @differentnighttale

@wyked-ao3

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[gaykarstaagforever]

I said I was going to read it, and I read it.

And now I know why no one else has in 55 years.

Spoiler Alert: he doesn't actually electrocute Clark, and was never going to. Utter bullshit.

The only cool things about this old guy are 1) his name is Homer Ferret, and 2) he looks like George Burns.

What is uncool about this guy is that he is an optometrist who has been stalking Clark Kent since he was a baby, for reasons he never goes into.

Like, he is just at the Kent's house when Baby Clark does his first heroic thing (pushing a runaway train car off the tracks). He is also suspiciously at the high school when it catches on fire, to see Clark jump into a bush from which Superboy then emerges to blow the fire out.

Did Homer start the fire? If not, why the hell was he hanging out at the high school? We never get answers to these and many other questions.

My favorite part is where he guesses (correctly) that Clark is Superman, based on his glasses. But not in the sane way of noticing that Clark Kent looks exactly like Superman if Superman wore glasses. Remember, no one in the DC Universe can apparently do that. Instead, as the only optometrist in Smallville, he knows Clark Kent never bought glasses from him. Once he has Clark strapped to the chair, he looks at Clark's glasses and realizes the lenses are just fake plastic ones (this was back when glasses actually contained glass).

Clark, as usual, just fucking lies and says he wears fake glasses because he is a giant coward and figured glasses would make kids bully him less. Because that is how that works.

Homer doesn't buy it, either, and so demands Clark admit he is Superman or get juiced. At the last second Clark FINALLY decides to use his X-Ray vision to look through the floor, where he sees that the generator attached to the chair is a low voltage one. Homer throws the switch and it tickles Clark with like 2 volts.

Then Homer admits he wasn't 100% on Clark being Superman after all, so wasn't going to risk killing him. Clark says "oh, you!", and decides to do a Daily Planet report on all the Superman artifacts this clearly dangerous obsessive has collected into a Superman shrine in his basement.

No one gets punched a single time.

The only good thing about this story is this random full page portrait of Clark Kent looking vaguely upset:

The other story in the issue is better, in that it is way, way dumber.

It starts off showing you how YOU TOO can draw Superman!

I feel there are a few steps missing here, but

Jimmy Olsen tells Clark how he is joining an art correspondence school, and Clark IMMEDIATELY decides it is a scam worthy of Superman's attention. And sure, it is definitely a scam being run by mobsters. But the second half of that is not remotely true.

Before he starts using X-Ray vision and perfect recall and telescopic vision and TIME TRAVEL (yes) to "solve" this crime of low-level mail fraud, he has to interview a kid who wants to be a cartoonist at the Daily Planet. Where he says this:

I think I get what he's supposed to be saying in this weird attempt at 60s Mod talk, but it took me awhile. You give it a go.

He also is a total dick about how much this child's comic strip sucks.

I mean it's no Silver Age Superman comic, but they can't all be, Clark. And let's be honest here, the bar is pretty low.

At some point in his "investigation" of this scam art school, Clark decides the best plan is for him to create forgeries of classical Western paintings. By this point he already has more than enough evidence to have these guys arrested, but he didn't get to do any pointless TIME TRAVEL yet (yes), so, priorities.

He flies back in time to study the painting techniques of the great masters. But he is bad at time travel (yes, literally), so he accidentally flies through the tail of Halley's Comet, which makes him 1) 16, and 2) blue.

Then this happens:

Let's unpack this.

1) Superman was the inspiration for Thomas Gainsborough's "Blue Boy," because he at this point is a boy, who is dressed in the mostly-blue Superman costume. ...But also because his skin is blue. You know. Unlike the boy in the painting.

2) Gainsborough uses Superboy as a model, in that he has him pose, holding a hat. But the boy in the painting is wearing a completely different outfit of rumpled velvet. So Gainsborough just did the complex outfit from his imagination, but he needed Superboy to show him what a boy holding a hat looks like? What bizarre level of "master artist" is this?

3) He doesn't paint the Blue Boy's skin, because Superboy has blue skin, and that would be too weird. And while he can obviously do imaginary clothes fine, he needs another model with normal-colored skin to do a face and a hand. ...Even though he only chose Superboy as a model in the first place, partly because he has blue skin, which makes him a 'Blue Boy,' which is what inspired the whole painting in the first place. ...Except he never intended to actually make the Blue Boy blue-skinned. So...

Adult men with families and mortgages wrote this.

After this, Superboy flies back through Halley's Comet's tail, restoring his age and color. Then he goes to visit Rembrandt, where Rembrandt ACTUALLY DRESSES HIM IN A PERIOD OUTFIT, to use him as a model for one of the figures in "The Night Watch". Because Superman is so muscular.

Because, as everyone thinks when they see that painting, "Man. That one guy in the hat is buff as shit." (?)

Notably, yet again, the painter doesn't paint Superman's face, this time because a officer of the REAL Night Guard paid to have his portrait put in the painting. But I guess that guy's body wasn't all swol and hot enough for Rembrandt's painting...of that specific guy.

"WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH GETTING THE POLICE TO ARREST THE MOBSTERS RUNNING A SCAM ART SCHOOL??"

Good goddamn question.

Superman comes back to the present and creates perfect forgeries of the two paintings he was inexplicably involved in creating. When the mobsters try to sell them as the real paintings, Clark Kent shows up with the cops and points out how the forgeries aren't actually perfect, he made them slightly different to prove they were fakes.

And this somehow is a crime the mobsters get arrested for. Instead of Clark Kent, who very obviously painted the forgeries so that these guys could sell them. Like, that was their plan, that the heretofore whatever Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent is suddenly such an amazing artist that he can make near-perfect forgeries of great paintings. And Clark went along with it, until he stopped. And this finally proves their art school is a scam. Even though the building they are in literally has trashcans full of art submissions they have thrown out once they take the registration money out of the envelopes. And all the secretaries working for them know the whole plan and have been helping them do it.

I'm not inferring that. That is all specifically shown in the comic.

None of this was necessary. Absolutely none of it.

On the plus side, at the end, the Daily Planet hires that kid to do his monkey comic. But just the writing, because Clark still thinks his art sucks. Jesus Christ, Clark.

Here is an ad for a hobby model of what was at the time an 11 year old station wagon.

I'm not being sarcastic! That's what their ad copy says! That's how they sold this!

There is also a Letters to the Editor feature, which I didn't take a picture of, because they print everyone's full names and hometowns. Yes I know even those kids are probably dead now, but I'm not going to chance it.

At any rate, about half the letters are children telling DC's editors that these Superman stories are stupid and full of inconsistent nonsense. To which the DC editors reply by defensively snapping back at them.

So it's not just us, as adults, now.

They knew. Everyone knew.

[drchenquill]

Character profile tag!

Thank you for the tag @the-golden-comet , @sableglass , @finickyfelix and @paeliae-occasionally ! I'm sorry it took me so long, I just couldn't decide who to take for this game. I'll just go with my baby boy Leon.

Name: Leon Martens

Nickname: "Waschlappen" by his late grandma. (It's German and it means sissy, wimp and so on.) It's an insult, but she used it as nickname, often refering to him like that while talking to other people, making it sound like a cute "family inside joke".

Kind of being: Human

Age: 23

Gender: Male

Appearance: fluffy honey-blonde hair with dark drown eyes. Very pale, almost sickly looking skin. He mostly wears cardigans to feel comfortable. His calloused hands look frail like everything on him to be honest. He is rather thin and weak looking. He is a frail man.

Occupation: Art teacher

Family members: None (all deceased. It wasn't a big family)

Pets: None

Best friends: he would say none, but Kiki has taken that spot very fast.

Describe his/her room: So, a bit of context. He moved into a shabby apartment but mid story was forced to move again into a not-as-shabby apartment. I'll describe his old room because his current room isn't his, it's Kilians.

Quoting him: "My bedroom has a large window that looks out onto the street. Normally I would draw the curtains, which didn't happen this time. That's why I can see the first shy rays of sunlight creeping into the day. The apartment I'm currently renting consists of five rooms. The bedroom with a double bed that takes up far too much space, thanks in part to the wardrobe that will collapse on me with just a small earthquake and free me, a bathroom that barely has room for a bathtub, a living room furnished with a beige couch that I doubt was the original color, a small TV that I'm afraid to turn on and, last but not least, the small kitchen where I recently tried to make a coffee with shaky hands and the flame of the stove almost burned my face."

Way of speaking: Polite, tries to never raise his voice.

Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude): He avoids eye contact and often walks with his head down. When he's stressed, his right hand tends to cramp, so you may see him subtly massaging it. He also tends to have twitching hands when he feels the need to draw something to calm down. He is developing a hunchback by always walking with a hunched posture to subconsciously make himself smaller.

Items in his/her back pocket/ purse: A small pocketsized sketchbook with a tiny pencil (he draws to calm himself down.) And his phone and wallet.

Hobbies: Drawing.

Favorite sports: None.

Abilities/Talents/Powers: Drawing

Relationships (how he/she is with other people): He tries not to interact with other people, but when he does, he tends to not hold eye contact for too long. He is rather submissive, not wanting to anger anyone.

Fears: Being looked at, making mistakes, angering other people, people thinking he is insane.

Fault: He is very paranoid and does not trust at all. He always thinks the worst and often doesn't give the other person a chance to explain. He can be very petty.

Good points: He is very gentle with children. He loves children because he feels safe around them.

What he/she wants more than anything else: To be left alone and to get rid of the crushing guilt he feels after surviving the car accident that killed his parents.

~~~

Tagging with no pressure @theink-stainedfolk , @inseasofgreen , @katenewmanwrites , @kaeru483 , @happypup-kitcat24 and open tag~

[if-only-angels-could-prevail]

hey! i recently moved to chicago and i'm interested in seeing some local theater. you've posted a bunch about the chicago theater scene, so i wanted to see if you had any recommendations for theaters/currently running shows/etc. thank you!!

ooh i get this question every once in a while, maybe one day my answer will be comprehensive

the two biggest titans of regional theatre in chicago are the goodman and steppenwolf, and your timing sending this ask couldn't be better:

tomorrow, the goodman has its first preview of midnight in the garden of good and evil, the new musical by taylor mac and jason robert brown. also the goodman has a lot of great discounts (including $10 student tickets the day of), check out their website

yesterday, steppenwolf opened little bear ridge road, which is a world premiere play by samuel d hunter, starring laurie metcalf. i saw it, i really loved it, i found it patient and moving. (i also admit that i bartend there, so, bias? but i did love it)

some of the other Big theaters in chicago include: chicago shakespeare theatre (i WILL be seated for the lord of the rings musical) and court theatre (i've seen two shows at court and adored them both).

and if you're willing to go to the burbs, there's the paramount in aurora, writers theatre in glencoe (they're doing natasha pierre soon!), and then drury lane and marriott (they both specialize in musicals--sadly, i don't get to those two often because i don't have a car and it's a hellish commute).

but those are just the big ones, and chicago is more famous for its storefront scene, which is just as exciting. for musicals, look into blank theatre (hi danny lol), theo ubique, porchlight, and kokandy. for plays, check out invictus (i'm seeing their three sisters tonight), factory, raven, a red orchid theatre, lifeline, theater wit (i saw their production of mr burns five times lol), and remy bumppo. just to name a few. there are many, many more.

i know this list is already long, but trust me when i say i'm just scratching the surface. it is literally impossible to see all the theatre that happens in chicago--but if you start going to shows and talking to people, you'll get a sense of the Must Sees! (also feel free to DM me with more specific questions in the future, and I will--privately--give you my unfiltered opinions.)

Finally, under the cut, I've shared a list of *some* of the specific shows i'm interested in seeing throughout the end of the year. they're organized by closing date.

6/20 - 7/21: The Hot Wing King, Writers Theatre

6/13 - 8/4: Little Bear Ridge Road, Steppenwolf

6/25 - 8/4: Midnight In The Garden, Goodman

7/12 - 8/11: The Mad Ones, Blank Theatre

7/21-8/25: The Normal Heart, Redtwist

7/17 - 9/1: The Lord of the Rings, Chicago Shakespeare Theatre

8/2 - 9/29: Alice By Heart, Kokandy

9/6 - 9/29: East Texas Hot Links, Court Theatre

10/4: Patti LuPone, Lyric Opera

10/1 - 10/6: Leonora, Chicago Opera Theatre

9/6 - 10/6: Henry V, Chicago Shakespeare Theatre

9/14 - 10/6: Rigoletto, Lyric Opera

9/26 - 10/10: Fidelio, Lyric Opera

9/14 - 10/13: Inherit the Wind, Goodman

9/19 - 10/13: Never Better, Theo Ubique

9/5 - 10/27: Great Comet, Writers Theatre

9/12 - 10/27: Noises Off, Steppenwolf

10/5 - 11/3: Primary Trust, Goodman

10/22 - 11/3: Some Like It Hot, Broadway In Chicago

10/17 - 11/17: Dear Elizabeth, Remy Bumppo 

11/9 - 11/30: The Marriage of Figaro, Lyric Opera

10/18 - 12/1: Seven Guitars, City Lit

11/16 - 12/1: Blue, Lyric Opera

11/8 - 12/8: Falsettos, Court Theatre

10/20 - 12/8: Pericles, Chicago Shakespeare Theatre

10/24 - 12/15: Leroy and Lucy, Steppenwolf

[nczaversnick]

WIP Questionnaire Tag

Thanks to @honeybewrites for the tag!

Rules: Answer the questions about a WIP!

These are for Project Gemini, with my answers in green and Rachelles in purple :)8

What's the first part of your WIP that you created?

For me, that would be Gemini. Or his concept anyway. A person with both fire and ice powers. Everything else was built around this one idea.

Uhh.. There aren't any parts I necessarily *created*, but more like added on. I've been here since the beginning. (We don't talk about the previous draft before I came into the picture) (Also, SIKE, I LIED. I created loveable Mason.)

If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

I'm not sure what I would go with, but off the very top of my head, I’d say the chorus in From Now On in the The Greatest Showman

Oooo, definitely Run by Iron Kid

What are your favorite characters you've made? Why?

Oh, definitely Adrian. He was originally the main character, so I developed his character way before I got to anyone else. He's the only one who didn't get replaced when I revamped everything a few years back.

I'm Adrian biased always, but I think I'm starting to have a bit of a soft spot for Mason and Iris - mainly because I don't know them that well, and that's a perfect start for me falling in love with them.

What other pieces of media do you think your fanbase would share?

Definitely the Lunar Chronicles. Probably Arc of a Scythe, too. Both series showed me how much I can do with multiple POVs to tell a story, but both are about revolutions and fighting for what is right

I don't think I understand this question

I hope they share sick animatics. That would be cool as Hell.

How do characters travel/get around?

Generally speaking, magneticlly powered trains and cars are the main transportation in the city

OH SHIT an underground rat maze in the sewers throughout the city would be sick af.

They mainly walk. Gotta keep hidden, ya know?

What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

I am currently trying to turn an outline into actual scenes. But I don't write like…whole chapters. I tend to write small snippets in random spots until there's enough to start trying to connect them

I'm constantly fluctuating between fixing what I've already worked on and continuing off from when someone gets their shit rocked for no reason (there's a reason, but it's a dumb reason)

What aspects/tropes do you think will draw your audience in?

I mean, who wouldn't love a dystopian lead by a found family of queer people?

Injustice and angsty slow burns.

What are your hopes for your WIP?

I have always wanted to publish this. Because I do actually want to be a published author, I enjoy writing and sharing stories with people, especially one so personal to me. A very longshot hope I have is that I'd love to see this made into a tv show, though I'd go 2D animation, not live action.

I obviously want to make something I'm proud of working on, but also use as a learning experience for my own projects. (I'm an entirely separate entity and *not* a growth from N.C.‘s brain)

Tagging: @wyked-ao3 @the-golden-comet @fractured-shield @theverumproject @the-letterbox-archives @ath3alin +open tag :)8