#I knew that I said that this is a safe space for your opinions

[starwars-confessions-yay]

sorry but the clones are ugly as fuck

Get em guys

[ahqkas]

“WHEN YOU’RE LOST IN THE DARKNESS, LOOK FOR THE LIGHT — dick grayson.

PAIRING dick grayson 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS he was completely frustrating. him with his cheeky grins and perfect teeth. maybe that’s why it didn’t anger you when he took an interest in you WORD COUNT 5.6k WARNINGS / TAGS artist!reader, cursing, mention of reader’s hair, unedited NOTES yes the title is inspired by tlou & yes i compared dick to a blue jay. i decided to mix 2 different reqs ( req 1 & req 2 ) because they worked well together for me soo i hope it’s okay! © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

IN ART, WHAT WE WANT IS THE CERTAINTY THAT ONE SPARK OF ORIGINAL GENIUS SHALL NOT BE EXTINGUISHED.

Said Mary Cassatt, and her words had echoed in your mind for as long as you could remember. There was something comforting in the idea that creativity—pure, untouched, and entirely your own—could endure even such cruel punishment as darkness. Darkness was a language you understood well, especially living in Gotham, where shadows devoured the city inch by inch until there was nothing but colorless void. The darkness wrapped itself around you, slowly seeping in to claim your soul as well, like the chill of a cold winter night creeping into your bones.

But even in a city this unfair, you believed there was still some beacon of light. Hidden, of course, but not extinct.

And so, you painted. You drew. You created. Every stroke of your brush and pencil felt infinite. Art was the closest thing you felt to immortality, and you clung to that belief like a child did to innocence.

Your small apartment was more than just a simple place where you lived. Every inch of the space bore a trace of you and of your determination to carve something special into the world. The walls, once peeling and beige, were now alive with color. A breath of life you granted the old home. It wasn’t much, your apartment, but it was yours.

The darkness couldn’t quite reach you there, and the light found you within your search for it.

It was late past midnight when you met him. The hour of the night was silent despite the fact you were living on one of the most dangerous streets of Gotham. Silent, but far from safe. The full moon hung high in the sky, its pale light struggling to pierce through the dark clouds that blanketed the whole night. Every so often, the moonlight would break free and shimmered a silver beam that barely softened the shadows.

You sat curled up on your old, beaten couch in your living room, aching legs tucked beneath you. The thrifted mustard-yellow couch sat beneath a gallery wall you’d arranged with so much focus you were unmistakably proud of the piece. The light from the fairy lights strung above the paintings softened the sharp edges of your apartment.

The pencil between your fingers moved along the paper with practiced movements of an artist as you clutched the sketchbook close to you with your free hand. You brought the drawing of a blue jay to life. Its small, delicate body was perched on the middle of the page, its head tilted slightly to the side as if caught mid-movement. The blue jay’s wings began to take a lively form beneath your hands.

You loved sketching birds—the way they had an open opinion of freedom in their feathers, how they could fly away from the weight of everything below on earth.

The quiet was broken by a dull thump.

Your pencil stilled, the sharp tip pressing into the delicate beak of the blue jay as you tilted your head towards the sound. It came again, heavier this time, right outside on the fire escape under your living room window. Living in Gotham meant you knew better than to ignore suspicious and strange sounds, especially at this hour.

Setting the sketchbook down on the coffee table, you slid off the couch with a pounding heart and bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The window was already cracked open, letting in a cold breeze of night air. It prickled at your skin and sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You moved with an intention to investigate, your hand gripping the window frame when you leaned forward slightly to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Before you could fully stick your head through the opening, something shifted — a flash of movement so sudden that you instinctively took a step back to avoid bumping your head. Then, just as quickly, a figure shot up from the darkness surrounding your fire escape and you watched as his top half leaned against the window frame with effortless grace.

Anyone could recognize the symbol gracing his chest.

Nightwing was on your fire escape, practically with one of his halves in your apartment.

You blinked at him, startled at the unexpected visit from Gotham's (wait, wasn’t he supposed to be in Blüdhaven?) acrobatic vigilante. He stared back without shame. His face was partially illuminated by the soft glow of your fairy lights and his forehead, plus the top of his eyes, were hidden beneath the dark strands of his hair. Damp with sweat and light spray of rain. The black domino mask was doing little to hide the attractiveness of his handsome face, although it did not tell you his identity. Or the color of his eyes. The white lenses didn’t show any signs of life, it would be almost unsettling if it wasn’t for the other features of his face.

His jaw was sharp, the bone ready to cut through glass, and his lips held a shadowy grin in them. His chest heaved as if he’d just ran a marathon, or in his case, as if he’d just been in a chase. And his suit—a sleek, midnight black with that striking blue emblem—was marred by faint fabric tears and streaks of grime.

When he spoke up after a minute of analyzing you, his voice was breathless but warm, like he hadn’t just scared the life out of you by his entrance. “Hey. Sorry about the dramatics. Mind if I, uh, come in?” He glanced over his shoulder briefly, as though checking to see if someone had followed him.

You swallowed the lump that formed in the back of your throat, fingers still gripping onto the windowsill. You were pretty sure the surprise and disbelief etched into your face could be completely seen. “What? You’re joking, right?” those small words stumbled past your lips in a sharper tone than you intended. “You can’t just—“ gesturing vaguely to the fire escape he was standing on, you trailed off for him to finish the sentence himself.

But instead of an answer, Nightwing simply offered a grin, all perfect teeth. It was the kind that felt like it was meant to disarm you and melt you into a puddle at his feet. A swooning, pretty puddle.

“Technically, I can. But I’d prefer not to freeze out here while we debate it.”

Your reply to his cheeky comment died in your throat the moment you heard it—an angry bellow from somewhere below, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots thumping against the wet pavement. The voices were low and animalistic, only growing louder by seconds. Whoever they were, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were looking for.

Shooting him a pointed look with one of your eyebrows raised, you realized it was useless as he was already halfway through the window, ducking inside easily. He didn’t so much as flinch when his heavy boots hit the floor with a faint thud. You could only watch the trail of dirt and grime he was leaving behind himself. The sounds from outside faded into muffled whispers when he closed the window, and effectively scanned the room with a quick glance.

“You really have a way of making an entrance,” you mumbled under your breath as you gave him space and moved back towards the sofa. The sarcasm wasn’t meant to reach his ears but with the way one corner of his lips tugged up, you knew he heard every single word. Did this guy have super hearing?

The faintest glint of amusement danced on his features, despite the lack of emotion in his hidden eyes. You could tell by the way his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quirked up. “It’s part of the job description,” he replied to your remark casually, as if crashing into strangers’ apartments was just another Tuesday for him.

With a sigh, you shook your head and leaned back against the arm of the couch, watching him move around the living room. He didn’t sit, didn’t relax, didn’t even pause long enough to breathe out the weight of his situation. Instead, his gaze grazed over everything in clear sight — your paintings on the wall, the cluttered coffee table and its content, the pencils scattered across your notepad.

He was strange.

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking,” his response came quickly, he was probably distracted by the hand brushing against the edge of the window frame as he double-checked the latch.

You watched him carefully and tried to not let his presence throw you off. There was something unbelievable about seeing him there, in the heart of your apartment of all places, where every inch of the space was yours. Technically, he was in your territory now.

“Don’t worry,” Nightwing added with humor etching his voice when you didn’t say anything. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Take your time,” the dripping sarcasm got out the exact same reaction from him just like before, and you watched as he smirked at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a way that told you he was far too used to getting under people’s skin. Cheeky bastard.

This inspection of his lasted for a few more minutes before his pacing slowed down and his masked eyes landed on your beaten couch. The faint amusement in his features shifted, softening into something more thoughtful as he approached you. You stiffened when he got close enough. The light scent of cologne hit your nose from the proximity.

Gloved hand reached for your notepad, and you watched him again when he started tracing the soft pencil lines of your sketches. You seemed to watch him a lot tonight, but you didn’t dare to interrupt him. He was still a stranger and you lived alone. The vigilante could take you down without breaking a sweat, no comment.

The blue jays stared back at him from the page with their wings outstretched mid-flight, the faint smudge of pencil giving them a sense of movement, like they could lift off the paper and fly toward their freedom at any moment.

“You drew these?” the question slipped before he could think of it and the raw quietness of his tone surprised you.

You hesitated before you gave him the answer. “Yeah, I did. What, are you secretly an art critic, too?”

His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on the sketches. “Blue jays,” the murmur was more to himself than to you. “They’re nice.”

“Nice?” you echoed back at him, a small smile ghosting your lips upon hearing his praise. “That’s your verdict? Nice?”

This time, his wide grin returned as he glanced at you from your artwork. You decided on the spot that you liked this look on him. He could be all sharp edges and rough words, but the genuine smiles and clever remarks were a part of him, too. “Hey, I don’t know the first thing about art. But they’re good. Really good. Why blue jays though?”

You shrugged your shoulders, crossing your arms around yourself tightly. His clear interest in your work made you feel strangely exposed. “They’re . . . free. They can leave whenever they want, fly away from everything. I guess I like the idea of that.”

Nightwing was quiet for a moment, his masked gaze flicking back to the page like he was seeing something more between the colors and lines you’d drawn. He really was strange. “Makes sense,” he said finally. “They’re tough, too. Survivors.”

For a man who’d just come crashing through your window, being chased by a bunch of angry goons, he suddenly seemed relaxed. The birds meant more to him than he was letting on.

“Guess that explains why you like them.”

“What, you think I’m a blue jay now?”

A smirk made its way to your lips, and you felt a slight hint of satisfaction brewing inside you. You finally got him. “You said it yourself. Tough. Survivors. Seems fitting.”

It was a strange image, seeing someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders standing here, in your little apartment, admiring a simple sketch of a bird. Most people assumed he was a machine under the suit, someone who did their job because it had to be done. But you saw the life in his smile and heard the feelings in his voice. Red flooded his system like any other human being possessed. A beating heart and marred skin. He was human, even under all that armor.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, effectively breaking the silence that followed your cheeky remark. “I’m glad my art could distract you from the mad mob outside.”

That earned you a genuine laugh, low and rich. You noted he had a nice laugh. Everything about him was nice, though. Maybe it was because it was the first time seeing him from up close or maybe it was simply that he got your attention.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The next few days were rather busy. You had more work on your shoulders and your family kept pressing about your upcoming visit (spoiler alert; you didn’t really plan on visiting them). Your family members lived far from Gotham, which you were particularly glad for. One boring and busy day went after the other, and so did you with your life. You weren’t going to admit it, but you missed the sudden excitement the cocky vigilante brought with him. It was something new, something that wasn’t boring.

The wind carried a chill that nipped at the exposed skin of your face, numbing your cheeks in the process. The streets of Gotham were alive despite the coldness the new day brought with itself—the city never really stopped, even when it probably should have. Your tea sat untouched beside your half-eaten croissant, warm steam curling lazily above the porcelain cup, while your hand moved steadily across the pages of your sketchbook.

You were drawing another blue jay. This one was perched on a thin branch, its head cocked slightly with ruffled feathers as if caught in the same breeze that howled right now. The pencil lines of your drawing were sharper this time, more confident, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was because you couldn’t stop thinking about them—the blue jays.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before, your thoughts fixating on a subject, but this time it felt different. Ever since that night, when Nightwing had stood in the heart of your living room and held your sketch like it was something worth admiring, you’d been thinking about them more and more often. Birds had always represented freedom to you. A fleeting kind of beauty, one that wouldn’t last long. But now they carried something else. Something more.

You found yourself replaying his words in your mind while you shaded the curve of the blue jay’s wing, your pencil working instinctively as the low conversations and local sounds of the café faded into a hushed whisper. The bird began to take shape, its tiny body beaming with life.

The next thing you knew, the chair you were sitting on rocked slightly and your bag was violently jerked from the edge of the table.

It took you a second to process what had happened. One second, your purse was there, sitting by your side, and the next, it was gone. Snatched by a blur of unidentified movement. Your heart skipped an uncomfortable beat as you whipped your head towards the stranger, catching sight of the thief bolting through the crowded street.

Panic started to settle in. Your bag. Gone. It was gone. Everything was in there—your money, your keys, your ID. The grip of your fingers on the pencil in your grasp tightened while adrenaline surged through your veins. Without having any second thoughts, you shot to your feet. The chair scraped loudly against the floor and you bolted after him.

“Hey! Stop!”

The thief was already halfway down the block when you finally pushed past the crowd with alarming speed. Your boots moved without any more thinking. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was quick on his feet, his figure darting between pedestrians who shouted in surprise and yelped in confusion when he pushed into them to clear his path. Your lungs burned as you tried to push against your limits and keep up with him. The strap of your bag was swinging wildly in his grip.

“Stop!” you shouted again, although you doubted he would listen. He wouldn’t. People around turned to look at the chaos, but no one made a move to help. It was Gotham, after all — everyone looked after their own self.

The thief rounded a corner, successfully disappearing into an alley, and you felt a pinch of dread forming in your stomach. You didn’t know this part of the city well, and the narrow alleyway clothed in shadows sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine. Hesitation brewed in you for a moment before you made up your mind. Fuck it. You didn’t care that chasing him was reckless. You didn’t care that you had no plan for what you’d do if you actually managed to catch up to him. All you knew was that he had your bag—your life—and you weren’t about to let him get away with it.

Whoosh!

You barely registered the sound at first. Your focus was entirely on your thief, the dark shade of his jacket disappearing deeper and deeper, just beyond your reach. The puffs of air left your lips in a sharp shape and the cold air didn’t help much. But you didn’t stop running. You couldn’t stop.

Then, out of nowhere, a dark blur descended from above, landing right in your path.

“Whoa, hold it!”

The familiar drawl of his voice ringed in your ears before you saw him. You skidded to a halt, nearly losing your balance as his figure stepped into the sight. His arms were outstretched to block your way, and you felt a sudden burst of frustration upon his appearance. After all, you still had a bad guy to catch.

“Move,” moving to the side, you tried to sidestep him and start your chase again. Key word—tried. He shifted smoothly, following your movements like a mirror.

“Not happening,” he interrupted you firmly. “You can’t go running after some guy who might be armed. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“I don’t care. He has my purse—my money, my keys, everything! I have to—“

“You have to stay here,” Nightwing cut you off again, and you pushed the urge to strangle him away. His presence was infuriating, even though you could see every muscle in his jawline tightening and tensing. He was holding back, that much was evident.

“I don’t need your help.”

His hands shot out the moment you tried to brush past him again, gloves catching your biceps in a firm hold. It wasn’t painful, nor would leave any marks in the form of bruising, but he held you in a grounding manner. Almost as if he wanted to calm you down.

“Yes, you do,” the glint of seriousness in his gaze made you halt in your argument. He meant every single word. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed, you’re scared, and you feel like you have to do something. But this guy could have a knife, or worse, and you’re completely unarmed. He’s probably long gone by now, too. I’ll track him down and get your stuff. That’s a promise, Blue.”

You swallowed hard as the fire that fueled your intentions died a little bit. He was right, even though you didn’t want to admit it.

“Fine, but you better catch him.”

A small, reassuring nod and a gentle squeeze was all you received from the masked vigilante before he released you and took off after the thief. A moment later, you realized he gave you a nickname.

Blue.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The thick steam from your earlier shower still lingered in the bathroom, curling faintly in the air and clinging along the tiles and the edges of the mirror as you massaged moisturizer into your skin like you did every night. It was a routine by now. One you were excited to participate in. Your favorite playlist hummed softly from the phone propped up on the counter near the sink, the melody blending with the occasional rustle of the city outside your window.

Gotham was quiet tonight. No sirens. No shouts. Just silence.

You signed and leaned against the counter as you let the coolness of the white cream soothe your skin. The events of this day were rather . . . unpleasant. Your purse was gone, and the thought of all the things you’d lost still made your chest ache. Your keys, your ID, even your favorite pen you always kept in the front pocket—all gone, snatched in a moment. But at least you were safe. Nightwing had made sure you didn’t dive head first into what could have been a disaster.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him, either. The way he’d swooped in like some kind of a movie hero. For a man who lived his life surrounded by constant danger, he’d had this unmistakably calmness about him, like no problem was big enough to not handle.

Reaching for a soft towel, you patted your face dry with it when you finished the last step of your nighttime routine. A moment of realization hit you like a ton of bricks.

Your sketchbook.

Your heart sank deeply in your chest, and you froze, gripping the towel tightly. You’d left it at the café. It must’ve been sitting there on the table, untouched, while you chased after that thief like a reckless idiot. You would be lucky if you found it where you’d left it lying as there was a possibility of a tired barista throwing it away.

That notepad wasn’t just another notebook to you. It held weeks, months, of drawings—ideas, experiments, half-finished sketches that no one but you had seen. And the blue jays he praised . . .

The day’s exhaustion weighed heavily on your tense shoulders as you finally made your way to your bedroom. You switched off the light in the hallway, plunging your apartment into darkness save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the cracks in the blinds.

A dark shadow caught your eyes the second you stepped into the room and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest. There, casually perched on your windowsill was Nightwing, dressed in shadows.

His grin was the first thing you recognized on him, the wide stretch of his lips almost haunting in the darkness. His teeth appeared almost sharp, like canines of a predator. But he wasn’t here to hunt tonight. One gloved hand held your bag, dangling it from his fingers as if presenting you a beloved prize.

“Miss me, Blue?”

“Are you insane?” hissing, your palm resting against your beating heart. “You can’t just show up like that!”

A delighted laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he stepped inside like he didn’t invade your personal space and almost gave you a heart attack. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He tossed your stolen (now found) bag on your bed with a flick of his wrist. It took you a moment to process what you were seeing but when you did, your panic gave away to stunned disbelief. “You got it back?”

“Of course. I promised you.”

The smug look on his face softened after those words left his throat. You crossed the room in quick steps, rushing to get your hand on your belongings. Once it was in your hold, you rummaged through the inside. Everything was still there—your keys, your wallet, even the blue pen you favored so much. Relief flooded your system and you finally felt your shoulders relaxing. It was all returned.

You glanced at him from the bag, suddenly feeling somehow embarrassed. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“How about ‘thank you, Nightwing, for saving the day’? That would do,” the arch of his eyebrows told you he was enjoying this, if only a little. Smug bastard.

Rolling your eyes, you felt your lips tugging into a smile anyway. “Thank you for getting me my bag back. Happy?”

“It’s exactly what I wanted but yeah, very.”

A minute of silence stretched between you, one that wasn’t entirely comfortable but during that time, you studied him. He was leaning against the edge of your bed, just shy away from your side.

“You’ve been drawing them a lot, huh?”

“What?”

“The blue jays,” Nightwing gestured towards your desk with his free hand, the other behind his back. He looked strange, amusing even, but you didn’t dare to point it out. You followed his movements, eyes sliding toward your desk full of stray papers. He was right, the wooden space was filled with your recent works, and among them were multiple pieces of those blue birds. “You were working on them that night. At the café, too.”

Your lips parted slightly to voice your confusion, but the words didn’t come. He had noticed? And kept track of it? You didn’t know if you should feel creeped out or honored.

You didn’t get to react much before he perked up. “Oh, almost forgot,” pulling the occupied hand from behind his back, you noticed he held a small book in it.

Not just any book, though. Your sketchbook.

“You went back for it?” the disbelief dripped from the tone of your voice as you reached for the notepad. Your fingertips brushed against his gloves when you did so, and a spark of light crossed through you at the faint touch.

“Figured you’d want it back,” he tried to act nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders without a care in the world, but even if you knew him for such a short period of time, you could tell he was just acting. The subtle tone of his voice betrayed him, along with the rosy dust painting his cheeks. Your thumb traced the broken spine of the notepad. The thought of him chasing down your thief, retrieving your stolen stuff, and then returning for your more personal thing left you speechless. He didn’t have to, but he did—again.

He was so close to you now that the faint scent of rain and city clung to him, mixing with his natural fragrance. You could inhale it all while you saw everything, too—the sharp line of the bone in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brows like he was constantly deep in his mind, and even the way the moonlight caught on the pink dusting the top of his ears.

His pose shifted lightly, in a way that made the space between the two of you feel almost nonexistent. Your instinct told you to move, but your feet didn’t move.

“You’re . . . really something, you know that?”

Your heart beat against the bones protecting your ribs so loud you swore he could hear it. The white lenses of his black mask flickered all over your face, almost like he wanted to memorize every delicate detail, like he wanted to count every lash on your eye individually.

“You barely know me.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think I’m starting to.”

No response made its way past your lips. It died at the base of your throat, and no one could rip it out of you.

His hand reached out in your peripheral vision, slowly, like he was giving you an option to stop him whenever you felt like. There was no force between you, just purity of the actions. When you didn’t stop him, he moved bolder and louder, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before brushing against the damp strands of your hair. He pushed it back behind your ear, his touch lingering even there.

You could feel his breath mingling with yours, becoming one.

And then, just as you felt the unmistakable pull towards him, Nightwing pulled away. He took a step back like he remembered who he was.

“Take care of that,” he nodded towards your hold that clutched your sketchbook.

You opened your to say something, anything because what the fuck was he doing when he jumped out of the bedroom window, leaving behind the what ifs if he stayed with you.

⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .

The rooftop had become your favorite spot to disappear from your responsibilities. The view was magnificent with how the city stretched out in every direction and you could see everything. The chaos was muted up here, replaced by singing of the birds and occasional flutter of wings. This place was comforting.

You sat cross-legged on the concrete with your sketchbook propped in your lap, pencil in hand and mind open to new ideas. But the paper brewed alive with yet another drawing of a blue jay. Something about them had rooted itself in your head.

Pausing in your work to glance up at the sky, you were greeted by the most remarkable sight. Caught by the horizon where the sun dipped lower, brushing its streaks across the rooftop in a golden orange. The light breeze tugged at your hair, and you reached up to tuck it behind your ear. You managed to smudge a piece of graphite along your cheek upon the gesture. Your sketch was coming along slowly today; your mind kept wandering off and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

Which you were correct about.

“Nice view,” a familiar voice drawled.

You flinched upon the sound, nearly dropping the tools on your knees as you whipped your head toward the source. There he was, perched on the edge of the rooftop, the sunset behind him painting him like some sort of an angel. Nightwing.

“Seriously? Do you ever not sneak up on people?”

The cheeky smirk made its usual appearance on his lips when he hopped down from his spot, taking slow steps towards you. It was impossible to stay annoyed at him, with that face and easy charisma. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With a roll of your eyes, you couldn’t help but smile a little. “What are you even doing here?”

“Patrolling,” he replied casually to your question, just like he did the night he came to return your bag. Trying to act all nonchalant, but deep down he cares. You know that. He’s acting again. You could tell by the experience and by the tone of his voice. It suggested otherwise from his answer. His masked eyes shifted to your knees, noting the open book. “Another blue jay?”

“I’m trying to capture the way they look when flying. It’s harder than it seems.”

You watched him while he watched your drawings. The vigilante crouched down beside you, his knee bumping against yours softly, almost as in unsaid greeting. He was saying hello while you responded hi back. “You’re getting better.”

Silence draped over the two of you after that sentence left his throat, this one much more comfortable than the one you experienced the week before in your apartment. His elbows were resting on his knees, which bumped into yours from time to time in a silent gesture. Your eyes found the white lenses behind the domino mask.

“You’re not gonna disappear this time, are you?”

“No.”

Your sketchbook lay forgotten in your lap as you gazed into the void of his eyes. You couldn’t read the emotion in them but you somehow could tell every single feeling brewing inside him. It was written across his face, open like a book.

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

“So are you,” his reply was quick, like he knew exactly what to say the moment you spoke up.

A faintest tug at your lips brought the corners up in a smile, but it faltered the moment he leaned in, taking up your personal space inch by inch. He was moving slowly, giving you the opportunity to pull away, to reject him and his touch if you wanted to. But you didn’t.

His palm hovered near the curve of your cheekbone close enough to feel the warmth seeping through the glove. He cocked his head slightly to the side, as if silently asking you a question he was too caught up in to say aloud.

“You’ve got graphite on your cheek.”

“Do I?”

He brushed his thumb across the smudge, wiping it away. He didn’t pull away once your skin was clean.

You noticed the way his eyes briefly dropped to your lips before flicking back to meet yours, searching for an answer he so desperately wanted to hear.

If you didn’t want this, he’d pull back. You knew he would.

But you didn’t want him to.

Leaning in, you closed the little distance between you, and that was all the answer he needed. His lips met yours firmly, pressing against yours like a puzzle, like they belonged there. Your hands gripped at him, fingers moving to the base of his neck to grab a handful of his black hair and pulling slightly to deliver a message.

Although the darkness around you enveloped you, clothing the day in dark, you felt a spark of light every time his lips pressed against yours more urgently, licking and biting his way inside to get a taste of you. You felt it when his gloved hands tangled in your hair, tugging you impossibly close to make you his.

His forehead came to rest against yours when you eventually had to pull away for a fresh breath of air, both his and your breaths uneven.

“Tell me I’m not gonna regret this.”

“You won’t.” That was a promise.

Because when you’re lost in the darkness, you should look for the light.

[rosiecosy]

come back home୨ৎ

(seventeen x reader) — angst, comfort

fights weren’t common between you and the boys, but when they happened, they always felt big.

tonight was no different.

you weren’t even sure how it started—something small, something dumb. maybe you were feeling overwhelmed, maybe they were frustrated too. but words were said, voices were raised, and suddenly, the walls of the dorm felt too tight, their voices too loud, the weight of their concern too heavy.

so you left.

you barely registered the way the door clicked shut behind you, barely noticed the cold bite of the night air against your skin. all you knew was that you needed space.

—

your feet carried you to the nearest park without much thought.

it was mostly empty at this hour, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the only sound was the distant hum of passing cars, the occasional rustling of leaves. it was quiet. peaceful. a stark contrast to the suffocating tension in the dorm.

you wandered over to the swings, hands shoved into your pockets as you let out a slow breath.

maybe you had overreacted. maybe you should’ve just stayed and talked things through. but it was hard—being the youngest, the only girl in a dorm full of overprotective boys. they meant well, you knew that, but sometimes it was exhausting. too many opinions, too many voices telling you what to do, too many people hovering, worrying, questioning.

and you knew they only did it because they cared, but sometimes… sometimes you just needed to breathe.

you sat down on the swing, the chains creaking softly as you pushed off the ground. the rhythmic motion was soothing, the cool air helping to clear your mind. you closed your eyes, letting the weight of the night settle around you.

—

meanwhile, back at the dorm, the boys were spiraling.

"she’s not picking up," minghao muttered, lowering his phone.

"maybe she just needs a minute," vernon offered, though he sounded unsure.

"what if she doesn’t come back?" seokmin blurted out, eyes wide.

"don’t be ridiculous," woozi sighed, though his grip on his phone was tight.

"what if something happens to her?" mingyu asked, looking way too close to panicking.

"okay, enough," seungcheol cut in. "jun, jeonghan, joshua—you check the streets. hoshi, woozi, dino—stay here in case she comes back. the rest of us will check nearby cafés or parks."

"we’re not splitting up like a horror movie," jeonghan muttered, but he was already grabbing his coat.

—

you didn’t know how long you had been swinging when you heard footsteps approaching.

you blinked, slowing your movement, turning your head just in time to see seokmin and mingyu jogging toward you, relief washing over their faces the second they spotted you.

"there you are!" seokmin huffed, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

"we’ve been looking everywhere," mingyu added, slightly breathless.

you blinked at them, a little guilty but mostly just tired. "i was just getting some air."

your phone buzzed in your pocket—seungcheol’s name flashing across the screen. you hesitated before answering.

"…hi?"

"where are you? are you safe? why didn’t you answer your phone?"

"i’m fine," you sighed. "i just needed to clear my head."

"stay where you are. we’re coming."

you didn’t get a say in it.

—

when you got back to the dorm, thirteen pairs of eyes were on you.

seungcheol looked like he wanted to lecture you. seungkwan looked like he wanted to cry. dino looked like you had personally betrayed him.

"i was literally gone for, like, twenty minutes," you pointed out.

"twenty minutes too long," hoshi muttered.

"don’t do that again," jeonghan sighed, pulling you into a hug.

"we thought you left for good," dino mumbled.

your expression softened. "what? why would i do that?"

they all exchanged awkward glances.

"…because of the fight?" jun said hesitantly.

you blinked. "guys."

"you left without saying anything," joshua pointed out.

"because i knew i’d come back," you said. "i just needed some space, that’s all."

seungcheol exhaled, rubbing his temples. "just—next time, tell someone, okay?"

guilt crept in at the worry in his voice. "okay. i’m sorry."

they all nodded, still looking a little shaken but relieved.

"now, group hug?" seokmin suggested.

before you could protest, you were pulled into a mess of arms, warmth, and way too much body heat.

"okay, okay, i get it!" you laughed. "i’m not going anywhere."

"good," woozi muttered. "because that was awful."

"never again," seungkwan mumbled into your shoulder.

and despite everything—despite the fight, despite the worry—this felt like home.

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Honestly at this point, I'm really uninterested in hearing any gentile's "critique" of Judaism.

Whatever it is, whatever you're about to say, I am 1000% certain that at least one Jew has already raised this issue in ways that are thoughtful and centered in respect for other Jews. Probably lots of Jews; possibly whole theological movements. It's even possible that this particular topic has been under active discussion for hundreds or even thousands of years.

Someone has already said this better than you will. Someone has already raised whatever issue you have and grounded it in their own experiences of having lived a Jewish life.

So just leave it to us. Just stop. You're not helping. At best you're white-knighting, at worst you're actively contributing to an antisemitic majority culture.

"Well I've never seen Jews discussing [x] topic!" Your ignorance is not reality. These conversations are happening, possibly offline and at our Shabbos tables or shuls only, but they are happening.

"Well [x] topic impacts me personally!" Does it? Does it really? Because unless you live in Israel or Palestine, no Jewish group - no matter how seemingly numerous we may be in your city or neighborhood - is actually powerful enough to affect large-scale (or even typically small-scale) changes. Our fundamentalism is, for better or worse, directed at other Jews. The most intense thing I've heard of outside of Israel is a community getting together to petition the city to allow an eruv or a concentrated effort to make a few neighborhood blocks particularly Jewish because they're within walking distance of an orthodox shul. All other issues - no matter how ugly the opinions - are something that is part of much larger social trends that unfortunately some Jews happen to be engaging in. We'll deal with them; you focus on your people.

"I'm just listening to ex-fundamentalist Jews and white-knighting trying to help them be heard and not shouted down!" So first of all, if you knew anything about this topic, they typically call themselves OTD (which I'm sure you know what that stands for, because you've been listening) and secondly, great! You should listen to them. But their critiques are not your critiques. I can go on all day long about my family and their bullshit, and I can even (sometimes) appreciate you chiming in supportively. But it hits different when you go off chattering to other people about how my family is bullshit.

"Okay fine - I'm taking all that in and accept that my critiques aren't wanted, but what CAN I do, since I am literally vibrating in place about how Those People Over There Are Wrong and cannot simply ignore them?" Best thing you can do? Honestly? Learn about Judaism thoroughly from a variety of people, and learn how to be a good ally against antisemitism in all the spaces you want us in. Judaism not feminist enough for you? Learn how to make your feminist spaces safe and welcoming for Jews. Judaism not queer or trans enough for you? Learn how to make your queer and trans spaces safe and welcoming for Jews. Whatever movement you think we're not supporting enough or not showing up for enough, or whoever it is you think we're oppressing? Find the Jews who are doing that work (they exist, I promise) and listen to what they tell you about how to make your spaces be better.

[fashionteahouse]

out of your league - paul x reader

AN: there’s not enough words to describe my gratefulness for you guys supporting and showing love to all thirteen parts!!! xoxo 💜 <<prev >>next

Fingers were majestically buttoning up the shirt that hung on your body. Eyes looked at your somewhat nervous like state. Paul then rubs his hands down your shoulder and arms, soothing you.

He tilts his head as he gives you a reassuring look, he didn’t have to say words. You were grateful for this. He leans to give a slow lingering peck on your cheek as they grew hot.

Arriving at the event, you were really glad he came. It was a bit boring in your opinion. Tense shoulders were now relaxed. A nice amount of people were there but it wasn't crowded like you thought it would be. You and Paul were glued together by the hand, staring at each stranger's piece. Comments were made among you two as you both pick ideas off each other's brains. Very stimulating. Paul insisted he hold the watercolored piece you made, to keep it safe.

Walking to find another display of art, you whisper to him, "You have good skill. What if you became serious?"

He doesn't say anything but you both keep walking. You look at him, wondering if maybe he didn't hear you. But he opens his mouth to speak after some time, "I only want to draw you."

Words couldn't be found until he broke the silence once more, but with a chuckle. You look and he jerks an eyebrow up with a smirk. He gestures towards a nail on the white wall, with a nail sticking out. It almost seemed odd and out of place.

Paul moves forward and adjusts it on, you watch the canvas hang against the wall in front of you. He moves back and wraps an arm around you and pulls you to him with excitement, "See? Looks good, huh?"

You chuckle as you couldn't do anything but agree.

You and Paul drove all this way so you figured to make the most of it. Paul started speaking, which made you a bit of a chatter box. Paul had them laughing while they asked again to see more of what you make. You trying to reciprocate the same curiosity for their work was almost pointless, they were more interested in diving into your methods of work. Heads crowded your personal space as you swiped through your past work.

"I'm thirsty, do you want anything?" you ask Paul and he shakes his head no as he takes a closer look at a clay sculpted face with interest.

You reach for a can of soda and someone stands next to you.

"Excuse me, just grabbing a water. I'll be out of your way." you hear a frail like voice.

You move out of the way as you crack the soda can open and you watch the slight wrinkled hand grab the water bottle that was craved by him. He grabs a napkin as well and he looks at you.

You look at him back, wondering if there was a problem. You didn't know what to expect as he grinned a bit and said, "I knew this was going to happen." He said it in a knowing way but had a quirky sense of attitude about him. You could easily tell he liked to speak what was on his mind.

"What's that?" you ask him as you watch him while you take a sip. The insides of your cheeks fizz with acid as he shakes his head a bit and chuckles lowly.

He points a finger up, to portray the point that he's readying to make, "If you’re gonna do a cash grab, at least make it a good one." He chuckles again as you put the soda can from one hand to the next.

"And here I was afraid to bring mine." you say in a dry humorous tone.

He furrows his eyebrow as he takes another semi long look at you. "Well, what'd you bring?"

"You might call mine a cash grab." you tease and this makes him bring two hands up and shake them in denial, "Oh, no. I won't make assumptions. If I can't feel it, believe me I will know."

You guide him over to where it was still hanging up. Nothing else was by it. He crossed his arms as his mouth cracked open a bit as he studied the color filled space. He took small steps, as he raised his eyebrows, moving his lips but not saying anything.

Watching him made you turn your eyes, glancing at the area around you. It felt like you were intruding on something.

You felt a nudge on your shoulder which makes you look up and see as the older man looked at you with a sense of mindfulness or profoundness, you weren't too sure.

"Wow kid. How old are you?" he asked you.

You open your mouth to answer but you feel your body be mushed against something warm and hard.

"Old enough." A voice answers roughly. You look and were genuinely surprised to see Paul at your side as if he was there the entire time. He made sure to keep your shoulder under his hand as he held you close next to him.

The elderly man just pays it no mind, before taking one last look at your piece before nodding his head. As is he was agreeing to the conversation that the art piece was having with him. His arms fold behind him and he takes a look at you before giving you a tight smile before turning to walk away.

You watched him stroll as he takes a small sip from his water and look at other pieces. Your shoulder slump, something felt stolen. Not knowing what, you slightly shake the soda can in thought.

You move away, leaving Paul in his spot. Wandering around for a bit, the cheap free wine moves past your lips. You didn’t know how you sweet talked your way into serving it to you, but at the moment you were grateful. Swallowing it, you just decide to get lost in what's around you. You had a fresh cup of the free beverage as you stared at a painting that made you think about the cash grab comment. You snort as you bring the cup to your lips as you see exactly what the man was talking about earlier.

"Well, this is pretty… shit." you hear Paul's voice behind you, turning to see his face sporting a lax grin. You step to the side as you look at him for a moment. He takes his eyes away from what was in front of him art wise and focuses them you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks near you ear. You move back as you tell him nothing’s wrong.

"Are you ready to leave?” he asks you. You shake your head.

“You look bored.” he comments.

“I am now.” you under your breath and take the cup to your lips. His eyes narrow at you. Sighing, you turn to walk away to get yourself lost again.

There wasn’t much left to see. You did get compliments on your skirt. You felt it was too plain so you painted a bit of designs on it, the genuinely nice gestures made your day.

Throwing your plastic cup away, the man from earlier stops his conversation with a middle aged woman and makes his way over to you.

“Before I go, I should give you my number.”

Your eyebrows furrow as he was old fashioned by grabbing a napkin and asking the middle aged woman for a pen. Scribbling it down, he hands you the wrinkled, inky napkin and looks into your eyes, “Tell them you want to speak to John.” You nod and watch him walk away, heading towards the exit.

Staring down at the sloppy writing, all you could do was hope. Hope that this meant something important. Your thoughts couldn’t be thought about for long until the middle aged woman makes her way over to you with a polite smile.

“Hi, Y/N?” she asks softly as she makes small steps towards you.

You stick out your hand and nod. She gladly takes it and introduces herself. She’s the owner of the gallery telling you how your watercolor painting has been purchased.

“Really?” you asked in shock.

“Yes. We usually take 50%, but we didn’t do the work of the selling.” she tells you with a smile and hands you a check.

Staring at the numbers, your eyes almost bulge out. “Congratulations. You’re really talented. Please don’t be a stranger to us.” she tells you and sends a farewell smile.

You immediately find Paul. Outside, he’s leaning against the wall looking to the sky with his hands in his pockets. Deep in thought. Excitedly telling him everything all at once as soon as you get ear distance, he tells you to slow down, wanting you to be clear.

“Can you believe it?” you ask him after giving him blow by blow what happened.

“I‘m not surprised. Told you it was a good idea to bring it.”

He pulls you to him as you clutch him back.

“I can take you out to dinner.” he offers.

“You don’t have to- ” you start but he cuts off what you were trying to say, “I want to.”

Hot steam blows around both faces as you both grab your forks. Digging in, Paul takes a big bites of his food as you stare at him.

“Want to try some?” he asks as he catches your stare. You shake your head. Playing with your straw, you tell him, “I’m not telling you what to do, but you have to control your emotions.”

He doesn’t say anything until his food travels down his throat.

“Where is this coming from?” he asks you, off guard as searches your face.

Pausing from your food, you look at him with a hint of understanding and patience.

“What happened today almost didn’t happen if you wasn’t all like “old enough.” you say, dramatizing a bit, making him playful roll his eyes.

“I do not sound like that. What do you mean?” he asks again, feeling teased and in a carefree tone, but taking a pause from his own food.

You take him with you back to the journey of his cold demeanor when the guy who bought your painting asked how old you were.

“All I’m saying is, it would’ve looked suspect had it been the other way around.”

“Come on, Paul. You don’t trust me.” you tell him shaking your head.

“I didn’t trust him. There’s a difference…” he says then he looks at you, “I am now.” he says, making a horrible impression of your voice.

“Stop.” you say, trying to be firm but you’re laughing and he laughs as well.

“What am I going to do with you?” you say as you dig your fork back into your food.

“Love me.” he says swiping your cheek with his thumb but you playfully roll your eyes at the blush that he caused as he chuckles.

“Okay,” you start, finishing your chew, “I should act like that anytime a woman look at you.”

“Good. Maybe they will back off. I need help getting the message across to them that it will never happen. They never seem to get it.”

“Oh really?” you ask him in a sarcastic tone.

He makes a face that let you know, really. The laugh you two shared seeped with synchrony.

Taking a sip of your drink to cool your flushed face down, you hear a familiar voice.

“Omg, Y/N?” they say. It was in a surprised but welcoming tone.

Looking up, you see Bella Swan standing near you, offering a hug. Not wanting to stand up, you open your arm as she bends down and gives you a quick, shy hug.

Watching the blush on her face as she steps back. She looks over and you follow her eyes and see a tall, pale and beautiful man. He kept his eyes on her.

“I’ll um..text you. Edward just got back and…” she looks over at Paul then back at you and flashed you a friendly grin and throws a quick jab towards her boyfriend, “We’re having dinner too.” she say

You nod, nervously smile, “Okay. See ya.” you tell her as she waves goodbye.

Not wanting to turn your head, a clink of the fork on a in front of you makes you turn it anyways. A dissociative look is on Paul’s face as he rises up.

Setting your napkin down, you follow him out. You touch his arm but to your surprise, he takes yours instead.

The direction of the car wasn’t even thought of as he took you with his steps. “Paul where are we going?” you speak out, trying to keep your voice to a minimum.

He didn’t have to say anything as he drops it in a dead end alleyway with a fence, behind it being the gateway to the woods.

One swipe with his arm and the shirt you thought looked good on him, was scrunched up in his tight fists. You watched as turns his sculpted body into a perfect throwing position as the shirt shot in the sky as if the goal was a home run.

His muscular back is towards you as you hear his pants, trying his best to calm down. His heavy breathing doesn’t slow down. He wanted to talk to you, but his wolf was just on the tip of the edge of spilling out.

You made sure to stay at great distance, you look down, hating to see the sight before you. Your blinking started to turn blurry as you started to feel his emotions. Each second felt like a wave of intenseness of everything that he felt.

He finally looks at you, amplifying the message, “Fucking Bella Swan?” he grits out, trembling and pacing.

You shake your head as you drop your eyes, your stomach dropped.

“A fucking danger magnet who’s dating a fucking leech.”

You breath in and breath out quickly, now talking with your hands to flow the right words together, “I know. She never told me her last name, I swear.” you tell him, wanting to keep your word of being honest and truthful to him.

“Fuck that, Y/N! Stay away from..her.” he spits out, contorting his beautiful face into the most monstrosity of evil. He bends over, you felt him clearly in pain.

“Just let go. Just phase.” you coach on, wanting him to hurry up before anybody just miraculously happens to walk past.

The second you said the words, the blurred colors of his silver wolf. The beast taking over the man, standing to its true height. Four legs began to move, circling slowly, growling at nothing particular with wild eyes staring at nothing on the ground.

Finally looking at you, you stared at it back. It turned its full attention on you. You weren’t scared of the big animal. Walking slowly towards you, your feet was stuck to the ground. Staring ahead, neither eyes left each other’s sight.

The wet snout poked you in the belly, which jolted an electric round of shock through your body as you then watch the wolf sniff all around you, rubbing his fur against your clothes and skin. Circling around you, almost like a snake, you almost lose your balance from the weight being brushed against you. Licking your hand, you breathe out a chuckle as the ticklish feeling take over.

The wolf then turns hastily goes over the fence, being welcomed by the tree filled woods. It was fast. Something deep in you told you he was going to be okay. You turn and walk back into civilization filled streets, going in the direction of Paul’s car.

It was like it was in slow motion. Bella didn’t see you, but she was in the inside of his arm. You caught a glimpse of his amber colored eyes. You both didn’t halt your steps. Not wanting to back down his hard gaze, a display of unbothered optimism was on your face you thought of nothing but returning a gaze to him right back.

He finally backs down, shifting his eyes back in front of him as he lifts a crooked lip up and allows words to fall from his lips to Bella as he opened the car door for her.

Unlocking Paul’s car, you drive the car out onto the road to go back home. It felt quiet walking into the house. Your shoulder slump in the shower as the water beats down on you. Soap didn’t even touch your body yet as the trickles of water fall down your skin.

Your eyes pop open when you hear the closing of the bathroom door. Heart beating, the shower door opens and Paul steps in. Happy to see him, he embraced you before you could fully process his presence. Moving in, he immediately wraps his arms around you, his chest to your back. His face stays on the crook of your neck as you both listened to the rhythmic patter of the shower water.

The water ran cold but his body warmth that was still wrapped around you, barely made you feel any type of chill.

Carrying you out, he placed you in the middle of the soft bed. Climbing over you, he took you on a passionate journey with his mouth, pulling back to feel your tongue with his before reattaching his lips to yours.

He pulls away when you pant heavily, your bare chest heaving. He slides you to him and you interlace your legs with his. His arms cover and wrap around you. You take one arm go rest on him, placing a hand on his cheek. He looks down at you, pulling you a bit up him to gift you another wet kiss.

“Are you okay?” you whisper against his lips.

“We’re okay.” he says before solidifying it with a kiss. He lays back, you watch him as he flutters his eyes closed. You watch him for some time as his breath shifts, to steady slow breaths. Caressing his cheek with your thumb, you lay your head on his chest.

[badmuni]

↺ jay as a boyfriend ↻

jay is straight forward when it comes to his desires.

so once he sets his goal, it's done. he doesn't give up until he gets what he wants

and as he wanted you, jay invested in all the way

buying things, planning dates, and mainly, trying to help and support you in all aspects.

he doesn't say but he likes the chase. nothing too crazy, but he likes he idea of making you fall for him. that's why he gave so much of himself since the start

but the funny thing is, he fell hard before even you

and everybody knew about it.

jay, without realizing it, was talking about you all the time. literally anything reminded him of you

“oh... i feel like eating cookies” sunoo says randomly. “oh really? y/n loves eating cookies...” jay said from across the room and the boys started to laugh. “oh gosh he's putting y/n in the conversation again...” sunghoon responds. “until the end of the day we will know everything about y/n, for real” jake complained.

it was indeed true.

when you and jay became a couple, you inevitably became close with his friends, because he likes to show you off

also keeping you around him.

and since jay likes to keep you close, he would want to take you anywhere with him

because he has a busy life, jay thinks that any moment with you is precious, so even if he needs to go to the dentist, he asks “y/n do you want to come with me?”

sounds hilarious, but it's just the way he takes things.

jay values the closeness, the moments and every little efforts

he's a devoted man.

the type to buy you flowers, expensive jewelry and call you his love

cause being with jay you would never not feel safe.

he is always true, never hiding anything or lying to you

he brings all the stability to the table.

thinks about the future and isn't afraid to tell you the things he thinks you can achieve together

.... he wants his last name on yours (or your last name on his?)

it's that type of love.

exclusively, jay is very patient with you

if you don't know something, he'll teach you, or show you how to take it, and he will love to do that

jay feels good when he feels needed by you

the guidance role—loving you with all his heart like he never loved somebody before, and making that clear for you.

deep talker—who might whisper words like, “you. you're the only one for me. the only one i want and desire.”

jay can be very intense with his feelings and emotions

and because of that, jealousy brings out the worst in him

he may, perhaps, be jealous constantly...

if you look at other man, he would automatically feel bad

starts to overthink, “is she still in love with me?”

so you gotta give him reassurance.

just like heeseung, words are very important to jay

he likes to be listened just as much he likes to listen to you

if there are a lot of people around, and you're talking but they don't seem to be paying attention, that wouldn't be a problem, because jay would be there attentive to your every word.

when it comes to arguments, things can get complicated

jay is very stubborn...

he has many opinions and it's too hard to change his mind

since jay is talkative, i know, you know, that when he's stressed he might talk nonstop

keeps trying to prove you his point of view;

things can end up chaotic because of this

he is understandable though...

if he sees you don't want to talk, he gives you space, and may even pull away to give you some alone time

but he always comes back

jay can't stand being away for that long so he always comes back with the excuse, “i can't do this anymore, let's work this out, my love”

jay offers a lot of his affection as a form of apology

even prepares a bathtub with scented candles around it so you can relax

give you massage, or prepare some food for you.

even though jay is so good he also expects to receive the same good treatment

he likes it when you pet him, stroke his hair and tell him you love him

this is the moment he feels the happiest.

overall, jay is a loyal, stable, and undeniably... husband material boyfriend

who would always try his best to make it work, and give you the love you deserve.

୧୨

[ ★ ] — notes: pls pls, tell me if you find mistakes !

# masterlist

© badmuni, 2023

[flowery-mess]

Attending small concert with Noah

Let's say this is before BO blew up

You and Noah have been dating for a couple of months and you always talked about how you have to go to a concert together one day

So when Noah got tickets for this smaller gig he asked you to come with him

Neither of you knew the two bands that were playing that night, but you loved exploring new musicians

Noah took you out for a dinner before the concert started

You noticed he had similiar outfit as you as you were eating dinner

You came to his place before you went out, already dressed up, did he saw your outfit and chose his to match you?

You were still in the shy dating stage, so you thought you'd ask him later that night after some drinks

When you arrived at the small venue, more like a club, you bought two drinks

You had to do that when Noah went for the bathroom, because that boy never lets you pay for anything

So you weren't surprised with his little angry face when he saw you already purchased both od yours drinks

"I asked you out, I pay for you, it's that simple Y/N"

You just laughed and put one of the drinks in his hand with little "Cheers"

You talked a bit before the first band came on the stage and decided you're gonna stay in the back at the bar for now

You didn't look up the bands that are playing tonight, because you knew Noah wouldn't choose bad music

So you weren't surprised that you were moving in your seat and nodding your head along the music as Noah did the same

After the first set you decided to go stand in crowd

You chose to stand on the side to avoid mosh pit and also Noah didn't want to stand in the centre so people wouldn't see because of him

He stood behind you, his tall frame putting you in safe space

He had to bend down to talk to you, which was kind of hot

And after few drinks you decided to ask if he matched his outfit to yours

"Maybe I did, maybe I just grabed random clothes from my closet" he said with a little smirk on his face

You got caught up in his eyes, exploring his face with the lights dancing on his face

The band started playing and you both started moving to their catchy songs

Through the concert you felt Noah's hands around your waist or your shoulders as he danced with you

He bend down to kiss your head few times

You knew you two had similiar taste in music so you were not surprised you both liked the set

You exchanged "I'm adding this to my playlist" every other song

Now and then you turned around to watch Noah, if he's having fun

Every time he looked down at you and asked if you're okay

When they finished their last song you agreed to have drinks in the bar next to the venue

You talked about the concert with the first drink, sharing your opinions

You agreed that it was not the last time you went out like this

After few drinks the conversation became more personal as you were still getting to know each other

You talked about family, previous relationships, what do you want and expect from life

You had lot in common so the conversation was natural

You didn't even realise what time it was until the waitress came to take last orders

Noah insisted on paying for you, so you let him

But you took that as a chance to invite him to your place, since you didn't finish your conversation and you told him you owe him a drink anyways

On the way to your place Noah held your hand, wasn't the first time, but the butterflies in your stomach felt like it was

You gave him quick tour of your small apartment

Then you sat in your living room, drinking some old white wine you found in your kitchen and talked some more

When Noah said he should leave, you didn't know if he expected you to ask him to stay or not

But you wanted him to stay for the night for more than one reason

So when he was saying something you didn't listen to, because you were too busy thinking if he's gonna say yes or no, you just said it

"Would you like to stay for the night?"

He looked surprised so you panicked

"You don't have to, it's just late and I thought maybe you could sleep over, but I understand if you want to go home if you have plans for tomorrow morning I get it, sorry it was jus-" and he went for the cliche and shut you up with a kiss

"I would love to have a sleepover" he laughed at the word sleepover like you were two teenage girls having sleepover, but instead he was just a boy who you were falling for

[starsreminisce]

SJM Romance Week Day Seven Free Day

Across the Universe

wordcount: 5100 for @sjmromanceweek

Summary: Elain is finally forced to make a choice, and the Mother intervenes by revealing every possible outcome that awaits her.

Read on AO3 or continue below

Elain glared at the wall. She couldn’t seem to fathom how it had come to this—being preached about her own choices by not only her youngest sister but also her mate—yet here she was, suffocating under the weight of their opinions. Hurt and fury tangled together, bound by the familiar sting of having her life dictated.

The same story, playing out in yet another endless cycle.

It wasn’t until the silence had finally settled into Rhysand’s office that she realized she’d been dismissed, dismissed from her own life. The tightening of her jaw extended into her standing, mumbling out a perfunctory goodbye before slipping out the door.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

Lucien’s expression softened as though he’d heard the thought through the bond. Still, he said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head—a small, empty gesture—and walked out the door. No second glance. No words.

Elain exhaled shakily and turned toward the garden, the only place where her thoughts didn’t feel like they were spiraling out of control. She laid down in her nook, tilting her face to the sky. She enjoyed the quiet. It was comforting, and she fell asleep without noticing.

She had left her garden when her eyes opened again.

Rather, she was standing in a huge city with a smoky, chaotic atmosphere. Overhead, a massive glass palace with jagged spires that gleamed like knives.

A quiet but anxious voice called her name. She turned abruptly.

Lucien put out his hand and stood a few steps away. His face was tense with anxiety, and the wind was ruffling his ruby red hair. “The boat to Doranelle leaves soon,” he said, his golden eye glinting in the pale light.

She stared at him. “What…?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. His hand brushed hers, warm and steady, as though he could anchor her.

“My heart,” he said softly. “We don’t have much time.”

Her fingers trembled as she slipped her hand into his. He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms as a chill wind swept through the cobblestoned streets. His warmth pressed against her shivering frame, but it did little to quiet the fear she felt.

“Are you sure?” her voice barely more than a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “They’ll sack Terrasen. We need to go now.”

“Lucien, I’m—” Her voice cracked.

“Do not be afraid, my love,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She sniffled, and Lucien tugged her closer to wrap his arms around her as though to shield her from the world. The noise of the city seemed to dim, melting into a distant hum until it was just the two of them—just the bond and the steady, grounding weight of him. His breath brushed her ear as he whispered softly, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It was such a soft, intimate statement that her breathing hitched. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his voice settle over her. And when she opened them again, the world had shifted.

It was still Lucien. But not. His hair was woven into intricate braids, the ends tipped in beads of copper. Tattoos curled along the sides of his neck, trailing down to vanish beneath his shirt, and a small silver hoop glinted in his nose. He seemed both entirely foreign and completely familiar, the bond between them thrumming as if to remind her that no matter the form, this was him.

Elain blinked down at herself. Her dress was gone, replaced by a strange garment that clung to her body like a second skin: a pair of pants—stiff yet soft, hugging her legs down to her ankles. They were a stormy blue, faded in places, and patched with tiny frayed holes. Above them, a top bared her midsection, her skin catching the light of some unseen source. And there, nestled in the hollow of her navel, was a tiny jewel.

She touched it absently, still reeling, her voice taking on a coquettish edge to mask her confusion. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she said, her eyes meeting Lucien’s. “The drop is just … scary. It’s some Asteri bullshit to keep us in line.”

But Lucien just smiled—sharper, hungrier than she was used to—and closed the space between them, and his lips crashed on hers with a fervor that stole her breath. It wasn’t the soft, tentative affection she was used to. This was raw, consuming. And she met him with equal intensity, her hands tangling in his braids as though this version of him was a male she’d known forever.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, her head spinning. A laugh bubbled out of her, giddy and reckless, and she said, “Okay.” Her heart raced as if it were leaping ahead of her, knowing something she didn’t. “Okay. Whatever happens, as long as I’m with you forever.”

Lucien’s hands framed her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. His voice dropped to a low, steady vow. “I am your anchor,” he said. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Her laugh burst into a delighted squeal as if she’d shrugged off every burden that had ever weighed her down. But then—then the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her stomach plummeted, her breath caught in her throat, and the world began to unspool around her, spinning apart into fragments of color and light.

She was falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she landed with a soft thud. The fall ended not on hard ground, but on something worn and familiar. A couch. She blinked, disoriented, her breath catching as she realized she was curled up against Lucien. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from some sort of strange box directly in front of them, flickering with moving images. His hand had been laid lightly on her waist, and somehow she was draped over him, her body nestled comfortably against his.

“Did you fall asleep again?” His voice was a soft murmur, teasing but warm.

“No,” she replied defensively, even as her face heated. “You’re just really warm.”

A pause. Pregnant and heavy, though she couldn’t quite say why. She shifted to look up at him, catching the faintest curve of a smile on his now-human face. He reached for a small, smooth rectangle beside him, pressing a button that made the flickering images vanish into black.

He turned to her, his expression softer now, quieter. “You know that I’ll support you,” he said, the weight of his words pulling her from the haze of sleep.

“I know,” she replied unsurely. “It’s just... restaurants fail all the time. Even the good ones. What if it doesn’t work out?”

Lucien shook his head, brushing her hair back from her face with such tenderness that she stilled. “And what if it does work out? You’ve landed the job of your dreams, Elle. We’ve been saving for this. For you. You can take this chance.”

Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. “Loosh...” The gratitude, the fear, the love—it all swirled together.

“No matter what happens,” he said as though it were a vow, “I will always be by your side.”

Even as the dream threatened to fall apart once more, she was grounded by his familiar words. She leaned forward and kissed him, closing her eyes. For an instant, his warmth tethered her, steadied her.

Because when her eyes opened again, the world had shifted once more.

They were no longer on the couch. No longer in the quiet glow of that strange, cozy room. Now they stood on the deck of a massive ship, the scent of salt and sea spray in the air. Her hair wildly whipped around her face in the wind, and when she looked down, she realized she was in a swashbuckling corset, her belt adorned with a gleaming cutlass.

Lucien stood beside her, his ruby red hair tied back in a loose queue, a few strands escaping to frame the sharp angles of his jaw. His left eye was covered by a worn leather eyepatch, lending a rakish edge to the cocky grin curving his lips. His open collar let a glimpse of his chest show beneath the sun bleached skin. That sight alone was enough to curl her toes.

Her body reacted instinctively, the heat pooling low in her belly as a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had no idea what was feeding the hum of energy within her except that it needed to find release.

“Ah, well, love,” he drawled, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ready for our next adventure?”

“Not quite,” she said in a coy invitation.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she leaned back against the ship’s railing. She liked this aspect of herself even though she didn’t recognize it. Intentionally and purposefully, she reached out and let her fingers slide over the front of his trousers, her lips curling into a slow, playful smile.

His single visible eye darkened with interest, his grin sharpening into something wicked. “Oh?” he asked, his tone a mix of challenge and promise.

Her fingers gave him a firm squeeze, and the next moment his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. Her hands slid to the curve of his ass, pulling him closer as he pressed her back against the railing. His lips moved to her neck, suckling and grazing the sensitive skin there until he elicited a moan from her lips.

“Lucien,” she gasped. “I need you.”

“Not yet, love,” he murmured.

She barely had time to process his words before she heard his knees hit the wooden planks beneath them.

Her breath hitched as his hands slid up her thighs, steady and reverent. And then his tongue swept against her, deliberate and skilled, sending waves of pleasure through her that made her body tighten. Her fingers curled around the railing behind her, the rough wood grounding her as her head fell back.

“Lucien,” she gasped, her breaths coming fast and shallow, her body trembling as the pressure inside her coiled tighter and tighter—until it wasn’t.

Her gaze dropped to him, and he looked up at her, his russet eye burning with unwavering intensity—like she was the only thing in his universe.

“Show me what comes next,” she breathed, caught between the moment and the possibilities beyond it.

Lucien rose to his feet, and when his lips met hers, she tasted herself on him. Heat coiled low in her stomach at the intimacy of it, at the way his hands tightened at her waist, tracing slow, deliberate patterns only she could decipher.

When he pulled away, she didn’t understand the flicker of disappointment that followed. Didn’t understand why she had expected—anticipated—more. Why the absence of him inside her felt like something withheld rather than something simply not given.

She needed him.

Impatience flared, sharp and insistent.

“Wherever you want,” he murmured against her lips.

She hummed, her thoughts spinning between destinations and adventures, the endless possibilities stretching before them. Lucien grinned, as though he could read her indecision, as though it delighted him.

His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from her face before he whispered, “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Before she could reply, the ground beneath her shifted. It gave way like sand pulled out by the tide, and she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she found herself cradled in his arms. He carried her effortlessly, dressed in a sleek tuxedo, while she looked down at herself in a flowing white dress. She blinked as they walked through a crowd of laughing people tossing rice into the air. The grains danced like tiny stars, glittering in the golden light.

“You’re my husband?” she asked with disbelief as an unexpected thrill raced through her.

He smiled down at her, that familiar smile doing its work with her heart skipping a beat. “That way, no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She shut her eyes and leaned in for a chaste kiss, tears of happiness blinding her eyes. And in that moment, the world seemed complete and at peace.

But when she opened her eyes again, everything was different.

And now they faced a peaceful farm shrouded in mist. Beyond their small house, rolling hills stretched on and on, covered in fog that blurred the edges of the world

She glanced down at herself, taking in the simple woolen dress that clung gently to her pregnant belly. Her hands instinctively cradled the bump. She looked up again and nearly burst into laughter.

Lucien was standing by the door of the cottage, his arms crossed, his red hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a skirt—a plaid pattern of deep red and green that swayed lightly in the breeze. Somehow, it suited him perfectly, as though he belonged here more than anywhere else.

He turned to her and grinned, a flash of white teeth and easy confidence. “Ye shouldn’t be on ye feet,” he said, his tone playfully chiding.

She answered with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aye,” Lucien said, stepping toward her. His gaze softened with concern. “Ye ken I worry about you. And the bairn.”

She didn’t really comprehend the weight of the words that hung between them. Or perhaps she didn’t want to understand. She felt a quiet, irrational fear stirring in her chest, like if she looked too closely at the moment, it might break apart.

Lucien knelt slightly, his large hand brushing over her rounded stomach with the lightest of touches. The tenderness in the gesture was enough to make her throat tighten.

“I told you,” he murmured as she closed her eyes. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side, ken.”

When she opened them, he was light itself.

His red hair glinted like sun rays, his skin aglow with an otherworldly brilliance. The golden threads in his robe seemed to shimmer around him like beams of buttery sunshine. She looked down at herself and found she too was transformed. Her body felt timeless, eternal. Her dress was a gown of rich greens and browns, vines and flowers blossoming along its seams. The ground beneath her bare feet pulsed with life.

“Solas,” she whispered as she opened her arms to him. The taste of the name was as ancient as it felt like home, something that always resided in her mouth. “It has been a year, my love. I have missed you immensely.”

His mismatched eyes eased as he drew closer, softly entwined his fingers into her locks. “Cthona,” he murmured, his voice like sunlight warming her skin. “A year too long.”

Their kiss was the same as it had always been—an unbroken promise, a memory of all they had been and all they could be. It consumed her, grounding her and unmooring her all at once.

As they parted, his hands cradled her face, wiping away the tears that trickled down her cheeks with his thumbs. He added in a low voice, “No matter how many years pass. No matter how many lives we endure, I will always be by your side. You are the beginning and the end of me, Cthona. You always have been.”

His words were both heavy and light as they buried deeply into her chest. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his, relishing the instant, the assurance, and the eternity in his arms.

She opened them again, and the world flickered as her eyes met his. The golden glow fractured into shards of color and light, spinning faster and faster as though the universe itself were turning pages too quickly for her to keep up.

She watched as the flickering slowed, revealing hundreds—no, thousands—of versions of him. Lucien, over and over, in lives she hadn’t lived but somehow knew by heart. 

Lucien the knight in shining armor, with a billowing red cape as he knelt before her, sword in hand and devotion etched on every plane of his face.

Lucien the scholar: ink-stained fingers trailing across the pages of a worn leather-bound book, looking up at her in quiet wonder.

Lucien the musician, sat cross-legged with a lute balanced on his knee; deft hands coaxed a melody that seemed meant only for her.

Lucien, waiting for her at a café, his hand around a steaming cup, his eyes locking to hers with a tentative, heart-stopping smile.

Lucien, his calloused hands wiping the sweat from his brow, his golden eye glinting as he shared a small, secret grin just for her.

Lucien in finery fit for a king, his crown tilted slightly askew as though he’d just removed it for her.

Each version of him looked at her the same way—with devotion that burned through time itself. With longing that reached across lifetimes.

Her heart beat furiously at the kaleidoscope of him. She could feel it in every thread of her being: no matter where, no matter when, he was hers.

The images blurred together, their faces melting into one until there was only him. Only Lucien.

And in every life, every version, his voice rang out a promise she could never forget.

“I am glad that I am in a life where I am yours.”

Her breath hitched, and just as she reached for him, the world went pitch black.

Then, slowly, the light returned.

She was standing in a bustling market, surrounded by the scents of autumn—crisp leaves, spiced cider, and freshly baked bread. Fae farmers called out their wares, laughter and conversation filling the air in this market. The colors of the Autumn Court blazed around her, vivid and warm, but her heart froze as her gaze landed on him.

Lucien.

He stood by a stall, leaning close to a female with delicate butterfly wings that shimmered in the sunlight. Perched on his shoulders was a little girl with the same ruby red hair, her chubby hands gripping his hair for balance. A boy stood on the other side of the female, holding her hand as she pointed at something on the stall.

Lucien’s expression softened as he listened to her. His voice was low and full of care, full of love. Elain couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She wanted to blink, to squeeze her eyes shut and will herself into the next dream—but nothing happened.

This wasn’t a dream.

Her feet carried her toward him before she could decide whether it was the right thing to do. Every step felt like threading molasses. She stopped beside him, and time seemed to stretch unbearably as Lucien turned toward her.

His hands slackened at his sides, his face draining of color. “You’re my mate,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What did you say?” the female beside him asked, her delicate face wrinkling in confusion.

Elain blinked rapidly, trying to keep her tears at bay, but the words rang in her head like a bell she couldn’t unhear. She hadn’t thought—hadn’t considered—that there might be lives where he wasn’t… hers.

She turned to run, unable to face it. The market faded, turning into a forest and she collided with him. His arms closed around her, and her lips found his with desperate eagerness, as though she’d been starving for him.

“Elain,” his voice was strained, raw with anguish. “You and I can’t be—”

“But we are mates,” she sobbed, clawing at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though holding on could stop the world from tearing them apart.

“In another life, Elain,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of the words. His russet eye shimmered with unshed tears, his hands trembling where they cupped her face. “You are my mate. You are everything. But they’ll kill her if I leave… if I leave them.”

The words slammed into her, hollowing her out.

This was cruelty. This was torture. If Elain was shown worlds where she and Lucien lived and loved, then now, she was forced to endure those where Jesminda lived—and Lucien wasn’t… couldn’t… was forced not to be hers

Not if he didn’t want Jesminda to be killed. Not if he didn’t want them to be killed. Not if he didn’t want to break apart the family he had made, the home he had built—the home that shattered the moment his face paled and his voice, broken and haunted, whispered that he had been wrong about his mate.

Stolen moments that rarely saw the light of day.

And it always ended the same way before she was dragged into the next scene.

She shook her head violently, the word slipping from her lips like a plea. “No… no…”

As though anchoring himself to her one final time, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. His breath trembled as he whispered, barely more than a rasp, “No matter what, I will always be by your side, even when I cannot.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging in, desperate to keep him close. Desperate to change the ending.

But before she could reply—

The world yanked her away.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

No.

“So you made a decision,” Lucien said quietly.

This didn’t happen.

“I did,” Elain said, her voice tight as she avoided his gaze.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

Lucien looked down at the floor and nodded slowly.

THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN.

Time stretched unbearably, each second sinking heavier into her chest. Her stomach churned with dread, her body frozen as though trapped in amber. She wanted to stop it, to speak, to reach for him—but the words stuck in her throat, strangled by fear.

Lucien looked up at her one last time, his russet eye filled with something she couldn’t name—something that both softened and broke her. A bittersweet smile curved his lips, fragile and fleeting, like a memory already slipping away.

“Perhaps in another life, lady,” he murmured, his voice low and aching, “I would have loved to be yours.”

He turned and walked away.

The door closed behind him with an unbearable finality, the soft click echoing in her mind like a thunderclap. It shattered something deep inside her, something fragile and vital, leaving her hollow.

He didn’t… he didn’t say it.

The thought spiraled, tearing through her. He didn’t say the words. The words she needed. The words that had anchored her through lifetimes and dreams.

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as if the very air had turned heavy and toxic, pressing down on her chest. The ache swelled, unbearable, until it broke free.

The scream tore from her throat—raw, feral, endless.

She screamed.

She screamed.

She screamed until her lungs gave out, until the sound tore through her and left her shaking. Then, as if pulled from deep water, she jolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

Her breaths came wild and jagged, her chest heaving.

The room was dark, the edges blurred, her mind still clinging to the shattered fragments of unfinished dreams. The sheets beneath her were damp with sweat, tangled around her legs as if they, too, had tried to hold her in the nightmare.

“Lady?”

His voice cut through the haze, soft and hesitant, a lifeline pulling her back into the present.

Her head snapped toward him. Lucien was seated in a chair beside her bed, his posture rigid as his knuckles turned white from gripping his knees. His red hair was untied, a few unruly strands framing his face as lines of the worry etched into his features.

“Lucien,” she croaked. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” he said soothingly, his russet scarred gaze steady on hers. But there was something beneath the calm surface of his voice—something taut, uneasy, as if he were afraid of the answer.

She pressed her palm against her forehead, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the images that still swirled in her mind. The pirate ship. The chapel. The endless lives. His words. Perhaps in another life...

A sob broke free before she could stop it, raw and wrenching. The ache of the last dream lingered like a phantom, overshadowing the fleeting joy of the happier ones.

The idea he wasn’t hers. The idea he couldn’t be. The idea he … didn’t want to be.

Lucien moved quickly, pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She accepted it with shaking hands, chugging it down until her parched throat eased. When the glass was empty, she set it aside and sank back into the pillows, her chest still tight with grief she couldn’t fully name.

She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet weight of it. She turned her head toward him and saw it—etched in every line of his face, in the tension of his shoulders, in the shadows that darkened his expression. Worry.

“What happened?” she asked again, her voice stronger now but still unsteady.

Lucien shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I couldn’t feel you,” he admitted, his voice low, as though saying it aloud might make it worse. “It was like you were taken from me. I went to your alcove to check on you, and you were dreaming—restlessly, violently. There was something about it…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he struggled for words. “It didn’t feel right. So I carried you up here.”

Her throat tightened at the image of him finding her, of his concern pulling her from whatever darkness had held her captive. “Did Rhys…”

Lucien shook his head before she could finish. “I thought he’d be the last person you wanted to see.”

They sat in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths. Elain turned her gaze to the ceiling, her tears slipping down her temples as she reoriented herself. But the one constant, the only constant, was him. Lucien. His love had followed her through every version of existence.

“You came for me,” she said quietly. “Even when you knew…”

She didn’t know how to finish her sentence. Didn’t know how to properly express the enormity of what she felt, the gratitude tangled with sorrow. But Lucien didn’t hesitate.

“I would have,” he said softly, his voice steady, unwavering. “Because no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

This quiet conviction in his voice was the final pull of threads, and she came utterly undone. A sob tore from her chest as she sagged, burying her face in her shaking hands, her grief and the relief of being found when still so lost, breaking her completely raw and open.

And then… warmth. From their bond.

She turned toward him, and a shared understanding passed between them—silent, familiar. Like then. Like in a thousand lives before. Like now.

Wordlessly, he stood from the chair. It was the first time in this world, but hundreds of times before, that he kicked off his shoes and slipped beneath the covers. She shifted without thinking, making space for him. Always on the same side. Always with the same arm tucked beneath her.

But for the first time in this universe, she turned into him. Pressed her forehead to his chest as his hand found her back, tracing slow, steady circles.

She exhaled, feeling the tension leave her body, but when she looked up at him, she caught it—the flicker of confusion in his gaze. As if he had never done this before, yet somehow knew exactly how to.

“Was it a bad dream?” he asked softly.

“It could have been.”

His fingers stilled for just a breath. “Is there something I can do to make it better?”

She couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Maybe if you were to get a tricorne hat.”

Silence. Then a chuckle—low, warm. She looked up at him again, finding the amusement lingering in his mismatched eyes.

“Promise?” she whispered.

His smile softened. “Promise.”

A promise.

A promise that even in the darkest dreams, even when the world tried to tear them apart, he would always find her.

[ryuzakemo128]

The Carina's Heart Galaxy

Chapter Two: What The Fuck?

Pairing: Poly!141 x Female Reader/ You

Content Warning: Sex doll mention, female reader is slight unhinged (Soap's Opinion), Female reader loves explosives (Much to soaps fear and delight imo), possible swearing and cussing?. If I missed something let me know.

Words: 1602

Dividers Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Masterlist

Summary: Who knew I’d meet you again so soon?

Who knew I’d meet you again so soon? Here I thought my day couldn’t get any weirder. I spoke to you last night and now I’m speaking to you again. Except this time, you’re in your space themed pyjamas, galaxy socks with cats prints, shark shaped slippers and a shark beanie. Kate said she was important, or rather her brain is. I didn’t know why until I saw you midway through your laser gun experiment round.

The charcoal grey brunch coat hanging on for dear life on your shoulders while your giant full ball of a cat watched with disdain of the noise you were making. The pink collar with the rose gold name tag with Mr. Whiskers in cursive engraved into the metal tag. The regal behaviour from a cat large enough to be the side of a medium sized dog remained palpable.

“Hey! You. You’re the guy I was talking to yesterday. Or am I just imagining things?” you remarked. “I forgot to ask how you liked dessert last night. The chocolate fudge I mean.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at your question and the amount of high energy you managed to summon at the sight of me, “It was rather sweet and salty. Though I am surprised you remember that.”

You looked at me with puzzlement, “Why wouldn’t I remember? That was a pretty intense chat we had last night. Besides sea salted caramel fudge is the best kind of fudge.”

Soap raised an eyebrow at the mention of your favourite type of fudge, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Sea salted caramel, you say? That’s quite the taste you’ve got there, Doc.”

“Specific, but the diner I usually go to at night sometimes. They make the best kind.” You commented. “Sure, the whole diner is a little suspect on the outside. But man, the fudge is the best.”

Gaz nodded, his eyes lighting up with the same enthusiasm. “I know the one. They’ve got a secret recipe. The owner is an ex-navy chef. He’s got a taste for the sweet and salty combination.”

“Yeah. Not too far off from my father’s taste for dipped buttered toast with his porridge.” You quipped with a smirk.

Gaz looked to be reeling in from the conversation we had last night after I returned to the safe house. Whistling an upbeat tune, it took him by surprise, in fact it took them all by surprise. He never whistled like that. Ever.

“What’s got you so chipper?” Soap asked, his eyes looking at me with suspicion.

Ghost looked at me with equal amount of suspicion, he also questioned, “What has you in such a good mood?”

I smirked from ear to ear, feeling the energy in the room shift slightly. You had a certain charm about you that was infectious, even if you didn’t realize it. The way you spoke about your love for science and the mundane yet delightful things in life was refreshing. It was as if you didn’t have a care in the world, despite the chaos that probably swirled in your mind with your job.

“I met someone at the diner.” I told them. It did nothing to ease their suspicions. “Ah, you should have seen her. Beautiful in her midnight blue dress with silver stars.”

“Talking my ear off about quantum entanglement and how she doesn’t believe ‘fate’ exists.” I continued after a breathy pause. “And her car? A gorgeous vintage.”

“The biggest, largest bonus of the entire night? She grabbed my hand, wrote her number with a pink sharpie and bought me dessert before she left.” I was rambling. I knew that. But how could I not? How could I not ramble about the woman that made a lasting impression on me?

You probably could kick my arse, and I’d thank you for it afterwards. A strong woman like you? Rare. A strong and smart woman like you? Even rarer.

It was when they saw you disintegrate a soda can in your pyjamas while your cat looked on with disinterest. Soap saw you shoot the thing in your makeshift shooting range with your makeshift targets made from a stack of empty soda cans. He only found you there after hearing the evil cackle you made from behind the brick fence.

Things started making far more sense after seeing you in person finally. Though the amount of sense wasn’t all that much. The level of unhinged is only amplified by the fact that you couldn’t be bothered to change out of your pyjamas first.

Soap recognised you from an explosive drill you did to ‘get a better handle on things’. He was far too scared to ask what you meant at the time. The grenade you altered and wanted to test out? How you said it was meant to replicate the effects of outer space in a compact form.

You are a contradiction of sorts. A living, breathing contradiction, paradox and conundrum altogether. “How did you like that grenade I made?” you asked Soap. “I have made a few upgrades since the last version. I can’t wait to show you the progress I made.”

You brought them up on the digital whiteboard on the wall of your lab. The upgrades were: sticky grip, vanta black coating, heavily reduction in shrapnel, a more concentrated burst of energy, the ability to create a small vacuum around it and, my personal favourite, a self-destruct mechanism that would make Q proud.

Soap looked at you with a mix of awe and fear. “Jesus, Doc. That's... That's some serious shit you're playing with here. How the hell do you even come up with these ideas?”

"Regular grenades, grenade launchers, they're all so... pedestrian." You say with a dismissive wave of your hand, a hint of mischief glinting in your eyes. "But a grenade that can stick to surfaces, reduce collateral damage, and create a temporary vacuum? That's a game-changer. It's like bringing a piece of the cosmos into combat."

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of your words hanging in the air like the aftermath of a supernova. Then, Soap laughs, a boisterous sound that fills the lab. "You're insane, Doc, you know that? In the best possible way." He says, clapping his hands together with the kind of excitement that only a seasoned soldier could muster for something so potentially destructive.

"I named it after the Fibonacci sequence." you told him.

Soap looked at you with bewilderment. "The Fibonacci sequence? As in, the mathematical sequence that appears in nature?"

"Yes. That one." you were buzzing with so much excitement.

Soap nodded slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, Doc. You've officially out-nerded us all. A grenade named after a maths sequence that's supposed to replicate space?"

“Just wait till you see my gaming set up.” You stated. Hinting at one of your hobbies you have.

You showed off your gaming set up in the room beside your lab. The framed posters of movies you enjoyed on the walls. The mouse pad with the Doom Slayer on it and your computer had a Lady Maria from bloodborne animated wallpaper on all three of your computer monitors.

The life-sized statue of The Master Chief from the Halo game series. The rug with the Millennium Falcon printed onto it. Though the sex doll you had in the other corner of the room was rather specific, with the j-cup sized breasts, blonde hair, height of 5 foot 3 and brown eyes.

“Is that...?” Soap’s eyes widened, pointing to the doll.

"A sex doll? Yes." you answered.

Soap looked at the doll again, his expression unreadable. "What's the story behind that?"

"Apart from the outfits I put on her to see if it'll look any good on my own figure?" you asked.

Soap’s face was a picture, a mix of shock and confusion. “You dress her up?”

"Did you expect me to leave her naked?" you questioned.

Ghost smothered a laugh with his hand while Gaz's eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere except at the doll. Soap was the only one who remained unfazed, his gaze lingering on the doll with a sort of detached curiosity.

"Truth be told, I'm surprised you even spotted it." you snickered.

Soap’s curiosity grew, “How’d you get into gaming?”

"Older brother." you answered.

Soap raised an eyebrow, "He sounds like quite the character."

"Yeah, but he wasn't into hentai like I am so there." you quipped.

Soap and Gaz exchanged a look, clearly surprised by your candidness. Ghost remained stoic, his gaze lingering on the doll with an unreadable expression. You didn't miss the glances, but you were used to people's reactions to your unconventional hobbies. You shrugged it off, moving over to your computer.

"You guys play games?" you asked, changing the subject. The room felt awkwardly silent, but you didn't mind. It was your space, your sanctuary, and you felt comfortable with your newfound guests.

"Yeah, we've got our fair share of downtime." Soap admitted, "What's your go-to?"

"Bloodborne, Elden Ring, Doom 2016, Doom Eternal, Halo Reach, and, The Evil Within 2." You replied without a moment's hesitation.

I didn't think I would have liked her this much. Though to be fair I wasn't expecting to bump into her to begin with. Sure, you weren’t what I imagined you to be. But I like it better this way. Soap and Ghost assumed you were socially inept as soon as I told them you were a scientist.

I’m just glad I finally met someone with the right kind of madness inside them.

[a-5-m-0-d-3-u-5]

Scar Tissue (Price x Trans Masc! Reader)

Contains: Tooth-rotting fluff, completely SFW, FTM reader intended but should be safe for masc leaning enbies too, 2nd person POV, reader has a singular double mastectomy scar as is very self conscious about it, ambiguous warm drink cuz I don’t like tea or coffee lol, \obnoxiously self indulgent in my opinion but I hope it resonates with others

A/n: Woof I’m nervous but I do really like how this turned out. It’s cute and it even made my partner blush despite him being cis lol also Price is your husband because it’s cute and I said so. Be gentle with this one, yeah?

Although this is safe for all ages, I ask minors please refrain from interacting with me and this post, and any other posts. This is a space for adults.

The night always made things tougher. Something about the quiet, the darkness, the otherwise calm atmosphere made it harder to chase away the more negative thoughts. Insecurities burned hot in the cold of night as you stood outside on the small veranda of your little English apartment in the crisp wintry air to try and chase them away. The rain had only just stopped pouring down in torrents. The sound of wet tires driving below you accompanied the familiar, gentle smell of rain. It was comforting. Not enough to dull the pain, unfortunately, but comforting still.

You didn’t pay attention to the time, doing so usually just stressed you out during these moments, so you hadn’t noticed how late it was until your husband had sidled up behind you with a warm mug he’d made just for you. He handed it to you silently. He learned a long time ago what being outside this long this late at night usually meant. He wrapped a warm arm around your chilled shoulders and gently pulled you against him. Finally, you started to slowly pull away from your negative thinking just long enough to quietly speak.

“Thank you,” was all you could manage, but Price didn’t mind. He knew that for you, your words carried more weight than they seemed on the surface.

He hummed in response, giving your shoulders a small squeeze to say ‘you’re welcome.’

“Doin’ alright?”

A playful glare was all your husband got in return. He was happy to see you at least still had the heart to joke a bit with him.

“Right. Stupid question. Sorry, love.”

Eventually, you’d take a sip from your mug. He always prepared your drinks to your preferences. It made your chest warm.

“Wanna talk about it?” He was looking at you now. That gentle expression always comforted you.

You shook your head and took another slow sip, “Just insecurities again. Nothing major, I’m fine.”

“That why you've been out here on the veranda staring out at nothing the past couple hours?”

You took another sip, electing to say nothing. You did make it extra noisy though, pulling a rumbling chuckle from Price’s chest in the process.

Eventually, he guided you inside. You were as cold as the dead when he’d gotten to you. He wanted to warm you up and, if you’d talk, he wanted to know what was wrong. Knowing it was an insecurity of yours narrowed it down, but not enough to pin it. He needed to know a bit more.

You sat on your small couch, Price quickly following you. He took your hand in his. The callouses that littered his palm and fingers were always grounding. You were certain if you were blindfolded and told to guess which hand belonged to him, you’d guess correctly without fail. You knew every dip and ridge in his skin like your own.

You’d finished your drink after a while. You sighed, leaning into your husband’s chest. His heartbeat never failed to help your mind quiet down a bit.

“Just my scar again…” you mumbled, lacing your fingers in with his.

He kissed his teeth, the clicking noise it made bringing you out of the beginning of another spiral, “What did I tell you ‘bout that, love? You know I think it’s perfect.”

“I know,” you said, tucking your head under his chin, “‘Fraid I don’t think the same way, is all.”

His free hand rose up to hold your head and he pressed a soft lingering kiss into your hair, “That’s why I’m here. To think that way for you. C’mon, then, on your back.”

You groaned, pretending your melancholy face hadn’t broken out into a small grin, as you were guided onto your back. Price hovered above you and lifted your shirt up to your collarbone, kissing slowly up your belly as he did so. His kisses finally reached the part of your chest you couldn’t feel anymore. The scar tissue had faded quite a bit, but it was still clearly visible. One straight line stretched across your ribcage. It was uneven, thicker in some places than others. When your clothes were on, you often forgot about it. But when they weren’t…

You couldn’t feel much of the kisses that your husband trailed across the scar. His beard would drag across the area around it, your body unsure if it tickled or itched, but you could only feel the pressure of his lips through the numb skin. Still, you looked down and watched as he worshiped the ugly line that ripped through your skin. It wasn’t neat, wasn’t typical, wasn’t the ideal, but Price always showed he never cared about that.

”It made you happy, yeah? All that matters, then,” is what he’d always say.

All those mean thoughts finally started to melt away as he continued to kiss along your chest, further up to your collarbone. He pulled your shirt down so he could kiss up your neck, across your jaw, and finally up to your mouth. You felt him grin against your lips. You suppressed an annoyed whine as he pulled away to look at you.

“Better?”

“A bit.”

“I can keep going.”

“Would you?”

You fell asleep on the couch with your shirt pulled up to your shoulders and Price’s lips against your scar.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart, Chapter 2 (Human!Alastor x reader)

Rated Adult for adult themes, triggering content and sexual content. I wouldn't say this is dead dove but it's dead dove adjacent. Chapter Trigger Warnings: Aftermath of domestic violence, talk of human trafficking, drinking.

Want to listen rather than read: Nyx productions brings you this Audio chapter. Part 1, part 2, part 3

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The music was rich in the air, energy from the band wrapping the space in the electric energy that poured from the instruments. Ice clanked in the glass as Alastor spun it in his hand, absently watching the room as he tapped his foot along with the music. Sharp eyes moved from one face to another, watching bodies move and mouths form words, lives wasted. 

There were a few faces that stuck out to him, a few faces he had been monitoring, watching. He wasn’t actively hunting, not at Mimzy’s speakeasy. That would be far too dangerous. However, if his targets were themselves here, it would be sloppy not to take notice of them. 

“Hey, Al,” Mimzy slipped into the tall stool across from him, obscuring his view and demanding all his attention regardless of if he was ready to grant her it. That was how she was, always demanding someone’s full attention regardless of if they wanted to give her it at the moment. 

“New supplier working out well?” Alastor asked, clinking the ice around his glass after taking a small drink. Tonight wasn’t a night for overindulgence. 

“Well enough,” Mimzy made a show of humming, causing Alastor to raise an eyebrow. She had something she wanted to discuss and from her show, he would not like it. 

“What’s the issue?” 

“I’m so glad you asked!” Mimzy shifted, falling into what Alastor considered her damsel in distress position. She had always been easy to read, at least on the surface level. Alastor knew well that more went on below the surface than Mimzy let on, however. It was that hidden depth that made her tolerable in his eyes. 

“You see, Laurence was running next week’s supply last night. It was going great but you know how it goes- he got stopped, got off with a slap on the wrist thanks to his pretty face, but they took his goods and left him with a hefty fine.” 

“That so?” Alastor hummed as he sipped his drink, leaning back in his chair and crossing his leg over his knee. “Do you need help with supply again?” 

“No, no- Nothing like that,” Mimzy watched as Alastor’s shoulders relaxed, counting on that for what she had actually intended to ask. “The thing is, he can’t float the fine and his debts.” 

“How terrible for him.” Alastor knew what she was getting at but wanted her to say it, anyway. 

“He needs a loan from someone who isn’t a shark. Someone who’s a real stand-up guy who won’t run him around.” Mimzy leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them. “I know you got some green stashed away, and he’s as much of a stand up fella as you are. If he goes bust, I’m out a supplier again too.” 

“How much?” Alastor sighed as Mimzy took his glass out of his hand, motioning for a refill for him. 

“Well, you see- it’s not a lot a lot.” She said a lot of words while she stalled, waiting for his topped off drink. It was her opinion that you only asked for a favor from a man when he had a drink in his hand, no matter how well you knew the man. When Alastor again had his glass safely in hand, she got to the point, “A few hundred. Float him the loan, he’ll pay it back with interest. I promise he’s good for it.” 

“Oh, well- if you promise he’s good for it than I have no choice,” Alastor’s smile twitched, “but to say no.”

“Oh, come on, Al!” Mimzy pleaded, leaning on her palms as she leaned up out of the stool and onto the table, “If he can’t settle this debt, he ain’t going to be able to keep supplying me. Either you float him the loan or you’re stuck helping keep me supplied. That’s all there really is to it. You don’t want that and I don’t want to hear you flapping your yap about how much you don’t want to do it either.” 

“Mimzy,” 

“He’ll be good for the money. Just-” Mimzy waved across the room as Alastor’s eyes followed her attention to a tall man with blonde hair and a decidedly square face, calling him over. “Just talk to him? See what he can offer for collateral? Work out a deal?”

“And if I don’t want to?” 

Mimzy just looked over her shoulder at him and smiled before directing her whole energy to the man approaching, “Laurence!” 

“Mimzy! How are you, Beautiful?” The man’s voice was deep and rich, the type of voice women flocked to though Alastor found his imitation of the mid-atlantic accent to be rather sloppy. 

“Oh you,” Mimzy smacked his chest as his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Such a flirt. Everyone’s such a flirt. You fellas see little ol me and can’t help yourselves.” 

“That’s exactly it,” the man said, basking in the attention the short woman was lavishing on him. 

“Laurence, dear-” Mimzy patted the man’s chest again before directing her attention to Alastor, “This is Alastor, one of my dearest friends. Al, this is the one and only Laurence.” 

Laurence held his hand out for Alastor to shake. Alastor took it after unfolding off the barstool, standing to his full height and looking down on the blonde man. There wasn’t a huge height difference, but it was noticeable enough that Alastor wanted to ensure the other man felt smaller. 

“A pleasure to meet you. Quite a pleasure,” Alastor said, firmly shaking Laurence’s hand, long fingers easily wrapping around the other man’s smaller hand. His smile twitched a little wider. Alastor watched the blonde man grimace as he felt the metacarpal bones in the captured hand shift under the pressure of Alastor’s grip. 

“Likewise,” Laurence rubbed his newly freed hand before thinking twice and hiding his discomfort, not before Alastor noticed. 

“Al here,” Mimzy’s hand rested on Alastor’s shoulder before wrapping her arms around his arm, pulling it against her plump chest. “And I was just talking about your situation and he is willing to float you.” 

“A loan.” Alastor added, “The details will need working out of course.” 

“Of course,” Laurence’s smile spread, threatening to challenge Alastor’s before fading. “Of course.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Mimzy patted Laurence’s shoulder as she walked by, looking over her shoulder and throwing Alastor a wink on her way. 

“Mimzy said you needed the loan because you got busted?” Alastor offered, opening the conversation. “Why should I loan you funds if you’re sloppy enough to get caught?”

“That’s an oversimplification,” Laurence tried to laugh off the critique. 

“Typically, in this line of business, one would hold enough funds in reserve to cover losses such as this.” Alastor leaned back in his chair, taking a long drink from his glass as he watched Laurence, taking in the uncomfortable shift of his position and the twitch of his jaw. “How can I be assured you’ll repay this debt? Mimzy seems to believe it will not be an insignificant sum you’re here to grovel for.” 

“I’m not groveling!” Laurence slammed his fist down, rattling the table as Alastor made a show of standing up. “Wait.”

Alastor’s smile twitched higher as he lingered half out of his seat, looking back at the red-faced man as he raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. Mimzy wasn’t the only one who could put on a show. 

“I’m not here to grovel.” Laurence said again, calmer this time. “I need the funds. I’m in a bit of a spot, but I’m good for it.”

“And what can you offer for collateral?” 

“I can offer a man’s most prized possession.” Laurence’s smile turned slimy. 

“And what would that be?” Alastor settled fully in his seat once again, picking up his glass as he refused to let his smile fall wholly from his lips. When Laurence answered, Alastor nearly choked on the drink in his mouth. 

“My wife.” 

“That hardly will compensate me for any lost funds. I’m not sure what sort of man you are under the impression that I am, but I do not deal with the buying and selling of women.” Alastor’s voice was hard, cutting with his displeasure. 

“That’s not-” 

“It’ll take a few hours for me to get the funds together. If you’ll have me over for dinner tomorrow, we can finalize the details. You have until then to think of something more appropriate for collateral.” 

You sat at your vanity, looking into the face of a woman that looked like you but didn’t feel like you in the slightest. Your nightgown hung from your too thin frame. Stress and pressure to be perfect both from Laurence and from society pressed in around you as tears ran down your cheeks and dripped off your chin. 

“Laurence is a good man,” you whispered to yourself, shattering the silence in the room with the bold-faced lie told in the face of the irrefutable evidence that he was indeed not a good man. “Laurence is a good man.” 

Your arms were stiff, sore as you forced the muscles to function. Dark bruises wrapped around your biceps, evidence of his harsh hands grabbing you, shaking you. Green and yellow covered your ribs, no longer actively paining you but a visual reminder of what happened when he thought you talked back. Your shoulder ached, but that was so often the case that it felt like a constant pain.

Those marks would all be covered by your dress, at least. There were small blessings. The bruise around your wrist would be harder to cover, but first you had to cover the redness in your face. 

Your eyes were puffy, skin irritated and uneven, both from a night spent crying and from the back of his hand striking you. The blows hadn’t been too bad, sending you to the floor the night before, but it could have been worse. What was your infraction last night, anyway? You couldn’t remember. 

Your face didn’t hurt much, not as much as the rest of you. More often than not, he kept his hands off your face. Facial bruising drew too much attention. Too many marks where others could see it would shatter the impression of perfection he worked so hard to maintain. 

Cooling cream felt good against your skin as you willed the tears to stop. Now wasn’t the time for tears. What good did tears do you, anyway? Tears didn’t change your life and what was there to cry about? 

It was a good life, when you didn’t upset him at least.

He was your husband. He supported you, cared for you, and provided for you. All you had to do was shut up and do what he said. Trust him and stop asking questions. Just stop thinking. 

But that wasn’t who you were. You were a woman who liked to think, to learn and to use your mind. 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter in the slightest who you were or what sort of woman you were. It didn’t matter what sort of woman you wanted to be.

He was your husband. He would be your husband forever. Even if he wasn’t, you couldn’t marry better than him. He had come from a good family, bringing you financial security above what you could have hoped for. Your parents were proud of the match they had arranged, beaming that your beauty and countenance secured you such a step up in the world for yourself and, in time, your children.

With one last look in the mirror, you decided your work was good enough. Your blush was too bright, not keeping in with the trends and your eyeshadow not smoky enough. Laurence wouldn’t give you the money to update to the latest trends, saying that you didn’t need it. Instead, you did the best you could with what you had.

Your dress, laid out on the bed and waiting for you, was likewise just a touch out of fashion. It was longer than that of your peers, but that was alright. Laurence said it flattered your figure better than the newer styles. You wouldn’t be able to pull off those newer styles, your frame was simply not thin enough. 

You were not enough or too much in some way or another according to him, for the latest looks. 

This was better for you. 

Laurence knew best. 

As you stood, the world spun around you. The floor felt like it was tilting under your feet. Fingers dug into the solid surface of the vanity as you counted down from five, eyes clenched shut with a deep breath between each number.

Once the world felt steady, you made yourself drink some water. Hydration wouldn’t fix everything, but it was a solid place to start. Some water, some crackers and smoked meat that you kept in your bedside table, and you’d be right as rain again.

You just needed to get dressed first. 

Joints ached as you took slow, careful steps toward the bed and slipped the dress over head. Carefully, you used your good arm to pull your sore arm through the sleeve, trying to avoid moving the screaming shoulder joint any more than needed. Once you had accomplished that feat, you switched your focus on dressing the rest of yourself, pulling the zipper up while holding your sore arm close to your body. 

You’d take something for the pain too, you decided as you rolled the stockings up your legs, one at a time. That would make you right as rain. 

The more you moved, the easier it was to move. You told yourself you were just stiff, that was all, as you slipped bangle bracelets over your wrist. If you put enough on, maybe they would obscure the dark marks on your skin. More and more you added until it was enough. 

Looking at yourself one last time, you pulled your painted lips into a smile. You were happy; you told yourself. Your marriage was wonderful. Laurence was a wonderful husband. You were lucky. 

You were lucky.

Laurence swept through the front door like a gust of wind, a wide smile on his face. Flinching when he kicks the door closed behind him, you step away from the wall you had been using as support and stood up as straight as you could. 

Laurence quickly crossed the living room and swept you up in his arms. You cringed back in pain as he spun you around without a care in the world. 

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you, sweetheart?” Laurence stepped back, hands soft on your shoulders as he looked at you with a surprising amount of concern. 

“My shoulder- it’s just a bit tender is all,” you answered carefully, forcing yourself to relax in his hands. 

He was in a good mood. He was happy. This was good. You were safe, at least for now. It’ll be a good night. Well, as good of a night as you could hope for.

“I’m sorry, you know. I am.” Laurence’s hands ran down your arms, thumbs caressing the soft fabric of your dress. “I- it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t talked back to me. A man wants a meek wife, you know that. You can be that for me, right?”

He rested his palm against the same cheek he had backhanded the night before, and you told yourself that he was right as you forced yourself to lean into his touch. Laurence was a good man, and you were lucky to have him. Why didn’t it feel like that was true? Why did it feel like you could have had better?

“Let's go out for dinner, yeah?” Laurence offered, “You won’t have to worry about making dinner or cleaning up the kitchen. How’s that sound?” 

For all the good that came with Laurence’s good mood, there was a negative side of it, too. His hand was heavy on your thigh, thumb caressing you in the theater’s shroud of darkness. 

This was another song and dance you knew well and would rather not take part in. You were not sure what was worse, if you were being honest with yourself, romance with Laurence or violence with him. 

Still, you fought back the grimace as he pulled you in for a kiss in front of the cinema after the show had ended. This was as much your duty as it was to do the washing. 

“Let’s get home, Sweetthing.” Laurence wrapped his arm around your waist, not caring about how that jammed your painful shoulder right into his side as he held you to him. 

“You’re in such a good mood,” you cringed as he jostled you into his side more, swallowing the pain.

“Well, yeah- I’ve got a business deal falling into place and we’re celebrating.” 

That was news to you, though Laurence rarely spoke of business with you. You knew sometimes when things went well and you knew sometimes when things went bad, but never the details. Women were not to know the details of business in his eyes. Their hormone filled brains simply couldn’t handle the complexities of the professional world.

Things had gone badly a few days ago, terrible, but he hadn’t told you that. You didn’t need a conversation around business to tell you that when the information was written in his mood and his fists. It was better now; it seemed and business would birth a different sort of pain for you tonight. 

“Tomorrow we’re going to be having a dinner guest,” Laurence’s grip on you kept the pressure on your shoulder and there was no part of you that thought for a moment that he wasn’t aware of the pain he was causing. He just didn’t care. Appearances were more important to him than something as trivial as your comfort. 

“That’s such short notice,” you protested, thinking better of it only when the words were already out of your mouth. 

“Don’t ruin this night for me, Doll.” His voice was deep with warning, “You’re going to make a lovely dinner and my associate is going to come over. I’ll seal the deal and you’ll show him how perfect of a wife you are, however I decide is needed.” 

You didn’t know what he was getting at, but it sounded like a threat. It wasn’t something you wanted to discover, however. 

“Hey, Al-” Mimzy tugged on the sleeve of his coat, drawing his attention from the stream of people exiting the theater. He would lose sight of his mark, but that was just as well. He wouldn’t strike tonight. Tonight was simply for observation. “That’s the pretty face of the tailor, ain’t it?” 

“It seems so,” Alastor feigned surprise as his eyes followed her gloved finger. 

He had noticed them the moment they filed into the theater. Timid little thing, meek with her shoulders slumped and his arm around her. What a magnificent turn of events to find the timid little thing appeared to be Laurence’s wife. 

Did she know her husband was willing to offer her up like cattle as collateral on a loan if he needed it bad enough? Or did she think her marriage was sacred under the cover of her husband’s rough hands?

“Is that Laurence she’s with?” Mimzy broke through his thoughts.

“Told you she had a man,” Alastor looked away, directing his attention to his companion, ignoring the way the woman’s shoulders slumped more under her husband’s touch or the way she flinched every time he grabbed her. 

“Should we go say hi?”

“Let them have their night out on the town. There will be plenty of other chances to talk business.” Alastor looked back at his friend, her eyes lingering on the couple a few moments longer. “Shall we?”

Tag List: @xalygatorx, @charlottemorningstarsdarling, @honestlyshamelesskid, @lilith-jae, @catticora, @alastor-simp, @alastorthirsty, @rainydaysmut, @nyx91, @goyablogsstuff, @kaylopolis, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @diffidentphantom, @yui-onnero, @lunarmango, @uhhhimbored, @loveameripanshipperlove

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[amarachno]

Gotham City can be a terrible place to live but at least it has a nice skate park. It wasn’t always that way but ever since Bruce Wayne started his free space repair program all kinds of free activities for city kids had opened up. In Tim Drake’s opinion, the skate park was the best. Conveniently placed near Gotham Academy AND in the direction of Tim’s house? It was perfect. The best part? Sometimes, Jason Todd showed up with his older brother. What’s cooler than one Robin? Two!

Not that either boy knew Tim existed, of course. Tim Drake was fantastic at getting peoples eyes to glance right over him. Janet Drake had trained him to become invisible, after all. But really, it was too cool to watch. if a little funny at times. Dick Grayson was a wonder in the air, but finding your balance of skateboard is a bit different than finding your balance on a beam. Jason wasn’t much better about it but hearing him laugh at Dick falling on his butt after attempting a kickflip always brought a warm feeling to Tim’s chest.

Sometimes, Tim was tempted to go over and try to teach them, but he always chickened out at the last moment. He settled for helping out the seven year olds who always fell off their scooters. There had been a few times where he picked them up and out of the way right before they could get run over but it was all in a days work.

Tim usually managed to visit the skate park for an hour or two after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the other days he had extracurriculars Or had to be home in time to check in with Mrs. Agnes, the house keeper. Heaven forbid he gets home even a minute too late. Her pointy fingers always left his arm sore when she marched him up to his room.

where was Tim going with this again? Oh yeah, school is finally out and it’s time to visit the skate park. He had debated bringing his camera this morning, but ultimately decided that it wasn’t something he wanted to carry around all day.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he would see Jason and Dick there that day. Usually, they went around every three weeks after school. One of the nicest parts about seen him there though, was a heads up that Nightwing would be out that night. Nightwing was so fun to take pictures of. he was an entertainer after all. His movements fluid and quick. Once, Tim had gotten a picture of him falling from one of the higher buildings in a pose that almost perfectly made it seem like he was flying through the air. Arms spread, feet together, and chest out. A stark contrast to the way he windmilled and gracelessly fell at the skatepark, though Tim was pretty sure he only let himself fall because it made Jason laugh. The ride from school to the skate park wasn’t long, thankfully. It would be such a hassle to have to bike to the skate park and carry his board too. upon arriving to the park, he glanced at who was present that day

The good news, was that Jason was there! Not so cool news, Dick wasn’t. Jason seemed to be in a bad mood either way. Usually, Tim wouldn’t butt in. Usually he would’ve just made sure that Jason got back safe. But… Tim had a bad feeling. He hadn’t seen Robin out with Batman the day before. or the day before the day before that. Tim knew he couldn’t just leave this alone.

“So, where is your older brother?” Tim blurted out as soon as he was next to Jason

Jason blinked, looking mildly shocked before furrowing his brows. “Who’s asking? And why d’ya wanna know?”

“Uh” Tim said unintelligently. “I see you around here a lot and usually you don’t go by yourself.”

Jason stared for a moment, looking conflicted.

”Oh! I’m Tim, Tim Drake. We’re um, we’re neighbors.” Tim’s palms felt sweaty. This was painfully awkward.

“I guess that makes sense. Not that it’s any of your business.” Jason said hesitantly, taking a deep breath and then speaking again. “So, you skateboard?”

“Yeah, I guess, a little” Tim stuttered out. “You never answered my question.” Before clapping both hands over his mouth. he did not mean to say that out loud.

“He’s out of town for the month, ya nosey little shit. He lives in Blühaven.” Jason gave a wry grin. “He’ll be back soon.” he opened his mouth as if to say something else, but closed it again and looked away.

let it be known Tim is just as stupid as he is smart. He knows that once he starts talking, there’s no stop. It’s why he never talked to Jason or Dick before. Despite that, he opened his big, dumb, mouth. “Hey I’ll raise you to that ice cream place around the corner. Whoever loses has to pay.”

Jason grinned maniacally, “Alright short-stack, you’re on!” And then Jason shot off like a blur. Tim yelped out a “Hey! No fair!” before running after Jason.

Tim lost, not that there is really any competition, Jason’s legs were longer anyway.

One Neapolitan bowl and one Superman cone later, (courtesy of Tim’s wallet, of course) Jason and Tim headed back to the skatepark. they wound up wandering around, talking about anything and everything, laughing at the college kids who fell on their faces and the pigeons who attacked some guy for his fries. (The random dude was fine but he seemed creepy anyway so Tim couldn’t bring himself to feel bad.)

One hour turned into two and two turned into four. Soon enough, it got late and it was just about time to head home. The older kids were showing up anyway, and usually it wasn’t a good idea to stick around.

Tim was about to mention this, but when he turned to look at Jason, he paused.

“Not sure why I’m tellin’ ya this. But, you seem to have a good head on your shoulders.” Jason murmured, “I was gonna run away tonight.”

“Oh.” breathed Tim.

“My- I found my bio mom. I’m um- I was, that is, staying with Bruce Wayne.” Jason turned to stare out towards where Tim knew Wayne manor was. ”But, he thinks I did something I didn’t. something I would never do.” Jason swipes furiously at his eyes. “I found my birth certificate. The woman I called my mom all this time was actually my stepmother.” He turns back, making eye contact with Tim, a determined look on his face. “Her name is Sheila Haywood. I was going to fly to Ethiopia to meet her.”

Tim inhales sharply, “Alone?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yeah.” Jason replies guiltily. “I didn’t think Bruce would believe me.”

Tim pauses, thinking it over. “And, how much research have you done on this?”

Jason tenses, “Enough.” he snaps defensively. “I found a way there and back. I have enough to find somewhere to stay for about a week. But, if everything goes well then I should be able to stay with my mom.”

Tim laughs a little, a short exhale through his nose. “Oh no, I know you can take care of yourself. I’m talking about how much you researched into your mom. it would be smart to know why she moved. I don’t think a lot of people move to Ethiopia just for a change of pace. What if she were involved in some kind of-“

“She would never!” Jason exclaimed. “She’s an aid worker there.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Tim reaffirmed “ it was just an example. my point is just that, having all the facts is an important part of every plan.”

Jason relaxed at Tim’s reassurance, “Oh. That makes sense I guess.”

“Maybe I could help!” Tim squeaked out nervously. “ you could come to mine I’ll get my laptop out and we can look into her public records. Maybe we could do a little bit more digging and see if there could’ve been an outside situation.”

Jason considered it for a second, tilting his head back.

“If you sleep over at my house tonight, you don’t have to see Bruce.” Tim added quickly.

Jason whipped his head to look at Tim, nodding vigorously. “Yeah that would be great. Um, maybe we can stop by really quickly though just to tell Alfred and pick up my clothes for tomorrow.”

—>

With Tim’s help, Jason found evidence that Sheila was involved with the Joker. He never went to Ethiopia, he does tell Bruce about his bio mom. Batman goes to investigate it, finds out about the Joker’s plot, and stops it in time. Jason Todd doesn’t die. But he doesn’t see much of Tim anymore either.

Tim Drake saves his favorite Robin. Who knows what would’ve happened had he actually gone to Ethiopia? Especially since the Joker was there. Nothing good obviously. Jason and Tim stay friends for a little while, but don’t stay that way for long, only occasionally seeing each other in the hallways at school. Jason was busy with personal matters anyway, not much time for the skate park. Or for Tim. Eventually, Dick and Jason show up again, bringing Cass, Steph, and Damian along to teach them how to skate. Tim keeps his distance, content to watch.

Sometimes. Sometimes he wishes he could join them. Not that he’d ever say that out loud, of course. It’s the same way with their nightly activities too. It’s selfish. Tim has everything he could ever need. A roof over his head, food in his pantry, and two living parents. Even though they aren’t around. he has his hobby, chasing shadows around Gotham, taking pictures. That’s what Tim was meant for. He wasn’t meant to be a brother, or even a friend.

[sshadowritestoriess]

HELLOOOO im in love with the way you write our beloved rama 😭

i just wanted to know ur hcs about him beginning to realize he feels more about the reader than just friendship and/or how he deals with the first buds of sinful thoughts about their dear human friend? 👀

HI tysm!! Ramattra definitely has my attention hahaha. Sorry this is so long!! I just like writing 😂

Ramattra realizing his feelings

Earning his friendship was a hard enough task on his own. He never made that easy for you, or for anyone of flesh and blood

As much hatred as he has for humanity, he doesn’t outright assume all humans are evil. He understands there is still good in its kind, it’s just a matter of knowing who he is safe to drop his guard around when having more acute interactions

And this is a process he has the utmost forbearance for. As long as a person can express patience with him, then he is more than willing to allow himself to be understood by a human peer

You were probably one of the most respectful humans he had personally interacted with. Your kindness made for a strong first impression, especially in the way you had greeted him as any other person, looked upon him with no surprise in your eyes as if he had just been anyone else. Not a killer. Not a terrorist.

Still, for the ongoing weeks he kept his distance the more he had found himself in the same room as you, assuming his same process of determining whether your behavior was a front or not.

He was as kind to you as you were to him, which made things a little confusing on your end. You weren’t oblivious— you know who he is, and such a name as Ramattra came with a complex reputation. He’s certain he began addressing you as a ‘friend’ the moment you’d inquired why people thought him as ‘cold’

“You’ve been real nice to me,” you’d said, mirth in your tone, “I’m not just getting special treatment, am I?”

It wasn’t the first lighthearted joke you’d made in his presence, but it was the first he’d laughed at. He knew it wasn’t a question that needed answering, and so he didn’t. You were smart enough to assume the reason for rumor

Quickly, you both became close. (Well, ‘quick’ being you set the record for “fastest human to earn Ramattra’s trust”. It took fourteen weeks, but neither of you were counting.)

He was content to admit he admired you, respect drastically outweighing his contempt for what you were. It felt nice, to see you through blurred lines— he felt he finally understood, for just a moment, the bond that his brothers back at the monastery were trying to protect

But the more Ramattra grew to know you, the more he shared about himself. Which, tends to be a normal exchange between friends, certainly. Of the others he would dare call ‘friends’ before you, this wasn’t out of the ordinary

Yet when he would speak too much about himself with you, he felt shame. Embarrassment. He would wonder to himself at times if he should have shared certain things, and worried of your opinion

It made him pull back for a while, and was relieved you remained as patient as you’d always been. You made sure he was fine and he’d kindly dismissed you, to which you respectfully backed off and simply told him you were here if he needed

But… then when he was given the space he asked for, he became somewhat angry with himself. Now he just missed you, but felt so under pressure to be in your presence. It was frustrating.

You knew whatever problem he was facing had to be because of you, since he had told you just a few days ago that he preferred a little distance for now— but here he sat across the room from you, scrolling through lists of weaponry concepts to decide on what to work on next, inquiring your opinion of colors, of all things.

There came a day that Ramattra had a run in with a particularly violent human gang, of whom he’d shown little mercy for after they dealt the first strike— he should have swung the moment one of the strangers drawled about wearing his face as a trophy, “-after I reduce ya to nuts-n-bolts,” they’d said. A pitiful drop of confidence quickly lost into the newly reddened asphalt of the nearest alley

You caught him marching down a corridor, and it finally hit Ramattra like a truck when you’d approached him to make sure he was fine

He didn’t bleed red, you knew this. And something in him clicked when you immediately assumed him the victim, placing careful hands on his chest as you observed him for damage

Oh, he liked you. A lot. Had any other person of flesh approached him, he would have demanded solitude with a killing accusatory tone, a wordless threat of violence if his needs were not met.

But you had came to him, and he was more than relieved that you had. Just seeing you again, he realized why he hadn’t hit his attackers first.

“Are you attempting to domesticate me?” He had blurted, watching you curl your hand into the hem of your shirt and wipe the blood from his fingers. He takes in your baffled expression with a hidden affection- and yet again, feeling awkward for such a poor joke with little context. He fought himself on whether to explain, but decided better of it.

Understanding then why he felt so drawn to you, he felt somewhat justified in why he additionally felt like such a fool in your presence.

He hadn’t intended to feel this way about you, it couldn’t be helped. You hit many marks that he found objectively attractive.

He would spend the next few days observing you to thoroughly analyze his feelings toward you— to which you felt like a specimen being studied with how he kept tossing prolonged stares in your direction

He didn’t mean to appear like a creep, and he ended up feeling so much worse when you finally confronted his “quiet ogling”

“I— I was not,” he’d say defensively, and relaxed quickly when you laughed. “You are merely a fascinating subject to observe, is it so offensive that I watch?”

“Are you calling me pretty?”

“No.” He quickly bites, then immediately froze as he regretting saying it so harshly. He doubles back, “But, I do not mean—“ a pause, “You are fine as you are. But that is not what I was saying.”

Ogling. He was ashamed to find himself doing just that so soon after the amused accusation

The way you smirk before telling a joke, he’d mishear your jest when he was so focused on the way your mouth moved, and imagined running his thumb over your lips

When he’d find you closer to morning, he loved to catch you stretching your arms above your head. Your shirt would ride upward and reveal a bit of your navel while your upper half trembled into the stretch. He wanted to put his hands there, too.

He stole an opportunity to knead at your shoulder once when you complained about being sore from a prior activity, everting inside him lurching with humiliation when you settled comfortably into his lap.

An innocent gesture, sat between his legs while you accepted his kindness— though a deceptive offer, for he had just wanted a reason to have you this close.

He stared hard at your neck, gaze dropping to peer beneath your collar. It was dreadful. But he wouldn’t restrain himself, entirely glad he had a stationary face.

He’d pull at the cables of his mane when he was by himself, shaking his head and his fists at himself for this unrighteous behavior. Being away from you was worse, left alone with unrestrained thoughts of the things he could do to you

And oh, the things he wanted to do to you.

But you were a friend. A human. He was an omnic, and certainly not one built for… that kind of activity.

But then again, he was not made with life in mind, either. As far as he saw it, he could do whatever he wanted with the privilege of having agency

And that has resulted in relieving himself of these indecent thoughts when he shut himself into his quarters, blessed with the ability to create vivid images of what you would look like beneath him.

These solemn hours of the night should be reserved for meditation, and pondering his next move. But now he’s been reduced to touching himself with you in mind, pulling at delicate wires that were not meant to be tempered with.

Imagining you there. Evoking hypothetical risk by trusting you with his body.

But he hadn’t even made his feelings known to you yet. Hell, he couldn’t imagine a situation where he would without it complicating everything, or making you distant.

He knew he was the least likely candidate to end up in a cross-species relationship. So for now, he’d just relish in your friendship

And if ever you hint at wanting to take things a step further, you would find Ramattra quite eager to advance.

[seriousbrat]

What I find comfortable to say is pathetic about James is his righteousness. We see that in SWM when he tries to get Snape to apologise to Lily (I get the sentiment, but you're simply not in the position to do that?), and when he meets Snape on the train and genuinely thinks wanting to be in Slytherin makes you morally inferior.

He was 16 and 11 in these instances, but as much as he grew and learned about the complexities of the world and the human psyche, his slightly childish black-and-white sense of morality was still his downfall.

We hear Lupin say Harry is a lot like James in this aspect, but I think one thing Harry has that James never quite developed to the same level is an enormous amount of empathy. Maybe it's foolish of Harry to not shoot to kill, but Harry managed to empathise with Voldemort, and I think it's safe to assume through Sirius and Remus* that James never managed to do the same with Snape.

*just considering that as adults, Sirius showed absolutely no regret, and Remus, tho he did recognise how bad their attitude towards Snape was, didn't quite recognise just how much it actually impacted Snape. So if Remus is the most enlightened end of the Marauders Moral Spectrum (not a great one altogether), and Sirius is the most clouded, I think James would sit somewhere in the middle, but probably more inclined to agree with Sirius.

Definitely, I agree!! Specifically, I think his hypocrisy about his righteousness is what's pathetic. I said this in the post about James that I linked, but a strong moral code (which James has always had) doesn't actually mean anything without true empathy and understanding towards others. Else it's all too easy to convince yourself that something does align with your moral beliefs. Particularly if those beliefs are very black and white and very rigid. We've seen this plenty of times through history and in the present day, where lack of empathy leads people to believe that X group is evil and that therefore the righteous, moral thing to do is to hurt them.

James believed that Death Eaters = Bad. That much is true enough. But in his mind this became Death Eaters = Slytherins = Bad. And specifically Death Eaters = Slytherins = Snape = Bad. Therefore, Attacking Snape = Good.

This is really just a justification for the fact that James found it validating (and fun, and easy) to pick on Snape. The Gryffindor vs Slytherin/James vs Snape/Good vs Evil dichotomy inherited from his dad was further established in his brain early doors when he met Snape on the train. Lack of empathy is common in teens, who, psychologically, tend to view the world as revolving around themselves. While I think a part of James (very small, very deep down) knew it was wrong, it was easy enough to feel justified in bullying Snape because there's a hint of truth to the worldview that Slytherins are, if not inherently evil, generally not good people. But that doesn't excuse cruelty, obviously, and I think James as a character is a good example of the fact that people who have """""correct""""" moral beliefs are still capable of cruelty.

I also think tumblr/twitter 'SJW' culture are places this is seen very clearly, when people who express opinions even slightly outside of what's considered acceptable, even if it's a simple mistake borne of ignorance, are dogpiled on and cyberbullied in the name of social justice, when in reality it would be much more productive and much kinder in many situations to just calmly engage in honest conversation. Certain spaces (echo chambers) do breed a lack of empathy, and in general people who have strong opinions but haven't the empathy to realise the world inevitably contains a wide variety of opinion, and lack the understanding to back up their own beliefs, tend to react with great hostility to anyone who doesn't share them.

Point is, you aren't automatically a good person because you have the 'right' beliefs. What matters is what you do.

Anyway I got sidetracked. But I also wanted to say that I think Lily is the opposite of James in this. She's empathetic to a fault. She has so much empathy towards Snape that she fails to see (or at least to really address) his problems and the danger he represents to her, at least until it's nearly too late. I'd say Harry is somewhere in between his parents, which is probably a good thing. Also I do think that because they were opposites in this regard, Lily and James were probably quite good for each other haha and balanced each other out, eventually growing towards a similar place somewhere between Lily's blind empathy and James's black and white morality. So he became less rigid and she became more structured (this is the new she was dramatic he was dynamic)

On the Lupin-Black Scale (lmao) I agree that at first James was more towards Sirius's end, but the way I see him, he later began to drift a little bit towards the Remus end. About Remus himself, I think he is an incredibly empathetic character. He's responsible for bringing Peter into the group. Similarly he picks up quickly on the fact that Neville needs a bit of encouragement and provides this quite subtly and quite effectively, and he also notices when Harry is distressed and helps him too. The trouble is that Remus's empathetic nature is at war with his need to be accepted, which is why he tolerates certain behaviours from his friends even knowing it's wrong. In this post about Remus from a while ago, I talked about the fact that Remus is a character full of similar contradictions, and very aware of them himself. His being a werewolf (the stark opposite of his kind, mild, thoughtful nature) is a really good metaphor for that!

[rosesloveletters]

warm blankets and soft snuggles.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 1,561

Warnings: periods, use of generic over-the-counter pain medicine.

Summary: Reader has difficult periods and Wonka provides care, comfort and snuggles.

Author's Note: I wrote this mainly as an excuse to think about cuddling him <3

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

We laid on our bed, the covers pulled up to our chins to protect us from the chill of winter. Even though the heat was kept on inside the factory, Wonka kept our living space much cooler because he couldn’t sleep if he wasn’t cold. He liked the room to be several degrees below comfortability so that he didn’t overheat under the pile of blankets you had added to his modest bed, which in your opinion, was the best way to warm up: in the arms of a lover, beneath half a dozen blankets. 

The comforting warmth of his touch lingered on your skin. His arms were wrapped around your body, drawing you closer as you held each other tightly. You felt a deep sense of peace wash over you as you nuzzled into his chest. In that moment, all your worries melted away, and all that mattered was being held in the arms of the one you loved. Cuddling with Willy Wonka was like a dream come true, and you cherished every second of the time you spent with him, whether you were held tightly in his arms like this or shared space somewhere else inside the factory. Nothing mattered aside from the time you spent together; what you did during that time was only as special as the company you shared. 

“How are you feeling, dear?” Wonka crooned into your ear. His hand drifted to your lower abdomen and massaged gentle, soothing circles on your stomach. The warmth from his hand seeped through your shirt, down to your skin and you let out a quiet moan of contentment at his touch. 

“Better, with you here,” you replied and felt him smile against the back of your head. 

You had been suffering from a bout of cramps the likes of which rendered you immobile and confined to your bed if you weren’t ingesting painkillers on a regular basis, as instructed by the label. You had not wanted to venture out of your warmth cocoon for a snack so that you would not upset your vulnerable stomach when you took your medication, so Wonka had pried himself out of your death grip on his body – you squeezed him just a bit tighter with every wave of cramps that hit you – and went to the kitchen to fetch you a granola bar, then the bathroom for your pills and promptly back to your shared bed. 

He had to coax you to take a few bites of the granola bar; you weren’t keen to eat anything when you were in so much pain, but your stomach would punish you for it if you took any pain medication on an empty stomach and so you forced down several bites until Wonka deemed it safe for you to take the pills. 

You swallowed two painkillers and sipped the water you kept at your bedside. 

You blinked gratefully at your beloved as he said patiently by your side. His hand was placed lovingly on your knee and he watched you attentively as you trembled and winced in pain. 

Wonka was understanding and he knew it took time for the pills to take affect; you would have to endure some more pain before the medicine kicked in.

He sat by your side, eventually getting back beneath the duvet so that he could get warm. He wanted to be here for you if and when you needed him, even if that meant shirking his responsibilities for a few hours or perhaps the whole day. As company owner, he could do that, and he would if it were necessary. 

Wonka was not unfamiliar with the stress and the pain that women endured due to their menstrual cycles. He considered it something which he could learn a thing or two from, especially since he did not experience it himself, but had to glean information secondhand. He was always curious to learn new things and share in experiences that were presented to him, so he took every opportunity given to him to learn about you and your body.

He made mental notes of the things you wanted when you were feeling the effects of your monthly cycle and within his vast repertoire of knowledge, he had come to the realization that you mostly just wanted his presence. 

You craved physical touch and wanted to be as close to him as possible, which he found quite endearing and somewhat unexpected. He had never given thought to anyone wanting to share in quiet, intimate moments of affection with him, not because he felt unworthy or unlovable in such a way, but because he never made it a priority and it therefore became rather unexpected. 

An unexpected, albeit pleasant, surprise. 

The tension in your body slackened and you relaxed, reclining in his arms as he took up the spot behind you, spooning against you as the medication seemed to be taking effect. 

This had all taken place almost an hour ago and Wonka had been holding you since then. 

His solid body was warm against your back. You were tucked in to him, held fast by his arms which wound around you and his large hands were splayed out on your stomach. It had taken the two of you some time to feel comfortable in such a position, but the reward was worth the time spent earning his trust.  

“You may rest for the day if you would like, dear,” he whispered, snuggling in a little closer as he unwrapped one arm from around you and brushed your hair away from your cheek so he could give you a little kiss, “I’m certain you’ll feel much better tomorrow if you take it easy today.”

As much as you didn’t like to stay in bed, you decided it was best to take his advice and let your body rest. After all, Wonka always had your best interests at heart and if he worried for your well-being, it only came from a place of love. 

“Thank you, darling,” you responded, “I won’t push myself today.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he grinned, giving your cheek another quick peck, “if you need anything, absolutely anything at all, I’ll be happy to give it to you if it is within my ability to do so.”

There was nothing Willy Wonka would not do for you if it were possible. With Wonka, there was no such thing as an impossibility; all you had to do was say the word and he would deliver, typically in the most creative, and sometimes unusual, way possible. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a chocolate bar or two,” you let out a soft giggle and you regretted your current positioning because you could not see his toothy grin even though you knew it was there. 

“I suppose I might be able to find something that is to your liking,” he joked, pausing then to add, “I might actually have a couple of bars stowed in my coat.”

He often had chocolate bars that he kept on him, in one of the various pockets of his coat. 

He would get up to check in a moment or two, but for now he wished to savor the warmth of your body against his. 

It was not often that he lingered in bed. When you were waking to begin your day, Wonka’s had already begun, and on a regular day he would have been down in the Inventing Room since dawn. 

“Thank you,” you thanked him even though he had yet to produce any treats for you. 

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

His arms tightened around your midsection and his nose rutted through your hair. His body laid flush to yours, his front connected with your back. He felt content to hold you like this, letting you rest with his arms around you protectively as you shared the warmth of the bed with him. 

His scent reached your nostrils and you inhaled, breathing in the smell of rich cocoa, brown sugar, maple drizzle and a hint of citrus with earthy undertones. 

His comforting embrace took your mind off your discomfort and now that your medicine had taken affect, you were feeling even better. 

During your time of the month, you were content to be held in the arms of your lover. There was nothing more you could have wanted from him aside from his empathy and his embrace. You did not need any other comforts, although nothing he did for you went unappreciated. Knowing that he was there for you and wanted to ease you through your struggles filled you with happiness and made your heart melt like warm chocolate on a hot summer’s day. 

Your love for him flowed like his chocolate river in the factory below, rich waves washing over you and pouring onto him in the refreshing gush of a waterfall of emotion. 

He pulled you in tight, soaking up all the affection and giving back as much to you as you did to him. 

Wonka thought his life was sweet before he met you, but as it turned out, his chocolate was bitter in comparison to the candy-coated sentiments you shared with him each time you vowed your love to him in midnight whispers. 

He was not one to over-indulge, but only you could satisfy his sweet tooth and Willy Wonka wanted all of you. 

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 22/? Word count: 2114 Co writer: @mistrose23

Story summary: Matilde Jørgensen, the new Scuderia Ferrari team principal, faced the nerve-wracking challenge of reviving the team's fortunes and aiming for a championship. Leading a historic team as a 'newbie' and separating her work and personal opinions posed a significant challenge. The big question: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Chapter 20. Routine

Jens opened the door of the Airbnb Matilde had to stay in for three weeks. It was a cottage just outside of Oxford, in a beautiful surrounding for some quietness and peace, perfect for Matilde to recover and rest. It was Saturday, a day after the surgery and Matilde just got released from the hospital.

"This looks adorable," Matilde said when she stood still in front of the door. She was taking a break from walking from the car to the front door, which was about ten metres.

Jens only smiled. "I hope you can recover here quickly."

"It isn't home, but it will do," she gratefully replied.

Her steps into the house were slow and deliberate, her body still adjusting to the recent surgery. Jens guided her towards the living area. As Matilde eased herself onto the couch, Jens went back to the car to grab all the luggage. He picked up Matilde's stuff from the hotel and her car, which was still parked at the track, this morning.

"I parked your car at the end of the street," Jens said once he got back. "I will bring your stuff upstairs. Do you need anything?"

Matilde squinted her eyes; she had never seen him this caring, if she was honest. She and Jens were never that close, the bond between her and Lars was much better. Perhaps it was because Jens was the oldest and moved out quickly. Jens moved out when he was eighteen years old, Matilde was only twelve years old and Lars was fourteen at that time. From that moment on, Jens showed up whenever he felt like it - mainly because he was part of the army. "Uh..." She carefully got up. "I want to take a shower, get rid of the hospital air. Maybe take my suitcase upstairs, but leave my work bag and purse downstairs."

"Yeah, sure. Let's do it."

"But Jens," she said and looked at her older brother. "If you want to go to the Grand Prix, please go. You took time off to be there, you came all the way to the UK, you have VIP tickets, you brought your friends... I don't want you to be here while you can be there, live your dream."

"Tilly," he smiled, it was a soft and caring smile. "My friends can have the dream experience, but I would rather stay here and look after you. I came here to see you work, to be with you, I came here for you. And yes, it is my dream to be a VIP guest at a race, but I'm sure there will be another opportunity anytime soon," he told her. He knew her well enough to give her a little bit more explanation than necessary. "Let's just relax, rest and recover." He took her in his arms, creating a safe space for her.

Matilde closed her eyes and let out a breath, accepting that she wouldn't be able to live her life like she usually would do for three weeks. She carefully wrapped her arms around Jens' torso. For the first time in years, they shared a meaningful hug, but it was a hug she needed. She missed home, she missed her family and this made her realise how far away her family actually was. Jens rested his head on top of hers and he just held her.

After a moment, they let go of each other. They went upstairs, Jens still supporting his little sister. While Matilde was taking a shower, Jens stayed upstairs in case he had to help her. He unpacked his own bag in the guest bedroom, doubting whether he should unpack Matilde's suitcase as well. After the shower, Matilde and Jens went downstairs again. Jens connected his phone to the TV, putting on his favourite Danish radio station - knowing Matilde would like it as well.

"How was the shower?"

"Quite alright," Matilde said. "But I want to wash my hair, but I can't somehow do it," she said frustratedly. "It's such a simple task and I can't do it. Once you can't do it anymore, you realise what you lost."

"I can wash your hair."

"No, it's okay. I can wait two more days until dad arrives."

"I can do it. It's a nice feeling to wash your hair after a hospital visit."

"You don't even know how to do it."

Jens raised his eyebrow. "Why do you think that? I have seen mum and dad wash your hair so many times - and the tantrums you created, drama queen."

She huffed. "Now you are pulling the longbow."

"I said what I said." He leaned against the kitchen counter. The kitchen was next to the living room, well, in the living room. "So?"

"Fine," she gave in. "But how were you planning on doing it?"

"Chair, sit, sink." Jens walked upstairs to get Matilde's hair stuff. When he got back, he set up the setting. He took a chair from the dining room and put it in front of the sink. He placed a towel on the counter, it had to be a cushion. "Sit down, ma'am."

Matilde sat down. "Now you're being scary."

"Why?"

"SInce when are you interested in doing this?"

He grabbed Matilde's brush and detangled her wavy hair, well, expired blow out hair. "I am just taking care of you."

"That's what scares me."

"Shut up." He noticed some small baby curls in her neck. He put a towel over her shoulder and flipped the hair on it. "Okay, lean backwards." Matilde threw her hair over the sink. "Comfortable?"

Matilde looked Jens in the eyes. "Yes, sir. I hope you cleaned the sink."

"Yes." He turned the water on and waited until it was a nice temperature. He wetted her hair and watched how the straight hair slightly bounced back into its natural shape. It was still wet, but her hair turned into a shape again. Jens put some shampoo on his hand palm and emulsified it. During the first wash, he put his attention to the scalp.

"Okay, but for real, since when do you know how to wash hair?" Matilde was perplexed, it didn't make sense. First, he would do everything to avoid talking about hair care, and now he knew what to do. She stared at him.

"Like I said, I watched how mum and dad did it."

"But that's like a million years ago."

"With the tantrums you threw, it isn't easy to forget it."

"Bullshit."

"Don't move."

Jens rinsed the hair and washed her hair again. Then he squeezed all the water out of her hair and put in some conditioner. He instructed Matilde to sit up again, so he could, again, detangle her hair.

"Ouch," Matilde whined after a few minutes.

"Don't fuss," he replied.

"You are hurting me."

"I am not. Just get over it," he responded.

"Be careful."

"Mati."

"It hurts."

"Matilde."

"I can't fucking help that I have curly hair. It is a pain in the arse," she complained. "I am so jealous of all of you. Why do I have curly hair? Why am I the only one in this family? Mum's hair is as straight as a pencil, dad's hair too, Lars' hair too, your hair too. Mine is curly."

Jens had to agree with that; Matilde stood out in the family because of her curly hair. "The mother of grandma Greta had curly hair. Then it passed two generations, for you to have curly hair. Why don't you wear it curly anymore? Why straighten it?"

"I hate genes," she mocked. "I don't like my hair curly, it's ugly."

"It is not."

"It is."

"Why?" He put the comb on the kitchen counter. "Time to let the conditioner sit for a moment." He sat down on the counter of the island, crossed his arms and observed his sister.

Matilde sat up and shrugged. "I just don't like it, I don't think it looks pretty. It makes me feel different from everyone else in the family."

"It is unique."

"And I don't like it."

Jens nodded. "And what about that Leclerc boy?" It was something he needed to talk about.

"What about him?"

"Why did he randomly show up yesterday? After what he did?"

Matilde bit her upper lip and looked outside. She couldn't speak for Charles, she didn't know why he showed up. "I don't know, you should ask him."

"Why did he pretend to be your boyfriend?" Jens continued to ask, it didn't make sense.

She sighed. "It's not like I can look into his head and justify his decisions?" Her face straightened. "I have no idea why he showed up and why he told the nurse he was my boyfriend."

"So..." He squinted his eyes, observing Matilde. "You are on good terms, I see."

Matilde chuckled, her tone holding a hint of irony. "I don't want to say good terms, but we are getting there, I guess. It's still complicated."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with the vague response. "Complicated how?"

"People are complicated, any type of relationship is even more so."

He studied her expression, searching for any signs of discomfort or evasion. She met his gaze with a steady one, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exhaustion and resilience. It was a look he recognised, the same one she wore during challenging moments in her life.

"Til," he began. "You've got enough on your plate as team principal. You don't need more complications, especially not from someone like him."

"Protective big brother mode activated," she mumbled annoyedly.

A chuckle left Jens' mouth, conceding the point. "Maybe I do. But seriously, Tilly, you need people who bring stability, not more chaos."

"I know, Jens. Believe me, I know."

"So, let me get this straight: you start at Ferrari and Leclerc struggles to welcome you. Understandable. Odd, but understandable. Then your team are dickheads by the Miami situation. You cleared the air. Followed by Monaco, where Leclerc is blaming you for his own mistakes, causing more tension between the two of you, portraying you as a bad leader towards the media. And then the moment in Austria, where he fights in front of the media with Max, pulling you down. During the meeting with Max and Christian, he claims that you are only here for Max, fucking him for your position and calling you a bad leader. And when you are hospitalised, he is suddenly emotional, distracted and caring? Showing up without permission, pretending to be your boyfriend, standing next to your bed while pouting? It is almost like he is in love with you but tries to hide his feelings by being a dick." Jens threw his hands up in the air. "Make it make sense, Matilde."

Fact, on fact, on fact. Also a confrontation. Matilde swallowed hard. "He is one of my drivers..." Her lips parted, trying to find some words, which she couldn't find. "I don't want to talk about it now."

"I get it, but do you understand why Lars and I are having doubts? This isn't normal behaviour. And I know you want to protect him because he is your driver, but you need to be careful." He jumped off the counter, turning on the water again, waiting for the right temperature. "Make sure he does not play with you, because his behaviour is affecting you on your mental health."

"Jah," she mumbled annoyedly and laid back to the sink again.

"Just be cautious. It's not just about the racing, it is about your well being."

"Yup."

The short answer said enough to Jens; Matilde didn't want to talk about it. He didn't know if she wanted to avoid the topic or just leave it for now, but she was annoyed by it. Jens rinsed the conditioner out of Matilde's hair and applied the curl cream. "No mousse?"

"Neh, not today."

He nodded. He remembered that his parents had to learn how to control Matilde's hair; they reached out to other people with curly hair because they had no clue how to handle it. Jens also remembered that after applying the mousse, or gel, you had to scrunch it. Even though they skipped that step, he scrunched the cream into the hair, also squeezing out the excess water. He grabbed a T-shirt and dried the hair by scrunching it. "There you go."

Matilde was on the edge to ask to blow dry her hair and straighten it, but she felt uncomfortable and wanted to lay on the couch. She also thought it was adorable how her big brother performed the entire hair care routine by memory on her hair, so she decided to let it go and dry out her hair. "Tak."

"Go lie down on the sofa. I will make you a cup of tea." Jens washed his hands and filled the kettle with water.

"You still scare the crap out of me with how you behave." 

Next chapter

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