#Three: When I'm on a map I hate A LOT

[yore-donatsu]

Training sketches to know to draw the Omnic “Moses” and... I had fun giving it more human expressions (the ironyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy !🤣)

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[pseudowho]

Grey

You live a vigilante life, taking down Curses and Curse Users on commission. When finances force you to take a job from Jujutsu High, you find yourself stumbling into Nanami Kento's lap, where he has a proposition for you instead.

ThatHigurumaBathScene! But with Nanami Kento. Post Shibuya AU.

Warnings: AU!MorallyGrey Nanami Kento, Hot/ColdDom Nanami Kento, 18+, deep throat and other goodies, you know what you're here for.

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I hate to say I'm beginning to see My own reflection in my adversaries [...]

What's the price of a soul? What's its worth versus gold? I tried to beg for mine But it was already sold

Does nobody think twice? What does your hell look like? Does everyone have their price? Where they finally break

-- Sylosis, A Sign of Things to Come

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"So what can you tell me about this...Rogue sorcerer, that will make him easier to find?"

The backstreet diner was dimly lit, with a sickly orange light flickering above the window outside. Sounds and smells of greasy cooking seeped into your ears and clothes.

You swirled a spoon in your mug, already pissed off with the Jujutsu High representative, who seemed to find new ways to be spectacularly unhelpful with every answer he gave.

"He uses...a blunt blade of sorts. Wrapped in white cloth. He usually wears a suit. A tall man, I hear."

"Tall and in a suit. Right. That narrows it down. Thanks a lot."

The representative bristled. "You come highly recommended, despite being...unconventional," he sneered at you,  "The sorcerer in question has been tracked to somewhere in this vicinity." A marked map, along with a slim folder, was tossed across the table to you. The representative stood, brushing imaginary crumbs off his suit. "You know your task. Convince him to come back and work for Jujutsu High again, or eliminate him. He's too unpredictable. He threatens the fabric of sorcerer society."

You were silent, appraising the folder's contents. "Threatens the fabric of sorcerer society," you scoffed. They said the same about you. Any sorcerer acting independently of the higher-ups' control, whether a danger to good people or not, was seen as a danger, a rogue element. You would make your own assessment of the man, if you found him.

For now, it was late, the sun long gone down. You had insisted upon all expenses paid, alongside a generous wage, and were surprised when your price was agreed upon immediately. As such, a very exclusive hotel had a room reserved for you, for as long as you needed it. It was of no real comfort to your sinking loneliness, but a warm bed came second to a warm companion, when living on the move never guaranteed a good night's sleep. Picking up the folder and your bags, you headed to your hotel, to begin your hunt for the nameless rogue sorcerer first thing in the morning.

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The hotel had a beautiful restaurant, you considered, sipping your wine with quiet hums of approval. Leaning forwards, your chin on your arched fingers, you pondered over dessert. As you perused the menu, you barely glanced at the tall figure pressing briefly against your side on his way past your table.

"Excuse me," murmured a low, smooth voice. A spiced, warm cologne filled your senses as you turned briefly, watching a tall blond figure walk away from you. You thought nothing more of it.

After dinner, on your way up the hotel room's corridors, you felt through all of your pockets, certain you had picked up your key card, but hopelessly unable to find it.

By the time you reached room number seventy-three, you were forced to accept you had lost it. Yet, you were about to turn on your heels and head back to Reception when you noticed the door, already slightly open. Sensing a trap, and holding little but disdain for traps, you walked in with confidence, closing the door behind you, locking it.

Scanning the room, you called out; "I'm not that easily spooked. I'm not trapped in here with you. You're trapped in here with me."

You heard a low, sultry chuckle from the bathroom, the gentle swish of water sounding as something shifted in it. You may have been forced to eat your words, when a rush of Cursed energy that was so powerful, so heavy, hit you, a sandstorm on a desert. You had a sinking realisation that your rogue sorcerer may have hunted you down, before you'd hunted him.

"Are you going to come in?" the smooth voice called from the bathroom, as you forced yourself to take a breath. "I don't bite." Shaking yourself off, you pressed your body flat to the wall, concealed, as you pulled open the bathroom door. A few moments passed, and nothing happened. You heard the man, humming a song to himself. Slow swishes of water.

Glancing in, your tummy twisted as you took in the sight before you. Lying spread-eagled in the full bathtub, fully-clothed, was a man as well-grown and vast as his Cursed energy. Long legs, clad in an expensive black suit, and thick thighs pressed over the lip of the tub, wet clothes clinging to every peak and mountain of the man's body, leaving little to the imagination. In his hands, a small pair of dark glasses. His face, as of yet, not visible, but his left hand and his neck were covered in thick, red burn scars.

"Somebody's been using my bath," you offered, more nervous than you sounded. Heat pooled in your belly as the man chuckled again.

"Does that make me Goldilocks?" he asked, "I always thought I was more of a Daddy Bear." He lifted his head, looking at you now, and you blushed. Outstandingly handsome, even with deep scarring, you groaned inwardly to yourself, why are the problematic ones always so handsome?

"I've heard a lot about you," the blond man mused, swirling the water with his fingertips, his visible slim brown eye burning up and down your body, and you felt so completely seen, feeling his gaze burn even through his eye patch.

Outwardly cool, you smiled slightly at him, eyes narrowing; "Then you probably already know what I'm here for." The man sighed, in equal measures amused and exasperated.

"Jujutsu High have been after me returning to their sloppy little books for years. What did they think sending you after me would do?" He polished his glasses, before looking to you sternly, "Unless they've recruited you, hmm? Is that it? Are you a honey-trap?" You scoffed, your blush only deepening, much to the blond man's amusement. Swiftly and to your alarm, the man began to climb out of the bath, water cascading off him. Your stomach clenched again, desire coiling within. This man is an Adonis.

He raised his hand to you as you flinched, reaching for your weapons; "Calm down. I have no interest in hurting you." The man straightened, dropping his suit-jacket to the floor with a wet slap. "Those pieces of shit at Jujutsu High, however..." He approached you slowly now, looming over you, disgust in his eyes, "...who have no regard for your wellbeing, or any of their own sorcerers and students for that matter, would happily send you to try to threaten me back, even when they know it would be a fight you could never win."

He pressed against the wall above your head with his forearm now, leaning down to your ear and whispering.

"What was it you said, Little Bear? I'm not trapped in here with you; you're trapped in here with me." Your heart thumped behind your breasts, but you raised your head to meet his eye, one hand on his chest to prevent him getting any closer. He grasped your hand, pressing it to him, "The name's Nanami Kento. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Shit shit shit. "Nanami Kento? The Nanami Kento?" you cried, "They sent me after you? You're not even--" you faltered, and Kento smirked as you caught on.

"Not even, strictly speaking, a Curse User, no," he finished for you, "Just not at their beck and call. I hunt what I want, when I want. Freelance, if you will. Just like you, Little Bear. So tell me, are you in such dire straits, a talent such as yourself, that you needed to accept me as a job?"

You huffed, head turning to the side, and Kento traced his eyes down your breasts, hardening inside his wet trousers.

"You don't only kill Curses, Nanami," you deferred, "you're a man-killer too. Your kill count is impressive to say the least."

Kento eyed you shrewdly, voice low and slow, "Would you call them men? Rapists, abusers, murderers...there are all sorts of monsters in this world." You gulped. You didn't disagree with him. It was becoming rapidly apparent that you could not complete this job. Despite his assurances that he would not hurt you, his huge frame blocking your exit, the way he had stolen your key card at the restaurant to intercept you, and the threat you posed to his vigilantism, spoke differently.

"You could always come with me," Kento purred, "we're kindred spirits already.  And a bit of company might be a pleasant change. I'll pay you whatever they promised." His soft assurances were warm and honeyed against your ear, and you felt acutely how lonely you were.

"I don't need your money," you spat, pushing him away now, furious with yourself for even considering his offer. Kento stepped reluctantly away from you, a prize which he had every reason to allow himself to be caught by. You, the stories of whose exploits Kento had drank up, coming to hunt him down? He was flattered and thrilled when his informant at Jujutsu High warned him.

"Imagine what a team we could be," Kento growled, pacing in front of you, incensed that you couldn't see how simple and beautiful the solution could be.

In truth, you saw it. You saw yourself working with this man on your shared aims. You saw yourself ridding the world of Curses and monsters without agenda, but with him. It was with a sinking feeling that you knew if you chose to go with Nanami, the brittle mutual understanding you had with Jujutsu High to leave you alone as long as you offered them occasional services, would be lost. You risked becoming an enemy, a rogue element like him.

"It's not what I came here for," you responded stiffly, Kento wide-eyed with fury at your rejection, scarred skin strained against his eye patch. You straightened, putting a brave face on your fragile resolve as you turned your back on him, grabbing the door handle. "I won't be coming with you. I'll tell Jujutsu High exactly what you think of their offer. It won't be me who bothers you anymore."

As you moved to leave, you felt strong, corded arms move around you to hold the door closed, one wrapping tightly around your waist. Your heart nearly leapt out of your mouth.

"Stay," Kento urged, pulling you back to him.

"I thought you killed rapists," you spat at him. His arms stiffened around you.

"Please, don't compare me to scum. I don't need to rape you to get you into bed with me." Despite yourself, your pulse throbbed in your ears, and between your legs. "You're lonely. I'm lonely. We have shared goals. We could defy their system together." His mouth ghosted against your neck and he was delighted to feel you shiver against his tongue.

Feeling bolder, Kento laid his hand over the back of yours, grasping, and pressing them flat together against the wall. As he leant you forwards, his teeth sank into the back of your neck, and the wetness from his suit seeped through your clothes. He was so close, you couldn't tell where you began and he ended. The urge to give in was dizzying, images of chasing a different life with this man rushing through you a mile a minute, and you felt him pause for a moment, shivering against you.

"Cold," he murmured on your neck. "Have you ever taken a bath in your clothes?" You couldn't answer him, too overwhelmed by the press of his cock, insistently rigid, against your back. He kissed your neck again, hard. "Just to feel something." His fingers, cool and rough, slipped underneath the bottom of your shirt, nails grazing against the sensitive skin of your stomach.

"I don't...Nanami, I'm not..." He groaned, still breathing heavily against you.

"I want you," he intoned against you, "Maybe you can have something better than what you came here for."

"You're...you're a stranger to me," you gasped, resolve crumbling, body crying out for affection and release.

"I don't have to be," Nanami pressed, squeezing your hand, joined with his against the wall, "so let me show you what being needed really is...and then you can decide what you want to tell Jujutsu High."

Kento turned you round to face him, his one visible warm brown eye hooded with desire, beginning to unbutton his own shirt as he stroked your jaw, maintaining eye contact. You stared him down, vulnerable, tearful and overwhelmed. His thumb swiped across your eyes, hushing you softly.

"I know you don't want me to stop...do you?" he purred, his voice low and dangerous. You trembled, never wanting to find companionship like this, but sinking into Nanami's insistent control felt so intoxicating. Increasingly fearful of your own desires, you backed away to the wall again, pursued by Nanami, who blocked you in place, his knee pressed against the wall and between your legs.

"Please..." you began, begging him for...what? Pleasure? Or escape? You warred with yourself, as Nanami finished removing his shirt, wet and peeled off his body, and gods was he a sight to behold. His taut muscles and roughly hewn burn scars drew your eyes to his chest, drinking him in. Nanami smirked, tilting your chin up to him and pulling you in firmly for a kiss which broached no argument. You gasped at the sudden intrusion and Nanami took full advantage, plundering his tongue into your mouth, filling your senses with whiskey and smoke. Your arms, numb with shock, were grasped by Nanami, one by the wrist and placed against his burned chest, and one slipped under his belt, your palm flat against the trail of hair on his abdomen, just deep enough for your fingertips to graze the base of his cock.Your fingertips flinched back, and Nanami's hand pressed over yours, holding your fingers in place, his tongue trembling against yours as he shivered.

"Do you want me to stop?" he rumbled again, his mouth beginning to make a course down your jaw and neck. Leaning away momentarily, he read your face, flushed with pleasure, tears of rage in your eyes. Nanami chuckled behind your ear, nipping your earlobe hard until you squeaked and cringed. You didn't want him to stop, but couldn't be a part of making this decision for yourself. Nanami pushed your hand deeper behind his belt, the flat of your palm now pressed hard against his throbbing erection, happy to make the decision for you. Tentatively, you squeezed him, cock pulsing enticingly against your fingers, and he groaned into your mouth.

Nanami's last reservations about your willingness fell away completely, and he grabbed your jaw roughly, his hand extending to your throat and squeezing the sides, deepening his kiss. You squeaked again, your nails digging into his chest, heat flooding through you as he maintained the pressure of your hand holding his cock behind his belt, rutting forwards into your palm. Nanami felt his pleasure beginning to peak, too early, and held his hips and your hand still for a moment,your panting breaths mingling together.

Silent, heart visibly racing through the thick veins in his neck, Kento dropped to his knees in front of you. His expression stern, determined, he gripped the front seam of your trousers and ripped them open as if they were made of paper, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time, daring you to stop him. Lifting your thighs onto his shoulders as you gasped, wordless and chest heaving, your hands fell flat against the wall behind you, and Nanami rubbed his nose and lips against your puffy folds, all but completely exposed behind your soaked underwear. You clapped your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out as he inhaled deeply through his nose, euphoric in the smell of you.

"Do you want me to stop?" he hummed, the vibrations rumbling through your clit as you moaned, a high-pitched keening sound. Instinctively, both hands came off the wall to sink into Nanami's damp blond hair, pulling hard at the roots, holding his face between the heat of your legs. Rumbling his approval, Nanami's fingers swiped your underwear to the side, his tongue delving deeply between your folds, immediately beginning to flick insistently over your clit.

All rational thoughts went out of the window as Nanami licked and sucked between your legs, full attention paid to your pleasure, as you fell apart around him, thighs squeezing his head. Nanami's strong hands cupped your bum through your trousers, kneading the plush fat as he took your clit into his lips and sucked, feeling you shake as you approached the edge.

"Do you want me to stop?" he growled, and you couldn't stop yourself from whining your displeasure as he halted just before your orgasm hit you. Giving you no chance to answer, he took your clit firmly between his lips again, mouth and tongue hot and wet between your folds as you came, crying out and trembling, both hands clawing desperately at his hair, blinded by the peppering lights in your eyes.

Giving you no time to snap back to reality, you felt yourself being lifted and heaved over Nanami's shoulder.  He kicked the bathroom door open, carrying you through to the bedroom and lounge, dimly lit by the Tokyo skyline outside. Nanami dropped you on your back onto the table, positioning you until your head hung off the edge. Neck extended as you stared up at him, panting, eyes glazed, Nanami hummed as he slowly fingered the outline of your throat, his other hand undoing his belt. You gulped, mouth watering as you realised his intentions.

Lifting his heavy cock out of his trousers, Nanami began to stroke it, thumb swiping across the leaking tip, and he looked down at you, pupils blown with lust. He pressed two fingers into your mouth, shuddering with anticipation as he felt your tongue run against his fingers, licking the precum off his fingertips.

"Do...you want me to stop?" He forced out, pupils dilating as you opened your mouth for him slowly, invitingly. "Oh, fuck," groaned Nanami, pressing his length past your lips, hissing as the sensitive tip glided over your tongue and hit the back of your throat, curving to its shape, and he bucked into you, hands gripping your jaw and throat with bruising force as you gagged around him.

Nanami pulled out for long enough for you to take a deep breath through your nose, before fucking your throat with total abandon. Your wet gags and sloppy occasional breaths sent him reeling, his fingers resting on the outer edges of your throat thrilling him as he felt his cock bully past them. Hearing Nanami cursing, his voice breaking with stuttered moans, you felt heat coil in your belly, hands reaching out to grip his wet thighs to ground yourself. You felt so used, eyes streaming into your hair as he reached down your body, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he reached between your legs and curved two fingers up into your pussy, still wet from his tongue, his thumb swiping urgently over your clit. You convulsed, your hypersensitive clit tossing you into a painful second orgasm as your muscles fluttered against his curled fingers.

"Do you...do you want-- ahhh, fuck, take it take it, you're such a good girl," Nanami caged youin, hands flat on the table beside your waist, his balls hot and heavy against your nose as he came with a shout, rivers of cum trickling down your throat as you gagged, nails digging into his thighs as he rutted into your mouth, stunned by the strength of his orgasm. He pulled out of your mouth, sweaty and panting, his abs heaving in front of your face, stroking drops of his seed away from the sides of your mouth as you gasped and coughed on the table.

"Not enough," he gasped, stroking himself, half-hard already as the sight of you, spread and messy with cum on the table, "it's not enough. I'm not finished with you yet." You began to sit up, turning on the table, moving slowly towards him as he spoke again, stumbling and sweating, "Do you want me to--" Nanami was cut off by your kiss, forceful and determined as you locked your arms behind his neck.

Groaning appreciatively, carrying your weight as you locked your legs around his waist, Nanami stumbled to the bed, kicking off his trousers and beginning to rip your clothes off you. Your breasts freed, he latched aggressively onto your nipples, growling against you, completely absorbed in his plan to pound you into the mattress until you saw stars.

You bit into his shoulder blade as your trousers and underwear were flung unceremoniously aside, grabbing his cock and guiding it to your entrance, where he bottomed out in one smooth thrust, making you shriek as your pussy stretched, and you grasped onto him as you struggled to accommodate his size. Unexpectedly intimate, Nanami clasped his hand to yours, joined as he braced on his forearm above your head.

"I can't...I can't stop," Nanami choked out, slamming into you with a force that had you reeling. Barely held in place as his hips slammed yours up the bed, you locked your ankles behind Kento's hips, and he grasped you, pressing your knees to your chest until you were folded in two. Feeling his eye patch about to slip loose, and momentarily afraid you'd be disgusted by him, Nanami buried his face in your neck, grunting with every thrust as you mewled in his ear, your fingers deep in his hair, causing shivers down his spine.

You groaned, sultry and guttural, as his thick cock pounded your cervix, shuddering as you came, heat deep in your belly as Kento collapsed onto you, weak and drained as his seed filled you again, so overwhelmed by pleasure that he thought he may have seen god for a moment.

Flopping beside you on the bed, Nanami patted around above your head for his eye patch. Your hand reached up, grabbing his, lowering it to clasp together between your bodies. Nanami felt his chest clench, momentarily touched by your companionship and easy acceptance of his broken body.

"...what the hell am I going to tell Jujutsu High?" You groaned, as Nanami laughed richly, shooting you a wicked look.

"You'll come with me, then?"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

[cassandraclare]

*sighs a bit* Okay. Guys. I have been asked this question a lot, and answered it a lot. I don't know how to give a better answer — Dru & Ty&Kit share significance as main characters — so I guess I'll talk a little about comparison and structures.

First, all series have different structures. I don't think it's super useful or predictive to try to map an upcoming, unknown book series onto an existing series. In TLH the main character was Cordelia, everyone else was secondary to her, and people's roles and the significance of them altered from book to book. It was a big ensemble cast and they mostly stayed put in London especially in book 1.

TWP focuses on a smaller group of people. It also has a very different structure. In book one, Dru is not with Kit and Ty. They are in different places, both of which have their own stories that are significant to the plot. There is no way to see Place One without following Dru. There is no way to see Place Two without following Kit and Ty.

I know that TWP is a long way off. I know there are people who are very angry with me that there's such a gap, but there isn't anything currently I can do about that, or about the fact that I don't yet have the schedule for my upcoming books. That rests in the hands of several different publishers who must coordinate the release times and production schedules for four different series. I am not withholding any information about when these books come out. I simply don't know it yet.

I understand that TWP being a long way off makes for anxiety, and that those who are worried Kit and Ty will somehow be secondary are looking for tiny clues in microscopic details — micro-reading the of placement of the word "and" in my newsletter and such — that are meaningless, but I get that it all comes from anxiety. (FTR, those worried Dru will be secondary are equally anxious.)

I think there is only so much I can say. Because there's a big gap between TLH and TWP everything I do say or every image or hint about it is freighted with a weight of assumption it can't really support. Anxiety is always going to trump reassurance. And truly, at the end of the day, if you only care about Kit and Ty and find the idea of a Dru story tiresome, you will feel like they got shafted because when you absolutely hate a plotline, you will always feel like it's taking up way too much space. That's just how our minds work.

I've been doing this long enough that I know no book can survive a hostile reading. I know that Book Three of a trilogy is the one people hate until they don't. (When Clockwork Princess came out people hated it so much I considered quitting writing!) I know that it's wonderful to love a character but can also be a problem for people when I put out books that aren't about that particular character or dynamic. I know that for a lot of people, Sword Catcher and Ragpicker King are just tiresome things that have no business on my schedule because they're not Shadowhunter books. And I get it. But I also have to block it out, because I've been writing a long time, and I've gotten to a point where I know that I have to write the thing I want to be writing, because if I don't, if I sit down and try to force myself to write something I'm not feeling like writing at that time, I'll be making myself physically and mentally sick. And that's no good for anyone, really.

I suppose the positive thing is that, while this would not have been true five years ago, I am at the place where I want very much to be writing Wicked Powers. I missed these characters and am glad to be back with them. I consider this a story in which there are three main characters. And that is all I can say right now because it's all that I know.

(And this was much more of a general response to a lot of things than a specific response to this question, but I did feel like it was stuff that I needed to say. Creators are at the end of the day, just people. Sometimes we are powerless to reassure. Sometimes we are tired. Sometimes we are wrong. Sometimes we try things and they don't work. Sometimes we can't explain to you what our story is going to make you feel, because only reading it is going to tell you that. This may be one of those times.)

[ferrarifinnick]

time zones | charles leclerc 16

charles leclerc x reader

in different cities, plagued by different time zones, charles misses your phone calls once again. suddenly things don't seem so sustainable anymore.

note: hate to do it to you, but here's some angst. get those tissues ready and prepare to clutch those pearls. also, first charles fic! what do we think? love <3

masterlist

warnings: angst, long distance relationship, miscommunication, heartache, sad charles poor charles :(

700 words

7:02am.

Charles stared at the blurry numbers on his phone, squinting at the brightness of the screen and the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut when he noticed the notifications from you. Three texts, two calls. All unanswered.

The first text, at 11:58pm.

I just finished work. I'll call you on the way home. Can't wait to hear your voice. I need it.

Charles' chest hurt. 11:58pm, minutes after he must have dozed off. He had tried so hard to keep his eyes open but his day had been so long and sleep was fighting a good battle against him.

At midnight is when the first missed call came through. It would've been 5pm for you. You would be getting out of work and Charles would be about to get into bed. You would've just got to your car, set up Google Maps, and called him. That was the only time you could find to chat to each other lately, and Charles had missed it.

Worse yet, he let you drive home with the disappointment of waiting all day to hear his voice, only to still be alone come night time.

Twenty six minutes later, at your 5:27pm and his 12:27am, the second text came through.

I made it home safe. I saw you got P2, congratulations! Very well deserved my love. Are you still awake?

That's when the next call came through.

Charles knew that you'd have been upset when he didn't answer. He knew you'd be holding back the intrusive thoughts. The what-ifs, the tears, the disappointment. It would have been keeping you up much later when you'd be trying to sleep. But he knew what was really eating at you was the hope that he would wake up and light up your phone with an incoming call.

He knew it was true when he saw the text at your 11:03pm and his 6:03am.

I think we've missed each other tonight. I was looking forward to hearing your voice, but I hope you celebrated that win well. Congratulations on P1 my love, well deserved. Goodnight.

He stared at the time of your last text, your 11:03pm and his 6:03am. One hour ago. You'd barely been asleep for an hour and here he was waking up to start his day. By the time you'd wake up, he'd be in meetings. By the time he'd get out, you'd be in work. By the time you'd finish, he'd be going to sleep.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. Distance was never easy, but this wasn't the first time you'd missed your small window to talk to each other. It had been happening a lot lately. He knew it was hurting you because it was killing him.

He opened the tab on his phone of flights that neither of you could take. He was stuck where he was, and you were stuck elsewhere. There was never time. Something always changed the circumstances for the worse, and Charles sank his shoulders in defeat.

He deleted the tab on his phone.

Opening your messages, he sent his own reply.

Good morning, mon amour. I'm sorry we missed each other last night. I hope you're sleeping well. I'll call you after you finish work.

He stared at your missed calls again. There was nothing he could do except stare at them and wish they weren't real.

The alarms he forgot to set would have urged him out of bed over half an hour ago, and so he got himself up and dressed for the meeting he was about to be late to, but he couldn't open the door of his lifeless hotel room.

Guilt gnawed at his stomach. It wasn't fair of him to make you live this way for him. You deserved more than a short phone call every couple of days, and he realised that the only way for that to ever change was if you were here with him.

But he knew deep down that following him around the world wasn't what you wanted. While he could give you security, he couldn't give you stability. That's what you wanted more than anything, and that's when he finally realised, after suffering the long distance for so long, that there were two things in life that meant most to him.

The job and the girl.

He wanted both. But as he opened the door of his hotel room, he realised he could only have one. He had to pick. But he knew it wasn't really a choice. There was only one option.

And it wasn't the girl.

[whenlilyfallsinlove]

not today

ant x reader, probably gonna have multiple parts!! i am so in love with him stop.. there's a severe lack of heartbreak high work on here!!!

was it wrong to be in love with your best friend?

you often debated the logistics of this question every night before you fell asleep, when all you could think about was him.

anthony vaughn. your best friend since diapers, the ned to your peter, the ron to your harry and everything in between. you were together that often he had his own place at your dinner table.

it was an unlikely pairing, really. people often deemed ant as an idiot, which sometimes you couldn't refute. he had made lots of stupid decisions over the years, you couldn't deny that.

"YOU THREE DID WHAT?!" you screamed, as ant had a guilty look on his face.

ant, spider and dusty had made up a rumour that amerie had slept with jojo, the teacher of the group you both had been forced to join - SLTs. this resulted in jojo being fired, and a huge protest involving yourself, ant and the rest of the group sleeping in woodsy's office.

"it was dusty's idea!" ant exclaimed, trying to defend himself. he hated when you were mad at him.

"yet you still went along with it?" you scoffed.

"spider did as well." he protested.

"of course he fucking did." you rolled your eyes. as much as you were best friends with ant, you hated his other friends. they were cunts, mostly.

"look (y/n) i'm sorry-"

"i don't think it's me you should be apologising too." you interrupted him, firmly.

ant sighed, and you hated yourself for how you really can't stay mad at him for too long.

"look.. i've already apologised to amerie. we just.. i just.. was mad. SLTs is so boring y'know? and amerie is the reason we're there anyway!" he said.

"it was still wrong of you." you replied, but your eyes softened.

"cmon (y/n), you can't be mad at me forever." ant said, giving you his best puppy dog eyes.

you sighed, and playfully rolled your eyes.

"you're right, i really can't." you groaned and he got up and tackled you into a hug.

"get off of me, you smell awful!" you protested weakly, yet you still wrapped your arms around him.

you were screwed. well and truly.

you, on the other hand, were deemed as someone smart. someone respected. it confused people how you were so close, when you were just so different.

you didn't even want to think about how your friends would react after finding out about your feelings. that's why you told no one.

however, it seemed that you weren't as secretive about your feelings for ant as you thought. amerie's map. you couldn't look him in the eyes for a week after that.

loud voices were heard as you, ant and spider approached what seemed to be the talk of your year group. you looked up to see a map, a map full of names of everyone that you knew.

"what the fuck.." you muttered, your eyes roaming the map, taking it all in.

you see your own name, with lines between dusty and cash. you scoff. it didn't happen. whoever made this clearly relied on rumours that had once gone around about you.

"darren jerked you off.. nice bro, you into dudes now?" spider's voice, directed at ant, brought you from your thoughts.

you looked at the map to see ant's name connected to darren. you raised an eyebrow.

"fuck off spider." you roll edyour eyes.

"what, you jealous?" spider responded, making you clench your jaw.

"still mad i rejected you, yeah?" you replied. ant laughed at your response, making you feel quite proud of yourself.

"bro, ant and (y/n) have that same line between them that mine and amerie have." dusty's voice spoke up, pulling you from your argument with spider.

confused, you looked up to what he's talking about. your eyes widened. he was right. in all your anger about the other lines coming off your name, you had failed to notice the gold line between yours and ant's name.

"what the fuck does that mean?" ant asked, also looking up.

you look to the key.

"destined.." you muttered. you were mortified. destined? how had these mystery map bitches both fed your delusions and humbled you at the same time?

"the fuck does that mean?" ant said. to a normal person, you'd probably be offended that your crush of many years had that response but to you, you didn't care. it was likely he genuinely did not know what it meant.

"you're destined to be together, ain't that cute?" spider teased, smacking ant on the back.

you avoid eye contact with ant for the rest of that day. when it was revealed amerie created the map a small part of you wanted to ask her to elaborate. you still haven't asked ... yet.

you could never confess your feelings for him. there was no way you would. years of friendship would be on the line, if he said no.

you'd wait. wait until it was the right time.

anthony vaughn was your best friend, and you were in love with him.

one day you'd confess.

just not today.

[harbourslighthouse]

Asphalt In My Lungs (Jason Todd x F!Reader)

Summary: It's been six years since the death of the second Robin, your Robin, and you're twenty-one and barely getting by. When a certain person's phone calls stop, you're forced to drag yourself out of your head and pay a visit to a man you didn't think you'd see ever again. You can barely stand the colour red.

—

There are mentions/implications of past abuse & neglect, so be wary of that if that is an issue for you. The story itself is mildly angsty, but it's not severely depressing. You don't necessarily need to read it for future stories, but it does give a lot of information about the reader and sort of 'sets the tone' of things.

For just a little context, I take different details from different mediums of the DC universe. I use aspects from the animated movies, the Christopher Nolan films, and the Arkham video games. Don't regard my stories as 100% canon compliant. 

I hope you enjoy, it is a bit of a long one, but I put my heart and soul into this as it's one of my first stories that I'm publishing here.

—

It’s 2005, and since you can remember, Gotham City has been made of barbed wire and blood. It crawls like something alive, writhing with sin and grime. The Wayne Enterprises tower sits in the center of Miagani Island, a pulsing beam of light that’s meant to mean something, yet those who live in the darkest slums see it only as a mocking sentinel glowing down on them. 

You wonder if Bruce should have made a symbol of good out of his own name, instead of creating the masked entity: the Batman. 

Maybe then, he would have done something. 

You know the darkness that seeps out of Gotham intimately. Born and bred on Miagani Island—the most urban of the three islands—you grew up in a desolate street, in a desolate house. The school you went to was just as dull, with teachers that hated their jobs, and school kids that shoved each other off slides and dunked heads down toilets. You remained a hidden thing, invisible to most. 

Gotham City remains a corrupted landmark on the map, often pointed at with the resolute statement, ‘That place? We can’t possibly live there. It’s filthy and the crime rate is insane.’ If anyone asked you, as a Gothamite yourself, if it was worth the ridiculously low rent prices, you’d shake them by their shoulders, shove them towards their car, and tell them to drive away as far as possible. 

Yet, you can’t bring yourself to hate the city. You’ve seen its most hideous parts; the trash littered alleyways with burning barrels and tents made of scrap fabric and metal; the rat infested houses along the edge of the Narrows that are half crumbling into the murky water that surrounds the small isle; gang spots stained with blood after a deal goes wrong. Gotham City is many things to many people, but it’s different for you. 

Gotham City, to you, is made of memories. 

As a young child, you hadn’t been blessed with a sweet home full of warmth and love, the kind you see in the sitcoms that only aired at specific times. Not that you watched much of those, anyway. No, yours had been an empty echo of bitterness and split lips. Yours had buried a hole in your chest as something ugly and not worth thinking about, something scabbed over or fully scarred. So you only remember parts of it on the worst of days, when you’re paralysed by something you can’t name. 

Shouting rings from the open window, and there’s a dull pang of surprise that there isn’t a jagged hole in the glass. By now, they start throwing mugs, or plates. Whatever is closest.

Your back digs into the screen door, and you pull your knees up to your chest as you sit and wait on the porch. They locked the door, and there’s no other way for you to slip into your room. The window out back is too high for you to reach, and your arms aren’t strong enough to push yourself up to the windowsill. 

You’re not sure when the dull emptiness had begun to set in, but even at this age, you know violence and normalcy should not co-exist together. But, you’re only fourteen. There’s not much that you can do. 

A glass shatters, the shrill noise making you flinch. It’s the first of many broken pieces of porcelain, so you haul yourself up onto your feet with a silent huff, feeling the burn of tears. You slip your backpack over your shoulder again, and hop down the wooden steps. 

The street is mostly empty. Trash flutters out from underneath parked cars, and the smell of dust and exhaust fumes is thick and heavy. You walk with steady steps, although your gaze keeps falling to the brick-laid sidewalk. There’s a horrible pressure in your chest, like something has lodged itself into the space between your lungs. You count the crosses on your sneakers and pray that they stop shouting soon, so that you can come back home before it’s dark.

Memories are often distorted the older you get. It’s usually the cloudy, grey days that render you in bed for hours. Laying amongst rumpled bed sheets with your hair still styled from the day before, your mind casts a line back into the past, hoping to reel in some sort of closure that you’ve been chasing for years.

You’re not sure why, but during these days when you can’t get out of bed, and your eyes flicker across the gritty texture of your ceiling, you often think about the second home you were introduced to—a home that was given to you when your hand slipped into that of a billionaire celebrity’s, whose eyes held secrets. 

The muted sound of gravel crunching seems louder than your heartbeat as the car pulls into a broad driveway. You lean to the side, temple pressed against the car window, and your lungs clench in awe. 

Large and imposing, a stately mansion made of pale brown bricks, numerous windows, and pointed roofs, sits as a giant backdrop of wealth amongst the vibrant green lawns that stretch onward for miles. You blink rapidly, hand curling around the metal door handle as the engine becomes silent. You climb out slowly, the chill air pushing against your cheeks. Your worn shoes are thin at the bottom, and you can feel the pressure of gravel and pebbles against your heels, but you can’t seem to care as you numbly walk closer to the entrance of the mansion. The structure towers above you, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s as intimidating on the inside as it is on the outside. It reminds you of all the large estates you’d seen in the history books (ones that hadn’t been scribbled over with sharpie).

The butler, or Alfred, as you’ve come to know, strides past you with his measured steps, and opens the double doors made of wood as dark as dirt. He waits patiently inside, grey eyes cast over your awe-struck face. He nods his head, urging you to step across the threshold. 

Swallowing thickly, you walk past him and feel the air in your lungs escape in a silent gasp. Thick, velvet carpet cushions your feet and stretches down a large hall, hiding away wooden floorboards that shine as if wet. Gilded paintings are hung on either walls, portraits and landscapes in oils. Vases sit neatly on tables with clusters of flowers, and a chandelier hangs above the room in glittering crystal and electric candles. 

You’re sure if you could see yourself, you’d be amused at the slack-jaw expression on your face as your eyes trace across the dark, polished interior of the house, sliding along the gleaming banisters of the grand staircase that must lead to even more exuberant displays of wealth. Was the owner a king? Or perhaps a lord from the 1700s? You nearly forgot all about the man that had smiled at you a day ago, and that you’d meet him again today. 

You hear Alfred clear his throat from behind you, and you swivel towards him, hands awkwardly clasped at your middle as if you’d been caught in the act of something. Your heart flutters as his eyes crease with a silent smile, and he strides past you through an arched doorway, and you follow quietly behind, unaware of just how different things will be from now on. 

You wonder if there’s something you’re searching for in that memory, with how many times you come back to it, but as the days stretch in a linear line of routines and phone calls, you shove it to the far side of the shelf, where it remains stationary and covered in dust. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, the state you’re in emotionally isn’t stable. You’re very good at hiding it, though memories and heartache trail after you like rumours, wrapping around your throat some days and sending unshed tears to gather in your eyes. Despite those days, you have a life that you can’t ignore or leave behind. You have a regular job as a secretary—nothing fancy—and interestingly, you can’t bring yourself to complain about it. You assist a defense attorney in the Department of Justice, and you’ve found that law, despite what many say, is quite entertaining to someone who isn’t directly involved with the legal proceedings. 

And you’ve made some friends, although you’re not sure if it’s an official thing or something you’ve decided on your own. Commissioner Gordon is kind to you, tilts his head when he sees you sitting at your desk, and gives you a mustached smile, auburn hair curling around the corners of his lips. He once brought you a coffee, tired eyes glancing your way with a softly spoken greeting. You wonder if he noticed the way you’d been able to smile after feeling like your face had gone numb. You wonder if he remembers how you looked six years ago in a purple and yellow suit.

The trek back to your apartment is notorious for bringing up unwanted snippets of a life long-gone. You see Bruce’s face in the passing men in business suits and finely tailored coats. Reflections of grey-haired gentlemen makes you think of Alfred with his creased eyes and dry, sarcastic humour. The occasional red sweater nearly sends you choking on air as flashes of a boy embellished with wonder and pride strikes your mind viciously. 

Alfred leads you into a kitchen, and again, you are in awe of the gleaming tiles beneath your feet, the pristine cupboards with glass fronts that let you see the polished crockery inside. As Alfred disappears into the hall outside again with a gentle instruction for you to stay put, you stand idly at the end of a long, white-washed table that gives you the impression of a beach-house dining room. It then strikes you that there’s probably a grand dining room elsewhere in the mansion. 

A rustling sound scratches at your ears and you turn just to see a second doorway at the opposite side of the room creak open—a doorway that blends seamlessly into the tan coloured wall. You’re rendered dumbly staring at a boy around your age, whose own eyes stare back at you in silent shock. In his arms, he cradles a packet of crackers and…a loaf of sliced bread.

Your gaze flicks between the contents in his arms and his widened eyes, before you clear your throat awkwardly and flick your hand in a tiny wave. 

“Hi,” you say quietly, and you wonder if the words are loud enough to even reach him. 

Your voice seems to snap him out of his surprise, and he blinks rapidly, straightening. 

“Hello,” he says in a voice that sounds forcefully deep, as if he were trying to sound bigger, stronger than what he looks. He’s tiny. Thin and bony, short even. You wonder if he actually is near your age, or much younger. 

Thick, black hair shifts atop of his head as he glances swiftly around the room, as if searching for someone else to explain your sudden appearance. Then he looks back at you with eyes that seem largely intelligent, yet skeptical, and you get the impression he’s silently sizing you up, or studying you. What he intends to find, you don’t know. 

You step back as he resolutely shuffles the crackers and bread in his arms to better fit in his hold, and makes his way to you, socked feet padding across the tiles. Watching mutely, he drops the items on the table with little care, the bread falling lopsided with a squishy thud. He turns to you fully and sticks his pale hand out to you. 

“I’m Jason Todd,” he says stiffly, jade-coloured eyes flickering across your profile. 

You glance at his hand with bated breath, noticing the red sweater he’s wearing has sleeves that are too long and cover most of his hand other than his fingers. 

Hesitantly, you curl your hand around his, palm to fabric, and shake it with little strength or enthusiasm. Like a wide-eyed deer, you feel as if you’ve met a grinning wolf with eyes that are kinder than what nature usually permits. 

You smile weakly and give him your name.

That memory leaves you with something throttling your heart, until you’re sure you might just pass out on the side of the street. That’s never happened before, but there’s always the possibility. 

Usually, you’re able to reign in these flashes of the past, and you’re largely successful as the days go by. Yet, when your phone lights up with a buzz, and you see the familiar name ‘Grayson’ pop up, you’re left standing in square one again with shaky fingers and burning eyes.

You’ve read countless messages from Dick, sent during the early morning hours or late in the afternoon. You figure it aligns with his schedule in Bludhaven. The young, twenty-four year old is adamant, ever since you left the manor three years ago, at eighteen, to remain in contact with you no matter what. You haven’t been able to escape his ceaseless concern over your whereabouts, the not-so-subtle questions about your well-being.

It’s funny to you, considering he hadn’t been the most emotionally stable person either, especially when, at fourteen, you and Jason became Batman’s well-known sidekicks, Batgirl and Robin. He had been eighteen, angry, and reckless, going off on his own to make a name for himself that isn’t weighted down by Bruce’s shadow. Yet now, despite owning your own place, securing a stable job, and regularly keeping up with normal adult responsibilities, the older man refuses to ease his worry over you. You know the truth.

He’s afraid of the grief you carry. 

You wonder if he’s even aware of his own grief, seeing as all he does is care about yours. You don’t have the heart to tell him to let it go, to give you space—you’re sure that he needs the weekly phone calls more than you do. So, you let him text, call, facetime. Sometimes you’re in the middle of grocery shopping when your phone vibrates with his name rolling across the screen in bright letters, ‘Dick Grayson is calling…’ 

And sometimes he says something that has you clenching your teeth, staring off at something if only to keep the burn behind your eyes minimal. He’s a trigger for many of these memory flashes that don’t ease the thing inside your chest that’s wailing. 

‘I saw this girl the other day that looked like Batgirl and I wondered if I’d been taken back in time, y’know? And—yeah, it was so strange…but then I was like, no—that makes no sense—she’s in Gotham, not here in Bludhaven, but like…she was decked out in purple and yellow, and I thought of you…’ 

Your ears have started ringing, drowning out the rest of Dick’s monologue; purple and yellow. Purple and yellow. That was Batgirl’s thing. That was your thing. Or, at least, it had been. 

You glance down at the pair of latex gloves you clutch in your hand. The material is bright yellow, shiny in the light. Grimacing, you look at Bruce and sigh. 

“B…?” 

A low hum is given in response, an acknowledgement of your pending question. You’ve grown used to Bruce’s minimal communication. The husky words said in a gruff voice, the clipped instructions, the low grunts. 

“Does it have to be bright purple and yellow?” Your voice is quiet, a little unsure. Years of shouting and backhanded slaps after a question still leaves you cautious. Afraid. 

The dark-haired man turns in his chair, sharp eyes sliding your way. You stand awkwardly, almost timid. You see the same softening around his eyes, the same flash of gentleness you’d seen when he found you hiding behind a filthy dumpster on a cold Tuesday night. 

“Yes,” he says flatly, and the single word lingers with something trailing behind it, as if there’s more that he wants to say. You wait patiently with raised brows, but he doesn’t say anything more, and turns his attention back to the glowing monitors, eyes flitting across blue-lettered reports and images.

You stand there with nothing else to say, the roof of the Batcave seemingly constrictive and as dark as a hole in the ground, the metal tiles under your feet empty and expansive. 

There isn’t a sting travelling across your cheek. There’s no screamed curses and insults thrown your way, simply because you asked a question. Yet, why does it feel as if you’ve been kicked in the gut? Was his answer not enough? Surely it is—it’s better than what you used to receive from the people who were meant to love you. 

You tug the gloves onto your hands, shimming your fingers into the right places, and glance down at your mustard-yellow boots. You’ll simply have to make do. 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when an elderly lady nudges your arm, murmuring a small ‘excuse me’ as she leans over to grab a container of mozzarella balls. 

“Oh,” you mumble, smiling apologetically as you move out of the way. “Sorry, that’s—sorry.” 

You hear Dick’s faint voice call your name, and you bring your phone back up to your ear again, answering his questions with a quiet tone, walking away from the aisle of cheese and other dairy products.

For what it’s worth…those aren’t even the worst kinds of memories you have. No, the worst are of the boy shrouded in glory, the second Robin—Jason Todd.

Jason Todd had been the first thing to make sense in your life, which was strange, considering most of your life had been an abstract mess of scraped knees, broken plates, and late nights shooting hoops in the neighbourhood basketball court. A life that Jason knew very well, too. 

Perhaps it was the shared trauma of broken families that brought you closer together; sealed the both of you in a wordless acknowledgement that said, ‘I see you.’ Either way, the both of you acted as a crutch for the other, and you try to forget it as you stand in empty elevators, on the edge of the curb for a taxi cab, when you see a little boy with raven-feathered hair on the street. 

Oh, Jason. You were everything, is all that you can bring yourself to think some days, when the noise of the city becomes unbearable and you simply have to shove towels inside the gaps in the windowsill—if only to muffle the noise and silence the screaming police sirens.

Those are the days when you’re tempted to leave Gotham entirely, if only to run away from whatever thing is haunting you. Sometimes, in the shadowy darkness of the night, as you lay in bed with the covers drawn to your chin, you wonder if it’s Jason you see at the end of the bed. Small as he was, quiet, and vibrating with a passion that burned bright red. Then you blink and realise you’d only been imagining the straight slope of his nose or the curve of his eyelashes. 

“It’s entirely unfair,” you mumble, hands in your lap as you sit cross-legged in the centre of Jason’s room.

Surrounded by scattered CDs, you hear the floorboards creak as Jason moves around the edge of his bed, carrying a pile of books to the empty bookcase. You were helping him sort out the books and CDs he’s been collecting.

“What?” He scoffs with a grin that pulls more to the right than the left. “You’re jealous of boys and their ‘long eyelashes’?” 

You can’t help but smile at his mocking tone, the way he teases you as if you’ve known each other for longer than just a few months. Jade-green eyes glance at you briefly. 

Rolling your eyes, you sigh defeatedly with dropped shoulders. “Yes, because you all have such long, luscious lashes. Meanwhile, mine are just average.” 

Jason slides his pile of books into their designated spots, paper pressed against wood panels, and turns to you. Stepping over the littered CD cases, he crouches directly in front of you, and your breath catches. 

“I’m tellin’ you right now, nothing about you is average,” he says, and you can barely breathe with how intently he’s looking at you, and suddenly, it’s like you’re staring into the heart of Gotham. Broken and marred, bloodied and bruised, and yet still so irrevocably beautiful and worth everything. 

Well, you once thought that Gotham’s heart was worth everything. Now, you’re not so sure. You lost the clearest piece of love to you on the planet, a boy wrapped in barbed wire with a grin as infectious as a disease.

You wonder sometimes if you’re the only one who feels Jason’s absence as strongly. The emptiness that lingers where his laugh used to echo is so heavy, you’re sure it’s formed a presence of its own. Did his ghost haunt Dick as it did you? Did Dick check over his shoulder and blink rapidly whenever he saw a young boy wearing a red hoodie? Did he have to mutter to himself in the kitchen, pleading with himself to get over what used to be? Or were you the only one? 

And what about Bruce? Does the man who once held a broken, fifteen year old boy—who believed in everything the Batman stands for—reduce himself to a mess every night? 

Just the thought of Bruce sends a sick sense of bitterness churning in your gut, which you feel entirely guilty for. You know what happened wasn’t Bruce’s fault. You know that he did everything he could. Yet, when you think too hard about what it was like on the day he came back with nothing but red eyes, a clipped utterance, and no Jason…you have to run to the bathroom to empty out the contents of your stomach in the toilet. It’s embarrassing and leaves your cheeks burning with shame.

You should be over this by now. It’s been six years. 

Memory is a fickle thing, regardless of time. It chooses when to be heard and when to remain dormant. You’re stuck in an endless cycle of paralyzing remembrance and constant avoidance. Weeks go by without incident, only for a month to trap you inside your head with memories of a broken past. Then the cycle repeats. 

Despite this, you’ve learnt to cope with the past like a sailor does with the roughened sea. Although, you’re sure you’re more akin to a sailor stranded in a raging tempest. You ride each wave of nausea-inducing memory, all whilst clinging to the barest strip of wood—Dick Grayson and his ever-present concern, Alfred’s occasional query of your wellbeing, Bruce’s own sanity, the job you have, and the sickening feeling that you can’t let Jason see you like this, despite him not being here in the first place. 

You’re drowning in grief, and you know it. 

And so you’re not sure what exactly happened between April and June of 2005, but you know Dick’s phone calls stopped almost entirely for three whole months. You only called once, in carefully concealed panic, when you realised he hadn’t called you in two weeks.

“Hi, sorry. I know I don’t usually call, but you haven’t—” 

“No, no, don’t—uh—don’t apologise. I’m—yeah. I'm sorry, that’s my bad. Should’ve let you know. Things have just been busy, honey.” 

“...That’s all it is? Just been busy?” 

“Yeah, I promise. Everything’s okay.”

“Okay…well, I’m glad you’re okay then…”

The phone call had been short and it had put you on edge. Dick doesn’t let phone calls end abruptly—instead, he takes his time to explain things or rambles about topics you’re not very interested in. But you don’t push or prod, mostly because you have the suspicion it has to do with his life of vigilantism—the one you left behind five years ago. 

Leaving that life behind had been easy. Jason’s death meant the death of Robin. It meant the death of Batgirl, too. Although, your death had been inward and known by very few people. 

July comes by, only a week passes where Dick calls you consistently, and then it’s back to radio silence. The importance of his phone calls is viciously realised, but you don’t have the heart to admit it. Dick Grayson has been your crutch for the last three years, and you’re inexplicably starving for the care he manages to give you through his calls.

Taking it upon yourself to find out what’s going on, you decide to drive to the Manor.  You crank up the radio as loud as you can, the car rattling with noise as you cruise across the bridge that leads to the mainland. If you’re alone with nothing but silence and your thoughts, you’ll probably turn back the other way. It had been hard enough to convince yourself to grab your keys off the kitchen counter.

The Manor is just as grand as you remember it, if not a little weathered by time—brown against the blue sky, like a giant boulder sitting in the center of a vibrant green landscape that stretches flatly like a canvas before reaching a thin treeline of woods. Gravel crunches under tires, and the car’s engine rumbles before fading into silence. Blinking, you’re fourteen again as your hand wraps around the door handle, and you step out into the frigid air. 

Tugging your coat closer to your frame, you take measured steps up the driveway, glancing at the neatly pruned hedges that cluster beneath some of the large, lower windows, and the copper-leaved tree that’s remained the same for the last decade—sitting resolutely to the left of the estate and hiding away pale-brown bricks and frosted glass panes. 

The double doors, the colour of dirt, are the only thing between you and something that leaves behind a bitter taste in your mouth. Gripping the heavy, bronze door knocker, you thud it against the door three times, before stepping back as if burned by the metal. 

You’ve forgotten Alfred’s punctuality, because it’s only seconds before the doors silently groan open in the way that only heavy things do, and you’re met with grey, creased eyes that glue to you with reserved surprise. 

Lips twitching into a weak smile, you say quietly, “Hi, Alfred.” 

The stoic butler ushers you in quickly, a welcoming and familiar hand pressed lightly against your back to lead you across the threshold. He gestures to your coat, but you look at his wrinkled face and shake your head, something inside you breaking in half, but you don’t know what it is. 

“That’s okay, Alfred,” you say gently, “I just—I’m here to talk…to Bruce. Is he down in the cave?” 

Alfred nods his head, walking past you towards the parlour room. You follow behind quietly. 

“He is, indeed. Might I ask why you’ve come?” 

You glance his way to see him already looking at you, eyes the colour of iron flickering across your face as you both step into the parlour. It’s cold you notice, and the room is dim. 

“I, um…” you’re not sure how to word this—how could you possibly say, ‘I’m getting separation anxiety because Dick isn’t calling me and I want to know why’? 

“Just want to ask him if there’s something important going on…Dick’s been busier than usual,” is what you settle with, and Alfred accepts it with nothing but a simple nod, and no further questions. You appreciate Alfred’s uncanny ability to brush off any form of curiosity. 

The parlour room remains the same, with only a few, small changes. You’re sure that the two leather couches have been reupholstered; shinier and a richer shade of brown. Vases full of flowers are placed neatly beneath the colonial windows which are framed by thick curtains the colour of moss. Usually the bouquets consisted of lilies, but now they’re tulips. The persian carpet stretches across the polished floorboards, softening the sound of your shoes, and the mounted electrical lights are unlit, surrounded by clusters of gilded paintings. 

Passing under an arched entranceway, you walk into a familiar, adjacent room, where bookcases line the walls with glass doors, and an old grand piano sits as the centerpiece of it all. Sleek, black, and with keys open to the cool air that drifts in through an open window. 

Alfred looks your way with a careful glance, and says in a mild tone that’s not meant to be accusing.

“Do you still remember?” 

You wish you could tell him that you remember everything. Would it be ill of you to break down and spill your guts out to the man who’d patched you up more times than you can count? Who stitched torn skin back together again while you bit down on a piece of leather? Not that you needed it, anyway. 

No, you think to yourself. Alfred does not need to see me that way, either. 

You smile softly and bob your head. “Yes, I remember.” 

His thin lips quirk ever-so slightly, and he nods curtly. With his hands clasped neatly behind his back, he turns and leaves the room without another word, leaving you behind with your heartbeat pounding inside your ribcage like a panicked bird.

Glancing down at the gleaming keys, you lift your hand to hover above them with the intent to replicate a familiar tune. Your fingers are shaking violently, and for a moment, all you can hear is the blood rushing inside your ears, before you swallow thickly, and press your fingertips down on the cool ivory-coated wood. 

The melody is quiet, the pressure of your fingers not great enough to make it echo. Instead, it reminds you of the faint call of birds outside, the ones you’d see flying down from the trees to the lawn, picking at the grass.

A low creak deep inside the house reverberates through the room, and the centre bookcase dislodges from the wall with a scrape. You stagger back a step as the bookcase swings outward like a door—the books and the nick-nacks remaining stationary inside the shelves, a feat you had never decided to investigate. 

Your pulse flutters in your neck, and you unclench your jaw. Teeth aching, you look down the shadowed staircase that the bookcase had revealed. Entering the Batcave had been so normal to you, three years ago, and now, your stomach churns as if the bats that hang from the cave’s ceiling are living inside your gut. 

With a deep sigh and a shift of your feet, you take the steps down. The air is noticeably cooler, but damp, as if leftover mist was hanging in the air and brushing against your cheeks. You had realised, at fourteen, that it’s because there is mist in the air, courtesy of the waterfalls that rush from the ceiling like jets of water from a spout. You clench your fists by your sides to stop your hands from shaking. 

Reaching the bottom, you walk slowly across the metal floor of the first and main platform. Glancing to your left, monitors that curve at the sides glow brightly around sleek desks; news channels play from the ones mounted higher above, police scanners from different units below, and open windows of various different tabs on the ones below that. To your right, you spare a very brief look at the cylinder cases that display various suits. One scorched and shredded suit in particular sends bile rising up your throat, and you instantly tear your gaze away. 

Hopping down a small set of steps to the second platform, your footsteps echo as you pass the several medical cots neatly placed in rows, the smell of antiseptic light in the air from countless injuries tended to on the white cotton mattresses. It lingers, and your throat tightens at the memory of sitting on the edge of one of the cots, legs dangling, and wincing whenever Alfred passed a needle through your skin. Blinking and burying the memory down, you quickly shuffle past and stop at the top of another flight of stairs. 

This one leads to the third and last level of the Batcave that acts as two main things: Bruce’s main monitor that only he can use, and the Batmobile’s, quote on quote, ‘garage’. Looking down at the platform below, you hesitate. Currently, the Batmobile isn’t in sight, instead hidden beneath the platform to make room for two large monitor screens mounted to a desk, where a broad shouldered man sits. 

Any courage that you might have had before is shattered in an instant. How do you possibly speak into the empty, moist air of the cave without your voice cracking like a pubescent teen’s? How can you possibly ask Bruce Wayne anything when you haven’t spoken to him in over a year?

And then you remember the cost of the gasoline you pumped into your car, and the fear that’s lodged itself inside your ribcage because Dick hasn’t been calling you as often as he did. Are you afraid for Dick, or are you afraid of a change in routine? 

You inhale sharply through your nose, the air chilling the inside of your lungs. Petrichor hangs in the air, and although the scent is usually soothing, nothing seems to quieten the thundering beat of your heart. 

“You know I’m here,” you say from atop the stairs, and your voice echoes like a ripple in still water. 

Bruce barely shifts in his chair, rectangular glasses sitting on the high ridge of his nose. That’s new. 

“Why?” Comes his gruff response…that's not new. 

You inhale deeply, steeling your nerves as you descend the staircase. You know this man, he’s not a stranger. Oh, what a lie that is. 

“Dick’s been busy,” you say, hating how your voice sounds so loud in the emptiness of the cave. 

Bruce doesn’t look at you, but instead his eyes flick over the text on the monitor screens, and you can feel yourself shrivelling inside, and you’re no longer twenty-one, but fifteen and choking on grief. 

“Bruce, what’s been going on?”

The tone of your voice is only slightly firmer, because you really can’t stand being here for much longer.

A rough exhalation of air meets you, wide shoulders rolling stiffly before he finally turns to you, the chair squeaking quietly. For the first time in over a year, you meet familiar eyes the colour of gunmetal-blue, and feel something crash down on you heavily. 

“Nothing,” he says lowly, and the gravel of his voice echoes out clearly through the cave. The rush of the waterfalls is nowhere near as loud as the thin humming of blood in your ears.

“Things have been the same as always—” 

“That’s not true,” you interject, surprising yourself even with the severity you push out. 

His sharp brows knit together, and he goes to say your name in what you’re sure would have been a stern tone, but you don’t let him utter even the first syllable out. 

“Dick calls me all the time,” you say, raising a loose hand, “and now he’s barely been able to call me twice. It’s not normal, and I want to know why he’s so busy. Last time we spoke, he said he’s been helping you.”

Shockingly, you watch as Bruce takes his glasses off and rubs a harsh hand over his face. You notice now that his jaw is covered in dark stubble, instead of being clean shaven. Now that you see him fully, you notice just how tired he seems, and something other than the panicked bird in your chest comes to life. 

Something’s wrong. 

Watching the creases in his forehead deepen, as if he’s thinking about something severely upsetting, you wait with your feet glued to the floor. Not even seconds ago, you felt the urgent need to flee, as if your skeleton could not remain still for another second, but now, it’s as if gravity has latched an even tighter hand around your ankles, keeping you firmly in place. 

If Bruce is…ruffled by whatever thing is going on, you need to know. You have to know, even if it has nothing to do with you. The thought confuses you; caring about Bruce’s issues hasn’t been at the top of your agenda for three years. 

“Someone new has come to Gotham,” Bruce finally says, and his voice is quieter than before. 

Immediately, you frown. “Who?” 

Bruce stands with a near silent huff, as if his muscles are aching and it’s getting the best of him, and he starts ascending the stairs up to the first platform. You’ve known since you were fourteen that he wants you to follow him. 

“He showed up three months ago.” Well, that checks out with the cessation of Dick’s phone calls. 

Walking up the three flights of stairs, you trail behind Bruce as he makes his way up to the curved monitors, falling heavily into one of the rolling chairs. You eye him curiously, your pulse fluttering with anxiety as the keyboard clicks and clacks beneath his swift fingers. 

An image pops up on the screen, and you squint at a blurred image of a man seated on a motorcycle. You can just make out the train tracks that run through the ground and the station's arched ceiling made of steel beams and glass. 

Your frown deepens. “What is….?” 

Bruce doesn’t pay you any mind, instead typing quickly again. The image’s resolution refreshes, and you can see much clearer. Your head tilts with further intrigue as you notice the red helmet the biker wears, but it looks nothing like a motorcycle helmet—no, it’s smooth and sleek, with gleaming white eyes instead of a visor. 

“Well…” you say slowly, “what’s so special about him that it’s got you and Dick working so hard?” 

Bruce clicks another key, and you realise that it’s not an image, but a video. You hear the masked man call out, voice deep and heavy.

“You haven’t lost your touch!” 

The man’s voice is nearly drowned out entirely at the end by a train as it roars past, hiding the biker from view completely. Bruce pauses the video. 

Your confusion only heightens, and a dull burn of frustration settles in your chest because why can’t Bruce just tell you instead of forcing you to figure it out on your own?  

“I don’t understand,” you sigh, glancing at Bruce’s profile. Gosh, he looks terrible. 

Bruce remains quiet, a deep exhale passing through his nose as he types again, the sound echoing in your ears louder than it should. The video replays, this time without the overlaying noise of the train. 

You haven’t lost your touch, Bruce!” 

A pang of shock shoots through you, brows raising. You look to Bruce, searching for an answer in his silence. This unknown man, wearing a strange helmet, knows who the Batman is? That’s…disastrous. 

You’re not prepared for Bruce to stand, nor for him to walk past you to the other side of the platform where the cylinder glass cases are. You swallow thickly, eyes flickering between the wide line of his shoulders and the case he approaches. Remaining in place, you don’t dare say anything, instead waiting for him to speak. 

Bruce says your name, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach with a heavy thud. 

He’s standing in front of the torn and shredded suit you’d barely been able to look at for more than a second when you came down here in the first place. 

He’s looking at Jason’s suit. 

Your voice trembles. “B?” 

“It’s him.” 

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence. No, no, no. 

“Bruce, stop—” 

“He’s trained,” Bruce continues, paying your increasing panic no mind. He only stares at his reflection in the glass, as if he could find something that would solve all of this. As if there’s an answer to the guilt you can see so plainly in front of you. 

“He knows things that only a Robin would know.” 

You can feel the inside of your elbows burning, your fingers violently shaking at your sides. You can’t bring yourself to say anything, but you’re desperate to scream. 

You’re insane. You’ve gone insane! 

“Things…only Jason would know.” 

You break. “Stop, Bruce. He’s dead. He’s dead.” 

Bruce turns, eyes snapping to you with intensity. You can’t pin-point the emotion in his face—you almost never could before—and your hand presses to your chest where your heart thunders against muscle and bone. 

This had been a terrible mistake. You should never have come back here. 

“If this…if this is what you’re saying to help you sleep at night…” you warn, but the strength of your voice is barely there, wobbling like laminated paper. “Then that’s fine, but don’t…don’t you dare bring me into it.” 

Bruce regards you with a calculating look, as if mentally pinpointing all the parts of you that are breaking. How dare he say such a ridiculous, cruel thing? After six years? Six years of pretending that everything’s okay? 

You hear him say your name lowly again, and you shake your head, pointing a trembling finger at him.  

“It’s been six years, Bruce. You held him. This—this man,” you glance briefly behind you at the monitor, lifting a weak hand, “he’s probably just some—some guy that’s smarter than everyone else.” 

Even you know how unlikely that is, but you can’t hear anything over your pulse and the overwhelming panic that’s clawing at the lining of your stomach. 

Bruce sighs deeply, the rough sound grating at your ears. You should have just waited for things to blow over. Dick would have started calling you again, and you’d never have asked what was happening—never would have stepped back into this second home of yours that’s far too empty. 

“I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t sure,” Bruce says, and his voice comes out quietly, as if he’s finally realising the damage he’s causing you in this moment. 

“He’s dead,” you hiss, your voice catching. Your cheeks are wet, and you don’t remember when you started crying—you shouldn’t be. Not in front of Bruce. 

“There’s a way to bring people back…” 

You’re shaking your head again, trying to suck air back into your chest, if only for your heart to stop thudding against your ribcage like it’s trapped. 

But he won’t stop talking. “It’s called the Lazar—” 

“Stop,” you gasp, hands clamping over your ears.

As if you’d inhaled concrete into your lungs, you can barely breathe, and you can almost imagine the taste of asphalt on your tongue—no, that’s the blood from your bitten tongue. 

You stagger back a step, feeling as if everything around you is spinning. Gunmetal-blue eyes stare at you with concealed concern, flickering across your face. Your gaze falls on the case behind him, the shredded red and yellow fabric that taunts you, and all you can remember is the heat of the explosion.

Your legs give out. Your head hits the floor before Bruce can get to you. 

Your name is whispered urgently, and your consciousness returns to you in slow blinks as you wake up. Someone’s shaking your shoulder, fingers gripping the edge of your sleeve. 

Pale moonlight illuminates the jade-green eyes that blink down at you, and you groan, pushing your palm against Jason’s cheek and away from you. It’s the middle of the night and you were sleeping so well. 

“What?” You grumble as you throw your arm across your face, and you hear his quiet breath. 

“You gotta see something.” 

Dropping your arm, your bleary eyes glare at him tiredly. It’s the first night you’ve had in ages that doesn’t involve swinging from one rooftop to the next, and he wants you to get up and see something? Is he serious? 

Jason tilts his head, his lopsided smile curling his lips.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, nudging his head to the side. A small gesture for you to get up and follow him. Indulge him in whatever nighttime adventure he has planned. 

Glancing between him, the digital clock on your nightstand that winks 1.34 AM at you, and your open door…you huff and fling your duvet off of you. 

“If this is something stupid…” 

“It’s not,” Jason assures you with a sigh, socked feet silent along the hardwood floor. 

Trailing behind Jason and yawning into your elbow, the two of you silently make your way up marble staircases and down empty hallways. The third level of the manor is mostly bare, sparse pieces of furniture hidden behind white sheets like dormant ghosts, and as well trained as you both are to remain silent, your footsteps echo in the emptiness. 

“Jason, what exactly—” 

He cuts off your whisper with a shush, a single finger pressed to his lips. He places a hand on your shoulder, the weight heavy and warm, and nudges you into the largest hall on the level. It’s noticeably brighter, the windows devoid of curtains and letting the moonlight spill against the floor in giant rectangles.

Typically, this room is used for wrestling, floor mats splayed across the hardwood floor that isn’t as shiny as the lower floors. You follow Jason as he crosses the room, his raven-feathered hair ruffled. 

Crouching beside him at one of the windows, you notice the glass pane has been pushed open, and the telescope Bruce bought for Jason’s birthday is propped against the windowsill. Usually, Alfred insists that the windows are kept closed during the night, as the last time one was left open, a bat had come into the manor and had remained chained to the ceiling for the better part of a week. 

You frown with intrigue as Jason peers into the telescope. He glances at you, bobbing his head for you to do the same. Jason watches you carefully as you lean forward, fingers pressing lightly against the scope as you look through the glass. 

As bright as an orb of lightning, the moon greets you in a stunning vision of magnified quality. Your breath leaves you in a quiet gasp, and you trace the grey lines that make up the craters that crack through the moon’s surface. It’s as if the moon were made of glowing glass, and the craters were the product of golf balls smashing into it. 

You pull away, and find that Jason is already looking at you. A wide grin creeps across your face. 

“It’s amazing,” you murmur quietly, and your initial grogginess has already begun to dissipate. 

Jason’s dark lashes flicker, and he smiles. The right side of his mouth is always higher than the left, and you've always loved the deep commas around the corners of his lips.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, keeping his voice low. 

For a moment, you’re suspended in his gaze, watching the minuscule movement of his eyes as they trace your features and the smile that remains on your face. He's calm, in this moment. The opposite of what he has been for the last few weeks, and you relish in it. 

“Thank you for showing me.” 

Jason’s lips curve upward farther, the creases around his eyes deepening like he's proud.

“...Even though you woke me up at an ungodly time.” 

Your shoulder is pushed back lightly by his hand, and you laugh with a quiet breath, hearing his own chuckles reverberate next to you. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles, his voice carrying his smile audibly. 

You lean forward again, quinting through the eyepiece. You’ve never been able to see the moon this close, and you never even dreamed that you would. The only thing that ever came close to this was the printed images in the library books at the school you once went to. 

“It’s so—” your words die when you lean back again, finding the space beside you empty. The warmth of his body absent, as if he had never been there in the first place.

Blinking, your head swivels around, and confusion settles in your chest. Where’d he go?

“Jason?” 

Standing to your feet, your fingers idly rub at your arm as you look around the large hall. You look in the shadows, but you find nothing there. There’s only you and the sound of your breathing, the floormats suddenly uncomfortably soft beneath your feet, as if you might just fall through them. 

He couldn’t have left the room so quickly, could he? 

The light in the room dims, and you glance behind you through the window. Dark clouds slither across the moon, and something cold wraps around your lungs.

You spin, gaze frantically searching. 

“Jason?” You call out, not bothering to hide the volume of your voice in the quiet manor. “Jason!?” 

There’s nothing but noise in your ears, muffled and warped. The darkness of your closed eyelids is the only thing that greets you, and a pounding in the back of your skull and a singular sentence. 

Where’s Jason? Where’s Jason? Where’s Jason? 

Your eyes fling open and you shoot upright, gasping.

Jason’s here. 

Thank you for reading! God bless! :]

[svnnyd4ys]

the seven + nico incorrect quotes lol

Piper: She's the girl of my dreams! Annabeth: You say every girl is the girl of your dreams. Piper: I have a lot of dreams.

!!!

Leo: *watching their house burn down* Leo: Leo: *starts filming* Waddup, guys, welcome to my vlog, today's topic: how to get away with accidentally committing arson because you forgot Spaghetti O's cans are metal and thus non-microwavable! Step one: deny everything.

!!!

Jason, looking at a selfie of Leo’s: I hate this photo. Leo: I’m cute as fuck in that photo! I’m smiling kindly. Jason: You’re not smiling kindly; you look like you’re up to something. Leo: Up to kindness.

!!!

Hazel: Nico, how do you feel about lifting heavy things? Nico: My doctor just said I should avoid— Hazel: Being a wuss? I agree.

!!!

*During a game of Hangman* Piper: Nope, there’s no Q. You lose. Leo: Are you kidding me?! You can still add something! Piper: I already added a belt, four earrings and an extra arm! YOU LOSE!

!!!

Jason: Are you guys bringing anything to the party? Nico: Yeah, an empty stomach. Annabeth: My sparkling personality. Percy: A flagrant disregard for common decency. Hazel: ... Hazel: Chips.

!!!

Piper, looking at a map: It’s a barren, featureless wasteland out there, isn't it? Jason: Other side, Piper...

!!!

Percy: You know, Leo, when you generalize, you tell general... lies. Leo: ... Leo: Are you trying to teach me moral lessons through puns.

!!!

Annabeth: What time is it? Piper: I don’t know, pass me that saxaphone and we’ll find out Piper: *BLASTS the saxaphone* Nico: WHO THE FUCK IS PLAYING THE SAXAPHONE AT TWO IN THE FUCKING MORNING Piper: It’s 2 in the morning.

!!!

Leo: You’re overthinking this. Hazel: You don’t know the appropriate level of thinking, Leo. What if I’m underthinking?

!!!

Frank: I am an expert at identifying birds. Percy: Okay, what about those ones flying over there? Frank: Yeah, they're all birds.

!!!

Percy: *Pulls a glass a water from out of nowhere* Jason: Where did you get that? Percy: My pocket. Jason: How do you keep a glass of water in your pocket? Percy: Skills.

!!!

Frank: If I fall down these stairs, I'm just going to lay down and accept my fate.

!!!

Frank: I’m taking a look at your numbers, and it doesn’t look good. You have a lot of measurements. Quite a few variables. Jason: Is that… bad? Frank: Variables are the #1 risk factor for outcomes. The past is a big contributor to the future. Jason: Isn’t that just causality? Frank: Causality is the leading cause of death in this country. Jason: So what are my odds? Frank: Do you have a family history? Jason: Of what? Frank: Just, in general. Jason: …Yes? Frank: Oh no.

!!!

*the Squad at Disneyland, in the teacups* Leo, Frank, and Jason: *spinning a little and talking* Nico, Annabeth, and Hazel: *flying past them, spinning as fast as they can, screaming*

!!!

Percy: My dad drowned at sea when I was little so whenever someone jokes about fucking my mom I’ll pretend to be really sincere and say some shit like “Glad to see she’s moving on, my dad’s death hit her pretty hard.” Then watch them absolutely fumble trying to figure out a response to that statement. Percy: Update, she got a new partner I can no longer make the joke.

(pre discovering yk his half God-ness)

!!!

Annabeth: I’m gonna mix a can of Red Bull with seventeen shots of espresso in a fishbowl and then chug it while Kids by MGMT plays in the background so I can perceive twenty-three spatial dimensions and fight my own soul.

!!!

Nico: This is a safety pin. *cuts off end* Nico: It is now a danger pin.

!!!

Jason: Sometimes I talk to myself for no reason. Jason: Me too!

!!!

Piper, explaining why they are not allowed to cook: I put the noodles in the pot and put the pot on the stove and turned the burner on high. Turns out you don't put noodles in marijuana and I almost burnt the whole house down.

!!!

Hazel: *gets set on fire and screams in agony* Hazel: Nah, I’m just kidding. Fire does nothing to me.

!!!

[improvapocalyps]

"Okay, yeah. If you kill a red name, killed a red name-" "I'll give you a life for that. That's the deal." "We'll be back together like buddies again, Bdubs."

In participation of Extreme Timed Challenge Gift Exchange hosted by @extremetimedchallengeexchange!

[gifs, full storyboard, behind-the-scene rambles under cut]

past 48h animatics: MCYTETC2023, ETC2023

[Red Lives-Suspicion; Prayer-Determination; Fireworks]

Fiddled with gradient maps this time for some additional colors :D I would have colored in the eyes as well, but I didn't have enough energy left when the event hit the 47th hour xD

Also played around with camera movements. Respect to people who do fan edits and other forms of video/ assets editing 'cause keyframes are so 😭

13 hours to draft storyboard this time! Last year I used 16 but with waaay more frames idk how I accomplished that. Probably bc this year I'm drawing more than three(3) characters lmao

Progress Timeline:

[13th hour] finished storyboard/ draft (plany off time...) [25th hour] lineart for the first 10 seconds (wuh oh) [36th hour] lineart for the first 25 seconds (oh shit oh fuck gotta shorten it) [45th hour] finished Bdubs' part (NOOO I DONT HAVE TIME FOR ETHO)

ngl kinda glad i cut it in half rn 'cause i'd have to spend time figuring out shadowDog's design /lh

Designs I used for Lizzie and Joel (old art from 2022 and 2021 respectively) (holy shit i've been here for 3 years???)

Joel *shakes fist* i hate u and ur stupid beard

[Lyrics vibe/scene planning; hours before disaster]

I think most of the drawn parts didn't deviate from the initial idea. Mostly timing adjustments and building upon the vibes. The parts that were changed the most was the "And you caused it (×3 combo)".

Went from "vague flashbacks" to "following Etho and co. out of the cave and back to Scott's base while implying who Etho blames with single character focus shots".

The first one is Scott because he suggested the idea. Like, obviously he's to blame. It's not like Etho went along and cemented the deal himself. Scott totally peer-pressured him into it.

The second one is Etho because... well the scene ends up kind of being like. The sight of the Snow Fortress triggering a flashback. (EthosLab the content creator deliberately turned his camera towards the Snow Fortress and holds it there for a second instead of looking at the huge lava pillar right in front of him. What is WRONG with him.)

But also like. Clocks are kind of special to Bdubs right. Whoever gave him a clock basically has his (temporary) loyalty or at the least earned a favor from him. So like. If he hadn't gifted Bdubs the clock, which signifies a closer(?) bond, maybe Bdubs wouldn't be so devoted to him (wrong). Also serves as a call-back/ reference to the "Prayer-Determination" shot ("pray with clock" in the scene planning screenshot). I like to think that Bdubs weighted his options and thought about "if he will kill/ who to kill" a lot while following the other Red Names. And in that scene he's like, convincing/ motivating himself. Remembering who/ what he's doing this for.

(It is also meant to be part of my giftee's other prompt: "an exploration of the doubt one or both of them felt during the heart transfer that didn’t happen after Bdubs killed Lizzie, and the following guilt Etho felt." The Etho section starting from "we're setting fire to our inside for fun" til the end of the animatic is based on that prompt.)

After a brief period of self-blame, it's time to shift it onto someone else! Because you're in denial! If Bdubs hadn't gone red, then Etho wouldn't have to offer the deal. If Bdubs hadn't want to stay as teammates, then he wouldn't agree to the deal. If Bdubs wasn't so devoted to Etho, then he wouldn't have attacked Lizzie and gotten himself killed.

Then the animatic ends with the end of the session :D

...That's longer than I expected but also not that long. If you read through all that, tysm :] Tell me your thoughts! Have a good day/ evening/ night :D

[shadowsageingempress]

Tierlist of the Great Sea costumes from Hyrule Warriors Legends.

I plan on doing more for the other costumes from the rest of the Adventure Mode maps.

(Costumes and explanations below the cut. There's a lot to go over, so it'll be long)

They probably couldn't make Warriors' costume based on Toon Link because it would likely be too similar to the Skyloft outfit, so they went with the crayfish pajamas. And I gotta say, I really like it. The blue shirt, white scarf, orange pants and gray boots go really well together.

I don't know why they made Impa wear pink. Maybe they were trying to reference the King of Red Lions? I'm not sure. But I do think it works pretty well for her.

I only just realized that Sheik's costume is colored that way as a reference to Tetra. That makes me like it a bit more. These colors are very striking, but they look good on her in my opinion.

Lana's costume is apparently based off the koroks, which I don't know if it matches up well with her. But the outfit looks really nice. My only complaint is that I don't know if the green hair fits her, so I've deducted points for that. Otherwise, she looks pretty cute and festive.

Of course, they gave Valor the princess dress that Tetra wears for the latter half of the game. The color of the dress is fine, but the dull armor and too bright hair kind of ruin it for me. Also, my partner is PISSED that this costume isn't based on Tetra. I think that would look substantially cooler, even if Sheik's costume would make it redundant.

I don't know who decided to make Ganondorf's costume fuck so goddamn much, but I am so glad they did! Everything about this Phantom Ganon costume is incredible. It kind of gives me Metroid Prime vibes, which is a very good thing.

Darunia's Phantom Hourglass goron costume isn't too big of a change, especially when compared to the masterpiece that was Ganondorf's. I don't really care for the brown spikes, but the stomach tattoo looks pretty cool.

The Laruto costume that Ruto has is very striking, and I think it works very well. Between the color combination and the character reference, I like it quite a bit.

I'm not sure why they decided to make Agitha a goth with this costume, but I think it suits her. Unfortunately, the way her face paint looks kind of lessens my fondness for it. But I definitely don't hate it.

Midna is already my favorite character in this game, so I was probably going to like whatever costume she had. But this Floormaster-inspired look is incredible! The changes are pretty slight, but the pink markings and the darker color of the Fused Shadow adds so much to what was already peak character design. In fact, she probably could have been on the top of S Tier if they'd leaned a bit more into it.

I don't know if Zant's costume is based on Gohdan or Jabun. Neither of those options really fit him, in fact they're kind of the opposite, and it may seem a bit weird to give him such bright colors. However, I actually like how he looks in this costume, even if it does look a bit more regal than he deserves.

Given that Fi's design was partially based on the Fairy Queen, this costume was only natural. And I'd describe it in the same way. This coloration is perfect for Fi, and the purple ribbon-markings down her legs are a nice touch.

Kalle Demos is one of my favorite Zelda bosses from a strictly aesthetic view. So it only makes sense that they were the base for one as, shall we say, colorful as Ghirahim. I love the gradients on his suit and cape, and I only recently noticed the green gem on his belt.

Like with Agitha, I don't really get the reference in Cia's costume. But I will not deny that she looks really good in that dark red, especially with the sunset colors of her shoulder cape. I do think that her hatless outfit is the best looking of the three, though.

Volga's costume is another with a subtle change. But like Midna's, I think that this one looks really good. The colors look good, and the reference to Valoo is quite fitting.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about Wizzro. I think his costume is based off of Jalhalla, which could have worked. But I really don't like the brown.

I'm already conflicted about how I feel about the design of Midna's true form, or 'Twili Midna' as she's called in Hyrule Warriors (I don't get why), and this costume only adds to it. I don't know what the reference was here. And while I don't hate the color combination they used, I don't think it works with her. It's really a shame.

Also, why did they change the color of her skin here?

I have a lot of questions about Young Link's costume. What is the costume supposed to be? Why is he purple? Why does he have red hair? I don't hate this costume, but it doesn't make much sense to me.

This may be surprising, but I actually kind of like how Tingle looks in this costume. The gray and blue work well together, and I like the reference to Ankel or Knuckel. It's good.

Given what costume they gave to Warriors, I think it makes sense that Linkle's is based off of Aryll's dress. Not only do the colors work, but I like the little flower designs on the tunic. It's adorable.

Oh, Hell yes! I love Skull kid's costume. Not only do the white and purple go well together, but they look perfect when put with the colorful Majora's mask. I think it's also based on the poes, which also works. I can't think of anything I would improve with this one.

Another Link, another set of crayfish pajamas. I don't know why he has a belt, but it doesn't take too much away from the appeal. It's just a solid design. Although, if they did this one twice, then maybe they could have made Valor's costume look more like Tetra

Speaking of Tetra, her costume is also pretty cool. I think it's cool how the colors of her jacket and bandana are swapped. My only complaint is that I don't really care for the striped shirt. But I guess it helps to get the reference to Niko across. I like this one, even if my partner doesn't get why she needs a Great Sea costume

Finally, we have King Daphnes. I really don't know who or what his costume is based on. But I also don't hate it. The bright colors are very striking and mesh decently well together. It actually kind of reminds me of a movie I saw when I was a kid.

[cer-rata]

"Ring Assignment pt. 1: The Bats"

A rare moment where most of the bats and some bat-adjacent folk are off-duty and for some reason choosing to be at the manor… Steph, sitting improperly on an expensive antique chair:... C'mon, you have to have vibes on what we'd all qualify for.  Conrad, laying across Damian's lap: I mean a lot goes into actually picking someone for any corps Conrad: I dunno if I can– Dick: If you give it a shot I'll let you try on my first Nightwing sui– Conrad, quickly sitting up: Some of you would dual qualify.  Conrad: Cass could easily be Green or Yellow but frankly considering how goddamn scary she is, she'd be able to do more as Yellow.  Cass: Boo, motherfucker. Conrad: Conrad: See? Terrifying.  Conrad: So then, Duke is actually on the Green shortlist– Duke: I am? Conrad: Yeah, don't ask why I know that.  Conrad: But you'd need three Earth Greens to die first.  Duke: Yikes. Conrad: Hey, you never know, pretty sure we're getting a war soon. Duke: Wh–I'm not hoping they die– Conrad: Dick is Blue. Dick: Sick. Conrad: But weirdly could also go Red. Dick: Well…we all have moments… Conrad: Steph is one bad day from being a Red.  Steph: No!  Steph: …Well… Conrad: Could be a Sapphire though, you serve hard enough and you'd be a great coworker.  Steph: Ayyy! Conrad: Babs is Green, if she could get to the point of turning Red it would have already happened before she became Oracle. Babs: But I'm tested every day.  Conrad, coughing: Damian– Damian: Hush. Conrad: Jason is Red.  Conrad: Shockingly. Jason: Fuck you! Jason: Jason: …Damnit– Conrad: Damian could be a Sapphire if he wasn't so embarrassed about having feelings– Damian: Oh, sorry I have a little dignity left, you chronically thirsty– Conrad: He's Indigo for reasons I will not explain because I'm banned from embarrassing him in public after the Chicken Fajita Incident.  Damian: Mmmhm! Duke: Duke: …But…but what could that possibly have been– Conrad: Tim should be…Turquoise, actually. Tim:  Tim: What? Tim: Are you really giving me a fake ring color– Conrad: It's real, but I can't explain it. Tim: What. Conrad: I'm under an NDA, okay? Tim: WHAT?  Conrad: I don't read fine print– Conrad: IT'S FINE HE'LL TELL PEOPLE WHEN HE'S READY. Tim:  Tim: You can't even say the emotion? Conrad: Bruce really should be a Sapphire, but like Damian, the emotional constipation is more powerful than any laxative. Conrad: Now, maybe if he went to therapy– Bruce: You do realize I'm still sitting here.  Conrad: Momma didn't raise no bitch. Bruce: Conrad: Bruce: Conrad:  Damian: Stop being weird, both of you! Conrad: …Green, but you'd hate working under Oa. Bruce: Hmph. Conrad: Colin is Blue. Colin: Really? Colin: Not like…Red? Conrad: You're nowhere near as angry as you think you are.  Colin, blushing: Aw. Aw dude. Conrad: Yeah, dude.  Colin: Dude. Conrad: Duuuuude– Cass: Gay. Conrad: Conrad: Maps is… Conrad: Maps: …What? Conrad: Turquoise– Maps: Ooh! Tim: Seriously, what does that even mean– Conrad: And so is Harper– Harper: Fuck yes! Harper: Mystery prize! Tim: You can't assign a ring you won't explain to three of us! Tim: That's the most common ring now, what the– Conrad: If you actually belong to that corps you'll be able to figure it out from the throughline and context clues. Tim: Wh– Conrad: Mr. “Detective.” Tim: I hate you. Conrad: Hmm, then maybe you're a Red, actually– Tim: Hey, hey no– Damian: He does have issues. Tim: …You little– Tim Tim: Damn, I'm really in a bind here…

[notroosterbradshaw]

Hi can i request number 12 from the prompts list with Rooster please? Thanks

12. Mapping out your lover’s features while they sleep in your arms, smoothing your thumbs down their cheeks, throat, collarbones, chin and nose.

"You do this every time," Rooster sighed, rubbing his honey-coloured eyes. "'Bradley, baby'," he mocked in your over-exaggerated tone as you scoffed. "‘Put on a movie, I wanna snuggle’. Five minutes later, you're out across my chest," he accused as you rolled your eyes, unable to hold back laughter. He had known you long enough... was hard to deny him.

"What am I supposed to do? I cuddle in and you're so warm and smell so good and I just doze off. Sue me," you huffed, inflating his ego at the same time (usually didn’t take a lot), opening the wine and pouring you both a glass. "I don't know why you just don't take it as a compliment and move along, Bradshaw."

He laughed. "Because you put some shitty romcom on and I'm trapped under you until you wake with three minutes left of the movie and pretend you were awake the whole time."

You could only make a face. He was 100% right. No argument was going to help you now.

"I dunno why I'm even asking you this, but humour me, baby: what you wanna watch?" he asked with dread, finding the remote and flicking through movies that were on your watch list. He had picked the last movie (Reservoir Dogs, thanks for asking), so he didn't have a leg to stand on. May as well toss it out there and admit he knew a romcom was in his immediate future if the list he clicked through dismally had anything to do with it.

"It's Flashback Friday, let's watch a classic," You danced around the couch, excitedly and put the wine on the coffee table with the charcuterie board Bradley would eat 93% of himself.

"Shortlist," he insisted.

"Fair," you agreed as he plonked on the couch, and you sat beside him. "Point Break, you'll be hot for Keanu. Will put you in the mood. Point, Bradshaw," he goaded as you tried to get the remote off him. He pushed you back gently. He bopped your nose. "Absolutely not. I'm controlling the remote, thank you."

"Point Break," you contemplated thoughtfully. A twofer really... Keanu, Patrick Swayze -

"Nah, too easy. You don't get to lull me into a false sense of security like that. Keep going," Bradley rolled his eyes.

"Breakfast Club?"

"Not a dealbreaker," Rooster admitted. "Back to the Future?"

"God, you are such an 80's kid," you rolled your eyes.

"Wasn't just my decade, babe," he hissed back as you squinted at him, a man with a death wish. "But of course, you're the latter end. May as well be 90's," he rushed, as you laughed. "You're not getting older, you're just getting sexier," he overcorrected, hoping he'd bridged the gap with his loose lips, his nose from your earlobe to your jaw, leaving a wet, warm kiss against your pulse. He was the dirtiest player in the game and he laughed against your skin, as you enraged him a moment later, dragging your nails into his scalp, giving him a bit of pleasure in return. "God, you're so full of shit…” you somehow managed to get out.

He laughed and shrugged. "Yeah, you’re hating every minute,” he reckoned.

"But it's a short list," you pretended to growl as he kissed your pout. “What about Stand by Me?" you tried, his lips still mashed against yours and you fell into his soft kiss, God, his lips were magical, you loved kissing Bradley Bradshaw. His soft lips, the caress of his tongue -

"Baby, are you actually considering me and what I would like to watch?" he asked, almost touched, he pulled back, a smug look of satisfaction laced all over his face.

"Footloose?"

Apparently not. "Veto."

"Oh, Dirty Dancing!" the tone in your voice telling him that this was your decision, but he couldn't resist, because he kind of loved it when you argued and got all cross and cute... and sometimes if he riled you up just the right amount, a little frisky too.

"VE-TO."

"Bradley Bradshaw, how dare you!" you exclaimed as he broke into a grin and put his hands in the air.

"I give, baby," he admitted. "Just love you all wound up and - "

"Yeah, yeah," you said bashfully. He chuckled, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple and he raised his arm to put it across your shoulder to nuzzle in under, pressing play on the flick. The Ronettes 'Be My Baby' started in the background with a noir 1960s underground dancing dirty montage (if you will), flitting across the screen.

"Credit where it's due, this soundtrack is fuckin’ awesome. They just don't make them like they used to."

"Movie soundtracks?" you tucked yourself into his ribs as he adjusted to bend to you. He'd be kidding himself; this was the best part of watching a movie as you curled yourself around him. Maybe the movie would be forgotten and some sexy making out would take over, he wondered.

"Yep," he nodded, plopping a kiss in your hair.

"Yeah, 80's definitely had that going for them. Best 80's soundtrack?" you asked, quickfire.

He frowned while pondering. "Good question... anything John Hughes," he said obviously.

"Flashdance."

"Lost Boys."

"'Purple rain, purple rain'," you sang as Rooster chuckled. You had already missed a good chunk of the movie although you continued to lower yourself until your cheek was resting against his powerful quad and eyes trying in vain to stay open as the movie played on, both of you really not giving it too much of your attention, his large palm sliding under your tee and tracing the back of your ribs, along the bone and the seams of your bra.

Bradley was a human furnace, he was divine to creep up next to, so you did just that only encouraging him. It didn’t surprise him that you’d dozed off.

Fuck. And the remote was just out of his reach to turn off the movie. He lived for times like this. He’d be able to watch the game.  Any goddamn game would have been just perfect. He didn’t care if his teams weren’t playing. Baseball, football, basketball. Oh, were the Lakers playing tonight?

Slumbering partner, booze and the inability to reach the remote. He struggled to reach but it was just out of his grasp. “Shit,” he muttered as you wrapped your soft palm around his knee and he sighed, taking you in. A rare beauty, he knew, momentarily caught up that you were his. He must have done something right in a previous life to have you walk into this life. His fingertip tenderly traced your eyebrow and the slope of your nose as you mumbled in your sleep and he hesitated, pulling his hand back.

You adjusted your posture to rest your cheek on his thigh, your face towards his tummy and he chuckled quietly. “You’re not that asleep…”

“Little bit asleep,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around his waist, cool fingers drifting against the golden soft skin of his lower back.

“Bed?” he murmured, his thumb drifting across your soft lips as you shook your head, eyes still closed. A moment later, you yawned, but clearly weren’t interested in being roused so he kept playing with your features, his hands sinking into your hair and he bit back a grin as you almost mewled like a kitten. He didn’t say anything but was surprised at how much of a sucker for his touch you were. You only encouraged him, by cuddling in further and he reached down to press a kiss into your forehead, against the scar on your eyebrow. You hated it, but he loved it. The mar of perfection against your sweet features would always be his favourite. It matched his.

He felt your breathing change against him and knew you’d fallen asleep again, deeper and he knew you were out. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, the smell of your 45-step hair care routine wafting into his nostrils and feeling a little dizzy himself, warmed. Luckiest bastard he knew as he spied the small remote you never used and his eyes widened, excitedly. Within reach, he swiped it and turned down the volume of the film.

Within a few moments and the apps changed, the Lakers were on his screen. He pushed the remote into the side of the couch so he wouldn’t lose it, took his wine in his free hand and made himself comfy. May as well make the most of his Friday night…

SEND ME A PROMPT, I’LL WRITE YOU A DRABBLE.

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

[moochii-daisies]

2015.03.

- 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings - Content Contains: Some cussing?, a little kissy reunion, brief mention of sexting but no details or NSFW content, tensions are high

Sidenotes: hahaha i actually wrote all of 2012 and up until this chapter nonstop then got stuck on this one a year ago and had to be v patient w myself until i could finish it. i'm so thankful to everyone who's read any part or chapter of the story especially after a hiatus and considering that i'm a small account. i'm gonna finish the damn thing! for myself if anything, i do love this story and it's probably a good thing that it makes me feel things. as always, thank you for reading if you do :)

Find the rest here!

--------------------------------------------------------------

"Excited to see you."

The message from Yoongi had shown up on my phone minutes ago and I found myself unable to stop staring at it.

     It was the day the guy's were moving, and I was on FaceTime with Jungkook. Jimin, Tae and Jungkook were in one car together. Hobi, Namjoon, Lacey and Yoongi in another (they finally had another car with Lacey being there).

"Baaaby." Jungkook called out and I snapped out of my trance. Noticing the frown in the small square my face was in.

"Yes! Sorry, I was-" I started to explain before Jungkook cut me off.

"Thinking. Yeah, you do that a lot." He snickered, "What about?"

     No point in hiding it, was there?

     "Ooh, um, Yoongi just texted that he's excited to see me." I had my eyes glued to Jungkook's face, fear of his reaction taking precedence over my own feelings. Wiping me into a blank slate.

     A hush fell over the car before Jungkook sat up in the backseat, raking his fingers through his hair.

     "Hm. Well I'm glad he's not bein' weird." He muttered huskily, looking down as he said it.

     I hurriedly tried to comfort him;

     "Yeah me too."

     "It'd be hella awkward if he was still mad."

     "I'm glad he seems to be accepting of you and me."

     Jungkook perked up at the last part, grinning like a goof and shifting his gaze from the floor to look at me again. There was almost a sigh of relief when he spoke, "Yeah, I'm glad he is too."

     Jungkook turned his phone towards Tae, who was craning his neck to look at me, turning from his passenger side seat.

     "Yeah, you two love-birds are kinda hard to ignore darling. Yoongi would have to work too hard to not be cool with it." The words were uncomfortable, the feelings they left stuck in my throat and filled it with lumps. He shot me an unsure boxy smile before reaching for the phone to show me Jimin.

     Jimin had his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, his eyes were wide with lips puckered into a duck pout while he focused on driving.

     He swiveled his head briefly to glance at me before turning back to the road, "It is what it is either way. He's gotta accept that he chose Lacey. And anyways, what's more exciting is that... WE WILL ALL BE TOGETHER AGAIN!" He paused for emphasis before yelling out the last part. His head tilted up briefly during his exclamation before snapping back down to stare at the road with giant eyes and a terrified look.

     "TOGETHER AGAIN!" Tae, Jungkook and I repeated the phrase with giant smiles.

     "Somebody take over for Jimin soon please, I hate seeing him so stressed." I giggled.

Jimin didn't turn his head but scowled softly, nodding in agreement.

     "I'm not cut out for this."

     Jungkook took over driving next, keeping me on the phone as the three of them performed songs from each of their playlists. Jungkook's was all over the map, Jimin's was full of  high notes and dance songs while Tae had jazzy lo-fi RnB. I had grown up dancing and knew the most from Jimin's playlist. I tried my best not to screech as I sang along with them.

     After telling Jimin why I knew so many of his songs, he asked why I'd stopped dancing. When I told him I still was, Jungkook's head twisted so fast he turned the wheel with him. The guys hollered out "woah's" and I tried to use the distraction of the moment to keep my face from falling. Dance had been the great love of my life along with writing. I'd started when I was 3, but self-consciousness had been driving a wedge between us since I turned 11. It was something I didn't want to get into, at least, not on a video call while they were in the car.

     I kept my phone near me as I cleaned my room and got ready to meet them. There were still many hours to go but Yoongi's text was flashing like a check engine light behind my eyes. Sitting in front of my mirror, I swiped a mascara wand through my eyelashes, over, and over and over again. Trying to get each lash perfectly separated.

      I had been working at it for at least 45 minutes, using the most minuscule clump as an excuse to keep at it. Blinking and messing up my own work repeatedly.

Yoongi and Jungkook would both be here tonight.

Together.

At the same place.

Together.

I had told Jungkook I'd kiss him in front of Yoongi and I still planned on it. But the feelings of Yoongi being close to me were jumping into memory, as if they had been freshly made. The feelings I'd been convincing myself I was over were now pumping through me with undeniable "there-ness". How my heart would pummel into my stomach. How my skin would buzz with butterfly wings from head to toe. I couldn't get those feelings out of my mind.

     What if I kissed Jungkook and Yoongi got angry at me again?

     What if he kissed Lacey in front of me and Jungkook saw me get upset?

     What if Lacey noticed the weird energy between us and told Jungkook and tried to get him next?

     What if I'm a selfish horrible asshole for wanting both of them?

     Oh god, I am a selfish, horrible asshole for wanting both aren't I? Yoongi chose another and I did the same, that's something we both have to accept, isn't it? Yoongi isn't mine. He's barely even a friend right now, let alone someone to be considering as -

     "You're already pretty, you don't need to do that baby." I heard Jungkook saying and I glanced down at my phone. I'd forgotten he could see me. I couldn't even remember him and Tae switching driving spots.

     In an attempt to cover up my tumultuous thoughts, I struck a pose. Twisting one knee over the other and placing a hand behind my head, elbow opening up to the side.

     "You think I'm pretty?" I said as coyly as I could, batting my eyelashes at him.

     "The prettiest."

His response got groans from Tae and Jimin.

     "Save it for when you're together. And alone. In your own room." Jimin griped out.

     Jungkook and I snickered to ourselves before blushing.

     And with Jimin's words came a nervousness that overrode my thoughts of Yoongi. Or, at least rivaled them.

It had been one thing to call Jungkook all the time, to send some...mature pictures and texts to each other, to jokingly broach the topic of being physical once we were together again.

Remembering the impulsive urges to lick the sweat off his neck, to keep riling him up to feel him press himself up against me, made my heartbeat drop between my legs. As I clenched them together, I was momentarily grateful for the distance.

Jungkook looked at me bashfully, tucking curly black hair behind his ear and biting his lip through his smile.

I wanted to smash my face into his dimple and hold him so tightly that my arms gave out.

"Maybe we could- um, it would be- I'd like to dance with you when we're all set at the studio. Hey! Maybe you could be Jimin's TA too!" The earnest way he spoke had me pressing my nails into one of my thighs. He was so genuinely sweet. And I couldn't understand what it was that he liked about me.

Especially with the bullshit I had going on with Yoongi.

Not once had he ever threatened to leave or forced me to chose or tried to manipulate me away from my own feelings.

He simply stayed and kept being there. Kept showing me that he cared.

An entire flock of doves fluttered their wings inside my chest at his words. Teddy bear brown eyes were perfectly rounded and his mouth was slightly open while he waited for my response. A pink tongue darted out to mess with his lip rings, a nervous habit he could never believe I noticed (he swore he only did it when nobody was paying attention).

"I love you" was dangerously close to the tip of my tongue, which would be insane, so I tried to maintain my flirty demeanor.

"I'd love to dance with ya handsome," I cooed and wiggled my fingers at him, "It'd be so fun to work together, although it might be too distracting..." I felt embarrassed of myself by the end of my sentence. He was offering to work and do something we both love together and there I was, turning it into some-

"Baby look at this." Jungkook sounded excited, and my eyes shot back to the screen.

He was doing an incredible combination of tutting, shimmying and chest popping. All movement should have been limited to his upper body but he slid back and forth across the backseat, making sound effects as he did.

"Pow! Pow!" His opened and closed a fist to mimic a heartbeat as he popped his chest behind it. Finishing with a wink and cheesy grin.

I stood up and burst into applause, shouting encore in a raised whisper to mimic a scream.

"Pretend I can wolf whistle, and that I just wolf whistled." I murmured getting Jungkook's goofy giggle as a response.

"I love you both, but if you were together with me at work I think I might throw up." Jimin piped up.

"They did want another teacher though so...keep it in mind, yeah?"

"She nodded!" Jungkook yelled up to the front seat and I heard a loud smacking sound before Jungkook feigned being in pain.

"Hurry up and get here soon." I pouted at him while he adjusted himself to lay down.

Jungkook looked at me softly before his gaze flickered to something behind the screen. A clouded expression took over his face before saying, "I'll be there soon baby. I'm gonna sleep before my next turn to drive. I'll text you when we're almost there ok?"

I'd been so spoiled by his constant desire to talk to me that him hanging up while still conscious led to a pit growing in my stomach.

I paced around my room for a few minutes, trying to figure out what the reason for it could be until my phone dinged.

"Sorry baby, Yoongi called and Jimin was giving me a look. Miss you already."

I never had to play the "what if" game for long with Jungkook, he always gave me the answer without me even having to ask.

A few hours later, he let me know that they were about 30 minutes away.

     Black skinny jeans, combat boots, cropped black lacy top (that did wonders for my boobs if I may say so myself) and leather jacket on - I stumbled out of my front door, down the apartment stairs and into the family car.

     There was music playing on the drive, an album by Bombay Bicycle Club on repeat the whole time. But I couldn't tell you anything else about it. The scenery outside of the car was a smeared watercolor painting and for someone who usually gets lost even with a GPS, the way there felt eerily clear despite never seeing it before. The music formed a protective bubble to carry me along, the lyrics delivering a message that I wouldn't understand until much later on.

     "There's a story which in my eyes shut,

     Could you back me up,

     Could you back me up"

     The drive took a little over half an hour, the music getting harder to hear as I got closer, the sensation in my stomach growing from a pit into a black hole. By the time I pulled up to park on the street outside of their soon to be house, remembering to breathe had turned manual, the feeling in my legs an electrifying buzz instead of anything solid.

     I had beat them there thankfully, so I sat with my car running for a few minutes more. The guitar from Bombay Bicycle Club swirled around my head in ocean waves, the lyrics spiraled through my ears and wrapped up my insides as sentient vines.

      "You can rearrange me now,

     If we wait we can make it somehow

     What you want

     What you want

     Anything you want" - I shut the car off before the next lyrics could begin.

     "You tease this love,

     You care enough".

     Am I just teasing this love? This thing with JK? I do care enough. I care more than enough, these feelings are real, they are, I swear I -

     I had sunk so deep into my feelings that I didn't notice a car pulling up behind me until the horn was honked, effectively scaring the crap out of me and making every muscle in my legs clench up. Stepping out of my car felt like trying to stand as a newborn deer, jello limbs fighting to support my weight. The car windows were tinted and the sun had set quickly - turning the ability to identify who was in the car into a guessing game. Was Jungkook's car the one with tinted windows? It was like I had never seen their car before. I hadn't been texting with the other car and had no idea what their ETA was, this was about the time Jungkook should be here right?

     Right?

     I let hope get the best of me and sucked in air as I walked towards the backseat car door, the one behind the driver's seat. Reached my hand towards the handle and flung the door open with a big, "Hey baby!" and a grin that I hoped looked genuine instead of terrified.

     Lacey's confused face greeted me in return before she burst into a snicker.

     "Um, hey babe! What a greeting, haha, oh my god, wait - Yoong's I'm stuck, push me out." She turned back to look at Yoongi who was out of my sight in the backseat.

     I had frozen as soon as I opened the door. Keeping the grin plastered to my face as if seeing Lacey and Yoongi first wasn't eating a hole in my chest like a ravenous and carnivorous worm.

     The front doors of the matte gray car opened, a yawning Namjoon and Hobi exiting from each side. They reached their arms up towards the sky as they stretched, their eyes crinkling with growing smiles as they turned to face me. In an attempt to get away from Lacey and avoid looking at Yoongi, I threw my arms around Namjoon and let out a little squeal.

     "You made it safe!" I exclaimed, a sense of relief sliding down to quell the black hole that was threatening to consume me from the inside out. My arms clasped around Namjoon's waist and he wrapped his around my shoulders, the enveloping warmth of the hug rising like a force field around me. His giant chest had the same effect as a weighted blanket the moment I turned my head to press against it. Muscular arms squeezed me back into my body, while one of his thumbs stroked up and down - reassuring and soft. Just like him.

     "Thanks for driving out here to welcome us home!" Namjoon spoke the words directly onto the top of my head, his mouth mussing up the top of my hair. Warm breath tingled into my scalp, down my shoulders and spine until I could feel the ground beneath my feet again. Although the grounded feeling didn't last long.

     Noises from the backseat reminded me it wasn't time to relax just yet and I directed my eyes to Hobi through the gap under Namjoon's arms.

     Hobi had his lanky arms stretched out towards me, beckoning me with his hands and a dimpled closed mouth smile spread across his glowing face. He had on a bucket hat, oversized hoodie and baggy jeans - with patterns that nobody else would have been able to pull off beside him.

     Craning my neck, I turned to look up at Namjoon, my cheek squished against his left pec. Giant dimples and the most calming smile greeted me in response, "Go say hey to Hobes - I gotta start getting stuff out of the car." He released me from the hug, reaching one hand up to ruffle my hair before dipping down into the front seat to pop the trunk open.

     Lacey had both feet out of the car and my ears were pricked by Yoongi's deep rumble of a voice. With the most intentional of intentions, I directed my gaze towards Hobi and made a beeline over to him - without Namjoon's arms around me, the ability to feel the ground disappeared, making it feel like I was floating until my arms were around Hobi's neck.

     Long, slender arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me up - spinning me in a circle while Hobi let out a string of excited sound effects. We both kept giggling and the vibrations of his laugh must have been set to a healing frequency because I've never felt so light while being picked up before.

     "The drive was SO long! I can't believe we're here! Tae said they'll be here in a minute. Oh my god, oh my GOD, can you believe this is finally happening??" Hobi set me down in front of him, keeping his hands around my hips as he bounced up and down.

     I bounced up and down with him, trying not to press my nails into his shoulders and betray my excitement with the complex emotions lying underneath.

     "I know, I know!! You made it! We can hang out again!" I bubbled back.

     My brown eyes locked in to his, starting a secret and wordless conversation that went something like:

Hobi: "Are you doing okay girl? I mean, they're right there..."

Me: "Of course I'm not fucking okay! JK isn't here yet and I called Lacey babe! I can't even look at Yoongi!

Hobi: "You're gonna have to soon, and JK is almost here. Lacey is going to play nice in front of everyone don't worry, but don't give her a reason."

Me: "Ok cool thanks, yeah, that is SUPER HELPFUL HOBI!"

Hobi: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You got this! The rest of us are here don't worry!"

     That did help with the worry.

     At least, until I developed super-hearing as Yoongi got out of the car. Every movement he made, every sound that came from him, was like it was being fed directly into my eardrum through an amplifier. I could hear him breathe, hear the sound his hair made as it fell in front of his face when he looked down to step out of the car.

And I wasn't even looking at him. 

    

     Instead, I continued clinging onto Hobi with a vice grip while he patted my hips and gave me encouraging nods.

    "1, 2, 3 - you're off!" He whispered as he pulled me in for one last squeeze. Spinning me around to face Lacey and Yoongi as soon as the countdown was over.

     My heart was beating so hard, it felt like it was pumping bile back up my throat and onto my tongue. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, or maybe I didn't want them to.

     But when they did, Yoongi's long black hair and round face were crystal clear, even in my peripheral vision. His dark brown eyes were laser focused on me, meltingly beautiful and with a sense of determination that didn't match the rest of his body language.

     One arm was around Lacey, who stood next to him, fidgeting and with an upset look on her face. His other arm was trying to find a pocket to stuff his phone into. He could've looked down. It would've made it much easier to do if he had looked down, but he didn't. I couldn't tell you how long it was for, but he never stopped looking at me. Moments kept passing, the distance between the curb and the street continuously morphing from too close to too far away.

     Why didn't he stop looking at me?

     The sound of Jungkook, Jimin and Tae's car snapped us out of the trance we were in. The frown that had taken over Lacey's face dissipated, replaced with a sweet smile and syrupy voice. She turned to Yoongi, tucking hair behind his ear and kissing him on the corner of his mouth with big bambi eyes. Yoongi kept his eyes on the ground, nodding as Lacey spoke to him in a low voice. Her words jumbled together in my ears as I glanced towards the black car and saw the outlines of 3 heads, one moving considerably more than the others.

     "Girl! Now that I'm out of the car finally- get over here, we missed you so much!" She waved me over, scanning my face intensely and not once looking over to see Yoongi's reaction.

     But I did.

     Maybe that was my first mistake. Where it all started. It couldn't be helped though - Closer? To Yoongi? Was that allowed? I hadn't even seen Jungkook yet, wouldn't that be inconsiderate? How could I touch Yoongi first? What would happen? If I touched Yoongi first? He shouldn't be first, he couldn't be. Especially not while he's standing there with someone else, touching someone else - I mean, wait - hang on -

     "BABY!" Jungkook's voice bellowed out so loudly, the rest of us visibly flinched before dispersed chuckles from Namjoon, Hobi and I. Behind the driver's seat of the car that had just pulled up, the window had been rolled down - JK's dimples, inky curls and perfect roly-poly nose poked out, an arm waving at me furiously. Everything else faded away as soon as I saw him, the only thing on my mind being to get into his arms as soon as possible. I waved back with a blush before turning to excuse myself from the couple before me.

     Lacey had crossed her arms with a scowl and Yoongi had turned to look up at the sky, the neighborhood - anywhere besides at what was going on around him. The space in my heart made for Yoongi pushed back against the rest, trying to expand.

     It didn't last long though.

That slight falter in my chest was quickly snuffed out by the literal wind being knocked out of me.

     In the moment I had turned to glance at Lacey and Yoongi, Jungkook had exited the car, running towards me at full speed before tackling me to the ground.

     A big, strong hand covered the back of my head, palm pressing into skull, as the other pushed into my lower back - pressing me against his body as we fell. If the full weight of my body landing on top of him caused him any trouble, the only way he showed it was a small "ack!" the moment it happened.

     Zero recovery time needed.

     It felt like less than a second.

     And there he was, sitting on the grass by the edge of the curb.

My handsome man. The bunny to my bunny. Mine, all mine. Who I belonged to.

     With no thought at all, my legs straddled his lap, hands gliding with their own agenda up his neck so fingers could grip into thick, dark hair. One tattooed arm held me pressed against him like it was life or death if he loosened it at all. The pounding of our hearts thudded ferociously through layers of muscles, fat, skin and clothes - screaming to reach the other. His other hand held onto one of my hips, pressed down to make me sit my full weight on him and even then, I still felt weightless.

     Breathless and breathing too hard, we looked at each other. Taking it all in. The feeling of each other's real flesh and blood filling up our senses, attempting to commit it all to memory.

     Both of my hands released their grip from his hair to hold the sides of his face.

     We were pressed so tightly against each other that I could feel his heartbeat pick up and hear the shakiness in his voice. How it betrayed the conviction of his words as he murmured, "I'm gonna kiss you in front of everyone.".

     I leaned in slowly, trying not to notice the way that all of my limbs were trembling.

     "Not if I kiss you first." I whispered, breaking my gaze away from the perfect shape of his mouth to look him in the eyes.

     Without any hesitation, he lifted his chin to bring his lips to mine, pressing them so decidedly into a kiss that I briefly wondered if I had ever been kissed on purpose before.

     My body didn't erupt with butterflies or tingles or that drop in my stomach that I'd learned to associate with desire.

     Instead, I felt it opening. Like floodgates, with hunger. Welcoming him in while simultaneously wanting to consume and be consumed by him. Being so aware of where his body touched mine that every place it did felt on fire, and every place it didn't felt deprived of oxygen. Our eyes stayed closed for the most part, focused on taking in the feeling. Whenever they did open, the physical pang of desire almost hurt, banging out like a drum that reverberated through every part of our biochemical make up.

    

     And it wasn't too much for him.

     It was mutual.

     It was matched.

     Encouraged.

     Fueled.

     We were both the flame and the gasoline. Nobody could stop us, least of all each other.

     I completely forgot where we were. Who was around us. That we were sitting on the curb. Or that I hadn't said hi to Jimin, Tae or Yoongi yet.

    

     I don't remember how long we were kissing, if we were full blown making out or if anyone asked us to stop. I do, however, remember making a noise that I had never made before and the groan that came out of Jungkook that made us snap out of our lust-filled daze.

      Thwack.

While Jungkook and I were sat there, recuperating and processing - Jimin had walked up and smacked him in the back of the head.

     "I cannot wait for you to have your own room guys. For real. What the hell. It's not gonna be the same but come say hi to me lovely." Jimin's voice was playfully masking a command. JK fingers pressed into my hip like a release button and the realization of what we had done after looking at each other sunk in, turning us both beetroot red.

     I reached my hand towards Jimin to help pull me up, the bones in my legs not yet solidified. Jungkook sprung up behind me, guiding me by the waist as I stood before mumbling some "um's" and "uh's" and heading to their car. I was too scared to turn and face the others and pulled Jimin into a hug with the best "I missed you so much!" I could muster instead.

     Jimin's embrace was gentle. Like being covered with a cedar and honey scented cloud.

     "I missed you too lovely. I knew he was gonna jump ya but damn. Have you said hi to everyone yet?" Jimin's voice sang into my ear with the lightest hint of criticism. The sudden awareness of Hobi's glare stung the side of my face and I winced in Jimin's arms. His responsive squeeze giving some comfort that I hadn't ruined their arrival. At least not completely.

     Tae's silky voice floated over my head - a lifeline attached to a buoy that I was desperate to grab onto.

      "Well, can you blame the poor dear? We've been trapped! Stuck! Relying on modern technology like it's some accommodation for the prison that is distance." The dramatic way Tae spoke broke the tension and laughter burst out of me, spurred on by Jimin's equally dramatic eye roll.

     "My darling, I've missed you so. Did my letters find you well?" I drawled out, breaking away from Jimin to make my way to Tae, who promptly collapsed into my arms with the back of one hand pressed against his forehead. After a fit of nervous giggles over nearly dropping him, he stood up and flung his arms around my neck. Pressing kisses against my cheek as he rocked us side to side.

     "Some nights your words were the only things keeping me warm, my poetic angel." Tae declared his sentiment with a hand under my chin, his velvet brown eyes soft and sparkling.

     "Ahem, help me with the stuff T." Jungkook grumbled as he leaned against the back of the car next to the open trunk. His glare was focused on Tae's hands but melted into a puppy-eyed pout once he caught me noticing. Tae patted me on the cheek then jerked his chin up to acknowledge Yoongi and Lacey. Gently but forcefully turning me around to face them as he walked off to join Jungkook.

     Lacey's arms were still crossed, the emotions that made her scowl earlier now thinly veiled with a tight lipped smile. Yoongi on the other hand, looked like he had gotten into three fist fights and told he was getting drafted since I had last looked at him. His hair had become disheveled, a blank look on his face had taken over the determined one and his broad shoulders had sunken down. Like he had been defeated.

      Why did he look so defeated?

     Standing there with Lacey.

As if he had been hoping- no, that's not right. As if he had been expecting? Something like that.

     As if he had been expecting me to be so overwhelmed by seeing him again that I would've stopped anything from occurring with Jungkook. We both chose other people. This is the reality. This is where our actions had led us to. Was he operating under the assumption that things were different? That I was a mess without him? Like this was some Bella and Edward bullshit? Why was this making me so mad?

     "Wow boo! I wish this one would greet me like that!" Lacey joked, elbowing Yoongi and breaking her crossed arms stance to walk over to me. I pushed out a laugh and stepped off the curb to come towards her, opening my arms to pull her into a hug. For a quick second, and only a quick second, she buried her face into my shoulder before pulling away. Seeking comfort. From me of all people? It didn't make any sense. At least, not until I noticed a pleading look in her eyes that was both familiar and disorienting. It was one I would grow to understand too well over the next few years.

     And I think I knew the reason for that look, even back then. No matter how much I'd like to pretend otherwise. I think I knew as soon as my eyes drifted from her rounded, light hazel-green's to Yoongi's feline, nearly black ones.

     There was hope in his.

Or maybe, it was a reflection of the hope I was trying to hide in mine.

Either way.

     Something was there.

     And the hands he had shoved into his pants pockets couldn't cover the way his arms jerked as I stepped towards him. As if to hug me. As if he wanted me in his arms. As if he knew I wanted the same.

Was it okay to hug him?

In front of Jungkook and Lacey?

In front of everybody?

     I didn't think much more about it.

My arms were around him and his were around me in less than a second. Heat blooming from the place where our stomachs touched just like it did before.

He was so real.

So beautifully and painfully, real.

     Like physics and atoms and the building blocks of life, this world was made to hold Yoongi just as much as this world would not exist without him.

     Fingers twitched against the middle of my back and my own reflexively grabbed at his shirt, bunching it into my grip and getting closer to the warmth of his skin.

     Too close.

     We both jumped back, simultaneously too aware of the world around us and unable to look at anything besides each other.

     I remember saying either out loud, or in my head, "Welcome home Yoongi.". But connecting my thoughts to my mouth was clogged up with sludge. It felt like I didn't need to say anything out loud anyway - he knew. I both loved and hated that he always knew.

     Yoongi answered, either out loud or through the vibration connecting us that was nearly singing with electricity. His words echoed in my head and the air around us as our eyes refused to waiver from each other.

     "It's good to be home," he said, "I mean, it's good to be home here. With you.".

[thecoiledserpent]

Your view pisses me off We all have free will so we can still change a lot I doubt its all fated…

well tell that to the people in palestine or sudan or colonies, to the mother of my friend who had to stay in her abusive relationship until she died because of her daughter, to the mother who lost her unborn child, to the man who lost his leg while hiking, to the little girl who was raped, to my little brother whose eye caught the worst infection when he was three, to the people who are blind or deaf or mentally unstable, to the little girls who grow up with abusive mothers, to that girl in 8th class who is always overshadowed by her classmates despite being talented, to—

this is part of why i never want to see people who don't understand hindu religion or are not spiritual to enter astrology; free will exists, but we never know where. maybe i am fated to have the best husband but the worst in-laws. do you know what will happen? even the criminal that marries me will turn a good man, and even if they belong to a royal family, their family will turn against me for some reason or the other.

there is just karma, which we all must do. but the result of all things is fated, fated, and fated. those of us who face adversity and still rise above it become kings, princes or the privileged in their next life. every person who is blessed in any manner, worked in their past life to achieve it so they have it now. sorry to break your sorry little bubble, but life's not like that.

let's say i kick a puppy today. then, someday, some ten years later, when i get splashed with dirty water while going for an important job interview, i will go 'why me?!' but yes, me. yes, i did something to deserve it, and now i am getting it. few things in life are not result of our own actions in the past, convincing yourself otherwise is futile. and even if, let's say, the universe seems to hate you, then if you keep your head down and take it and learn to rise above it, then you'll be rewarded for it in the future.

astrology, numerology, tarot etc are the map to our lives. detouring is possible, yes, but the thing is that our paths are decided based on what we were in the past, what we are to face in this life and how we are most likely to react to it. rarely do people react differently, and so most people live the lives that was written for them in the stars.

free will exists merely in how we react to adversity in life, not in what sort of adversity we are to face. your 'free will' can't stop death, accidents, bad relationships, back-stabbing people, bad bosses, misfortunes or anything else. your free will exists only in whether you accept death as the truth of life or as something to be mourned indefinitely over. your free will exists only in whether you think of life as something to live or as something to utilize to become better.

your free will exists only in your thoughts and mindsets. and when the mindset changes, the life does too! ❤

i can't even be angry here, i'm just pitying you right now. believing whatever trash is thrown around everywhere, trying to convince yourself that misery or sadness is not a result of one's own actions. the day you realise the truth, you'll find this entire thing a propaganda, too.

[kerubimcrepin]

Wakfu OVA - Book 2, Ush [PART 1]

Bonta my beloved...

From these two shots we can see the approximate location of the Crepin-Jurgen residence.

Atcham is, for some reason, the first one at the door. Maybe he's been walking a polite "I don't know those two" distance away from Kerubim and Joris. Idk.

[guy who misses liveblogging Dofus and pointing random things out voice] Here Luis says that it took Joris, Kerubim, and Atcham three months to get the Dofus. I wonder what this means.

DFHGSDFGOASIDKFJSADGKDFHAO;SFHSADJFHAOSUDFHSADJKFHJASDKFHASDJFHASJDFHUSAIDFHASJDKFSDF

Catboy Joris agenda continues to rise.

Two of the silliest things here are an unopened letter that has a chunk of it torn off (unopened for 3 months, mind you), and the lute with two broken strings.

...I really want to see that picture on the wall fully. What does it depict. Hi what does it depict. Hello.!

Judging from the legs, I think it might be Atcham in promiscuous clothes. Literally idk though.

I love you, Luis.

(Random stack of four pillows and a little stool with a bucket and a bowl on it in the corner there. They may or may not have left home midway through cleaning...., or something.)

SFDAJDKSLFJSDHASOUDFHCNSAJDKFHJKASLDFHKJASDFHJAKSDFHKAJSDFASDJFH

They ARE rude, Luis. Kill them! Kill them!

I think Atcham is the only one who is brave enough to say this out loud because Luis has a history of being scared shitless of him.

It is no longer the case after 600 years — he lives here, after all, — but he is still the least likely to get beaten by a floorboard in his sleep for running his mouth.

No comment.

This — the cookies/whatever, and tea in a kettle, — leads me to believe there's a tiny timeskip between them going to the basement, and them getting the map and the Dofus out, and that during said timeskip they had tea and cookies.

Also, I find it so funny that they have three little chairs, and the only one using a chair is Kerubim... to stand taller. While Atcham is literally just sitting on the table.

Very important lore. Truly.

This map is., 200 years out of date. And it was created before the Ogrest's Chaos.. When most of the world wasn't, y'know... flooded.

They're so grandpas... This is so fucking funny I can't.

Also, they couldn't find more than one nail to hold it down, so it seems someone (probably Atcham) just pierced it with a dagger. dfhgjsdfg.

He;s so cute.... i need him to be hit by a car.

Atcham is so glad to have finished this quest... In my opinion, he turns to Joris to say this, because Joris has been worried the entire way back. However, it doesn't help much.

You see, I am insane about this entire exchange. I'm crazy. THIS is why I love the OVAs: they allow us a brief, but very important glimpse into Joris, Kerubim and Atcham's life in Wakfu era.

Joris is weighed down by the morally questionable things he does. Even if it is a "good thing", he isn't proud of it. He's scared they'll hate him, and he's scared that it's a step out of his lane.

However, Kerubim is the one who justifies his and Joris's morally questionable actions. He justifies them through an appeal to the authority of the king, and an appeal to the morality of it.

And he does all of it the second he sees Joris hesitate or be uncomfortable in any way, shape, or form.

He's been doing this for 600 years. This is so unserious.

He just interrupts and disregards everything Joris says, as if Joris is insane for thinking these things... and in a way, he is right — Adamai and Yugo do forgive Joris, who seems to have been agonizing about them being mad at him...

I think Joris overthinks things a lot and starts to panic easily, and Kerubim knows that, and knows how to stop him from doing that.

Besides Kerubim demonstrating that here, he also demonstrates that, really, despite role-playing as their dad, Joris doesn't have the highest authority in this household.

Btw, Kerubim is so very good at chilling when things are actually catastrophically bad, that in my opinion his "this is literally so easy. this is going to be okay. papycha will protect you." may or may not be one of the main contributing factors to Joris doing war crimes in Waven, instead of going insane from panic. Family who war crimes together, stays together.

[hakunahistata]

2024 Fic Roundup / AO3 Ask Game

Thank you for the mention @gaiaseyes451, my beloved!

What fandoms do you write in?

Good Omens

How many words have you published in 2024?

62,344 of my own words according to my writing tracker! I had the pleasure of participating in so many collaborative works this year so my AO3 word count is a bit misleading 😂

What is your greatest achievement this year?

Honestly, just doing. Writing, sharing, collaborating, stepping out of the proverbial fandom shadows and interacting. Before November of last year, I had never been more than a lurker. Stepping into the GO fandom space has brought so many kind, talented, supportive, and funny people into my life.

What are your favourite top three fics you've written this year?

S.T.A.Y. - Sex Pollen in Space! I adored everything about this writing experience: the prompt, the server, the world-building. I'm really proud of this one!

Paradigm Shift - If you'd told me when I signed up for GOSP that I'd be paired with one of THE writers of all time @voluptatiscausa, nerves probably would have pushed me to pull out (heh) of the event. The challenge this fic brought me was welcome and the best part? Vol's friendship! Vol, you're a gift of a human being. The enormity of your heart is staggering and I'm honored to know you.

A Quiet Life - Yeah yeah, it's not finished yet but it will be soon! Collaborating with @lenaellsi has been so fun and I'm so grateful they decided to extend their talent (and patience) to this fic! Writing this story has unearthed something profound in my mind and while it may not all make it onto AO3, it's been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life and has been the seed for so many meaningful conversations with my therapist

What was your biggest pit of despair moment?

August/September was when I hit the "oh no, I don't have any more ideas, I'll never write again" period. While my writing is slow-going at the moment, at least I know I can still do it lol

What have you learned?

So much. Writing is not about chasing perfection. Feedback is crucial and is not a personal attack on you as a human being. Make a schedule. One of the most important lessons, however, is perspective. Remember, this is supposed to be fun. It's a hobby. Be honest about where you're at. Gonna miss a deadline? That's okay, it's not the end of the world. Drink water, have fun, and stay silly!

What fic did you want to do but never made it off the ground?

Oh boy, a bunch! I have a lot more to add to Love Not Given Lightly (ten parts mapped out rip me) and a chef!Crowley human AU I'd like to dig back into.

Did you beta any fics? Any favs you want to shout out?

I had the distinct pleasure of betaing so many incredible fics this year!

A Little Life by @gaiaseyes451 - The tears and catharsis experienced while reading this were like nothing else. Gaia, this fic is so stunning and I'm so proud of you for writing it.

Show the Way by @the-literal-kj - Gah! KJ, you know Gaia and I had SO much fun betaing this. I laughed, I cried, I hated Connecticut. A+, no notes.

That Certain Night by @adverbian - Adverb, your writing prowess will never cease to amaze me. This fic is poetry, through and through.

Collapse by @ineffable-rohese - Rowan, I think of this fic daily. The care and devotion expressed in this part of your beautiful series is love incarnate.

(New Time!) SftAoAJCJBP (Hybrid) (Join on Teams) by @malachitegrey - Y'all, please read this. It's rare that a fic makes me laugh out loud and I cackled while reading this. Mal, I live for your corporate tales. Your ability to blend humor with gut-punches is next level. ILY!

Your Art of Love and Your Love of Art by @voluptatiscausa - You know that swooping feeling in your gut when you experience something that matters? I had that feeling aplenty while reading this. Vol, you're a poet.

What three fics have you read this year that you love?

The Saint of Lost Things by @gaiaseyes451 - Gaia, your command of language is immersive. When I read this, I was there. This fic is a visceral experience paired with a truly killer soundtrack. 100000/10

Honey, There Is No Right Way by @voluptatiscausa - hhhhhhhHHHHH! I want to eat this fic, I love it so much. It's so tender, sweet, and the smut, y'all the smut! Vol, I love you forever and will never forget getting this notification while watching Nye with you just a few feet away :')

shine upon your pillow by @naromoreau - I know this was written last year but I don't think I read it properly until this year and I STILL think of it. Sweet and spicy >:)

We Can't Keep Meeting Like This by @gingiekittycat - Another fic that I know was written last year but it has such a special place in my soul. Gingie, this fic is so sweeping and if I could have any fic be made into a series/film, it'd be this one. You're a marvel!

Mistletoe by @snae-b - Punks! Holidays! Sweat and spunk! This fic has e v e r y t h i n g

What ideas are percolating for next year?

A composer AU with @gaiaseyes451 is at the top of my list 👀

Who do you want to thank?

@the-literal-kj and @gaiaseyes451, your friendship and support have been transformative. I love you both so much and I'm thankful to have you in my life and slidin' into those DMs! High Pollen Server, there are so many of y'all in there that I'm worried I'll miss someone so if you're in there, I tag YOU! @adverbian, @malachitegrey, @voluptatiscausa thank you so much for fostering such a supportive, empathetic, kind, and funny corner of the internet. It's not often you find an online space that's restorative but that's what the High Pollen server is for all of us. Big living room vibes!

I'd like to tag viewers like you!