#a lot to me....everything.... to be precise... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ggukivrse · 23 hours ago

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just this once | jjk

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)

word count: 5.1k

warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33

ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.

“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”

“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”

You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.

A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.

It’s always been like this.

He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.

“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.

You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”

“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”

“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”

He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”

You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.

“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.

“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.

You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”

He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”

You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.

He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.

“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.

Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”

He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”

You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious.

You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”

Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”

“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.

That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.

"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.

He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."

“With my standards?”

“With the streak.”

You snort. “What, you offering?”

“Maybe.”

You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”

It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.

His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.

“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.

You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

“Only if we let it be.”

You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.

And then his expression shifts.

His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.

“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”

He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.

You move first.

You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.

You kiss him.

It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.

At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.

His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.

You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”

He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”

“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”

You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.

“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”

“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

“Like what?”

You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”

That shuts him up real quick.

He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.

He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”

“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”

You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.

His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.

“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.

“You gonna stop me if I say no?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”

He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.

You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”

He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”

His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”

You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.

He pulls back just enough to speak.

“Let me take care of you.”

You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.

“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”

“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”

You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.

“God, you’re cocky.”

He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”

You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.

He stills.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”

“Shut up.”

He smiles cockily.

You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.

He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.

His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.

“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”

You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”

“I hate you.”

“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”

You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”

“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”

You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.

“Say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”

He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.

You whine. Actually whine.

“That’s not what I asked for.”

“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.

He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”

You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.

"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."

He doesn’t.

He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.

When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

You do.

Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.

He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.

Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, low and steady.

You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”

He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.

“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”

You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.

You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.

“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”

He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.

You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.

“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”

He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”

You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”

You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”

You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.

You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.

You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.

He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”

The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.

His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.

You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.

He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.

“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”

He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.

“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”

You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”

You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.

“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”

You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.

“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”

You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.

“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."

He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.

Fuck.

He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.

And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.

Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”

You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.

He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.

You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.

You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.

“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”

You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.

But not enough.

You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.

You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.

He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”

You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.

He notices.

Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.

“Let me help you, yeah?”

You nod. “Please.”

He starts thrusting up into you.

You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.

The new angle is obscene. Filthy.

“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”

He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”

Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.

Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”

His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.

“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”

You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.

“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”

You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.

“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

That’s all it takes.

You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.

You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.

His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”

You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”

"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.

He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.

His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”

You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.

He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”

“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”

His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.

“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”

You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.

And fuck, you are.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”

His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.

You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.

“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”

He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.

When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.

Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.

“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.

You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”

He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.

His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.

He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.

"I— you're perfect."

You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."

But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.

His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”

You blink. “A bath?”

He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”

You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”

He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”

“Mm, you definitely do.”

He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”

You shut up. But you’re smiling.

He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.

When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.

Even now.

You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.

Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.

And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.

You guys were still best friends.

Right?

→ read part two here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part two releases)

taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @cookysstuff @whoa-jo @minghaosimp

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vera-vera-vera-lynn · 1 day ago

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Need to rant because this post ignited something beastly inside me :P

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As a philosophy major, seeing that ad actually drove me fucking nuts, because I know a lot of people in my school's humanities department (as well as some in the Philosophy course itself) would actually use it.

In my city Philosophy is already considered something of a dying humanities major as it doesn't hold as much attractive options as, say, Communications, Psychology, or Political Science—so barely anyone even takes it seriously anymore. In fact, my university came so goddamn close to shutting down the Philo course entirely.

Our department's barely holding it together, and seeing other humanities majors actively thriving despite taking advantage of something like this is such a huge slap to the face.

We have maybe 15–20 students left in the entire programme, and most of them didn't even choose Philo out of genuine interest—they either just got redirected here, or decided on it as a last-minute resort. It's become such a fucking joke what with how people began seeing it as a dumping ground for has-beens and do-no-betters. It's treated as the goddamn lobby for rejects and undecideds; or worse yet, some will stay for a month to a year, only to dip out at the end when they realise how unaligned they actually are with the course. Bitch; if you wanted an easy way out, why are you here?

There's only one constant professor teaching every subject across every year level. And I say the word constant loosely—because while he technically holds the position, he's also our adviser, a.k.a. our last line of defense anytime the department's on the chopping block. The catch? He's part-time. That man is barely hanging on himself, with multiple teaching gigs at other universities; which means we only get scraps of his time, and even then, he's already usually burnt out. He's not just underpaid. The man's old, overextended, and chronically tired. The worst part? He's good. He's actually a damn good philosopher and an even better teacher. If we lose him, it's fucking over. An algorithm isn't going to help you or your professor. You're silencing the very people who've helped you develop your critical thinking skills.

The people here tend to have this preconceived notion that Philosophy is something of a 'high-brow art'—hence the lack of engagement. This is utter bullshit, by the way, because that's just double-edged classism. The whole point of it is critical access to thought—not intellectual gatekeeping. Call me petty and salty for this but this is one of the reasons why I hate it when bitches say shit like 'I'm too small-brained for this'—like, no. You're not. The fact that you're even recognising your own limitations is already a huge move in itself. You just need to put in the goddamn effort.

There's zero funding for conferences or outreach unless we tie ourselves to other, more 'useful' disciplines (our dean does what she can, but God, it's nowhere near enough; and I know damn well what our department is capable of given how much favouritism Psych and PolSci gets).

As the VP of our org, it's humiliating to have to cosplay as other departments just to get a foot in the door. And the worst part is: admin eats this shit up. They love to say things like relevance and fucking real-world application while simultaneously gutting any space we might’ve had to show how philosophy is deeply relevant, precisely because it questions the frameworks everyone else takes for granted.

Don't even get me started on AI. Half the 'cutting-edge' discourse around machine ethics, bias, decision-making, sentience, consciousness, language—all of it—is stolen straight out of philosophy. Hell, some of these LLMs are trained on archives of our papers and books. But none of y'all are hiring philosophers. No one's inviting us to panels unless we're there to play the silly widdle ethics people and make everything sound profound for five minutes before the principal takes back the mic. We're useful enough to train the machine. We're relevant enough to pad your datasets. But God motherfucking forbid you actually pay a specialist to teach or contextualise those ideas.

I felt worse rereading all the points I made considering my dad just piped in and essentially confirmed what I already knew. The bastard saw me typing and fucking laughed, saying it's just not profitable anymore. At one point in history Philosophy was regarded as the greatest of all sciences. Then religion commodified it, and soon after that technology virtually killed it. Who needs it when the people most rewarded for thinking are the ones who do it loudest, fastest, and with just enough fake nuance to sound profound in under sixty seconds?

Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, fuck AI.

I've been begging my professor to change our output formats for these very reasons. I told him to give all of these fucking essays a break because theoretical knowledge isn't going to solve everything. Nobody gives a shit about deep dive papers on Kant when they can't even pay their rent, much less have the energy for critical theory after working a shift at some minimum-wage job.

I suppose the biggest issue about Philosophy is that it isn't as 'practical' as other subjects are. The main problem with its presence in the modern world is that it's mostly just those writing about things that won't pay the bills, won't solve the climate crisis, and sure as hell won't put food on the table. We're not necessarily equipping ourselves to survive in the world as it is right now.

But neither are we reaching anyone like this, nor are we making any true progress no matter how wonderfully the concept of AI services is presented. We are actually losing relevance in real time. We're sitting on centuries of intellectual legacy and presenting it like goddamn expired toast. Philosophy was revered for its ability to interrogate meaning and question the frameworks that govern society. And now philosophers are being asked to hand its intellectual power over to algorithms and systems that don't even feel.

People forget that that's the real kicker: companies want philosophy specialists to 'work with' AI, but what in the giggling goddamn fuck does that even mean?

Some of y'all say we're supposed to fix AI with the same academia we've spent years honing. But instead of doing the deep, reflective work philosophy was built on, we're now just handing over centuries of intellectual labour, programming our thoughts into a machine, and hoping this utter parasite of a system works. Yes, artificial intelligence may have its benefits—but that doesn't take away the fact that you're letting automatons belittle all the history and all the hard work that built the foundations of human understanding.

Stop pretending like AI can actually solve problems. They don't. They can't. They can get as humanlike as they can, they can mimic our speech and our processes to sharper degrees, but at the end of the day they're soulless machines. They don't have the same capabilities you or I do. Stop it. Just stop.

this ad wants to hire philosophy specialists to train their AI.

in philosophy.

they want to train the machine that can't think on the subject that's literally thinking about thinking.

someone smarter than me write in the comments how the classical philosophers are freaking out in the afterlife

(diogenes brandishing a texting autocomplete feature: Behold, a man!)

#*Trixie Mattel sigh* I'm so tired ):<#good fucking God #this actually made me crash out #I am actually so tempted to fucking whistleblow so many people in my school like my anger rn is UNREAL #I love Philosophy so much and what do I get for it #what do WE get for it #UGH #god now I know what to write for my next essay #might even consider this as a thesis for next year #philosophy #anti ai #fuck ai #.°˖✧ 𝐋𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐠��𝐧𝐬 ✧˖°.#﹒✦ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭

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woniedarlin · 1 day ago

Text

Shared Custody

Pairing: Ex! Jungwon x reader

Synopsis: Breaking up with Jungwon was one thing. But agreeing to co-parent a dog afterward? That was how you ended up in the weirdest post-breakup situation ever. Because what kind of exes still see each other at precisely 10 a.m?

You broke up. You’re sure of it. So why does it feel like your relationship never ended? Just… got a schedule and a leash?

Author's note: Another fic has been sitting in the drafts for too long. I finally decided to share it with you all. Hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

Warnings: This story contains equal parts fluff and angst, with a dash of unresolved feelings, awkward ex moments, and a dog that might steal the spotlight. Reader discretion is advised! 🐾

Permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20

Here’s the thing no one tells you about breakups:

When you two bought a dog together while you were still dating, breaking up isn’t just about parting ways with a person. You get partial custody of an emotional support furball with no idea why mom and dad stopped living together. The breakup was mutual. There was no shouting, no ugly crying, no one storming out at 2 a.m. with a suitcase and a dramatic one-liner.

It was a quiet and tired conversation on the couch. Some nods. A few long silences. And Maeumi, curled up between you, unaware that his life was about to get complicated.

You probably should’ve fought over him. Or at least discussed like rational adults. Instead, you both just… didn’t let go. Now, you set schedules like divorced parents. Only with more awkward small talk and a lot of pretending it’s totally normal to see your ex every other day at exactly 10:00 a.m.

It started with meetups. Hand off the leash, say a polite hello, smile as if it doesn’t sting anymore. Then it became coffee afterwards. Then breakfast “because he looks hungry and I’m already here anyway.”

Then, last weekend, Maeumi ate an entire bag of chips and got sick all over Jungwon’s living room, which somehow led to you arguing about brand-name kibble.

“You were the one who said he needed variety!”

“Variety doesn’t mean junk food!”

“They were organic!”

“He threw up on my socks, (name).”

And you’re not proud of it, but you laughed. A little too hard. Then Jungwon laughed, and it felt like nothing had changed for a moment.

But everything had.

Now, you’re waiting for Jungwon in the usual meeting spot, Maeumi’s leash wrapped loosely around your wrist as he trots in excited little circles. Jungwon’s late. Not by much, just five minutes. Enough to make you wonder if he’s okay. Enough to make you check your phone. He shows up a minute later, hair a bit messy, holding two coffees. “Sorry,” he says. “I stopped by that place you like. The one with the stupid tiny straws.”

You take the cup without a word.

Maeumi barks, happy as ever, tail wagging because it was the best part of his week. Seeing his divorced parents together! ૮ ˶ˆ ﻌ ˆ˶ ა

“Did he eat?” Jungwon asks.

You replied. “Yeah. But he thinks spinning in a circle gets him more food now.”

Jungwon sighs. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “It was funny. He almost knocked over my lamp trying it this morning.”

There was a slight pause before, “He seemed to miss you a lot when he was with me last week. A good thing he has spent with you these past few days.” Jungwon says, nudging Maeumi’s head.

You nod, eyes on your coffee cup. “I missed him too.”

You’re not sure which of them you’re talking about.

🍎

Maeumi planted his butt on the floor and refused to move. You tugged the leash gently. “Come on, it’s Dad’s turn.” Maeumi looked at you. Then looked at Jungwon. Then flopped onto his side. You sighed. “He’s being a brat again.”

Jungwon crouched beside you, holding out a treat from his pocket. “Maeumi, let’s not do this today.”

Maeumi sniffed the treat, stood up halfway, then turned around and pressed himself against your leg.

You and Jungwon exchanged a look.

“I think he’s made his choice,” you said.

“It’s not even a choice. It’s supposed to be my weekend.”

“You tell him that.”

Jungwon sighed and looked down at Maeumi, who was now rolling over, belly up, smug as ever. “You’re a traitor. You know that?”

Maeumi sneezed in response.

Eventually, after five minutes of bargaining and light bribery, Jungwon stepped inside your apartment to get him moving. One minute turned into five. Then ten. Now you were both sitting on the couch, a lukewarm mug of tea in his hands, Maeumi curled between you like a peace treaty in dog form. “You know,” you said, watching as Maeumi kicked his leg in his sleep, “he wasn’t like this when we first got him.”

“Nope,” Jungwon muttered. “He used to listen to me. Now he acts like he pays rent.”

“That’s your influence.”

He shot you a look. “My influence? You’re the one who started giving him tiny portions of your dinner because he’s a spoiled prince.”

You shrugged and grinned. “He deserves nice things.”

“He eats better than me.”

Jungwon glanced at you for too long, then looked away and sipped his tea.

You didn’t notice.

Well, yeah, you did, but you were pretending not to.

Jungwon leaned back a little. Then he looked toward the kitchen. And then he saw it. The mug. The one he bought for your birthday two years ago. You loved it to the point that you used it daily while you two were still dating. He nodded toward the cupboard. “Didn’t think you still had that.”

You glanced over. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes stayed on it. That dumb, ceramic memory sitting there as if it had every right to exist in a post-breakup world.

You added, “It’s a good mug.”

Jungwon barely smiled. “Yeah. Real high quality.”

You didn’t reply.

He looked back at Maeumi, who was still fast asleep between you, snoring lightly. “I keep one of your spoons in my drawer,” Jungwon said suddenly.

Your head turned. “What?”

“You left it after that one trip. The one where we bought those instant noodles that tasted like cardboard.”

“Oh. Right.” You stared ahead. “That was a good weekend.”

“It rained.”

“I like rain.”

You both nodded and pretended the conversation didn’t sting a little.

Maeumi snored louder as if he were trying to cover the silence.

🍎

Your phone buzzed at 11:42 p.m.

You were half-asleep. Maeumi had gone home with Jungwon hours ago, but the apartment still felt…full.

You grabbed your phone.

Jungwon [11:42 PM]

Thanks for taking care of him this week. He seemed extra happy. When he saw you, his tail wagged about ten times per second.

You smiled without meaning to, your thumb hovering over the keyboard to send a quick "anytime" or maybe a "he missed you too."

But another message came in before you could type.

Jungwon [11:43 PM]

You’re still the easiest person to talk to.

You stared at the screen.

You didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps you did, and that was the problem.

So you… didn’t reply.

🍎

Jungwon sat on the curb's edge, nursing a canned coffee. Sunghoon was sipping from his drink, watching him spiral in silence. “I’m losing it,” Jungwon finally said. “She still knows how I take my coffee. Didn’t even ask.”

Sunghoon glanced over. “She made it the same way she used to? Back when you two were together?”

Jungwon nodded slowly. “Exactly like that.”

“And you’re upset because…?”

“I don’t know,” Jungwon shaked his head. “She laughs at my jokes the same way. She still says ‘bless you’ when I fake sneeze for attention. And today, I saw the mug I got for her birthday two years ago, sitting in her cupboard like it never left.”

“Maybe it’s just a good mug?” Sunghoon offered.

Jungwon stared at him. “That mug has a whale on it saying ‘whale you be mine.’ It wasn’t just a mug.”

Sunghoon choked on his drink and wiped his mouth. “Okay, yeah, that’s tragic.”

“And she still wears my hoodie,” Jungwon added. “She likes that hoodie.”

Sunghoon crossed his arms. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna ask for the hoodie back and confess your undying love in the same breath?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I was over her. I thought we were fine being exes who raise a dog together.” Jungwon let out a long sigh and tilted his head back. “I don’t know when it started feeling like this again.”

Sunghoon crumpled his empty drink can and tossed it into the bin beside them. “You mean the part where you show up with her favorite foods, sit on her couch like you never left, and keep pretending Maeumi’s the only reason you’re still hanging around?”

Jungwon looked at Sunghoon. “…Okay, rude. But not wrong.”

“Exactly. Look, man.” Sunghoon turned to face him fully now. “You two broke up. Sure. But you’re still texting her late at night, still wearing the cologne she once said smelled nice, and still looking at her like she’s the only person in the room.”

Jungwon groaned. “She’s just being nice. She always was.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “No one’s that nice, bro. She has your hoodie. She made you pancakes last week. You said she cut the strawberries the way you like them.”

“She always cuts the ends-”

“Exactly.” Sunghoon gave him a look. “At this point, you’re not just co-parenting a dog. You’re toeing the line of a romcom reboot.” He added, “Seriously, who even does this? Shared custody over a dog? With your ex? This is the weirdest post-breakup dynamic I’ve ever seen.”

Jungwon didn’t even deny it. He muttered, “…Yeah, but it’s kind of working.”

Sunghoon nodded solemnly. “You’re doomed.”

Jungwon groaned. “I think I’m accidentally falling in love with her again.”

“No such thing as accidental. You just never stopped.”

🍎

Maeumi wasn’t himself. You noticed it the moment he refused his dinner. He moved slowly, dragging his paws across the floor, and his eyes looked distant. Something was off. He usually had a healthy appetite, but tonight, nothing. You knelt beside him, gently rubbing his back. “Hey, Maeumi, what’s going on?”

He let out a weak whimper. Panic rose in your chest. You didn’t know what was wrong but knew you needed help. You grabbed your phone without thinking.

Jungwon picked up almost immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice was concerned, even though he wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Maeumi’s sick. He won’t eat, he’s not moving much… I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Don’t worry. I’m coming over.”

It didn’t take long for him to arrive, his face tense as he crouched down to Maeumi’s level. The dog barely acknowledged him, enough to make you both nervous. “We should take him to the vet,” Jungwon said after a moment.

You nodded, already on the phone, setting up an appointment. The drive was tense, your hand gripping the door handle while Jungwon kept one hand on the wheel, his eyes between you and Maeumi.

When you finally arrived at the clinic, it was quiet. You and Jungwon waited in the sterile, cold waiting room. Maeumi was lying on your lap, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. You rubbed his head absentmindedly, trying to calm yourself. “He’s going to be okay,” Jungwon said quietly, glancing over at you.

You nodded but didn’t answer. He touched his hand lightly near yours as he reached for the water cup beside you, and for a fleeting second, you felt his warmth. You looked at him, but his gaze was somewhere else, not meeting yours.

For a brief moment, you wondered if he missed this. If he missed you. But before you could even entertain the thought, the door to the exam room opened, and the vet emerged, pulling your focus back to Maeumi. Jungwon stood up. “He’ll be fine,” he said.

And you weren’t sure what to make of it, but for the first time since your breakup, you couldn’t ignore how much it stung to see him so close yet still so distant.

🍎

By the time you and Jungwon returned from the vet, Maeumi was already dozing off on the couch, wrapped in an old blanket and looking much more himself. The panic had eased. You stood by the kitchen, hands on the counter, watching Jungwon kneel to check Maeumi. You glanced at the time. “It’s late. You should eat before you head back.”

Jungwon looked up. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I was gonna cook anyway,” you said, opening the fridge. “Don’t expect a five-course meal, though.”

“I never did,” he said, smiling as he joined you in the kitchen. “You still burn rice, don’t you?”

You gave him a light shove with your elbow. “That happened once. And the pot betrayed me.”

Then, he washed the vegetables while you stirred the soup. It was annoyingly comfortable.

By the time dinner was done, the table was set. Jungwon set down the last dish and glanced over at you. “This… feels like we never broke up,”

You froze. Then, you replied, “We never used to have this much garlic.”

He huffed a small laugh but didn’t push it. And for the rest of dinner, neither of you brought it up again.

🍎

The dishes were washed. The leftovers are packed. Maeumi, finally feeling a bit better, had claimed his usual spot at the foot of your couch, tail thumping gently as he dozed. You stood near the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel, when Jungwon spoke from behind you. “I didn’t just miss Maeumi, you know.”

“I miss…” He let out a soft breath. “I miss all of it.”

“Do you still think about us?” he asked.

The silence was deafening. You felt him watching your back, waiting. And if the room had stayed that quiet a second longer, you would’ve said something honest. But Maeumi barked as if he’d sensed the tension rising and decided to cut it clean. You both jumped slightly. You turned with a light laugh, avoiding his gaze. “I think someone needs his water refilled.”

Jungwon didn’t press. He nodded before crouching to check Maeumi’s bowl.

Neither of you said anything else.

But the question stayed.

🍎

It happens on a night that should’ve been uneventful. A regular handoff. Maeumi is snoozing on your carpet, belly full. Jungwon’s quiet tonight. You notice it right away, but you pretend not to. You handed over Maeumi’s leash, but he didn’t take it. “You still have my hoodie,” he says.

You glance up. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward the coat rack. “The gray one. I saw it last week. You used to sleep in it.”

You shrug. “It’s comfortable.”

His jaw tightens, but he laughs a little. “Everything I gave you is ‘comfortable,’ huh?”

You don’t answer.

“I saw your story the other day,” he adds. “Looked like a date.”

Now, you furrow your eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Jungwon runs a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say. “You brought it up. So say it.”

“It’s confusing. For one moment, we laughed as if nothing had changed. Then, in the next instant, I remember how you used to fall asleep on my chest or steal all the blankets.” His voice wavers for a moment, but he pushes on. “I just can’t tell if I’m the only one stuck in the past or you’re better at pretending.”

You hesitate, then quietly. “I wish I could say I moved on, but I haven't.”

Jungwon’s shoulders drop a little. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks down. “Because you looked like you were doing okay. And I didn’t want to make it harder if you were healing.”

“I wasn’t okay,” you say softly. “I’m still not.”

Jungwon lifts his head, his eyes locking with yours. “Neither am I.”

“I miss you,” he says. “Not just Maeumi. Not just Saturday mornings. I miss… talking to you. I miss knowing how you’re doing without having to ask.”

You look away. “Then why are we doing this?” you whisper. “Why are we acting like we’re fine?”

He lets out a breath. “Because maybe we don’t know how to be anything else.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He says, more gently this time, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He bends down and clips the leash onto Maeumi’s collar. The dog wags his tail, clueless, happy just to be loved by both of you. Jungwon straightens up but doesn’t turn to leave right away. He looks around your apartment. His eyes land briefly on the hoodie by the coat rack, then the familiar mug on your kitchen shelf.

“I still love you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

“I didn’t think I should say it. I didn’t want to make this harder. I thought… maybe it’d get easier if I stopped talking about it. But it didn’t.”

He’s not asking for anything. Not a hug. Not a kiss. Not to come back. He was standing there with his hand gently resting on Maeumi’s back because it kept him from breaking. “You laughed at one of my jokes last week,” he says softly. “And for a second, I forgot we weren’t together anymore. That’s how easy it is to fall back into you.”

You swallow hard. But he keeps going.

“I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. Or corner you. I just needed you to know. It wasn’t because I stopped feeling everything when we broke up. I was scared. And tired. And maybe I thought it’d hurt less if we ended it on our terms.”

He finally looks at you. “But it still hurts.”

Maeumi lets out a soft bark. Jungwon reaches down and scratches behind his ears; for a second, it’s just the sound of his hand brushing fur. Then he straightens again, but now you notice his eyes are a bit glassy. “I’ll take him tonight. I’ll text you tomorrow. If you need anything, or if… you want to talk more, I’m one call away.”

You nod. Slowly. You can’t get your voice to work. But your eyes say enough.

Jungwon opens the door and glances back just once. “Goodnight,” he says.

And then they’re gone.

🍎

Jungwon sits on the edge of his bed, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower. Maeumi is curled beside him, his head resting on his paw, and his eyes blinking up at him as if he understands more than a dog ever should. Jungwon takes a small breath and runs a hand through Maeumi’s fur. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” he mutters. “I didn’t yell.”

Maeumi blinks again.

“Okay,” Jungwon sighed, leaning back a little, “I maybe said too much.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Maeumi,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “She just looked at me like I was someone from a different life. That sucked.’’ Jungwon glances down and smiles sadly. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “Mommy and Daddy were just having a little disagreement.”

He lays back on the bed. “I’ll bring her back,” he whispers. “I swear, Maeumi. I’ll bring your mom back to me.”

Maeumi lets out a soft woof.

🍎

The rain had been pouring since morning. You didn’t expect anyone when the doorbell rang, especially not Jungwon. But there he was. Standing at your doorway, drenched from head to toe, Maeumi dripped beside him and looked more like a soggy mop than a dog. “Uh,” Jungwon offered sheepishly. “He refused to walk anywhere else.”

You said in disbelief. “You could’ve called.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

You step aside. “Come in before Maeumi gets mistaken for a wet sock.”

Towels came out. You wrapped one around Maeumi, rubbing his fur as he wagged his tail. Jungwon was quieter. You handed him a dry hoodie from your closet, which was his, actually. It still smelled like him, though it had sat folded for months.

He changed. You made tea. He sat across you on the couch, rubbing Maeumi’s ears absently. “I’ve been thinking,” Jungwon started, voice gentle. “We weren’t ready back then. But maybe now…”

You looked at him, guarded. “I’ve changed,” he continued. “You have too. And I don’t just mean getting better at feeding Maeumi actual food.” You smiled a little. He took it as permission. “I guess I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I didn’t say before. For not knowing how to stay when things got hard.”

You met his gaze. “I’m sorry, too. For pushing you away when I didn’t know what I needed.”

“Do you think Maeumi would be okay if we lived together again?” Jungwon asked suddenly, eyes hopeful.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking for the dog or for you?”

A sheepish smile curved his lips. “Both.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned into his shoulder, your head resting there like it used to. “Maybe we could try again,” you said quietly. “For real this time.”

Jungwon’s hand found yours.

Maeumi snored at your feet.

And outside, the rain kept falling, washing everything clean.

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strawberry-bubblef · 9 hours ago

Note

the post about the great seven made me think of a lot of things, but I now only remember one ╥﹏╥

Could I request the dormleaders with a reader that's immortal, and is the great sevens child ? Like for example, reader is the child of the queen of hearts

Feel free to ignore this lol ^_^

Dormleaders with an immortal!s/o that is the child of the great seven

Riddle Rosehearts

“You may be the child of the Queen... but you are nothing like her. And thank the Great Seven for that.”

No one remembers your name.

Once, it echoed through marble halls and velvet chambers, sewn into tapestries and whispered with reverence or fear. But when the Queen of Hearts died, everything that was hers was buried with her: her name, her reign… and you.

You were never crowned. Never introduced to the world. A shadow behind red curtains, a secret hidden even from her most loyal court. Perhaps she was trying to protect you. Or perhaps she knew the world would never accept a child raised by her.

You fled the Queendom the night it fell,when her court turned on itself and the roses bled. You remember the scent of scorched velvet, the last trembling lullaby she sang when she tucked you in that final night.

And then… nothing. Just centuries. Drifting.

You don’t know why you stopped aging. Maybe it’s the magic in your blood. Maybe it’s the curse of royalty. You wandered, studied, observed. Watched Heartslabyul rise in her image,flawed, rigid, hollow.

You didn’t plan to return. You didn’t even know how.

But the mirror chose you. Dragged you into a world echoing with her legacy. And now, you walk Night Raven College’s halls like a ghost wearing flesh, your past stitched beneath your skin, every step retracing memories that no one else remembers.

When you first arrive at Night Raven College, Riddle treats you like a wildcard,mildly irritating, overly cryptic, far too relaxed for someone claiming to know the Queen of Hearts' laws so intimately. To him, you're a contradiction. How could someone speak of Heartslabyul's customs with such precision, and yet flout them with the casual grace of someone who’s memorized every loophole?

You quote ancient laws in fluent Old Queendom dialect. You tie your cravat in the royal fashion,her fashion. And one day, when you're late to a dorm meeting, you offer an apology he recognizes, word for word, from a speech the Queen herself once gave to Parliament.

He doesn’t confront you at first. No, Riddle does what he always does. He observes, watches, collects evidence like petals pressed into the pages of his memory. You’re infuriatingly poised, with that slow, knowing smile. You rarely show emotion in public, but there’s an elegance to you that feels eerily timeless.

And then one day, he sees it.

You’re alone in the rose maze. Crying, not out of sadness, but from some invisible, ancient grief. A single red petal rests in your hand, crushed between your fingers. You whisper something he can't hear, but he knows it's not meant for this era.

He steps forward too loudly, and you stiffen.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice low and trembling. “Really.”

You turn, tired. Not annoyed. Just... worn down.

“I told you,” you say, voice soft. “I’m the child of the Queen of Hearts.”

Riddle doesn’t believe you.

At least, not at first.

But the proof starts stacking: the way you predict ceremonial patterns he hasn’t even memorized yet. The way you refer to royal events like you were there. The way you slip and say “when she was alive” with too much weight behind it.

He confronts you again. This time, behind closed doors, arms folded tight.

“You expect me to believe you’re centuries old? That you were born of one of the most famous monarchs in Twisted Wonderland’s history?”

“No,” you say calmly. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”

“…But it’s the truth.”

You meet his eyes,his furious, brilliant eyes and something in you aches. He looks just like one of the Queen’s pages. The same fire. The same hunger for order. But the fear in him is new.

He’s afraid you’re right.

“…She wasn’t who they said she was,” you whisper. “Not always. She was terrifying, yes. Powerful. Cold. But she held me like I was porcelain, kissed my forehead every night before I slept. She taught me that rules were how she kept her heart from breaking again.”

Riddle stares. Unmoving.

“You knew her…” he says. Not a question. A quiet surrender.

You nod.

“But she died, Riddle. They all do. I’ve watched kingdoms rise and fall. Watched laws be rewritten. Watched people try to become her, wear her like a title. And every time, they fail.”

Then you look at him, gaze unwavering. “Even you.”

That hits him. Hard.

He’s spent years trying to be a perfect heir for his mother. To learn that he will never be enough in her eyes cuts deep. But deeper still is the quiet horror in your expression when you say it. You're not judging him. You're begging him not to become what she was.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But if I’m going to be immortal, I want to at least feel like I'm living.”

And that… is something Riddle understands more than he wants to.

From then on, he starts treating you differently.

At first, he’s hesitant. Unsure. But the more you talk, the more he sees the scars hidden beneath your stillness. You tell him stories of palace life. Of your mother’s sharpness, her loneliness, her ambition. Of the moment you realized you would outlive everyone and she was already gone.

He listens to you in the quiet hours between classes. Starts sneaking you teas he thinks you might have tasted in the court. Lets you revise the rules, not to manipulate them, but to restore the humanity lost in them.

You, who were once raised as a symbol, now walk beside him not as a relic, but as a person. A strange one. A sad one. But someone who understands what it's like to have your identity shaped by someone else's legacy.

And Riddle, for all his perfectionism, finds something freeing in your honesty. In your quiet wisdom. In your unflinching view of the past.

He asks you once:

“If she were here now… what would she think of me?”

You answer truthfully, gently, “She’d see you as a threat. Because you’re trying to do what she couldn’t,rule with kindness.”

He doesn’t cry. But he looks away.

You take his hand, fingers cool against his trembling ones.

And in that moment, immortal or not, past or future aside, Riddle Rosehearts is simply a boy.

And you are simply someone who understands.

Leona Kingscholar

"You come from the King… but you aren’t his echo. And maybe that’s the greatest blessing of all."

They called him the second son, the shadow beneath a golden crown.

But long before Falena was declared heir, before the pride lands of Sunset Savanna settled into peace under a careful rule there was you.

You weren’t born into the Kingscholar line. You were born into the original one.

The First Bloodline. The one that history erased you like you were a stain on the throne.

Your father, the King of Beasts, wasn’t just a ruler,he was a storm in a lion’s skin. Cunning. Unrivaled. Feared. And you were the child he kept hidden, not out of shame, but out of protection. His enemies were many. His politics ruthless. You were a secret too valuable to let out into the open.

But then he vanished.

Some say he was killed. Others believe he was betrayed by his own council. But you? You were only a child when they tore you from the palace and declared the bloodline broken.

The nobility chose another branch to carry the throne,one less “cursed,” more “obedient.”

The Kingscholars.

You were never mentioned again.

Until now.

You cross paths with Leona after a skirmish in the Spelldrive field. Dirt still on his cheek, sand in his boots, he snarls at you as you walk past, eyes narrowing like a lion scenting a rival on his territory.

"You walk like you own the place."

You don’t even look at him when you say, “I did. Once.”

He scoffs. “Right.”

But the words lodge in him like a thorn. And later,after too many coincidences, after hearing you speak in royal dialects that no one outside palace walls should know,he corners you behind the botanical garden greenhouse.

“You’re not from here. But you know too much.”

You exhale. The silence after that is long. Heavy.

Then: “I was born before the throne ever touched your bloodline.”

He stares. “You’re saying…?”

“My bloodline ruled before the Kingscholars were chosen.”

Leona scoffs the moment the words leave your mouth.

“Child of the King of Beasts? Right.” His arms fold, tail flicking with sharp annoyance. “Next thing you’ll tell me, you’re here to reclaim the throne.”

You don’t even blink. Just tilt your head slightly, expression calm.

“I’m not here for a throne.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“To exist,” you answer simply. “I’ve done enough hiding.”

Leona narrows his eyes. He’s not stupid,he can see the way you carry yourself. Proud. Collected. Like someone who’s had centuries to learn how to wear masks. But that doesn’t mean he’ll believe you. Not without proof.

“Fine. You’ve got five seconds to make me care,” he growls. “Or I walk.”

You pause.

Then, from under your coat, you pull something on a chain,worn, but gleaming faintly in the light. A pendant.

It’s shaped like a lion’s head. Old, far older than anything in Sunset Savanna’s current monarchy. The eyes are carved from faded sunstone, and around the mane are markings,etched in a script that hasn’t been taught in generations.

Leona’s scoff dies on his lips.

“…Where’d you get that?” His voice is quiet now. Sharp.

You don’t hand it to him. Your fingers curl around it instinctively.

“It was my father’s,” you say, gently. “The last thing I have of him.”

Leona takes a slow step forward, staring.

“I’ve seen that design. Once. In the sealed royal archive. Back when I still gave a damn.”

You nod. “You’d only see it once. The crest of the First King before the Kingscholars.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“And you’ve been hiding this,why?”

“Because it’s not a crown,” you say quietly. “It’s grief. It’s centuries of watching others wear his name, rewrite his story, and erase me from it. I didn’t want to rule. I just wanted my father back.”

Leona’s jaw clenches. There’s something raw in his eyes. Familiar.

“…They erased me too,” he mutters. “The second son. Always in the background.”

You nod. “Then maybe you understand.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes flickering to the pendant again.

“…You keep that,” he says eventually, gruff. “I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you.”

“Tch. Fine.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he speaks, softer this time:

“So… what are you gonna do now?”

You exhale. “Live, I guess. For him. For me.”

Another silence.

Then, with a huff, Leona turns on his heel.

“You coming or not?”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the greenhouse. I’m not gonna sit around thinking about history all day. But if you wanna talk legacy or whatever… I’ll listen.”

You smile faintly, fingers still tight around the pendant.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he grumbles again. “Just don’t vanish.”

“I already did. Not doing it again.”

And somehow, as the sun filters down on the golden plains beyond the dorm, there’s a strange, quiet peace in the air,two ghosts of old royalty, still learning how to be people.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Born of the Sea Witch, yet so far from her shadow… and honestly, the world is better for it.

Everyone knows who you are.

There’s no secret to your identity. The Sea Witch’s heir, that title follows you like the tide, carved into every introduction, every sideways glance. Most students keep their distance, unsure whether to bow or bolt. And Azul… Azul doesn’t know what to do with you at all.

Because he revered her.

Studied every scrap of her legend, built his entire image from the pieces of her legacy. Her cunning, her ambition, her raw, terrifying brilliance, Azul built the Lounge with those values in mind. But then you arrive. You, who could command a room with a breath and haven’t. You, who could claim dominion over the sea and haven’t.

You don't need to speak loudly,people listen anyway. You don’t bargain like a predator,people offer things to you freely. You carry your heritage like a pearl: luminous, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Azul tries to treat you like anyone else.

He fails.

You step into the Lounge and every glass seems to hush. You give advice to Jade that he actually takes. Floyd calls you “Little Queenie” and follows your directions with that rare, dangerous glint of respect.

Azul is torn between admiration and envy.

Until one night, when he finally dares to ask.

“You don’t act like her,” he says quietly. “Why?”

You pause, hands stilling over a half-folded letter. “You mean like the stories?”

He nods.

You smile softly, something like nostalgia darkening your gaze. “My mother was… magnificent. The world remembers her power. I remember her songs.”

He’s silent. You continue.

“She taught me that power should be earned, not stolen. That knowledge is the real currency of the sea. She gave me her voice, not just to speak but to listen.”

You open your palm, revealing a small, polished nautilus shell,golden and glimmering, humming faintly with stored magic. “This is all I have left of her. And it’s enough.”

Azul stares at it. He’s never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. Power, ancient and soft. Not cold. Not cruel. Just vast.

“I admired her,” he whispers.

“So did I,” you reply, not missing a beat. “But I am not her. I could never be. And the ocean… doesn’t need a second Sea Witch. It needs something new.”

That’s when Azul sees it.

You could have built an empire. Could have drowned this school in your magic and crowned yourself without resistance. But instead, you chose something gentler. Something wiser. Influence without intimidation. Intelligence without cruelty.

And he realizes,painfully, humbly, that you have everything he wants to be. But you’ve already grown beyond the shadow of your legacy.

He watches you slip the shell back into its velvet pouch, tucking it away inside your coat like a promise.

“You may be the child of the Sea Witch,” he says, almost breathless.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

A beat of silence.

“And thank the Great Seven for that.”

You give him a long look. Thoughtful. Unreadable. But then your expression softens, and your voice dips low and personal, like a lullaby meant only for him.

“I’m not her,” you repeat, stepping closer, “but I still know how to make wishes come true.”

Azul's breath catches. You reach up and gently cup his cheek ,the motion graceful, tender, intentional. His glasses fog just a little from how close you are.

"And what if mine’s already come true?" he murmurs.

“Then you’d better hold on to it,” you whisper, “before I swim away.”

And this time, Azul doesn’t try to be like anyone else.

He just holds your hand.

Kalim Al Asim

"Though you carry the blood of the Sorcerer of the Sand, you are nothing like him and that, in itself, is a gift."

Everyone knows who you are.

When you arrive at Night Raven College, the whispers don’t stop. The child of Jafar, the legendary sorcerer from the sands, the one who wielded dark magic and commanded the winds, it’s a title that carries weight. Most students are cautious, staying on the sidelines, unsure whether to smile or bow in respect. After all, Jafar’s influence was legendary, his ambition was terrifying, and his downfall? Well, it’s still a cautionary tale.

But you? You’re nothing like him.

Kalim notices that immediately. It’s one of the first things he learns about you. You’re not cold like your father. You don’t speak in cryptic riddles or draw power from ancient relics. You don’t even seem interested in the wealth or the control he had. You just… exist. And Kalim, for all his brightness and enthusiasm, can’t help but be fascinated by you.

You’re mysterious, yet open. You don’t flaunt your magic, and you certainly don’t try to intimidate others. You smile when you need to. You laugh. You cry, even. And you have this air about you, a quiet elegance, as if you were made to rule, but chose not to. He can’t help but find it captivating.

On the surface, Kalim is an open book. He’s cheerful, full of life, quick to embrace people, quick to trust, quick to love. But you? You keep your emotions locked away, always playing the role of the calm, collected individual, hiding all the things you feel under a polished, neutral facade.

One day, after a particularly intense school event where everyone’s on edge, Kalim finds you alone in the desert garden, sitting cross-legged beneath the stars. You’re holding a small glass vial, the one your father once kept on his person, filled with a grain of sand that never seems to settle.

“What’s this?” Kalim asks, plopping down next to you without hesitation, his voice full of curiosity.

You glance at him, your face unreadable. Then, you slowly open the vial, letting the sand inside drift slowly, the grains twinkling in the moonlight. “A piece of something that’s gone,” you say softly. “A piece of him.”

For the first time, Kalim feels the weight in your words. He’s seen the way you carry yourself, how you’re both haunted by and detached from your father’s legacy. He knows you’re not here to claim power or revenge, but there’s something else in you,something bittersweet.

Kalim watches you closely, then gently nudges your arm with his.

“Hey,” he says with his usual enthusiasm, “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to carry all of that by yourself.”

You blink, surprised by his straightforwardness. Kalim, in his warmth and innocence, doesn’t seem to understand the weight you carry. But maybe that’s what makes him so special, he doesn’t carry that same burden. Maybe he can lighten your load, even if just for a little while.

“I’m not him,” you murmur quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be him. But people expect me to be, and sometimes, it’s just easier to let them think that.”

Kalim tilts his head, clearly not understanding. He watches you for a long moment, before his face brightens with his usual, radiant smile.

“Why not show them who you really are, then?” he suggests, his voice teasing but gentle. “I mean, you’re you, right? And that’s way more interesting than some old sorcerer’s name, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by his confidence. Kalim’s words are so simple, so pure , yet they feel like a revelation. Maybe you could live for yourself, without the shadow of your father looming over your every move.

Kalim scoots closer, his smile softening, his eyes sparkling with kindness. He gently takes your hand in his, his fingers warm, a stark contrast to the cool, distant air that’s always surrounded you.

“I know it’s tough,” he says softly, “but you don’t have to be that person anymore. You don’t have to live up to anyone else’s expectations. You get to choose who you are.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you feel the cracks in your walls start to show. Kalim isn’t afraid of your past. He doesn’t look at you like a reflection of your father. He just sees you. And in that moment, you wonder if it’s possible to finally start living on your own terms.

“I think…” you start, your voice soft but gaining strength, “I think I might just try that.”

Kalim’s smile widens, his eyes lighting up. He moves closer, and for the first time, you allow yourself to lean into someone without fear of what they might think.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m here for you, okay?”

And when he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something new to hold onto. Not the legacy of the Sorcerer of the Sand, but something far more precious: your own future.

And as Kalim’s infectious laughter fills the air, you let yourself believe that, for the first time, you might just be ready to walk away from the past and forge your own path.

Vil Schoenheit

“You may carry the blood of the Fairest Queen… but your beauty shines in ways even she could never claim.”

Everyone knows your name.

It’s spoken with reverence across Night Raven College’s halls, embroidered on silk and memory both:

the heir of the Fairest Queen.

Your presence is like walking history but not something dusty or forgotten. You are a living embodiment of grace, refinement, and an impossible, devastating beauty that the world thought it had lost when the Queen’s mirror finally cracked.

The Fairest Queen was not simply beautiful.

She was an icon. A legend. A dream.

And you, you are her continuation.

No one knows exactly where you’ve been all these years. Some say you were hidden away to protect you from jealous enemies. Others whisper that after the Queen’s death, you chose exile, unable to live in a world without her. Whatever the truth, when the Dark Mirror summoned you to Night Raven College, the world held its breath.

Especially Vil Schoenheit.

Vil, who grew up studying the Fairest Queen’s philosophies like sacred scripture.

Vil, who shaped himself in the image of perfection she defined.

For Vil, meeting you is like meeting a star plucked from the heavens. No,worse. You aren’t just a star.

You are the night sky itself.

And he will not disgrace himself before you.

The first time your paths cross, you’re standing in the courtyard, a soft breeze stirring your clothes. Everything about you is effortless, the way you hold your posture, the tilt of your head, the calm, poised patience in your eyes. You look as though you were born to be admired.

Vil approaches,his steps are silent. Controlled.

He bows,not exaggeratedly, but perfectly, with a hand over his heart.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs. “It’s an honor.”

You smile, a small thing, but it lights you from within. Vil feels a rush of warmth, a heady, dizzying awe he hasn’t experienced since the first time he saw the Fairest Queen’s portrait.

“You don't have to call me that,” you say gently.

“But I choose to,” Vil replies, his voice low and steady.

Because to him, you are royalty not merely by blood, but by right.

He studies you shamelessly. Not to find flaws,no, he knows there are none.

Rather, he drinks in your existence the way an artist would, memorizing the way sunlight halos around you, the regal way you incline your head, the serene confidence in every breath.

Vil has spent his whole life pursuing beauty, striving to become something greater, something untouchable. Yet standing before you, he realizes:

You were born as the standard he’s been chasing all along.

Over time, Vil's respect only deepens.

He listens when you speak, genuinely attentive.

He offers you only the finest,handpicked skin-care products, rare imported teas, elegant gifts that speak of thought rather than extravagance.

He doesn’t flatter you meaninglessly; he gives the kind of honest praise that means everything coming from someone like him.

“You move with grace unmatched.” he murmurs one evening after a Dorm Assembly. “It’s as if the world bends itself to your will, simply to be worthy of your touch.”

And somehow, you never let it change you.

You are kind, but not naïve. Beautiful, but not arrogant. You carry your lineage with dignity, not pride.

And so Vil watches you. Studies you. Learns from you. Not as a rival. Not even as a mentor.

As something rarer.

As an equal he desperately hopes to be worthy of standing beside.

One night, when the stars hang low and silver over the horizon, Vil finally says it aloud.

“You could command the whole world to kneel,” he says softly, when the two of you are alone on the balcony of Pomefiore. “Yet you choose to walk among us.”

You tilt your head, amused. “And would you kneel for me, Vil?”

The question is playful. Teasing.

But Vil, proud and unyielding Vil Schoenheit, sinks gracefully onto one knee without hesitation.

“For you,” he says, voice like velvet and iron, “I already have.

And somehow, the knowledge of it doesn't make you feel more powerful.

It makes you feel seen.

Truly, fully seen.

Not just as the Fairest Queen's child.

But as you.

Idia Shroud

"You may be the child of the King of the Underworld… but you don't have to follow his path."

The first time Idia hears about you, he nearly chokes on his snack.

The child of Hades?!

The actual King of the Underworld?!

A real life demigod roaming the halls of NRC like it’s NBD?!

It’s the kind of thing that sounds like the premise of a high-level RPG questline,not something that actually happens in real life. But there you are, flesh and blood (and... well, probably something even more mystical), walking through the halls with an aura of death and ancient power so thick it almost glitches the atmosphere around you.

Most students are terrified of you.

Or obsessed with you.

Idia?

He’s hiding behind a pillar, peeking at you like you're some kind of ultra-rare mob he's too scared to approach.

He’s absolutely fascinated, of course.

You don’t strut around like you own the place (even though, technically, being the heir to the Underworld, you probably could).

You're oddly down-to-earth. Quiet. Almost reserved.

And that? That makes it even worse for Idia’s poor heart.

He overthinks every possible interaction with you for weeks. He even drafts multiple conversation scripts on his tablet,ranging from “cool aloof mysterious type” to “friendly casual gamer type” but never uses a single one because just thinking about talking to you makes him want to disintegrate into pixel dust.

You, however, notice him almost immediately.

Not because he’s super subtle (he’s not ,bright flaming hair behind a corner isn’t exactly stealthy) but because you can sense things most mortals can’t.

And Idia? Idia’s aura is like a beacon ,pulsing with intense, chaotic energy barely held together by layers of anxiety.

One day, when he’s hiding (badly) in the library, you finally corner him.

"You’re good at sneaking around the living," you say casually, leaning over the back of his chair.

Idia nearly dies on the spot (pun intended). His hair flares up bright pink, his tablet clatters to the ground, and he whirls around like a caught anime protagonist.

"ACK—!! I-I-I wasn’t staring!! I was just—researching!! Buffs intelligence +10!!! It’s not creepy, I swear!!" he stammers, practically vibrating with panic.

You just blink at him, expression unreadable, then... smile.

"Relax," you say, voice low and a little amused. "I don’t bite."

Idia freezes like a lagging game character.

He’s convinced he’s hallucinating.

You, literal royalty of the underworld are TALKING to him. Casually. Like it’s normal. Like he's normal.

From there, it’s a slow, awkward, chaotic friendship that blossoms into something deeper.

You’re one of the few people who understand when Idia talks about souls, afterlife theories, and obscure mythos.

And when you finally confess, it's clumsy, adorable, and very, very Idia:

"I-I know you could like... have literally anyone... or summon a loyal legion of, like, skeleton admirers or whatever... b-but uh... if you ever wanna, like, uh, game with me or whatever, I promise to only lose most of the time and...and maybe, uh, not die of happiness if you smiled at me again...?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head, reaching out to gently tap his forehead with your finger.

"You’re an idiot," you say affectionately. "But you're my idiot now."

If Idia could, he’d be on the floor, blue-screened from sheer joy.

Instead, he just short-circuits with a shy, wide, stunned grin,the kind only you get to see.

Malleus Draconia

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy… but you don't want to be like her.”

Everyone knows who you are.

Whispers trail behind you like mist: The heir to the Thorn Fairy. The last legacy of the fairest queen. In Diasomnia, you are regarded almost with reverence. In the halls of Night Raven College, where lineage means everything and legends walk in flesh and bone, you are already immortalized.

And to Malleus Draconia,you are more than that.

You are a living bridge to the one he reveres most.

The Thorn Fairy, the untouchable queen, the mistress of thorns and dreams and undying majesty.

The one whose wisdom shaped kingdoms.

The one whose power commanded storms and silence alike.

Malleus is enthralled by you from the start.

He watches you with an intensity few dare withstand, caught between awe and aching loneliness. You do not command attention,you draw it, effortlessly, as if the air itself leans toward you.

And you, for all your lineage, carry none of the cruelty history once feared.

You walk gently where others would conquer.

You speak thoughtfully where others would decree.

You smile softly where others would sneer.

It confounds him.

And yet, it delights him.

One evening, beneath a withering tree in the Diasomnia gardens, he finally approaches you, green eyes catching the silver of the stars in their depths.

“You are different from her,” Malleus says, not accusing,almost... wondering.

You look at him then, and your expression is so full of something ancient and mournful that it stills the breath in his lungs.

“My mother,” you say, voice quiet, “was majesty incarnate. Her beauty, her wrath, her sorrow… they shaped the very lands you and I walk upon.”

You reach into the folds of your cloak, and Malleus watches with sharp, expectant eyes as you withdraw a simple object, a thorn, long and blackened, gleaming like obsidian. You hold it as one would hold a relic, reverently.

“This is all I have left of her," you whisper. "One thorn. One fragment of the forest she once called her own."

The thorn hums faintly in your palm, old magic stirring like a sleeping dragon.

Malleus lowers his gaze, his heart a storm of emotion.

He had idolized her, the stories, the grandeur, the tragedy but you had known her. You had been loved by her.

“I am not her," you say at last. "I will never be her. I was not made to rule through fear or flame. I was made to remember."

The thorn vanishes back into the folds of your cloak, your hand brushing over your chest like a silent vow.

Malleus steps closer, the gravity between you almost suffocating.

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy…” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

He bows his head slightly, a rare gesture of deep, genuine respect.

He finds a companion.

A kindred soul.

Someone who remembers the past,and dares to walk beyond it.

English is not my first language !

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angeliccss · 2 hours ago

Text

Cleanse Me

Pairing: Joan Ramsey/Fem!Reader

Words: 7.6k

Summary: When Joan Ramsey takes you under her wing, she promises salvation. Bible studies turn into confessions, cleansing rituals blur into something deeper, and soon you can’t tell where devotion ends and Joan begins. In her arms, you are pure. In her hands, you are hers — and she will do anything to keep it that way.

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Manipulative Relationship, Dubcon, Murder, Thigh Ridding, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Semi-Public Sex, and a multitude of other things

Read on AO3

AN: I’m still on the pain meds so there’s probably a few mistakes, please don’t mind them. Enjoy! Xx

The church wasn’t large—just a modest brick building nestled between trees that creaked in the wind, like they, too, were always praying. The pews were old but well-kept, the hymnals worn soft at the edges, the scent of lemon polish and old wood lingering like incense. Outside, the world was loud and fast and crumbling. But in here, everything was still. Reverent. Safe.

Joan Ramsey had attended this church her whole life. She had married in it, mourned in it, buried a husband and son under its soil. She sat in the same pew every Sunday, three rows from the front, and never once arrived late. People knew better than to interrupt her routine. She was respected. Feared, maybe. But she called it righteousness.

She watched now as the other women gathered their purses, laughing softly among themselves, their children tugging at their skirts. None of them noticed you. But Joan did.

She noticed the way you lingered at the edge of the sanctuary, eyes scanning the stained-glass windows like they were speaking to you. She noticed the way you didn’t reach for your phone, didn’t gossip, didn’t even glance at the group of boys roughhousing outside near the parking lot.

She watched you and thought—She still has grace in her. Untouched. Unruined. It made something old and warm and dangerous stir in her chest.

She stood near the altar, spine straight as a ruler, watching the congregation filter out with polite nods and empty smiles. But then you passed by—quiet, head slightly bowed, Bible clutched to your chest like a lifeline—and Joan saw something that made her pause.

You were modestly dressed, not just out of obligation, but as if it were stitched into your bones. No makeup, no fidgeting, you were still. You were good. Joan moved before she could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice low and gentle, the kind of tone she reserved for communion and confession. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” You looked up, startled. “Oh—I’m new here,” you said softly. “Just moved. This is my first service.”

Joan smiled—small, tight, deliberate. “Well. The Lord certainly has a way of bringing the right souls into His house.” Her eyes flicked down to your Bible. “Would you be interested in studying the Word a little deeper? I host a private group. Or—just the two of us, if you prefer.”

You hesitated for only a second. Then you nodded. And Joan’s smile widened just slightly, like a secret being kept.

The invitation came formally, the way Joan did everything. A handwritten note slipped into your hand after Wednesday evening service, written in immaculate cursive:

“Join me for study and tea. Friday at four. Bring your Bible and an open heart.”

—J.R.

You showed up exactly on time.

Joan’s house sat at the end of a long, quiet street. It was the kind of house that looked untouched by time—white siding, green shutters, hedges trimmed to military precision. The walkway was spotless. Not a leaf dared to fall where it wasn’t wanted.

When you knocked, the door opened almost instantly. Joan stood in a soft beige sweater, pearls at her throat, her hair pinned up in a perfect twist. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right on time,” she said. “Punctuality is the first sign of discipline.”

She stepped aside to let you in. The house was just as pristine inside as it was out—lace curtains, polished wood floors, not a speck of dust anywhere. The smell of chamomile tea and lavender filled the air. A small table was already set in the sitting room, her Bible already open, a notepad neatly placed beside, and one set out for you.

You sat down carefully, almost afraid to disturb the stillness. Joan poured the tea in silence, then looked at you with that same calm, unreadable expression. “I thought we’d begin with Proverbs,” she said. “There’s wisdom in learning how to live before we concern ourselves with how to die.”

You nodded, grateful for the structure. For the quiet.

But as the study began—her voice low and steady, her fingers occasionally brushing the side of your hand when pointing out verses—you felt something underneath the surface. Something watchful.

She wasn’t just teaching. She was studying you, too.

You read quietly from Proverbs, your voice steady, careful. Joan listened with her eyes closed, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was praying. But when you stumbled over a verse—“A gracious woman retaineth honour…”—she gently touched your wrist.

“Slow down, dear,” she murmured. “Let the Word settle on your tongue. It’s not a race to the end.” You swallowed, nodded, and tried again. Joan watched you with a look that felt too close, too focused. Not judgmental, not exactly—but something sharper than approval. When you finished the passage, she gave a small nod.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You read like you believe every word.”

“I do,” you said quickly. “I mean—I try to.” That smile again. Tight. Controlled. “You don’t have to try so hard here,” she said. “I can see you for what you are. You’re special. Not like the others.” The words landed heavy in your chest. Praise, maybe. Or something more complicated. You didn’t know what to say, so you took another sip of tea.

Joan opened her Bible, flipping through the thin, fragile pages with delicate fingers. “People like us… we have to be careful what voices we let in. The world has a way of tugging at you, little by little, until you’re not sure what’s holy and what’s filth.”

She paused. “Do you spend much time with boys?” You blinked. “Not really. I’ve been focused on school, and… on God.”

“Good.” Her tone sharpened just slightly. “They don’t know how to treat purity when they see it. Most girls give it away before they even know what it’s worth. But not you.” You shifted in your chair, suddenly aware of the way her eyes lingered—not on your face, but on the slope of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone beneath your sweater.

Joan turned another page. “The Bible doesn’t speak only of sin, you know. It speaks of loyalty. Of devotion. Of choosing what is right, even when it’s not easy. Sometimes, what’s right… doesn’t look the way people expect.”

She looked up at you then, her eyes calm, resolute. “I think God brought you to me,” she said. “Not just for study. For something more.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next session was quieter.

Joan had dimmed the lamps. The tea was already steeped when you arrived, and she greeted you not at the door this time, but from the sitting room—her voice drifting softly through the hall, calling you in like a hymn.

You obeyed without hesitation. She smiled as you entered, patting the seat beside her instead of across from her like before. “No need to be so formal, dear. We know each other better now, don’t we?”

You nodded, your Bible tucked close to your chest. She took it gently from your hands and placed it on the side table, not opening it. “We won’t need it right away.” You hesitated, unsure. But Joan reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear with slow, practiced tenderness.

“There’s scripture,” she said, “and then there’s understanding. Some truths are too holy to be written down. They have to be… lived. Felt.” She laced her fingers in her lap, voice calm, deliberate. “Tell me—do you pray for me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—I mean, yes. I pray for everyone in the study. I ask God to give you wisdom and peace.” She smiled again, just a little too wide. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But I think you’re capable of more than that.”

Joan leaned in slightly, her presence overwhelming but oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a thick blanket you couldn’t quite move beneath.

“I think God sent you to serve something greater,” she said. “Some are called to follow blindly. Others are chosen to devote themselves fully—to walk beside righteousness and keep it protected. You’re not meant to blend in with the world, sweetheart. You’re meant to worship truth.”

Her hand brushed yours, cool and steady. “And sometimes,” she whispered, “truth doesn’t come from the sky. Sometimes… it looks like me.” You stared at her, unsure if she was joking—but her expression didn’t waver.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” she asked softly. “Yes,” you breathed. “Then be good for me.” Joan held your gaze a moment longer—long enough for something silent and unspoken to settle in the room like dust. Then, just as easily, she pulled away.

She reached for your Bible with both hands, lifting it delicately as though it were a sacred relic. “Now,” she said, her tone light again, almost sing-song, “let’s turn to the Psalms. I think you’ll appreciate the language in this one.”

She flipped through the pages with familiar grace, stopping on Psalm 91.

“This is one of my favorites,” she said, her fingertip running gently along the lines. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You nodded, your heartbeat still a little too loud in your ears. Joan glanced at you with a soft smile, as though she hadn’t just asked you to worship her. As though nothing had happened at all. “Go on, dear,” she said. “Read the next few verses out loud for me.”

You did. Your voice wavered at first, but Joan listened intently, her eyes closed again like she was basking in the sound of it. Every so often she would hum her approval, or gently correct your pronunciation—never harsh, always firm. Maternal.

When you finished, she sighed contentedly. “You have a gift,” she said. “Not just in the way you speak the Word, but in the way you carry it. So many people read scripture and miss the spirit of it. But you… you let it live in you.”

You glanced down at your lap, flustered, but warmed by the praise. Joan reached for your hand again, briefly this time. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re becoming exactly who God intended you to be.” She didn’t have to say the rest out loud. You felt it anyway:

And God speaks through me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The gifts began to arrive slowly.

At first, you thought they were just tokens of kindness—gestures of encouragement from a generous mentor. Joan presented them casually, each one accompanied by a soft smile and a scripture to match.

The first was a cross necklace, delicate and gold, with a pearl nestled in the center. “It’s modest,” she said, fastening it around your neck herself, her fingers brushing the curve of your throat. “But meaningful. Like you.”

The second was a pale blue dress—long-sleeved, high-necked, cinched gently at the waist. It reminded you of something Joan might wear herself. “I saw it and thought of you,” she said. “So many girls dress for attention. But you deserve to be seen for your spirit.”

The third was a devotional book, leather-bound and worn at the edges. “It was my mother’s,” Joan told you, pressing it into your hands. “She taught me how to listen to God. Now I’m passing it on to you.” You didn’t question it. You thanked her. You wore the necklace every day.

And you started spending more time with her.

What began as once-a-week study sessions became near-daily visits. You helped her prepare tea, folded napkins beside her as she spoke about scripture and sacrifice. When you bowed your head for prayer, she reached for your hands now, holding them gently in her own. Her thumbs would sometimes trace idle circles against your knuckles, and you never pulled away.

During one reading, a strand of your hair fell into your face. Joan reached over without hesitation, brushing it back behind your ear. “Such a pretty thing,” she murmured. “You were made to be cherished. But not by the world.” She closed the Bible with a soft thud.

“The world is loud,” she said, her voice low and even. “And selfish. It tells you to take and consume and forget. But I can help you stay close to God. With me, you’re safe. With me, you’re seen.”

You didn’t answer right away. But you believed her.

She spoke with such certainty, such quiet power. Every word she gave you felt like a sermon, every glance like a blessing. And the longer you sat beside her, the more you found yourself thinking:

She doesn’t just speak for God. She is God. You wanted to please her. To serve her. To make her proud. And Joan—Joan looked at you like you were already hers.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It started with a quiet tap on the pew. The following Sunday, as you slipped into your usual seat near the back, Joan turned from her place near the front and beckoned you with two gentle taps against the varnished wood beside her.

You hesitated—but only for a second. Obedience had become instinct.

You wove past the others, eyes dropping as you passed whispered glances and half-hidden smiles. No one usually sat with Joan. People knew better. But she gave you a small nod when you reached her, scooting just enough to make space.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of hymnals. “I don’t like you sitting so far away.”

The sermon that day washed over you in a blur. Joan didn’t look at the pastor once. Her gaze remained fixed forward, chin lifted, hands folded. But every so often, her knee brushed against yours. She leaned just close enough for her perfume—something floral and faintly medicinal—to settle in your lungs.

After the final hymn, she didn’t let you drift toward the others like you usually did. As Sister Carol tried to flag you down to ask about youth group, Joan’s hand found your lower back, light but commanding.

“Come,” she said. “I’ve prepared lunch.” You didn’t get the chance to respond. Joan guided you out the front doors with such gentle authority that no one dared stop her. Not even Carol.

By the following week, it was expected.

You sat with her during every service. Walked beside her after. Her place at the church became your place—while your friends, your peers, your other obligations slowly fell away. You even moved in with her on the weekends.

She noticed, of course. Joan noticed everything.

“I know it’s hard,” she said one afternoon, setting a plate of lemon bars down beside your Bible. “When people don’t understand what God’s called you to. They’ll say you’ve changed. That you’re too serious. That you’re strange.”

She brushed a crumb from your collar, then smoothed your sleeve with the same touch one might use to quiet a child. “But they didn’t see you the way I did. They didn’t choose you.” Her eyes were calm, but firm.

“You belong with me. And there’s nothing out there that could offer you more than what you’re building here. With me. With Him.” You nodded, too full of something—fear, awe, longing—to speak.

Joan smiled and cupped your cheek in her palm. “Good,” she whispered. “Now finish your reading. I want to hear you say it aloud.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It truly started when you missed a study.

You’d stayed late on campus—just one hour, just one meeting—and when you arrived home, the tea was cold. The lamp in the sitting room was still on, but she wasn’t waiting with her usual open Bible and warm smile.

She was standing at the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her silhouette stiff and silent.

“I’m sorry,” you said, setting down your bag. “It—it ran long, I should’ve—” She didn’t turn around. “I waited.” The words dropped like ice. You stepped forward, heart crawling into your throat. “It won’t happen again.”

Joan finally looked at you. Her expression was unreadable—too smooth, too calm to be natural. “I open my home to you. I feed you. I guide you. And still the world pulls you away.” Her eyes narrowed, not angry, but wounded. “Don’t you see how dangerous that is?”

You nodded quickly, desperate to make it right. She softened just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re young,” she said, stepping closer, brushing your hair back like she always did. “Easily distracted. But I forgive you. God forgives you.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You woke to the sound of movement down the hall—floorboards creaking, the low murmur of a voice. Curious, you crept from the guest room you’ve been staying in and found the door to Joan’s prayer room cracked open.

She was kneeling at the foot of the altar, fingers dug into the edge of the wood, rocking slightly as she prayed. “Protect her,” she whispered, breath ragged. “Keep her clean. Keep her mine. Keep her from temptation. From the serpent’s tongue. From the lies—”

Her voice broke. She pressed her forehead against the altar. “She doesn’t know what she is. What I see in her. What You made her for.” You backed away before she noticed you. But you didn’t sleep at all after that.

The next day, she said you needed cleansing. She said the world left marks, even when you tried to resist it. And she wouldn’t let you carry that filth in your soul. She filled the bathtub herself—lavender oil, rose petals, salt.

She sat behind you, fully clothed, as she poured water over your shoulders and whispered verses into your hair. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, over your body.

“You’ve let something in,” she said. “But I can wash it away. I can clean you from the inside out.” Her breath was warm against your neck.

She guided you back against her chest, her arms enveloping you with the ease of ritual, like it was something you both had done a thousand times in another life. The water lapped gently around your body, warm and scented with lavender and rose—comforting, disarming.

Joan pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Then another, lower this time, just behind your ear. “Shh,” she murmured, her voice barely more than breath, “let go. Let it all go. Let me carry it for you.”

Her hands moved slowly over your arms, your shoulders, slick with oil and reverence. Each touch lingered. She whispered verses between kisses, her lips trailing a path down your neck like benedictions. The words were familiar—lines from Corinthians, Psalms, fragments of teachings about purity and surrender—but they sounded different coming from her, soaked in heat and devotion.

Her mouth found the base of your throat, open and slow, and your breath caught.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said, one hand sliding lower, the other spreading gently across your stomach, anchoring you. “God is here. He’s watching. He sees how much you love Him.”

Her voice dropped, breath heavy now, flush against your ear. “He sees how much you love me.” You didn’t know when your knees parted. You didn’t realize how tightly you’d started to grip her wrist beneath the water, only that you needed to hold onto something.

Her fingers slipped deeper, past skin, past reason. “Let me take the sin,” she whispered. “Let me cleanse you.”

The edge between scripture and sensation blurred. Each word she spoke curled around your spine like smoke—sweet, heavy, cloying. Guilt and pleasure tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell one from the other.

You gasped something—maybe her name, maybe a prayer. She smiled against your skin. “That’s it,” she murmured. “That’s it, my sweet girl. Let Him hear you.” Her hand never stopped. Neither did her voice.

And when you came undone, you weren’t sure who you were surrendering to—Joan, or God. Maybe both. Maybe they were the same. Later, in a daze, you wandered into her prayer room while she was on the phone.

You opened her Bible to find your name scrawled in the margins—again and again, in tight, looping cursive. Beneath a pressed flower, tucked into the Psalms, was a photograph of you from church.

It was worn at the edges. The page around it was smudged and softened from touch. Like someone had been praying over it. Or worshiping it. Or you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next few days, Joan grew quieter.

Not distant—never that—but thoughtful, watching you more carefully, her touch gentler, her prayers longer. She’d cup your hands between hers during grace, her thumbs circling slowly over your knuckles. She’d fix your collar if it dipped, smooth the hem of your skirt with careful fingers, murmur that modesty was a virtue but so was obedience.

You stayed with her more often now. You weren’t sure when the nights away from campus became routine, only that Joan made it feel like the holiest choice you could make. She would smile when you said you felt safest here, like you were being called.

But you noticed something. A tension building beneath her calm surface, like she was holding back from saying something—doing something. Her prayers became heavier. Her eyes lingered longer. The touch of her fingers against your wrist, your cheek, your spine—it all buzzed with a kind of spiritual urgency.

That night, after study, she watched you with a fire behind her eyes. And when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “There’s something still inside you, isn’t there?” she said. “A stain that hasn’t lifted.”

You hesitated. You felt… calmer, but the restlessness hadn’t left completely. Sometimes, it came back stronger, especially when she touched you. When she prayed over you. “I think so,” you murmured. “It comes back when I’m near you.”

Joan’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something deeper. Possessive. Certain.

“That’s because it knows I can cast it out,” she said, rising from her chair. “But some spirits… they root themselves inside. They cling to flesh. They hide where only a sacred hand can reach.”

Your breath caught. She knelt before you, reverently, like you were the altar this time. “I need to cleanse you again,” she said. “But not like before. This time, it must be deeper. Thorough.” She placed her hand over your heart. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded before thinking. “Yes.” She exhaled like a prayer answered. “Then lie back,” she said softly. “Let me guide you. Let me take what’s unclean and return you to Him.”

The lights in the room were low. Only the glow of candlelight flickered across the walls, dancing over the worn covers of scripture, the rosary strung over the mirror, the water basin beside the bed.

Joan had asked you to undress slowly. Not because it was indecent, she said, but because the ritual required stillness. Reflection. “This isn’t about the body,” she whispered, helping you step out of your dress. “It’s about what’s hiding inside it.”

She’d anointed your forehead with oil, fingers slick and reverent, then down the line of your throat, over your chest, your hips. Her touch never strayed far at first—only enough to leave you trembling, unsure of whether you felt exposed or reborn.

Then she led you to the bed, lifting the sheets like an altar cloth. She kept her robe on. Joan always kept her robe on.

She cupped your face and kissed your forehead, whispering a verse from Psalms, and you tried to hold it in your mind as she lowered herself beside you. But her hand was already sliding low again, trailing the line of your stomach, dipping between your thighs.

You gasped.

“Shh,” she murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Don’t be afraid. This is what devotion looks like. This is how we fight what’s inside you.”

Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, coaxing sensation out like a confession. “You’re not impure,” she said, kissing the edge of your jaw. “You’re worthy. Chosen. And this—” her touch pressed deeper “—is not shameful. Not when it’s done in His name.”

You arched into her hand before you could stop yourself, hips stuttering, breath catching. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me reach it. Let me take the sin and drown it.” She guided your face to her chest, pressed your palm to her heart.

“Do you feel that?” she asked. “That’s God’s will. That’s where He lives—in me. And now, in you.” You nodded, dizzy, your mind soft with heat and worship.

She guided you back against the pillows, murmuring prayers with each motion, her mouth trailing over your throat again, her hand relentless. The pressure built and built until you were crying out softly into her shoulder, until your body trembled with something too powerful to name.

Her lips brushed your temple, a final blessing. “There,” she said. “You’re clean now.” But she didn’t let go. Not right away.

Instead, she cradled you close, murmuring scripture into your hair while her hand rested possessively on your hip. Her fingers idly traced your skin like she was still drawing something holy into it.

“You’ll never need to feel that ache again,” she whispered. “Not with me. Not with Him. You’re mine now, sweet girl.” And part of you—quiet and buried deep—believed her. After the ritual, something shifted.

Joan no longer asked you to come—she told you.

“If you feel it again,” she said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “that ache, that heat… you come straight to me. No waiting. No hiding. No shame.” Her voice was velvet and iron. “I don’t care where we are or what time it is. You come. I’ll cleanse you. I’ll protect you from yourself.”

You nodded like it was scripture. Because it was. She had made it holy. So when it happened again—on Sunday, during service—you knew what to do.

You were seated beside her, of course. You always sat beside her now. You’d stopped talking to the other girls in the congregation, stopped responding to your old friends’ texts. Joan had told you their voices were too loud, too worldly. That they couldn’t possibly understand the purity you were being guided into.

You believed her. You had to.

That morning, the choir’s voices rose like incense, but you couldn’t focus. Joan’s hand rested on your thigh, a perfectly still weight beneath your dress. You could feel the phantom of her touch from nights before—how it had made you shiver and burn and beg. The feeling crept back again, deep in your belly, low and heavy, curling like a serpent under your skin.

You looked at her. She was already watching you. Her eyes were patient but burning, like she’d known. You shifted slightly in the pew, tried to cross your legs discreetly—but her hand caught your wrist.

She leaned close. Her breath brushed the shell of your ear. “Come,” she whispered. “Now.”

You followed her without thinking, slipping out behind the altar, past the rows of worshipers who didn’t look twice. Of course they didn’t. You were Joan Ramsey’s special project. The good girl. The chosen one.

She led you down a side hallway, through the vestry, into the quiet of a private room. The door clicked softly shut behind you. “Let me see,” she said, voice low. “Where does it ache?” You blinked, ashamed, aroused, obedient.

“Here,” you whispered, guiding her hand. Her hand trailed down, over your throat, down the center of your chest, where the cross necklace she’d given you lay like a brand.

“I think it’s time we tried something different today,” she said softly. “You’ve grown so much. You’ve trusted me. Let me show you a new way to surrender.”

You nodded, not even understanding—but needing to obey. She sat down on the little bench beneath the stained-glass window, the light casting soft colors across her face. She patted her thigh.

“Come here,” she said. “I want to feel how much you need me.” You hesitated, eyes wide. “Don’t be shy,” Joan murmured, voice dipping into that dangerous softness. “You want to be cleansed, don’t you?”

You moved slowly, heart hammering as you straddled her thigh, the fabric of your skirt bunching awkwardly until her hands smoothed it up around your waist. Her thigh was firm beneath you, and she adjusted you with practiced care, guiding your hips down until the pressure made you gasp. “There,” she whispered, pleased. “Now move for me.”

You did. Tentatively at first, rocking gently, the friction dragging across your center until your lips parted in a silent moan. Joan’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you, guiding you. “Good girl,” she whispered. “Look at you—so eager to be made clean.”

You whimpered as the heat built, the weight of her gaze as heavy as her thigh beneath you. And then she leaned forward, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice curling into your skin. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll take you with my mouth. I’ll worship you the way He would, if He could touch you like I do.”

You nearly sobbed at that—your hips stuttering, the sensation cresting. “Joan—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed. “Let it go. Let it all go. I’ll take it. I’ll always take it.” You came trembling in her lap, buried in the scent of holy oil and candle wax, her arms around you like the arms of something divine.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next Sunday, the sanctuary felt colder than usual.

You sat where you always did—beside Joan, hands folded, eyes forward—but your skin prickled with something uneasy. Joan’s hand rested lightly on your knee beneath the hem of your dress, her thumb stroking slow circles. Reassuring. Possessive.

She leaned over once during the sermon, whispering, “You’re glowing today. So clean.” Her breath made your skin burn.

But when the final hymn ended and the congregation began to move—stretching, gathering coats, exchanging soft pleasantries—you caught someone watching.

A woman from the prayer circle. Sister Marlene. Stern and tight-lipped, always in the front pew. She wasn’t talking like she usually did, wasn’t gathering her purse or adjusting her spectacles. She was just… staring.

At you. No—at Joan’s hand on your knee. You shifted instinctively, but Joan didn’t move her hand. Marlene approached slowly after service, her eyes flickering between the two of you. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Lovely service, wasn’t it?” she said, too polite. “Yes, it was,” Joan answered, perfectly calm. Marlene turned her attention to you. “Dear, I haven’t seen you with your friends lately. Are you still attending youth nights on Wednesdays?”

You opened your mouth, hesitated. Joan’s thumb pressed harder against your knee. “I—I’ve been spending more time with Joan. For study.”

“Oh.” Marlene’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “So much time, then?” Joan smiled coolly. “The Lord’s work isn’t on a schedule, Marlene.” Marlene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course.”

She looked like she wanted to say more—but she didn’t. Just offered a clipped nod and walked off, back stiff with suspicion. Joan didn’t speak until the church had mostly emptied. Then she turned to you, smile gone.

“You have to be careful now,” she said quietly. “Some people don’t understand what’s sacred. They see something pure and twist it into something ugly.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Hush.” She cupped your face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But they’ll try to poison your mind. They’ll tell you I’m not good for you. That this isn’t holy. That we aren’t right.” She leaned in, her forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t let them in. You believe me, don’t you?” You nodded. “Yes. I believe you.”

“Good,” she said. “Then let me protect you. Let me keep you close.” And from that moment on, Joan never let you walk into church alone again. It started small.

A glance. A question. A folded bulletin slipped into your hand after prayer circle with a verse circled in red ink—“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”

Marlene didn’t say anything when she gave it to you. Just pressed her lips together in that tight, knowing way and walked off.

You showed it to Joan that afternoon in her kitchen, heart hammering. “She gave me this. I think she knows.” Joan stared at the paper for a long time. Then she smiled—but it was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“She thinks she’s saving you.” Joan reached out, brushed your hair behind your ear, voice low and calm. “But only I know what’s in your heart. Only I know what it takes to keep you clean.” She folded the paper slowly, precisely. Tossed it into the sink and lit a match. You watched as the paper curled black and turned to ash in seconds.

“You mustn’t listen to her anymore,” she said, pulling you into her arms. “Her voice will only lead you away from what’s holy.” You nodded into her shoulder, breathing in the lavender oil she always wore. It calmed you—anchored you. And still, you couldn’t shake the way Marlene had looked at you.

But Joan didn’t give you space to linger in doubt.

She began waiting for you outside your classes, walking you home from school, dropping off fresh-pressed dresses for Sunday service. She texted morning and night—little things, scriptures and reminders:

“The body is a temple. Don’t let the world defile it.”

“I’m thinking about your soul today.”

“If it stirs again, come to me. No hesitation.”

And you did. Because even when it felt like too much, Joan knew how to pull you back—always with that voice like velvet, those soft fingers tilting your chin just right.

You began spending more nights in her home. She said it was safer. Said temptation couldn’t reach you here. You stopped replying to your old friends completely. Joan said their lives were noisy, and yours needed to be quiet.

But not everyone faded away so easily. The next Sunday, after service, you heard Marlene’s voice echo from the back hall—raised, urgent. “She’s a girl, not a disciple. And you’re not a priest, Joan.”

You paused in the stairwell, heart thudding. Joan’s reply was lower, measured. “And you’re not God. Be careful who you judge.” You didn’t stay to hear the rest. You didn’t want to know. Not when Joan would be waiting at the altar for you with open arms and a smile that promised everything could still be pure.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You hadn’t expected to find Marlene waiting for you behind the church after choir.

She stepped out from the side path like she’d been there a while, wrapped in her brown wool coat, arms folded tight. The late afternoon sun cast the stained glass in fractured colors behind her—blood reds, holy golds.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, voice low. “Privately.” You hesitated. “I—I have somewhere to be.”

“With her?” Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “I know what she’s doing. You don’t have to be afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are.” She took a step closer. “You’ve changed. You barely speak to anyone anymore. You flinch when someone touches your arm. That’s not normal. That’s not faith.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You took a step back. “She’s helping me. She’s—cleansing me. I’m better with her.” Marlene’s face broke—part grief, part fury. “That’s not God’s work. That’s hers. And it isn’t salvation—it’s control. You know it, somewhere deep down. Don’t you?”

You shook your head, too fast. “You don’t understand. She—she knows me. She’s the only one who sees me.”

“Then let me help you leave,” Marlene said. “Before she makes you forget who you are.”

But the sound of shoes on stone made you turn—Joan’s figure appearing from the far side of the path, hands folded like always, expression unreadable. “Marlene,” she said, calmly. “You’re upsetting her.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s chosen.” Joan didn’t raise her voice, but something about her tone stopped Marlene cold. “And she belongs with me now.” Joan turned to you. “Come.” You obeyed without thinking.

That night, Joan locked the door behind you. Quietly. Deliberately.

She turned, and her expression shifted—softness undercut by a steel determination. “This isn’t working anymore,” she murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of her fingers. “They keep trying to steal you away. But I won’t let them. I can’t.” You stared at her, still shaken. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not going home,” Joan said. “You’ll stay here. From now on.” You blinked. “What?”

“I need to cleanse you more often. Not just when the urges come—every day. The world’s gotten inside you too deep. You need consistency. You need devotion.” Your knees weakened under her voice, the authority in it—so maternal, so certain.

“I’ll draw a bath,” she whispered. “We’ll start tonight. I’ll make you clean. Every day. No matter what.” She kissed your forehead like a benediction. “It’s the only way to save you now.”

After the bath, Joan took you by the hand and led you toward her bedroom.

The house was quiet, cloaked in shadows, but Joan moved with purpose—bare feet soundless against the floorboards, her hand warm and certain in yours. She didn’t say a word as she opened the door and guided you inside.

Her room smelled like cedar and lavender, like something older than perfume. Sacred. There were no personal photographs, no clutter. Just a tall wooden cross above the bed, a small table with a candle already burning, and the impression of someone who had made this space a shrine to her own sense of righteousness.

Joan turned to you, her eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. “Come here,” she said softly. You obeyed. She brought you close, her hands resting lightly at your waist, her thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against your hips.

“You’ve been good,” she murmured, voice almost tender. “Brave. Open. Willing to be made clean.” You nodded, unsure whether it was because you believed her or because you wanted to. Maybe both.

Her fingers found the ends of the towel wrapped around you and began to loosen it—slowly, reverently. Like she was unwrapping something sacred. Joan pressed her forehead to yours, her breath warm against your lips. “Tonight, I’ll make sure nothing remains. No shame. No confusion. No stain.”

She led you to the bed and helped you lie back, smoothing your hair away from your face like a mother would—except the way her gaze lingered, the way her hands trembled just slightly, was something else entirely.

“You don’t need to understand it all,” she whispered. “You only need to trust me.” And then she knelt at the edge of the bed. She kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher still.

All the while, her voice never ceased—quiet prayer-like murmurs threading through the candlelight and the weight of the room. You were dizzy with it, not quite sure where the ritual ended and the sensation began.

It felt like worship. And you weren’t sure who the god was anymore.

The air in the house had changed. Heavier. Tighter. Joan kept the curtains drawn now, every clock unplugged or removed. Time didn’t matter here—only devotion. Only obedience. Only her.

You barely noticed when your phone disappeared. When your Bible was replaced with the one Joan had marked through, page after page annotated in her careful, fervent handwriting. You didn’t question it when she asked you not to answer the door anymore, to stop speaking to anyone but her. The world outside was diseased, she said. But here—here, you were safe.

Here, you were saved. You were kneeling beside Joan’s armchair, her hand idly stroking through your hair as she read scripture aloud, when the door banged open. “Marlene,” Joan said without looking up, her voice calm, almost bored. “How rude.”

You turned to look, confused by the blur of emotion on Marlene’s face—fear, anger, disbelief. She looked at you like you were a ghost. “What has she done to you?” Marlene said, voice cracking. “What are you doing here?”

You stood slowly, instinctively reaching for Joan’s arm. “She’s helping me. She’s… saving me.”

“She’s hurting you,” Marlene snapped. “This—this isn’t faith. This is control. You have to remember who you were before—” Joan rose, her movement smooth, unsettling. “Don’t speak to her like that. She’s mine now.”

“You don’t own her!” Marlene shouted, stepping closer. “She’s not your disciple, she’s a scared girl and you used that—twisted it. You have to let her go.” Joan’s eyes sharpened. For the first time, her voice cracked like a whip: “She came to me because she was unclean. I made her whole.”

Marlene looked at you again, desperately now. “Sweetheart… please. Come with me. This isn’t love. This is a prison.” But you couldn’t move. Joan’s hand slid into yours, firm and grounding. “She doesn’t want to leave. Do you, baby?”

You shook your head. “I need her. She… she keeps me clean.” Marlene’s face crumpled. “You don’t even hear yourself anymore.” And then—it happened too fast to stop. The glint of something in Joan’s hand. The flash of motion. The scream caught in your throat.

A kitchen knife. From behind the chair. A single motion, swift and silent. Marlene’s eyes went wide, then glassy. She crumpled. You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears. Joan dropped the knife and caught your face in her hands, forcing your gaze away.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Shh. Look at me. Don’t look at her. She wanted to take you from me. She wanted to ruin you.” Your breath came in shallow gasps. “She… she was my friend.”

Joan’s eyes filled with tears—not grief, but something deeper. Possessive. Holy. “No,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to yours. “I’m your only friend. Your only family. Your only god now.”

And as she kissed you—fervent, desperate—you let her. Because you didn’t know anything else anymore. The silence after Marlene’s fall was so loud it rang in your ears. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stood there staring at the dark pool on the floor, spreading slow beneath her like a shadow finally come to claim her.

Joan brushed your cheek with bloodstained fingers, soft as always. “It’s alright, baby. It had to be done. She would’ve taken you away from me.” Your lips trembled, but she pressed a kiss to your forehead before you could ask anything.

“We need to move her,” Joan said simply, as though she were asking you to help set the table for dinner. “Come now. Be strong for me.”

She guided you gently but firmly—gloved hands over yours as you gripped Marlene’s ankles. You moved together like a single body, dragging her across the floor and out the back door, Joan murmuring prayers under her breath the whole way.

The night was humid. The garden was quiet. There was already a hole. You didn’t ask when she had dug it. Your knees sank into the soil beside Joan’s as she laid Marlene’s body into the earth. The blood from her shirt smeared across your hands, your arms, your dress. Joan noticed. Of course she did.

She looked at you like you were the holiest thing she’d ever seen. “My sweet girl,” she breathed, reaching out to cradle your face in her red-streaked palm. “Look at you. Covered in sacrifice. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

You couldn’t speak, but your body leaned into her hand. “You helped me protect what’s ours,” she whispered. “This was love. This was obedience.” She kissed you again, reverent and slow, while Marlene lay at your knees.

And when it was done, when the earth was packed firm and the candlelit house welcomed you back in like a chapel, Joan led you upstairs and laid you in her bed.

She wiped the blood from your skin like it was baptism. And she smiled as she said, “Now we’re clean again.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The town moved on.

People whispered about Marlene’s disappearance, but no one came too close. She’d always been too curious, too loud. And Joan Ramsey? She was a respected woman of God. Who would dare question her?

The house grew quieter in some ways, and more alive in others. The clocks never returned. The outside world faded like a dream you once woke from in tears, but now couldn’t remember the shape of.

You no longer flinched at the touch of blood. You didn’t ask questions. You prayed when Joan told you to. You bathed when she said you were unclean. You wore the dress she picked for you each morning—long, modest, pale like innocence. The cross around your neck never came off. She fastened it herself.

Joan called you her lamb. Her angel. Her offering.

Each day began with her voice in your ear, her hand in yours, her rules like scripture carved into your bones. And each night ended with her body against yours, whispering prayers between kisses, murmuring about salvation as you clung to her like she was your god.

And she was. Because there was no life before her. Because you belonged to Joan.

Forever.

#patti lupone #patti lupone fanfic #patti lupone x reader #joan ramsey ahs #joan ramsey x reader #joan ramsey #american horror story #ahs coven #angeliccss fics #angeliccss writes

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engenever-beaver · 12 hours ago

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Oh my fucking god. This is my last chain of response, since I'm no longer interested in conversation:

1. russia isn't scared of nuclear weapons, since EVERYONE ELSE IS. And even if they bomb half of russia into smithereens, this still won't matter, since the people who control are kilometers underground in soviet bunkers, and those on the top will be send to die anyway.

Even more, we actually HAD nuclear weapons. But we agreed to USA and russian demands of surrendering them, because USA wasn't trusting us not to use it(probably against russia). So then USA, russia and Britain all agreed to defend our sovereignty, probably with threats of using their nuclear weapons.

And yet we are here. When US and russia both oppose our sovereignty and territorial integrity(just as you are btw).

Buuuuuut, there is actually a good part in this paragraph. You know, we had nuclear weapons. But we can have them again. We know both how to manufacture rockets AND payloads. In fact, I'm basically "sitting" on a bunch of old soviet equipment for that purpose. And there are some facts that show, that we actually might already have the technology for that, and having much more resources than Iran, Pakistan or even Israel, all of whom made their own nuclear weapons, Ukraine might soon get some.

But it won't change anything, so like, who cares. In future nuclear weapons would be basic level of defense for any independent country.

2. If you think that you will have elections in four years, you are an actual brain dead slug. Go read about project 2025 and look how much progress they've made ALREADY.

3. I'm not talking that European armies are useless, and in real conflict I think russia wouldn't be able to grab more than up to Kaliningrad and some territories further north. What I am saying, they will be forced to fight a positional attrition war(probably through means of genocide), and that's precisely what Europe cannot afford.

4. Oh my fucking god, this one pissed me off. I'm not saying European armies are gonna run, but that's the point, they fucking SHOULD. russia lost maneuver warfare at the start of full scale invasion, and that is PRECISELY what Europe is trained for.

Guess what russia did then? Kherson, Bucha, Irpin', Mariupol were all examples of genocide, the only difference between them was how much of actual resistance Ukrainian army could have provided. If not much, then the city will be cleared out by FSB, and everyone remotely speaking Ukrainian will be tortured to death. Anything more than that? Then total massacre of civilians. And if you're stubborn enough to not be massacred, you will get turned into dust with the whole city.

This is what is waiting for Europe. Every city they try to defend in range of russian artillery and bomber planes will be turned into nothing. This means, smaller countries like Lithuania will have to either surrender or have EVERY population centre destroyed, with massive civilian casualties. And when they surrender, everyone remotely connected to government, every teacher not willing to learn and teach russian, every person still speaking their national language on occupied territories will be tortured and probably killed.

Because that is what Ukraine went through. Literally everything I mentioned here has already happened in Ukraine. And there is nothing stopping russians from repeating this tactics.

Unless European forces will be able to take large portion of russia and Belarus in order to protect the Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, they WILL HAVE to repeat every step Ukraine did, but on a larger scale.

5. russia, in fact, DOES have allies. It's not alone anymore. They are using drones from China and Iran. They are shooting North Korean rockets and artillery. They have a lot of allies in Africa and Asia, who can provide them with soldiers, and some of them, like North Korea, already do.

And even more, russia is not isolated anymore. It has limited political and trade support from China and India, and unlimited ones from North Korea, Belarus, and now from USA as well. Not to mention bunch of russian puppets inside of EU, like Orban or AfD.

I wish we were fighting russia, but in fact, we are fighting global alliance of fascism and that really fucking scares me. Because no matter how hard we fight, there always will be dickheads who see their egg prices too high and decide to invade their neighbors for some fucking reason.

Okay this is the last one, I don't want to talk with you anymore. Goodbye.

Ukraine needs to get real on Crimea

They're not getting it back. It's wrong that Russia has it, it's a serious crime, but that doesn't change the facts on the ground. As awful as it is to say this, Ukraine needs to acknowledge that it's gone, because the war won't end if it doesn't. And the war's outcome isn't changing-Russia can't be dislodged from the territory it holds without Ukraine magically solving its manpower shortages, and since it can't do that Russia can't be dislodged. I understand that this is an issue of pride and not wanting to betray those still suffering under occupation, but I don't see how those issues can compare to the innocent Ukrainians dying every day in the war. If saying some meaningless words, meaningless because all they're doing is acknowledging what is already reality, is what it takes to stop those deaths, shouldn't Ukraine do so?

This all, of course, assumes Russia will go along with it and also acknowledge the reality that they're not getting more than what they currently have, which is sadly not guaranteed. So it is possible that Ukraine doing ^^^ wouldn't stop the war because Russia thinks that throwing away thousands more of their own people's lives to claim a few more empty villages is a good idea. But even so, Ukraine ought to at least make the attempt-if it succeeds, then there's peace and innocents stop dying. If it fails, then we know there wasn't a scenario where peace could've happened sooner but didn't.

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mutable-manifestation · 6 months ago

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Ghost Chirps AU Part 5

Part 1 & 2

Part 3

Part 4

***

While “Jason” (i.e. Alfred with an empty jet that Jason will meet up with later in order to “arrive” in Amity) hops a private jet, Red Hood is busy searching the Fenton home from top to bottom.

The local police move slowly, and by the time they arrive Jack and Maddie Fenton are both tied up and disarmed in their living room under heavy guard.

They hadn’t been restrained immediately, Batman talking him into giving them a chance to implicate themselves first.

Hood let him take the lead, but he didn’t even get a chance to ask a question, being cut off at the first indication he might want to talk about their “work.” Less than 60 seconds in, and the pair had outright confessed to violating the meta protection acts - and in tedious detail.

The questioning didn’t suffer any from them being tied up.

Far from the mulish silence or crocodile-tear laden denial of most criminals, they instead doubled down, insisting that nothing they had done was illegal, then jumping to the assumption that they were “possessed” - and boy had it been a nasty surprise when the whole house came alive trying to attack them with a quick verbal command.

Well, trying to attack Hood. And only him, for some reason.

One laser also freed the Fentons, who turned out to have even more weapons built into their suits.

Somehow.

Despite them being skintight.

That had been a pain, but Red Robin was able to hack the system using one of the couples’ own devices while Hood dodged - and kept the stray fire away from the others - leaving everyone else to recapture the pair. A blessedly simple task once they found out the lasers would splash harmlessly off of their armor (save for a gross film of green goop left wherever they grazed).

They take turns knocking each unconscious to change them in order to properly disarm them - Batman and Nightwing taking Jack first, followed by Orphan and Spoiler dealing with Maddie.

The only non-weapon laden clothing they own turns out to be pajamas.

This is around when the police show up, looking hesitant.

They, too, cite the “Anti-Ecto Acts.”

Oracle had debriefed them on the supposed Acts and “Ghost Investigation Ward” on their short drive over. Both were utterly bogus - the Acts had never even been proposed, let alone been approved as law, and the so-called “GIW” had no ties to the government.

The Fentons had been furious and denied the information intensely when told, but the cops mostly just looked relieved.

Apparently there’d been a lot of property damage by the GIW and Fentons both that had supposedly been dismissed under the Acts as “necessary in the pursuit of ecto-scum.”

For the Fentons, half of this damage was in the form of broken fire hydrants, cracked sidewalks, and totaled cars - they’d never been good drivers, before, the cops disclosed, but they’d become even more negligent since the ghosts began appearing, to the point they had to have a news segment warning when they would be on the road.

The lack of fatalities thus far had been nothing short of a miracle, they claimed.

“Of course there haven’t been any fatalities!” Mrs Fenton defends. “Our work is to protect people from those things, not make more! Officers, listen to reason-” Hood snorts disdainfully -”The Red Hood is clearly a ghost! All our systems targeted him the moment they came online - and they only target ecto-entities. He’s clearly taken these heroes under his sway - why else would they be working with a murderer!? You have to do something before he starts up his killing here in Amity!”

The officers look at him a bit hesitantly, but Batman is unmoved and gives the cover story Hood had outlined back in the alley.

Any concerns the locals have are quickly assuaged.

But for the whole explanation, Jason is trying not to shake even as he falls apart in place.

Their little website called them ghost-hunters, making it pretty clear what “ecto-entities” meant.

Their system supposedly only targets ecto-entities.

The system had only targeted him.

The system only targets ghosts.

Jason had died.

A lot of his family members had died, too, granted.

But Jason was the only one who seemed to come back wrong - anger sticking in his throat and never quite fading, an inclination towards violence even when he wasn’t angry well beyond what he’d ever felt before, and a sea of other emotions (that he would never acknowledge aloud) and triggers for those emotions that he always struggled to make heads or tails of.

He doesn’t have the meta gene. He knows that. He knew that.

He just assumed that the test missed it, because he knows he doesn’t know magic - the All Blades being the only exception - and he couldn’t think of another explanation at the time.

But he came back wrong.

And as he stands there, he wonders if he came back at all, mind on Solomon Grundy.

Wonders if he isn’t just some ghost, wandering around possessing his own corpse.

He jolts, as the thought strikes him: what about Danny?

If he’s a ghost and chirping is a ghost thing then what about his KID!?

Absently, he notes that Bruce has started interrogating the cops on what they meant by “ghost attacks.”

He ignores the discussion, hustling for the door in the kitchen down to the lab.

He slams and locks the door behind him - in Red Robin’s face - as he descends, making a b-line for the computer he’d seen when the Fentons had dragged them all down there to start bragging about their crimes.

The only thing Oracle could get out of the whole building was things that were openly available online; direct connections were impossible.

Opening up the screen, he gets to cracking.

Going for the surface level files first, it turns out he doesn’t even need so much as a password to find what he wants.

One of the video game sub-files has an unrelated file in it: ghost notes.

There are plenty of other notes, of course, but he’d only been skimming to start, looking for anything hidden.

The Fenton parents were too open to bother, of course, with plenty of more obvious files strewn haphazardly across the home screen, but it’s always better to check. That there is a hidden file means it was likely made by either Danny or Jazz.

And it’s a treasure trove.

Sub-files for rogues, allies, conditional allies, and “halfas” were what greeted him.

The last being the only term he didn’t recognize, he clicked.

6 files: Clones, Danny, Dani, Dan, Vlad, and Red Hood.

He clicks his own file.

What greets him is a picture of himself 4 days ago, looking just to the left of the lens in an alley that he distinctly remembers searching for the kid in.

Just below is text.

~~~

??? Name: Red Hood

Species: probably a halfa

Status: Nnnneutral? I think? I know, I know, heads in bags. But Valerie tries to kill me all the time! And we’re allies sometimes! Hood- uh- looked for me? Okay I guess I can’t really judge this yet but please read the first met section before you judge please you guys?

First met: Aug 17, 2005, was in Gotham to bother Batman, stopped to think a bit on some fire escape - decide on the first prank yknow - but then my ghost sense went off. It felt like a halfa so I thought “oh cool, must be Dani” so I chirped, but then Red Hood - who was chasing some guy down an alley at the time - froze and looked around. I dropped visibility and chirped again and yeah, he definitely heard it. Humans can’t so he’s definitely a halfa - no glow so he can’t be a full ghost and it felt nothing like an overshadowing.

Ended up following Hood around the rest of week - forgot to prank Batman, damn - and playing hide-and-seek with the chirps. It was really funny. But he very obviously doesn’t know he’s a halfa. But the guy is, like, scary levels of smart, so I’m sure he’ll figure it out on his own now that the chirp thing made it clear that something is up. Hopefully.

I figure I can go back in winter break - he should have it figured out and let his emotions process enough by then to at least hear me out when I explain the AEA and GIW and everything, then it won’t matter so much if he can, like, track me by voice or something if I talk since we’ll have MAD by then.

Despite his reputation, the people living in his haunt seem to love the guy. I can see why. On top of the whole smart he’s actually really nice to people he’s not shooting in the knees (which only even happened one time in the week I was there? It was actually pretty relaxing - most quiet week I’ve had since the portal opened THANK YOU TUCKER for hacking the portal hatch to be inoperable for a week).

Where was I? Oh yeah, he’s actually surprisingly nice to people? So like, I think he’ll probably hear me out if I go back and be polite? I hope. Hate to leave the guy in the dark and him end up on the GIWs dissection table for “lots and lots of painful experiments.”

Not that those guys could even catch the Box Ghost. But uh, Hood doesn’t seem to have powers either? Or if he does he doesn’t know about them I don’t think - he only used the chirp the whole time I was their - not even to cheat with moving around.

Seriously. That guy's acrobatics could make Freakshow’s contortionist green - er, red??? - with envy. Actually wait, aren’t contortionists and acrobats different things?

SAM NOTE: help^?

Powers:

~~~

Jason leans back, breathing deeply.

“Not a full ghost,” “not 'overshadowed'” - a term that sounds likke some kind of cousin to possesision - “definitely a halfa,” “humans can’t hear chirps.”

Halfa.

Half.

Ghost.

Half Ghost.

It should sound absurd - you can’t be half alive and half dead.

But Jason has seen the Lazarus pits, has met Solomon Grundy, has met aliens and bullshit magic and can pull magical swords out of his own damn chest.

Half alive. Half dead.

Hopefully not just a fancy way to say possessing his own corpse.

He doesn’t have time to deal with every file - he’ll “confiscate” one of their USBs with a copy of everything for himself before leaving the rest to Batman & co, of course, minus the halfa files (a small part of him wants to shove his condition in Bruce’s face and demand he kill the clown again even though he knows it’s a futile hope, but the rest - the same part that snapped and denied and refused to say he was a meta less that a day ago now - cannot stomach the thought of even more rejection. Of a Bruce that believes he’s a monster. Of a Bruce that mourns him even while he’s right there. Or at least, more than he already does.) - but while the files copy he take the time to look at Danny’s.

The image has two people, Danny Fenton on one side and a version of the kid in a black hazmat suit with white hair, tanned skin, and painfully familiar green eyes. And floating.

~~~

Human Name: Danny Fenton

Ghost Name: Danny Phantom

Species: Halfa (half-human, half ghost)

~~~

It’s the section after that that makes Jason’s breath catch in his throat.

~~~

Death: The Portal Accident

So like, there was no audio (thank GOD I do not want to hear myself screaming) so. Details: When the portal didn’t work when they plugged it in mom and dad left for fudge, Jazz went to try and talk them into a more realistic career choice than ghosts. Sam and Tucker came over and Sam dared me to climb in and check it out - it was broken anyway so no harm. Except it wasn’t broken, just that my parents put the on button inside. Which I caught myself on when I tripped on a wire.

Anyway, electrocution!

(T - Danny for the love of god be more serious, the cheerful tone is creepy)

(D - Hey! I’m the one who died! Shouldn’t I at least get to write my own epitaph)

(S - …Danny this is not an epitaph. You don’t even HAVE a grave)

(D - wow way to rub it in Sam)

(T - yeah Sam)

(S - ugh! Whatever, just stop with the chatting in official files)

(T - “official”)

(S - Tucker.)

(T - shutting up now)

Electrocution! I got zapped to death, but the ectoplasm from the portal was also opening up on top of me and a lot got bonded to me I guess (S - probably because of the electricity with how you ended up with some of Vortex' powers for a little while) at the same time said electricity was reviving me? - probably getting my heart beating again or something, I was a little busy screaming to pay attention (T - yeah okay we're going to Nasty Burger after this. And playing Doomed) - not that it would’ve mattered without the ghostification preventing me from melting me all the way to death.

Status: Me!

Powers:

Chirps! (ghost echolocation of some kind! humans can't hear em - halfas can, of course, in either form)

Form Change (really Sam? This barely counts)

Human form

Ghost form (no need to breathe)

Flight (last clock speed 210mph) (T - and climbing. Dang dude)

Invisibility (S - don’t forget shareable.) (Shareable. sigh)

Intangibility (Shareable)

Ecto Rays (eyes & hands) (T - and butt) (D - dude! I’m deleting that. Tucker why can't I delete it. TUCKER) (T - bow down in awe of my ksill) (S - ksill) (D - ksill) (T - yeah okay it’s permanent now) (D - aw man!)

Ghost Sense (S - why do we never test your range?) (D - no need? They always make themselves obvious or are being sneaky specifically to annoy me so *shrug*) (S - I still think we should test it)

Power Absorption (that time with Vortex’s weather powers)

Cryokinesis (Wayyyyy to much ice. NOT testing max output on that) (T - yeah frozen city was enough, let’s not cause an ice age. Tech needs some cool but too much is still bad and I just upgraded Patricia)

Ghostly Wail (cone of destruction, very exhausting - always at max output. Not to be used)

GHOST FORM ONLY (but really just never)

Cartoon Body (D - what???) (S - Freakshow literally turned you into a puddle and you just turned back and were fine. I don’t know what else to call that) (D - okay fair. but:)

GHOST FORM ONLY

Physical Enhancement (better strength, speed, stamina, durability, reflexes, balance, etc much better than human) (T - why does this look like dnd knockoff stats haha)

GHOST FORM ONLY (S - obviously mr last place in PE)

Resistances (pretty solid on the overshadowing, avoided being taken in by Ember until targeted, didn’t get turned to stone during the Medusa thing) (S - which was pure luck! Be careful!)

Ecto Electricity (ghost stinger, but I really don’t think this counts Sam. I mean I just. Make my ecto zappy. But it’s still just ecto) (S - so is your ICE and you don’t just call that "just cold ecto") (D - fine, but it feels overly specific) (S - maybe writing it all down will make you stop. Forgetting. POWERS!) (D - come on Sam that was a lucky hit! I was distracted! And it turned out fine!) (S - Fenton…) (D - oop okay doing fire now)

Ecto Fire (made Dash’s shoes melty that one time by make the ecto hot) (T - really needs more testing)

Tech possession (chasing Technus into computers, not very tested)

Ghost form only, i guess?

Overshadowing (control people, copy their voice, invade dreams - the control one erases the person’s memory so they don’t know they were overshadowed just lost time. I hate Walker. SO much) (T - rip Danny’s reputation, you’ll be missed)

Probably ghost form only

Duplication (T - That’s optimistic) (D - I’M WORKING ON IT OKAY!?) (S - pretty sure it just falls under cartoon body until you can actually separate) (D - :( betrayal)

Probably ghost form only

More? (D - ugh I hope not) (T - hey don’t say that, maybe you’ll get a power to make the JL give a crap about Amity) (D - honestly I’m getting pretty close to letting Boxy loose in Gotham) (S - Danny, don’t stoop to their level!) (D - it's only box ghost!) (T - I mean he has a point)

~~~

Jason changes his mind, seeing the commentary, and deletes the entire hidden file from the computer as soon as his copy is made. He can go over everything and bring any important info to Bruce separately, the bat’s can just chew on the parents’ files for now.

Once the original files are thoroughly and irretrievably removed he pockets his shiny new USB, makes a second one with all the official files, and heads back up and out - carelessly brushing past a thoroughly irate Red Robin with a pair of firemen and broken jaws of life. And not a scratch on the door; impressive - just in time to get Oracle’s text that he’s got 2 hours and 16 minutes to be at the location on his HUD so he can “arrive” to Amity.

And a fresh set of civilian clothes will be waiting in the plane, Alfred as reliable as ever.

“Files,” he says, tossing the safe USB to Batman and interrupting his interrogation of the police officer.

He catches it effortlessly of course, but the officer stops paying attention to him to jolt at Hood’s reappearance - even outside of Gotham his reputation is fierce.

“I sent a copy to myself. I’ll review them and give you an overview, but other than that consider this the end of my involvement in this little shitshow,” he says, continuing smoothly to the door. “I’m heading back to Gotham.”

Now, he has a little over two hours before Jason Todd needs to arrive in Amity Park. He only needs to lay hands on a laptop that he can isolate from Babs’ influence and he should be able to review the Halfa files in full before he "lands" - after he figures out just why the kid has a grudge against the JL.

#The defenses only attacked jason because the others are liminal #But not quite liminal enough for the Fenton House to pick up on #He’s the only one who died and had it really *stick* thus why he’s the only halfa #Sure the others died but they were all revived fully #Death left a stain #Not a chain #Jason has one foot in the grave #The others bat’s just have some graveyard dirt smudged on their pants cuffs #I can keep going with the metaphors #lol #Anyway #Their contamination is. Like. not worse than the average person living on the opposite side of the city as the Fentons #(which is a lot compared to everyone else in the whole world #but not much in terms of “will the house shoot me”#Fenton ghost detecting devices aren’t that precise yet)#The “files” aren’t super professional because like. They’re 14.#It’s organized sure but it’s not gonna be scientific paper levels (& they’d feel uncomfy making it too scientific sounding)#There’s powers missing on purpose (not thinking of thing as a power. All 3 forgot about it. Etc)#So why did the JL ignore Amity you ask?#Info blackout #One does not simply ignore the Meta Protection Acts and pretend to be a gov’t agency without taking precautions #Everything out of Amity Park is sanitized as hell. (ha #and doesn’t that just fit the GIW clean-obsession)#“But Mutable!” I hear you cry “What about Undergrowth & Vortex!”#I don’t remember Undergrowth’s radius of effect but I’m saying my AU he was Amity-only and the GIW set up a blockade to intimidate witnesse #Same deal with Pariah town-knapping the place (GIW base was JUST out of the town-knapping radius. Lucky them)#As for Vortex #the storms themselves made it impossible to track anything through normal means #(ie no cams caught Sam & Tucker’s jet taunting Vortex except some people with cells on the street. But wind killed all the audio)#So as far as the world is concerned there was a freak storm and it went away

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