#and thank you for asking instead of assuming things!

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

An Altar For Our Sins

Part 10// Masterlist

Demon! Billy Russo x Reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, angst, pain, sorrow, torment, delving into Billy's past, mentions of smut, and eventual fluff.

A/N: I was so confident about this and now I am not.

You press the weight of your body against the church doors nervously, stepping in.

There's a sermon happening, Father Matt's gentle voice echoes through the open space, tickling the insides of your ears.

Billy's waiting outside, you told him you wanted to come in alone first and then you'd tug on the bond once Matt accepted.

He's finishing up, one last closing prayer, and though you bow your head and clasp your hands respectfully after sliding into the very last pew, you have no idea if you really want to pray or not.

If you were thankful to God for anything, it would be for allowing Billy and you to meet. The irony wasn't lost on you, thanking God for sending you a demon.

You feel the demon in question send a lingering touch over the bond, like gentle fingers smoothing through the back of your head.

You smile to yourself, pushing him away before he can arouse you in a sacred place of worship, his essence drawing back with a feeling of mirth sticking to the back of your throat.

You try not to think too much of how he makes you feel. You know that the minute you realise the inevitable, he’s going to know it too. So instead of dwelling, you study the wooden pattern of the pew in front of you. You make shapes, and faces, and you drown out the sounds around you until you hear footsteps approach.

Matt, moving stiffly to you as everyone disperses. You sit up, smiling at him politely as he comes within earshot.

“What are you doing here, demon?” He whispers, voice heavy with distaste.

It takes you aback.

“Matt?” You say in confusion.

He pauses, seemingly surprised behind his red-rimmed glasses before giving a small tilt of his head.

He says your name in doubt.

“Yes?” You answer, unsure of what was happening.

He sucks in a deep breath, looks around, before leaning closer.

“I couldn’t recognise you. Your aura- it’s just like his.”

You feel something twist inside of you, a seed of fear planting itself and you don’t really know why, but you’re pretty sure that having the aura of a demon couldn’t possibly be a good thing.

Your eyes widen a little, completely forgetting what you were even here for.

“Is that bad?” You ask him in a small voice.

“Of course it’s bad- how could anything about being soul bonded to a demon be good?”

You shrink back, and at the same moment, Matt realises his mistake.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“-How else could you have meant it?” You ask helplessly.

He lets out a soft breath, stepping into the row, and taking a seat beside you.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, “I let my emotions get the best of me.”

“Whatever.” You whisper, “My soul is damned and I’m going to rot in Hell it’s fine.”

He takes in a slow breath, and you wait patiently for his priestly wisdom.

“What brings you here?” He asks finally.

You study your hands, observing the little lines and folds, the way some of the curves looked like smiles.

“I was in his head, in his dreams. I could feel so much of him.”

Matt nods in understanding, drawing conclusions from what he can sense and what you've come to him for.

“I don’t know what happens from this point on, I can only assume that his soul will consume yours whole, that you’ll become one, condemning yourself to eternal suffering for the sins he’s committed.”

You remain silent, truly thinking about the consequences.

“What other choice do I have? It's not like I caused this.”

He seems to be lost in as much thought as you are.

“Perhaps, with distance, and devotion to being a better person, you could erase some of the stains on your soul.”

You nod, understanding his point. You didn’t want that though, you wanted him, in any way you could have him.

“Is Hell even that bad?” You protest softly.

“I know you didn't just ask me that.”

It makes you laugh suddenly. Matt angles his head, smiles along with you.

You enjoy laughing with him about the absurdity of your conversation, finally settling after a few moments, going back to your thoughts.

“I keep weighing it in my head, you know? Staying away from him, or spending eternity in suffering, and honestly, I keep thinking that Hell wouldn't be so bad.”

Matt says your name softly, almost apologetically.

“Forever is a very long time.” He utters finally.

“Yeah… but…”

Matt turns to you suddenly, standing and extending his hand in a guiding motion.

“Come, I have something for you to see.”

You stand, following him as he seems to move with purpose, down the aisle of the church and toward the back where his office is. You tug gently on the bond and feel Billy’s responding pull followed by a soothing touch, no doubt trying to ease the tension he'd been feeling from you before.

You feel your trepidation ease, the reminder that he was so close easing your nerves.

Matt opens the door for you, and you step in, turning to watch him shut the door, before he speaks.

“I haven't had a chance to look through everything yet, but I thought I could show you…” Matt doesn't finish the sentence, instead pulling out a large leather bound binder. Some of the pages are marked with little page tabs and you watch him flip to one.

It's an admittance registry for an orphanage dated 1891. You see that Matt has highlighted one name in particular, a William Russo, age 6, his height and weight recorded, followed by some details of his birthmark. Finally, there is some information of how he was found, hungry on the streets after his mother was found dead of narcotics poisoning.

You glance up at Matt, your teeth pressed together in distaste that he would look up these details, as if they were in his right to do so.

If Matt senses any of your anger, he doesn't show it, instead sliding his hand forward and flipping to another page mark.

It's a doctor's report, barely legible on the discolored paper. You squint at Matt suspiciously, wondering how he even read this to know which pages to mark.

You see his name again, William Russo, dated December 8th 1896, aged 12.

It takes you a moment to make out the words, but the doctor reports of severe assault, and damage to his shoulder that will require surgery to fix. They mention his physical state next, pale and shaking, visible signs of distress and a refusal of pain medication.

Your stomach turns, and the pieces fall into place at a bone jarring speed.

He'd been through this, that little boy you'd seen in your dreams, attacked by the very people that should have protected him.

You sink into the chair, pressing your hand to your mouth, flipping the page to see the post surgery report, and the doctor describing how the shoulder was repaired. You feel an aching pain that goes through your whole body, the hurt of knowing what he's been through.

Behind you, the door rattles.

“Call your demon off.” Matt says evenly.

You glance up at him, before turning to look at the door. Glowing sigils as the door shakes, you stand, approaching curiously, reaching a hand up to touch it, before drawing back as the light from the sigil stings you.

“Billy?” You call through the door.

It stops shaking.

“Mistress? Are you alright?”

“I'm okay, I'll be out in a few minutes I promise.” You reach for him down the bond, reassuring him that you were okay.

You feel his hesitation, his power, that the door might hold him temporarily, but not forever. You don't think it's necessary, easing his displeasure with a playful tug on the bond.

It surprises him, eases his concern, he tugs back, so strongly that you feel a physical manifestation of it, stepping forward to catch yourself from tumbling.

You let out a little huff of amusement before turning back to Matt, eyeing his patient disposition with renewed suspicion.

You want to ask him what's the purpose of this, but you already have a general idea that he wants to show you Billy's sins in hopes that you abandon him. 

You sit, flipping through the pages to the next mark.

It's a photo, a man and woman in the center, looking at each other with soft smiles, dressed In wedding attire. You can't see much of the woman's face, but her dress is beautiful, flowing down the length of her body, covered in beading that you can't properly discern with the black and white image.

The man beside her, looks at her as if it's the happiest day of his life and you feel your stomach twists in longing to be looked at like that.

Beside her are her family you assume, an older couple and two younger looking siblings that all hold some resemblance to each other. Standing next to the man, are two men, one you recognize is Billy.

You find yourself smiling, staring at the photo, a sense of warmth washes over you that he had friends, that he'd lived this whole other life that you'd never really seen.

You turn to the back of the photo in hopes that there's a description.

Castle Wedding, April 11th, 1909.

You blink, flipping back to the photo. This was Frank and Maria? The people he-

You let out a soft breath, trying to keep your shock in check so that Billy isn't alarmed.

There's a painful twist inside of you, you almost dread to continue on.

You turn the page, finding a baptism certificate, Lisa Castle not even a year later. You suspect that Maria must have been pregnant at the time of the wedding.

At the very bottom, the certificate names Billy as her godfather.

It hurts in a way you don't realize, a story you already know ends badly. You want to stop, to shut the book and pretend you never saw it, but you needed to know.

After all, if you were going to spend eternity in Hell for him, you should at least know the sins you would be paying for.

You flip through, finding a few mentions of him, another photograph of him at an event beside a beautiful woman, no description on the back. You spare a few moments to study the way he looked, dressed in a fine black suit appropriate for the era. Handsome, as only he could be.

Then, a hospital form catches your eye, for Frank Jr. aged nine, filled out by Billy. His handwriting is scratchy, lots of sharp lines made by a steady hand, describing an accident where the younger Frank had fallen off his bicycle and sustained damage to his shoulder. 

You wonder if this incident had reminded Billy of his own, and the vast differences between the nature of the injuries, and yet the similarity of the injuries themselves. Billy, who hadn’t had someone to protect his childhood, had found a way to protect little Frank’s.

Another photo, Frank, Maria and their two children, with Billy, Lisa’s godfather, and Curtis, Frank Jr.’s godfather. The entire Castle family.

You stop, glancing up at Matt, bringing yourself back into the present for a moment. He sits, examining the rosary caught between his fingers, his thumb gently tracing the crucifix, allowing you all the time you need to go through the information.

“I already know how this ends, Matt, he’s already told me what he did.”

Matt nods, tugs on the collar of his shirt for a moment, a sign of discomfort, though, you’re unsure of why.

“I wanted you to see it from their point of view. To understand the betrayal from their side.”

You swallow, brows furrowing, understanding his point but still not liking it.

You find a deed, partially burned, a house in Manhattan owned by Billy. Next, a car, and then another property on his name.

You realise this must have been at the peak of his service to the man he's never named, reaping all the benefits of shooting whenever this man had asked. You wonder, how many people he'd killed up to this point, how many families he'd destroyed to get ahead in the world.

A mugshot next. It makes you smile to see Billy's stern face, a little younger than he looks now, the corner of his mouth bruised, his knuckles red where they hold up the placard with his name on it. You check the charge- fighting in public. 

The affray charge is dropped the day after, and you wonder what the fight was even about in the first place.

You pause for a moment when you flip the page, realising that this was the part you'd been dreading.

A news article, wrinkled and yellow, three killed at the Castle residence. There are individual photos of them, Maria, Lisa, Frank Jr.

It hurts to read it, the article goes into detail of how the bodies were found. No signs of forced entry, someone must have opened the door to let him in. Why wouldn't they? He was family after all.

Maria is found at the base of the stairs, a bullet in her chest from close range, small defensive wounds as though she'd put up a fight. Lisa, in her bedroom, two sets of bloody footprints around her body, Frank Jr. hiding in his sister's closet, shot through the door, found barely alive and rushed to the hospital where he succumbs. 

You shove the book away, rising to your feet. You can feel your body shake with the emotion you feel. The hurt threatens to break you. You can't even imagine the terror that the Castle family went through.

Billy had done that. He'd spread carnage wherever he went and he hadn’t stopped when his own family was in the line of fire.

“I'll tell you how it ends.” Matt says, closing the book, “The next page is an autopsy report for William, face carved beyond recognition, shot several times by Frank Castle, then a news article, reporting on Frank's death, having been mortally injured by Billy in their fight.”

There's a twisting in your chest, you turn, reaching for the door of Matt's office, ignoring the stinging pain as you wrench the door open.

He's leaning against the opposite wall just outside, when you pull the door open, he raises his head to look at you with red eyes.

His face is calm, yet you can feel the hurt, the anger, the self loathing running through him. You can tell that he's just waiting for your rejection.

You consider reaching for him, soothing his pain, but you hesitate, reminded of Lisa's happy face.

“Did you kill your family, Billy?” You ask, your voice unable to rise above a whisper.

He's silent for a very long moment.

“I did.” He finally says, and there's so much finality in his voice that you almost miss the flickering of pain inside of him.

It's an odd kind of pain, one that leads you to believe that he isn't being entirely truthful.

“Did you shoot them all yourself?” You ask, probing into his emotions through the bond.

He swallows.

“I might as well have.”

Your eyebrows draw together.

“Tell me the truth, please.”

He hesitates, you can tell he doesn't want to talk about it, but you need to know.

“It's okay,” you step forward, reaching out to take his hand. You feel the pit in his stomach ease.

“It's my fault. I killed them. It doesn't matter who pulled the trigger. It might as well have been me.”

“Show me the memory.” You plead, reaching up to cup either side of his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.

“My demon,” you whisper gently, raising onto your toes to rub your nose along his, “Show me.”

He makes a small noise of distress, of defeat, cupping the back of your head, worried that it may be for the last time, his lips meet yours.

It plays like a dream, he faithfully reports to a man named Rawlins, that Frank wants out of their organization. Rawlins informs him that someone's been talking to the police and Frank is the top suspect. He sends Billy to dispatch the Castle family as a last show of loyalty.

Frank isn't home, but Maria is so insistent that he comes inside, offers him a glass of water before he pulls the gun on her.

She thinks it's a joke at first. Why would the man who helped paint her daughter's room blush pink ever pull a gun on her?

But as he goes on, as he explains how terrified he is of being on the streets again, her face falls, and a betrayal so raw fills her expression instead.

Billy is erratic, he’s unfocused, you can tell by the way Maria’s eyes shift side to side as he paces, as he wrestles with the worst decision of his life.

She takes her chance while he’s distracted, throwing a vase so hard at his head that the pain blinds him for a few seconds. He drops the gun and she reaches for it. He grabs her just as her fingers close around it, she scratches his face, he twists her wrist in an attempt to free the gun.

It’s pressed between them when it goes off. Her eyes widen, his steely resolve shatters. He presses a hand to her chest as he lowers them to the floor, he can’t believe what he’s done.

He says her name, tries to figure out how he could have done this to her, the woman that so readily accepted him into her home.

She bleeds out quickly, the bullet having gone straight through her heart. He holds her hand while she dies.

He stands, walks with heavy feet up the stairs to the second floor where her children are no doubt hiding.

He didn’t mean to do it, but he doubts that will save him from Frank’s fury. The only way out of this now, is through.

Lisa’s breathing is shallow, echoing through her room, coming from the closet where she’s hidden. He wrenches the door open, watches her young ashen face. She says his name cautiously.

The gun is cold in his hand. In an instant, he knows can’t do it. He remembers holding her for the very first time, remembers soothing her little cries. He can’t take the life of the little girl he promised to protect.

A noise downstairs catches his ear, the sound of glass crunching under a boot. He knows it’s not Frank, knows by the absence of screaming that this is a stranger to Maria.

He raises his fingers to his lips, before closing the closet door.

Rawlins hadn’t trusted him.

The man he’d put above family itself had sent someone else to make sure the act was done.

Billy tries to find Frank Jr. before the man finds him, but as he’s tugging the boy from under his bed, he hears Lisa’s terrified gasp.

He runs, gets there just in time to shove the man away from his goddaughter. A fight breaks out, and he loses track of the kids. 

He’s winning at first, manages to hold the upper hand, but eventually he falters, doesn’t dodge a right hook, and it disorients him for long enough for the man to grab the gun.

It’s not like the movies, where someone saves them at the last second by sheer luck. The man fires blindly into the room, before running off.

Billy somehow manages nothing more than a graze to his thigh, but as he turns, he realises that he wasn’t the man’s intended target.

Lisa is already dead by the time she hits the floor. Billy can barely breathe as he crawls his way over to her, trying to stop the blood from pouring out of her neck. He whispers her name, crouches over her body, hoping to shield her from any hurt, but she’s already gone, and vengeance is the only thing Billy can see.

He grabs his gun, and races out of the house, past Maria’s still warm body, desperate to fix something irreparably shattered.

You pull back from his mouth, blinking into awareness, realising that not much time had passed at all.

You withdraw, bending over, one hand braced on the wall to catch your breath from what you’ve seen and felt.

“It was all my fault.” Billy murmurs finally, his guilt and shame swelling in the back of your throat.

You straighten, looking up at him. He studies you for a moment before turning away.

“It doesn’t matter who fired. It was my fault.”

“He would have killed all of you either way. He would have found someone else-”

“-I could have saved them, I could have gotten them out. I chose not to. I was a coward, chasing after wealth as if it could ever give me what I already had.”

He turns away from you, his fists curling.

You know he’s right, that he’s not innocent just because he didn’t pull the trigger. Their blood is still in part on his hands.

Matt draws your attention, stepping into the doorway of his office.

You know what he wants. He wants you to cast judgement on Billy and abandon him.

You blink, deep in thought, unsure of how to proceed, unsure of which voice in your head is the right one.

Billy isn’t a good person, has never claimed to be one, has done things so terrible that it hurts you just to think about it.

But you also know that Billy still thinks he’s in Hell, and leaving him would only reinforce that fallacy.

“I won’t do it.” You finally say to Matt.

He responds by saying your name in protest.

“-No,” You interrupt, “He’s paid for his sins, he’s endured torment for what feels like an eternity and he has already been judged.”

You reach for Billy’s hand, tugging him with both your strength and the bond between you until he turns to face you.

“It doesn’t matter if my soul is damned. What’s one more soul in Hell anyway?” You gaze up at him, pressing your emotions into the bond, wanting him to feel exactly what you were. 

“What difference could I possibly make to Heaven?” You question aloud, taunting the universe for an answer.

His eyes settle on you, his hands reach up to cup your face, wonder fills the bond as if he’s seeing you for the very first time, like a familiar breath against a spot deep inside of you that you think might be your soul.

“What does Heaven have, that I can’t find when I reach for you?” You ask him simply.

His shaky breath brushes against your lips.

“I can’t ask this of you.” Billy utters, his lips barely moving.

You smile, a little one filled with amusement and something deeper.

“You don’t have to ask.” You respond, rising onto your toes.

The kiss is blisteringly sweet, tongues feverishly hot, you can feel his desire, and he can feel yours and it secures in your mind, that there was no other way for this to be.

Lost, is an understatement. All you can feel is his mouth and his soul and his unending need for you to be a real person that really wants him.

You giggle into his mouth, tugging playfully on the bond, and when he winds his arms around you to lift you, the clearing of Matt's throat interrupts your tryst. You smile, feeling Billy’s anger at being interrupted, squeezing his bicep to soothe him.

“I respect your decision, even though I disagree. I think I understand, a little bit more than I did before, about the two of you, and how you balance each other out.”

Your smile widens.

“I appreciate that, Matt, and oddly enough, I consider you a friend.” You say, extracting yourself from Billy’s grabby hands to approach the priest in question.

“And,” You relent, “I also appreciate your attempt to show me the truth. If I didn’t know my demon, I might have done what you suggested.”

You feel a slither of delight go over him, hearing you claim him so openly.

“And if she’d let me,” Billy interjects, “I’d pluck those useless eyes from your head in a heartbeat.”

You gasp in horror, spinning to face your demon.

“You will do no such thing! That’s our cue to leave- Thank you for everything Matt- Billy no-” You spin him around, pushing him toward the door, stopping him from approaching the priest, currently shaking his head in disbelief.

Matt listens patiently as you leave, letting out a sigh when the door finally closes, and he turns, stepping into his office, to begin cleansing his church of residual demonic energy.

.

You drag your fingers along the smooth skin of his back, exploring the feeling, committing his skin to memory.

Between your thighs are sore, having begged Billy not ten minutes before to fill you, hoping for his cock, but experiencing some of the dilators instead.

Apparently, one time wasn’t enough, and you had in fact needed more practice in order to be able to take him.

Unfortunately, based on the way your nether regions were pulsing, he was right, and anything bigger might have hurt you.

Still, you wanted his cock, and you could only shiver with excitement everytime you thought about his massive-

“Mistress.” Billy groans, feeling your desire, he turns to face you, one hand wrapping around your waist to tug you closer to his warm body, his tail curling itself more securely around your thigh.

“Have I not satisfied you enough? Would you like my tongue again?”

You laugh softly, resting your palm against his stubbled jaw.

“No, my demon, I was just thinking.”

He exhales, nods in understanding. You move your hand to continue trailing your fingertips over his back. When you brush the edge of his shoulder blade a little too lightly, you feel something stir within him.

You do it again, focusing on that one spot, and when you try a third time, Billy lets out a low groan of protest.

“Ticklish?” You ask, sliding a lone finger between his shoulder blades, smiling when you feel that same feeling again, like a small wave of heat going through you.

You press your hand to his back, soothing over his skin before looking into his eyes.

They're so dark, almost bottomless, glittering occasionally with the light of the Eiffel tower coming through the window behind you.

“There was a picture of you, with a woman, short brown hair, pretty eyes, um…” You try to remember anything else about her.

“Dinah. That was Dinah.”

You blink, thinking that even her name was pretty.

“Girlfriend?” You ask, trying your hardest not to feel jealous.

“In a way. We both had our problems.” 

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

He fights a devious smile, the corner of his mouth lifting, he shifts his body to face you.

“Are you?” He teases.

“Yeah,” You say defensively, raising your head off the pillow, “I'm not here just wishing all your relationships were bad.”

“No?”

“No!” You pout, “I hope all your past lovers were nice to you.” 

He chuckles lowly amused by your words.

“And what about my current one?”

You raise your body, a little defensive.

“What about me? Are we even lovers? You haven't even been inside me properly yet-” You pause for a moment, “Holy shit I just realised that other women have taken that monster between your legs.”

He tilts his head back laughing.

“I'm serious! Were the rest of them as bad as me?”

He stops, looking down at you with a semi serious expression.

“First of all, you're not bad, you're different. Good different.” He says, noticing your parted lips and answering your question before you can ask it.

“It's just taking a little bit more effort to get you to take me and I enjoy that.”

He exhales, rolling his eyes when he realises you're not letting this go without an answer.

“The women in my past before had varying degrees of ability in taking me, does that answer your question?”

“Not really- well-” You tilt your head, thinking about it, “Sure. I don't know what answer I expected.”

He pauses, smiles at you.

“You were trying to compare yourself to women in my past, which makes no sense because I'm not that man anymore, and the things I wanted then, I do not want now.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he wants now but he stops you by pressing a finger to your lips.

“You also asked that question because deep down you were wondering if there was someone I'd prefer over you and while that's your insecurity talking, the answer is still no.”

Wow, he was in in your head.

“You have to say that, you're bonded to me.”

“I think you'd know if I was lying.” He counters.

You press your lips together, looking down at the soft white sheets between you.

“And now,” he says softly, “You're wondering if I'm only saying this because our souls are connected, and my answer to that is also no.”

You feel doubt rise up inside of you.

You hear him exhale sharply.

“Mistress, I'm not just saying these things because I have to. I mean them, every word.”

He moves closer, pushing you back until he's hovering over you. You look up at him calmly, watching his dark eyes shift to a deep red the longer he studies you. He reaches up, brushing the very tips of his fingers along the side of your face, leaving little tingles behind.

“Things are different now, and I'm glad they are, and if I had a chance to break this connection between us, I wouldn't take it. Ever.”

Kiss me, you think toward him.

He smiles, dipping his head.

.

.

.

[throughthetwistedmirror]

Hi! I read through the rules and saw your requests are open, so I was wondering what you think would happen if Reader saw Azul's merform for the first time (intentionally or accidentally, your choice!) and instead of getting scared or disgusted like he thought, they begin praising him and calling him beautiful? Thank you!

Summary: Azul is full of secrets and you respect that. However, one of his most precious secrets gets out...

Pairing: Azul Ashengrotto X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffyish Oneshot

Word Count: 1306

Warning: N/A

Masterlist

Taglist: @savanaclaw1996 @goseew

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I apologize for the delay! I hope you enjoy this!

Azul has a plethora of secrets, some that he holds for others and some that are his own. That is an undisputed fact. And you respect him for being such a good secret keeper. It must be very hard to keep all of that information to yourself, which he does with such ease.

However, all of that information can bog one down, and things can slip through the cracks if one is not careful.

Which is exactly what happened to the poor dorm leader of Octavinelle.

You were on your way to the Mostro Lounge on request of the Leech twins. Apparently, they were short-staffed and needed your help to step in as a waiter. You were more than happy to do so, because all of Octavinelle made working at the Lounge so much fun. You were already dressed in the appropriate uniform, thanks to Jade allowing you to keep one after you kept covering shifts at the Lounge. You'd never say it to his face, but you felt like the vice dorm leader had a soft spot for you.

When you arrived, you realized you definitely had your work cut out for you. For starters, the only wait staff were the Leech twins. The kitchen staffing situation wasn't much better. And it didn't help that the Lounge seemed fuller than usual. Without waiting for instruction, you jumped right in, seating students, running orders, and bussing tables. Jade and Floyd were impressed by your work ethic and Jade even thanked you for stepping up to the challenge. But you assured them both that you were happy to help and to rely on you more often.

Once things started to settle down and you managed to catch your breath, Floyd snuck up behind you. "Shrimpy! I have a huge favor to ask you!"

You were about to argue, wanting to tell him that you finally managed a moment off your feet, but you smiled at him instead. "Of course. How can I help?"

"Well, you saw the dire circumstances we were in but minutes ago." He dramatically sighs. "It threw our poor leader, Azul, into quite the tizzy. He hasn't been out of his office since you got here. You don't mind checking in on him, do you?"

You were a little surprised by his words. He wanted you to check up on Azul? Well, that was easy! And something you were more than happy to do for him!

With a nod, you turn to head to the office, calling out to Floyd. "You got it!"

Arriving at his office door, you gave it a sharp knock. "Azul? Are you in there? Can I come in?"

You heard a muffled voice behind the thick door, making it hard to decipher what he was saying. You assumed he was buried in documents or pacing frantically in front of his desk. So he shouldn't mind that you were entering.

As you opened the door, you called out, "I'm coming in!"

"NO!"

It was too late for the poor dorm leader, as you saw exactly what he hoped you would never see. Azul quickly pulled his tentacles further into his octopus pot, in a vain attempt to hide himself from you. But you had already seen his most shameful secret, the one that he kept the most guarded to himself.

You simply tilted your head to the side when you heard him begin sobbing inside his pot, a frown tugging on your lips. You had never seen his mer-form before. Sure, you've seen the Leech twins on more than one occasion, and you've even spoken to Azul's mother over a video chat once while Azul was busy. Based on his interaction with his mother, you knew he had octopus tentacles that were as black as night. But you had never seen it in person.

"Go away!" He blubbers, still crying his heart out. "You can't see me like this! I don't want you to see me like this! Just get out and never return!"

"Azul." You softly answer him, slowly making your way closer to his pot. "I'm not leaving."

"NO! You need to leave! Now! Go away! Get out of here!"

"Azul, listen to me, please." You softly beg. "I'm not leaving you like this. I can tell you're scared and embarrassed, but you have nothing to be afraid of."

He lets out another loud sob. "Yes I do! I am hideous! I'm a monster!"

"A monster? You are not a monster!" You assure him, reaching out a hand to put it on his octopus pot, but stopping just short from actually touching it. "You are most definitely not hideous. If anything, you are beautiful."

"You're lying!" He accuses you with a harsh shout. "You're making fun of me! I am nothing but a hideous monster!"

With a sigh, you run your hand through your hair. This was going to be even harder than covering the Mostro Lounge. How could you get through to him? He wasn't going to listen to you if you constantly praised how handsome he looked in his mer-form, which you had to admit, was very handsome.

And that's when it hit you. "Hey Azul? Can I tell you something?"

"No. You're supposed to be leaving."

"I'll tell you anyway." You sit next to his octopus pot and begin talking. "You know what's cool about octopi? They have big brains and three hearts! They can use tools to hunt and problem solve. It's kind of like what you do here. You're super smart and use a bunch of tools to make all of your clever plans work."

You hear him sniff and his crying begins to subside. Your plan is working.

"Also, they can build underwater cities. And isn't that similar to the Lounge you made here? It's like your own community and I like to think the Lounge helps keep things running at Night Raven College. I mean it's the biggest social hub on campus and everything."

You notice him peeking around the lip of the pot, but you don't look at him. You don't want to scare him. You're so close to getting him to calm down and finally show himself to you.

"A lot of octopi are masters of camouflage, which I think is really cool. I mean, I can't do that, but I'm sure you can! I mean how many people do you know can blend into their surroundings? It's like having your own super power!"

"I can camouflage." Azul mumbles, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him slowly emerging from the pot. He's not looking at you, so you don't look at him. "I don't use it often, but I can do it."

You nod. "That's so cool! See? You're not a monster. You are one of the coolest people I know."

You hear him give a small wince and it makes you panic for a split-second. "I wouldn't go that far. I'm not that cool."

"Well, I think you're super cool."

He gives a breathy laugh. "Thank you." There's a pause before he speaks again. "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. You didn't deserve that. I was just scared. I've never shown anyone this side of me before. I was terrified you would hate me and be disgusted, like everyone else I've shown this too."

You shake your head, finally turning to face him. Azul flinches away, but he doesn't hide again. You can see more of his mer-form which is just as spectacular as you imagined. "I am not disgusted or horrified. If anything, I'm curious. What can you do in this form?"

A bright blush appears on his cheeks. "I... can do a lot of things in this form."

"Can you show me?"

He takes a deep breath before nodding. "Sure."

[tongues-and-teeth-and-reblogs]

Yippeee!!! thank you for askingggg I love yapping about my au

so literally all of this is going to be disproven in like. 5 days but I can just move the timetable further back because like, what are they going to do? Detail Shadow Milk's entire pre-corruption life and leave no room for me to slide in my story?

but yeah basically, when the wizards originally made Moonlight, they didn't exactly realize that she wasn't going to come out fully formed as an adult and were incredibly unprepared to take care of a kid the size of their fingernails. Obviously rather than to admitting their misconception, they decreed that she should be raised among her own kind instead. So, they went to the witches, who offered one of their chosen as a parent.

^Basically just that paragraph but abridged.

Anyway, Blueberry Yogurt was told to teach Moonlight everything she needs to know, but under no circumstances is she allowed to learn Dark Moon Magic (Which wasn't forbidden at the time, and Blueberry Yogurt specifically was expected to research it at the behest of the witches). Moonlight was also given to him with the expectation that she'll be returned when she reaches maturity, but Blueberry Yogurt never intended to tell her that and never did.

Now, Moonlight is ~13 in human years, and is progressing well in her education and magical ability. Blueberry Yogurt is clearly deteriorating, to the point where even Moonlight even notices something's wrong. He's just stressed and the only good thing in his life right now is her. Then, obviously, he gets a letter that says they're taking Moonlight away in a week. Moonlight still has no clue this was a temporary arrangement, as far as she was aware, she was gonna stay with Blueberry Yogurt forever.

Blueberry Yogurt was a petty bitch long long before he ever turned into Shadow Milk and decides a week is long enough to teach a 13 y/o an entirely different form of magic that is objectively dangerous for cookies to perform. Moonlight, being a young teen, is excited about the prospect of doing something against the rules and doesn't know any better. Obviously, she gets really hurt doing this. Surprise, surprise. Anyway, Blueberry Yogurt freaks out, nothing he's doing is healing her, if anything, it's making her injury worse and he's quickly running out of options.

So, he does the only thing he can think of, and tells the witches. Now, that week-long "packing up" period has turned into 3 days and no proper goodbye. Moonlight immediately faults herself for her injury, thinking she should've been more careful. Then, when she's whisked off to the city of wizards and assumed to be a fully functioning adult, they also blame her for trying to learn Dark Moon Magic. leading to the construction of the canonical clocktower, which is actually really horrible if you think about it.

The wizards see her as the success she is, and start properly training her to be the moon goddess. Moonlight asks when she can go back home, and then is told that this is her home now, that Blueberry Yogurt lied to her and he knew she was never his to keep. Moonlight grows kind of resentful and accepts her place by the wizards' side.

As for Blueberry Yogurt, he can't "know" anything outside of Earthbread, and assumes the wizards killed Moonlight for not living up to their standards of perfection. His assumption, then, sends him down the spiral that eventually leads to his corruption. (Could be years before he actually does, depending on what canon says)

Moonlight, years in the future, is alone in the now-abandoned city of wizards, and sometimes she pretends her cookie dad is still around, just to assuage the loneliness. She also has no clue about what happened to him, as she wasn't able to truly rule over the world of dreams until after the beasts were sealed away and they weren't exactly dreaming in the tree. She'd occasionally think of leaving the city of wizards, to try to find her father again, but always decided against it, bound by duty (and magic) to the city. Moonlight only finds out Blueberry Yogurt "died" after Cookie Odyssey when Pure Vanilla specifically sends out Gingerbrave and co. to find her and ask for help defeating Dark Enchantress.

Am I saying Pure Vanilla having half of Shadow Milk's soul made him want to seek out Moonlight through some sort of form-transcending parental instinct? Maybe.

Even after Shadow Milk is released from the tree, he still can't go see Moonlight. He doesn't sleep, and is otherwise entirely disconnected from the world of dreams, so she can't see him or summon him to the city. He's literally made of shadows, so even if Moonlight came down to Shadow Milk in person, she's a celestial being and that kind of direct light would be horribly agonizing. Even disregarding all of that, Shadow Milk wouldn't want her to see him like he is now. Underneath the performance of ego, Shadow Milk knows he's quite literally been degraded to a shell of his former self- even without being corrupted, he's been ripped in half and "all" of his good qualities have been given to someone else. He can pretend, sure, but how long could he keep that up?

Anyway, I think they're never going to be happy. Ever.

The life we never got to have.

[proshipconfessions]

Responding to your last post about proshippers complaining about other proshippers. You didn't provide this option, but I really think it should depend on the content of the ask... And yes, this is a confession blog for proshippers/profic, etc. aligned people. Telling us to go to antiship confession blogs is horrifically stupid and is only going to put us in dangerous positions.

The proship community is not immune from being shitty. There are proshippers who act just like antis. People who think they can change their race and give themselves disabilities are straight up infecting the community as well. There are proshippers who are horrifically ableist against pwOSDDID, schizospec disorders, etc. There are proshippers who straight up use slurs they can not reclaim. There are proshippers who call people the r slur. I especially think proshippers with these disorders (including myself) should have a safe outlet to talk about the toxicity and abuse within our own community without telling us to basically become an anti. Because what the hell???

Of course, I can't read every single anon that you get, but if they are anything along the lines of what I'm talking about here, consider not deleting them. Especially don't tell people to "just become antis" or "just go to antiship confession blogs." That's harmful as fuck.

If anything, these confessions should serve as a reality check that our community isn't perfect. Or serve to remind people that this behavior shouldn't or won't be tolerated in the proship community. Not every self-proclaimed "proshipper" is actually a proshipper, especially if they act abusive, ableist, or harass people like antis do. I will die on this hill.

If you don't want to house confessions about these topics, that's fine. Just say so, and I'll make my own confessional blog where these topics are allowed.

You’re right that there are plenty of people who are proship and also shitty af. It’s something that I’ve both posted plenty of confessions about and have actually even—in case you haven’t been familiar with my blog for a while—made my own post about! It’s like one of just a few posts that I have made speaking directly from my mouth and not a confession. It’s just a post that I wrote about behavior that I hate seeing pop up far too commonly in this community. I literally can’t count how many people I have blocked, which includes not only antis, but also shitty proshippers and pricks who claim to be them while supporting harm caused to others in real life.

You’re also right that you can’t read every anon that I get. I would have much preferred that you even just ask what kind of thing I’m talking about instead of acting like you’re some secret second mod and I’m just some asshole who refuses to hold anyone or any behavior accountable as long as I agree with them on some level.

I really do wonder what you would think about one of the (many with a similar tone) asks that inspired this post.

Do you know how many anons I get with the same fucking attitude and the same fucking insistence that they’re right and I’m wrong and evil, and yet I’m somehow the perfect mouthpiece for their beliefs? What reality check is this supposed to be giving me? Please either stop assuming that everything I say is in bad faith or genuinely try to explain to me what the good content for my followers is in this ask. This is the behavior that I mocked in my post. I also have an old one that I think is somewhere in my drafts(?) where the evil behavior that they’ve seen among a bunch of proshippers that has made them hate all proshippers is venting about harassment from antis. The fake post I made mocking them is an amalgamation of those two, but you only get this one since I’m way too tired to go find the other one rn lol. If someone reminds me, I can reblog it with it later.

Also, I really can’t tell where I said in my post that I would tell these people to go to antiship blogs (other than my reference to a comment where I said that if all that people send to my inbox is how much they hate proshippers and basic proship ideology, then they should probably take that to an anti blog) instead of just deleting the ask, like I actually said in the post. The post that was really more of a way to let off some steam while getting some use out of the Tumblr polls that I practically never get to do anything with. Do you think that the person in those screenshots that I put above is more at home here than they’d be sending this to some anti’s blog?

But like to try to put myself in your shoes, you could’ve been having a shitty day when you sent this, you could be young, or hell, you could’ve seen someone say something similar to my statement recently while meaning this shitty completely different thing. Or maybe you’ve never seen my blog in your life and have no clue what kind of stuff I do/don’t post. My response might sound super defensive, and I hope that it doesn’t, and that I’m not jumping to conclusions, too. I’d hate to blow this out of proportion over what could easily be just a misunderstanding. If I’m being too harsh, sorry. I aim any coldness towards all of these bigoted ideas and the idea that I hold them, and not at you as a person, as I’m willing to believe that you’re an entirely rational person who just misunderstood me and lashed out at me bc of it. But if there is a next time, please try to give me the benefit of the doubt. I don’t ever intend to do anything harmful, and what I said wasn’t intended to imply anything like what you’re saying here at all. I’m not talking about proshippers venting. I’m talking about actual antis coming into my inbox with the “I’m like TECHNICALLY a proshipper, I guess, but I just despise proshippers and think that people who engage with certain types of fiction are inherently bad!!!” So unless you’re one of these people coming into my inbox, then I am NOT telling YOU to go to antiship confession blogs. And if you are… well, then you’re probably not gonna see this, since I’m going through and blocking all of these dickheads soon.

[hero-of-the-wolf]

Opossums?

Listen, I know in my heart that Hyrule's dark world form would be an opossum. They're crafty little guys that *persist* even when it feels like the entire world's against them. They're tough, they're intimidating, they're heckin adorable, they do a lot of good (like, for example, eating ticks), and I have an incredibly soft spot for em both 🫶

[napping-sapphic]

How do you feel about love bites? Like a really gentle bite on the cheek or neck or shoulder to show affection. Or anywhere really. Chomp chomp.

Ya know i can honestly say that i don’t think i’ve ever considered the idea of casual affectionate biting lmao

Idk!! It seems like one of those things where i can’t really form a solid opinion on it unless it happens to me but so long as it’s not like actual leave-an-injury-or-mark type biting I’d probably be okay with it! I usually find people’s more unexpected or unique ways of showing affection really endearing tbh so I’d probably just think it was cute honestly🙃

Also weirdly enough i read shoulder and was like “oh yeah that makes sense you can bite someone there” so that’d probably be fine i guess lol, if it was like painful biting though it’s probably a solid no from me though because i am a wimp😌

[cloudysarts]

what's with the bold choice to make blitz forest green and remove all animal traits from his facial anatomy

hes green because in my rewrite, all imps are colored from the rings theyre from!! ive also switched up the colors from how canon is. blitz is from envy, so hes green! hes ""green with envy"", if you will. millie is the only member of i.m.p who stays red!! as she is from wrath.

this isnt a rewrite thing i just hate how imps look in canon LMAOOOO. i dont even know if id call the facial anatomy ""animal traits"" ?? theyre just noseless (as are most of viv's humanoids) and are weirdly long and stretched out. i dont. see what animal thats supposed to represent. lizards i guess? i read somewhere therye supposed to be dragon-esque/reptilian but i dont see it at all. i hate drawing it anyway so i just got rid of it.

[rotisseries]

alright im giving in im finally asking. what in the everloving fuck is narines

HIIIII HELENA honestly I'm so glad you asked I think you'd love them but BASICALLYYYYY one of my mutuals, hella, @tbos-main, has this really cool original fantasy wip, the blood of serpents, which I am OBSESSED with so I do fandom post about it like any other media, and two of the characters are nate and rin. well. naithairan and herines technically but I'm on nickname basis with them. and I can explain tbos in more detail but since you asked about narines specifically, they are two characters who are very much on opposing sides of the central conflict and in a way that IS irreconcilable like. it has to be genuine all consuming hate it's bad. but they're also narrative foils and parallels and whatnot and outside of the main ideological difference in regards to the central conflict, they are very similar people in a very fucked up way, they're both martyr figures with a lot of religious themes, they both have had to learn the language of violence well, they both are willing to go to unfathomably low depths of morality and monstrousness in the pursuit of protecting the people they love, they're both incredibly calculating and callous, and so they have this INSANEEE dynamic that is very much "I see me in you I see everything I hate about myself in you I need to kill you because I need to be killed but yet I cannot kill you because that would be like taking a knife to myself and we recognize each other deeply and intimately in a very specific way no one else can and I HATEE you for it" and so like. they should fuck about that. obviously.

[circus-k]

i think i have to kill someone.

[skeletalheartattack]

thamks

you after i free you from the tetrisphere

[moonbittern]

in network effect murderbot is starting to get the hang of talking about its feelings for mensah (with mensah herself but also with amena!! love that) but not in a human ritualized way, just like. using its own words to describe its own feelings instead of using someone else’s words to approximate them. it’s good

[x-pair-o-dice-x]

I reallllyyyyyy didn't mean it that way I was trying to respond to your little bored in class thing and I wasn't sure what to say or a better way to say it

I'm really sorry, I didn't mean offense, I forget that tones are lost in text and as much as I tilted the words I really couldn't make it sound as playful as that was in my head

Again, I'm really sorry, I honestly didn't realize it would be taken that way

it’s fine, i guess- now you know not to do it in the future.

[noisilyscreechingsong]

Dp x Dc short idea

Jason is Danny’s dad

Warning: Language

Jason had just returned to the family publicly about two weeks ago. It hadn’t even been that long for him to settle before something happened. The press weren’t even off his ass and he has Alfred requesting he return home for an urgent matter immediately, which is butler speak for get your ass here right now!

The family was happy but adjusting to everything. They had mandatory family dinners at least twice a month and voluntarily got together more frequently, mostly just the siblings, but every once in a while Bruce would sneak in for a movie in the family room.

Alfred was pleased with the progress the family has made over the course of many years. It finally felt like everything was coming together and maybe settling down. He knew he thought that too soon when he answered the buzzer at the front gate. They weren’t expecting any visitors and looking at the video feed it was a young woman with hands on her hips glaring back at the camera. There were two large bags with her and surprisingly enough a young child playing in the grass just a short distance behind her.

“Wayne Residence, Alfred Pennyworth speaking, how may I assist you, ma’am?”

“Lettin’ me in for starters,” she says back with venom on her tongue.

“My apologies, but you do not have an appointment.”

She snorts, “Nah, but ya see, I saw that bastard on the news and thought I’d drop off what he gave me.”

To get her point across, she turns and looks back at the little boy not paying her any attention.

“Danny!” She snaps and he jerks his head to look at, who Alfred is assuming is, his mother. “Come here.”

He hops up at his own pace and dusts off the grass on his knees before trotting over. She leans down to angle the young boy away from the camera and pushing back his hair.

He couldn’t see it well before by the way the boy was positioned before, but Alfred could clearly see a prominent patch of white hair on the left lower section by his neck. Just like the white batch on Jason.

“You gonna let us in now?” She asks rudely.

Alfred has already determined he did not like this woman. He still buzzes them in. He contacts Jason immediately followed closely with Bruce.

Alfred then helps the two carry in the bags, while subtly checking for any weapons or explosives. Instead he finds things meant for a child.

He really didn’t like this woman.

Bruce is the first one to arrive down the stairs, pausing towards the bottom. He glances at Alfred and can see the displeasure in the butler’s eyes.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Bruce Wayne, nice to meet you.”

“Fuckin’ everyone knows who you are, Brucie Wayne,” she huffs with a roll of her eyes.

Bruce glances down at the very young child who is hearing the foul language. He couldn’t be more than five, and completely oblivious as the little boy runs a hand along the wall and looks around at everything. He particularly keeps going back to the shiny chandelier above their heads.

“Who might you be?” He asks the woman, coming back to her as she almost touches the vase on the entry table. She draws her hand back to fold her arms across her chest.

“Grace.”

The name seems ironic compared to her behavior.

“And how can I help you, Miss Grace?”

“Your thought-to-be-dead son left something of his. I’m here to return it.”

It took no detective to determine she was talking about the boy currently using the door frame to the sitting room as leverage to rock back and forth, holding on with his tiny hands. Bruce could see the splash of white among the dark hair from this angle.

Bruce hums.

“Is that so?”

“I’ve already contacted Master Jason. He should be arriving soon. Shall I prepare some refreshments in the drawing room?” Alfred informs.

“Thank you, Alfred. Right this way,” he says to Grace, directing her toward the left while pulling out his phone to ask Tim to prepare the proper equipment downstairs.

“Danny!” The woman calls with impatience. She glares at the little boy who calmly turns to look at her, then skips behind them.

Grace huffs but doesn’t say anything else as they enter the room. She sits herself in the middle of the love seat and Bruce takes one of the chairs across from her. The boy, Danny, explores the room thoroughly, walking around without pattern and investigating every nook and cabinet to keep himself entertained. Very curious little child.

Bruce tries to engage her in conversation to dig up more information, but she firmly wanted to wait for Jason before divulging anything. He did however find out that Danny is four and needs to be enrolled in kindergarten next turn. Grace works night shift but wouldn’t say where.

Alfred came with three waters, one in a smaller plastic cup for Danny, and a plate of crackers and cut up fruit.

Grace eyes the butler with a raised brow. However, the first words Danny has spoken in their presence is a cute, “Thank you, mister,” before munching on a cracker and sipping from his cup. His curious eyes flick over the fruit and wanders over to his mother who picks at a rip in her jeans. He taps her knee and she sighs.

“What is it?”

“What’s that?”

Danny points to the fruit.

“What’s what?”

He creeps forward to point directly at the blackberries mixed in with the blueberries and strawberries.

“Blackberry,” she answers shortly.

“What’s it taste like?”

“Why don’t you try it and find out?”

He must have approved of that suggestion and reaches in to clumsily wrap a tiny hand around one of the dark berries. He flips it over in his hand for a minute, observing it at all angles, feeling the texture of the little bumps, before shoving it in his mouth. Danny leans his body over the coffee table to drag the bowl closer and rummage through it for more goodies.

Really looking at him, Bruce could see Jason’s freckles and the few other similarities like his square jaw and lip shape. He hasn’t seen it yet but Bruce bets Danny has the same crooked grin as his son.

He has the woman’s pale complexion and nose shape. His hair was straight like hers instead of Jason’s curls, but Danny took his dark coloring compared to her light brunette.

The boy was an adorable mix of both his son and this woman. He almost felt the test was unnecessary, but he didn’t stop Alfred from replacing the plastic cup and take it back to the kitchen where he knew it would be handed off to Tim.

Thankfully it was a day where there weren’t any meetings for either of them to attend.

Surprisingly, it isn’t Jason that enters the room first, it’s Damian coming home from school. The fourteen year old, almost fifteen, holds a leash in one hand with Titus standing patiently next to him, ready for his after school walk.

“Father, I heard we have guests.”

The teen stops in the doorway and Danny turns with interest until he spots the animal, then his eyes bug with excitement.

“Mommy, doggie,” he whisper shouts.

She just hums in affirmative, looking the new arrival up and down.

Danny grabs a blackberry from the bowl and trots over to Damian. He holds out the piece of fruit.

“This is a blackberry,” he states proudly.

Damian blinks down at the small child. Titus tilts his head, his nose working hard.

“I’m aware.”

“You can have it, if you let me pet your doggie,” he negotiates like he needed to give something in order to receive permission.

Damian looks up to his father for answers.

“Jason will be here soon,” is what he gets instead, his father’s lips twitch.

Damian looks back down in sudden realization when he sees the similarities between the man and this boy. He sighs tiredly.

“Pennyworth. A wet washcloth if you please.”

“Right away, Master Damian.”

“Next time, you only need to ask to pet Titus, you do not need to give me anything in return,” he tells the child.

Danny looks down at the berry sitting in his stained hands.

“So you don’t want it?”

“…Maybe later.”

“Okay!”

Danny skips back to carefully set the berry off the side on the tray, as if to save it for Damian for later like he said. He jogs the short distance back to them.

“Can I pet your doggie now, please?”

Damian takes the washcloth Alfred hands him with a nod and crouches down to get level with the boy.

“We must wipe our hands first. We don’t want anything sticky in his fur,” he explains as he holds out the washcloth for Danny’s hands.

The four year old looks down at the stains to see what he means and then places his hands on the washcloth for Damian to get the juices off.

The teen then calmly explains how to properly approach a dog he does not know by letting Titus smell the back of his hand first and then to always stay calm and confident.

Titus, the gentle giant that he is, had no problems letting the tiny child pat him and run small fingers through his short fur. It was endearing to hear the giggles when Titus used his big nose to sniff at the child’s face and neck. Sitting down, Titus was taller than the child standing up, which would have been scary to some kids, but Danny seemed to love Titus instantly. The little boy easily telling the dog what a good boy he is even with the dog sitting there doing nothing.

“Titus needs his afternoon walk now,” Damian informs.

Titus stands at the word walk, clearly ready to go.

“Oh, okay.” Danny turns to the big dog to reach up and pat his head twice. “Bye-bye, Titus. Have a good walk.”

The two leave and Danny skips back over to hang over the arm of the love seat his mother sits in, typing on her phone.

“Mommy, did you see the doggie? His name is Titus. He’s a good dog.”

“Uh-huh,” she comments without really listening.

“Do you like dogs, Danny?” Bruce asks with a smile.

Danny looks at him like he forgot the man was there, tilts his head as he studies him for a moment. Bruce waits patiently until Danny deems him okay and perks back up with bright eyes.

“Uh-huh! I love dogs! Mommy says we can’t get one ‘cuz our ‘partment is too small and they’re dirty. You’s guys are lucky,” the boy rambles as he wanders around the coffee table to get closer to Bruce and away from his distracted mother.

“How do you feel about cats? Damian has a black and white one around here somewhere.”

Danny shrugs and they continue to have a rather pleasant conversation about different animals and foods and each of their houses. It takes up the amount of time for Jason to walk through the door, seemingly already informed of the situation from Alfred.

Jason was… flabbergasted. Bewildered. Caught unprepared. He was a lot of words. Mostly he was scared.

Did he really have a child? A son? If that was true then he missed so much. He missed all of his firsts. First words, first steps, first laugh, first everything.

Would the boy even like him? What if he saw all his scars and was scared of him? What if he didn’t want anything to do with Jason after not being in his life this whole time?

But the boy might not be his. There’s that. That could be… Jason didn’t like the disappointment that thought brought.

Grace was the first one he noticed. Her ripped jeans and low cut top being out of place among the antique furniture and Persian rug. She scowls at him, putting her phone down.

“Finally decided to show up?”

He bites back a comment. He broke several traffic laws to get here, it wasn’t his fault he was fourty minutes away at the time he got the call.

He glances over at Bruce and instead his eyes zero in on the child standing by the armchair Bruce was sitting in.

Just one look and he knew the boy was his.

He looks to Bruce anyway for confirmation, since he has no doubt he sent off a sample to Tim hiding like the troll he is in the basement. The man nods. Jason sucks in a deep breath and suddenly needs to sit down.

He sinks heavily in the matching armchair next to Bruce’s, separated only by a round end table. Jason can’t stop staring at those big, blue eyes that are filled with such curiosity and innocence he almost breaks down right then. But he can’t. He has to be strong. He can’t just walk away to get a handle on his emotions. He’s a dad now.

“You’re a hard man to find,” Grace folds her arms over her chest.

“I’ve been busy,” he answers lamely.

She humphs and looks away with a shake of her head.

The boy, Danny Alfred said his name was, creeps around Bruce’s legs to get closer, obviously seeing something in Jason enough to investigate. The room is quiet as they wait to see how Danny will react.

Coming to a stop right before his knees, Danny stares up at the large man with lots of scars and muscles from what he can see. He wasn’t scared. There was just something familiar that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He looks… he looks like… and he also feels almost like…

Furrowing his brows in a pout, he knows his Mommy doesn’t like it when he does it, but he still makes his eyes burn with green.

The man gasps and his eyes also swirl into an angry green.

“Daddy?” Danny asks with hope and joy.

Daddy swallows and then nods.

“Yea, buddy, I’m your dad.”

“Daddy!” The boy cheers, jumping in place with a wide smile. “Daddy! Mommy, look! It’s Daddy!”

Danny wastes no time climbing into the man’s lap and wrapping his arms around him as far as they’ll go (not very far) to press his ear to Jason’s chest over his heart. He’s practically vibrating with excitement and Jason makes sure to set a large hand on his back to hold him close.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” Grace hisses, her eyes wide at the display earlier. Both of their eyes had returned to their calmer blue and teal color, but everyone in the room saw it. “I knew he got it from you.”

His eyes narrow in warning, pulling the boy closer to his chest. He sets a hand over Danny’s exposed ear to protect him from the harsh words he’s probably already heard before.

“Do you have any idea how creepy it is to deal with a tantrum when your kid has fucking glowing green eyes?”

“Did you hit him?” Jason growls, the vibrations seeming to settle Danny even more.

“Please, I’m not my mother,” she dismisses with a sneer.

Could have fooled him.

“Everything was fine until he started doing freaky shit. I don’t know how to raise a meta kid, alright?”

“What are you talking about?”

Now he was just confused. What stuff was Danny doing that Grace thought he was a meta?

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t have powers too,” she points viciously.

“I’m not pretending. I don’t have powers. I don’t have the meta gene. What can he do?” He demands while being transparently clear.

She just glares back at him, obviously not believing him. That didn’t exactly matter at the moment.

“What can he do?” He repeats with emphasis.

She puckers her lips like she’s tasted something sour and then lifts her chin.

“Why doesn’t he just show you, huh? Danny- Would you stop babying him? Danny, show him the things you can do.”

After Jason takes the hand off the boy’s head, Danny turns to his mother warily.

“But you don’t like it,” he reminds, like she forgot.

“He wants to see it, so show him,” she waves a hand at Jason like he just asked for something he would regret.

Danny leans back to look up at his dad.

“You won’t get mad? Or scared?”

He sounds so unsure and scared. As if Jason could ever hate him. Jason really wants to punch something. Preferably something with her face on it.

“I promise I won’t.”

Another parent might have something more profound to say to reassure their child, but Jason was just starting out and honestly, it was more than Bruce would ever say.

Danny thinks for a second before wiggling to get down. He looks back once more at his mother who gives him a ‘get on with it’ motion.

The boy fidgets a little before covering his face with two hands like he’s playing hide and seek, then- disappears. Jason jerks at watching his son blink out of sight like a Martian.

“Boo!” Danny pops back into view, exactly where he was standing before with his hands out like any child on Halloween.

Jason blinks and then starts laughing. This was karma. Danny could literally become invisible, something the Bats train to do for years.

“That was good, buddy,” Jason chuckles, ruffling the kid’s hair.

Danny hesitantly smiles back, a bit of hope and pride in those eyes.

“There’s more,” Grace interrupts, seemingly uneasy with how well Jason reacted.

“Yea?” Jason directs to Danny, his focus on his son.

Danny gives a shaky nod, glancing over worriedly at Bruce who is just silently watching. Jason could see the tension in his shoulders but also the intrigue.

The boy places a hand on the coffee table and focuses on his hand. It took a few minutes of concentration before Danny’s hand went through the table like he was just dunking his hand in a pool instead of through a solid object.

He pulls his hand out and they could see it be slightly translucent.

“That one’s harder to do when I want to,” Danny mumbles.

“You mean it mostly happens on accident?”

Danny nods.

“I drop a lot. And get stuck sometimes.”

Yea, Jason can see how that could be a problem. He can’t imagine how terrified Danny was the first time a body part got stuck in an immovable object. He really wishes he could have been there for him in his panic.

“The last thing is hard too. But I’ve been practicing. Watch!”

Danny jumps once, twice, and on the third time he lingers in the air, coming down slowly like someone in water or astronauts on the moon. Danny pushes off the ground a fourth time, this time floating steadily higher like gravity meant nothing to him.

Despite the kid obviously have done this before and enjoying it with his giggles, Jason stands under him in case he falls. And falls he does. Suddenly, like the strings being cut and gravity taking hold of him again, Danny plummets into Jason waiting arms. The boy grunts on impact and then smiled sheepishly up at his dad.

“Sorry, Daddy. I promise I’m doing better.”

“That’s okay, squirt. I’m glad I was here to catch you.”

Jason plops back into the chair with his child in his lap.

“Anything else up that sleeve of yours?” He teases but is equally as serious.

Danny shakes his head enough to make his hair fluff. Jason looks to Grace for confirmation and sees she is still recovering from Danny’s fall out of the air. How many times has she had to catch him? Or wasn’t able to catch him?

She clears her throat.

“I don’t know if it’s part of it, but he never gets sick. Never even had a cough.”

Children always get sick, that’s how they build immune systems. For Danny to have never gotten even a cold, Jason doesn’t know if it’s worrying or a good thing.

“Any allergies?” Is the first thing on his mind, thinking of what Alfred will need to know.

She shakes her head with a negative hum.

“In one of the bags is a folder with all of his documents. Birth certificate, immunizations, doctor visits. I also made a list of some favorite things and things he hates. It has foods on there too.”

That was… honestly more than he was expecting from her. But it also cements the fact that she intended to drop him off with him and then never see them again. She raised him for four years and she doesn’t even want visitation? Does she not understand there are legal documents she needs to sign to transfer custody properly?

“There are some things you need to sign, but it will take some time to get it sorted,” Bruce chimes in all business.

Long nails swipe through the air like signing her rights away was trivial.

“My phone number and address are on one of the documents. Just tell me when and where.”

She stands to leave and Jason can feel Danny tense up.

“Are we leaving?” He asks worriedly, climbing down from his seat on his dad’s lap. He didn’t want to go.

“You’re staying here. With your dad,” Grace says shortly, not once looking at the boy.

“Are you going home to get the rest of our stuff?”

“No. I’m going home. You’re staying here. End of story.”

Danny visibly thinks on that for a second then scampers after his mother as she leaves the room.

“Is it like Robbie where his mom lives in one ‘partment and his dad lives in a different one?”

Grace sighs and runs a hand through her hair. She’s clearly flustered and is showing it as irritation, but Jason can’t help but trail behind in case she says something that she shouldn’t.

“No, Danny, it’s not like Robbie. I- I am leaving you here and I’m not coming back, okay?”

Jason takes a step forward to draw her attention and send her a look that says ‘choose your words carefully, this is a conversation he will remember for a long time’.

“But- but why? Is it ‘cuz of my things? I’m sorry I scared you, Mommy. I didn’t mean to. I won’t do them again, promise.”

Jason grits his teeth at how desperate his son sounds, trying to keep his mother with him. Even making a promise he can’t keep.

Grace finally looks at her baby. Sees the turmoil and tears in his baby blue eyes. She gets down on her knees to get level and places her hands on his tiny shoulders.

“You will do them again and that’s not a bad thing. Your things are part of you. That’s okay. You’re not in any trouble. I just- I’m in over my head here, Danny. I can’t take care of you the way you should be taken care of, okay? But your dad can, I hope. So I’m leaving you here. With him.”

Danny’s lip wobbles and she has to restrain herself from not hugging him like she always does when he’s upset.

“Then- then you’ll visit, right? Like Chase’s grandma visits him?”

Why is this so hard?

“I don’t think so, baby. I don’t think you’re gonna see me again. I’m sorry.”

Danny is silent for a while. He wipes his eyes and sniffs.

“Are you goin’ ‘way like Jamal’s dad?”

The ten year old in the same building as them lost his dad in a wrong place wrong time type situation. Jamal had told Danny his dad went away forever so he couldn’t see him again. Grace had told him that when people go away forever, they get put among the stars he loves so much to be remembered.

Grace wears such a pained expression Jason half thought she was about to burst into tears.

“Kinda,” she nods. “So give me a big hug, okay?”

Danny was in her arms before she finished speaking. Jason didn’t exactly know why she wanted to stop all contact, but he had a theory that if Danny really was a meta (and with his powers he was leaning toward believing it) then Grace would want to distance herself as much as possible to protect them both. He met her in Crime Alley, he knew they didn’t live in a good spot. If any one of those crooks saw Danny use any of his powers, they could steal him easily from his single mother. She didn’t want to give those kind of people leverage to get Danny and sell him off. She wasn’t trying to be cruel, she was just trying to do what was best for her kid, even if that meant cutting her out of his life.

He had a strange new respect for her he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Grace takes a heavy breath and pulls away showing Danny’s tear stained cheeks. She wipes them like it would do anything.

“I gotta go now, Danny.”

“No,” he cries and Jason’s heart breaks a little more.

“We gotta say goodbye now. Please.”

Grace is just barely hanging on. Jason knows as soon as she walks out that door she’ll break down.

“I don’t want to. Don’t want you to leave,” Danny whines, trying to keep a strong grip on his mother.

She holds his hands in hers and gives him a serious look.

“You’re going to be fine. You’re gonna be just fine with your dad.” She leans in and whispers, “You’re not alone, Danny. You are never alone. Just look up. Look at the stars, baby, and you’ll be okay.”

Danny pouts, but thinks about those words.

“I like the stars,” he mumbles.

She smiles, probably the first one in a while.

“I know you do.”

She kisses his forehead one last time and stands. Danny whines. She steps away.

“Bye-bye, Danny. I- I love you.”

“Mommy,” he cries, tears and snot coming full force now.

Jason can’t take anymore and picks up his son to hold on his hip.

“It’s okay, buddy. I got you,” he assures. He turns to Grace who is having the internal battle of her life in the foyer. “I got him.”

It’s an assurance to her too, that he will take care of Danny, that he would be there for him. It was a promise.

Grace sees it for what it is and leaves out the front door without another word.

Danny screams and cries and struggles, but Jason holds on tight, scared he’ll fall or use his powers to get away and disappear. The man walks back to the drawing room so his son wasn’t staring at the door longingly.

As soon as Jason sits down, Danny struggles harder since they stopped moving. So Jason stands again, adjusting the boy in his arms and starts pacing a path around the room.

Bruce has already disappeared, not knowing what to do with a heartbroken child crying his eyes out. Alfred has cleared away the tray of snacks, leaving two waters on the table, one in a small, plastic cup. Jason spies Damian poke his head in for a second to see what the matter was, and upon seeing no immediate threat went off wherever. Other than that, father and son were alone to figure themselves out.

Danny was going through a lot for a toddler and Jason didn’t exactly know how to handle what happened either. He tried his best with speaking reassurances into the boy’s hair, but he didn’t know if Danny even heard him over his own crying.

It was a rough first meeting to be frank, but after a while (what felt like ages) Danny cried himself to sleep and Jason felt it safe to finally sprawl out on the loveseat with the boy laying on his chest. Compared to a grueling patrol, that was definitely worse. He never wanted to have to go through that again, but knew as a dad it was part of the job description.

[cescalr]

I LOVE HOW YOU TAG PARAGRAPHS THEYRE FUN TO READ!! /gen

Thank you!!! I love to ramble!!!

[notquitecanon]

Dense // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: A pretty little thing like you isn't flirting with Ghost? Are you?

Based off a prompt that's been a worm in my brain since 8th grade (I'm 25 now) and I'm probably going to write the same exact thing from the other POV.

TW: none, just a little fluffy hopefully funny insight into Simon's thought process.

God, Lieutenant Riley was dense.

That's what most people thought after watching him interact with you for longer than three minutes at a time. You'd been working in communications for two years now, mostly dealing with Captain Price but Ghost was always lurking around somewhere nearby. You'd been warned to avoid him.

He's mean, He's surly, he'll bite your head right off. He's dangerous blah blah blah...

What they didn't consider was that he was a tree of a man- tall, dark, and mysterious with pretty eyes. And you had little to no survival instincts when it came to a man who knew how to shut the fuck up.

It was obvious to anyone who watched you interact with him for any amount of time. How you stood closer to him than need be, how you watched him through your lashes when he spoke his few words to you, the way your voice changed when you spoke to him. Then it was the little touches and little gifts, sitting with him at empty tables when others would turn and walk the other way. You were so sweet on him, maybe even smitten with him.

Ghost never seemed to notice, and if he did he didn't pay it much mind. Just assumed you were just one of those chatty and nice people he seemed to attract every now and then- like Price or Soap. It didn't hurt either that you were sweet & pretty & and smelled good... no, didn't hurt at all and certainly didn't mean anything.

He brushed off Johnny and Gaz's teasings, met Price's knowing looks with icy glares. You definitely weren't flirting with him. There was no way someone like you was pursuing someone like him romantically. That was... ridiculous. Right?

Still. Something about that idea scratched his brain just right. Planted a seed that you unknowingly watered with sweet smiles and bright eyes. So, he started paying more attention.

You never got Price's attention by lingering a small, warm hand on the Captain's bicep- but you did with Ghost. You were chatty with Gaz, but never so much so that you made yourself late to other engagements- Ghost was losing track of the times you'd been chatting at with him only to look at your watch and scurry off with hot cheeks. And Soap could make you laugh, but he never got your cheeks to turn that pretty pink color- Ghost rarely saw you without rosy cheeks. Hmmm... Interesting.

So, he watched and observed (pined and yearned, more accurately). Until one day when he noticed how you flipped your hair over your shoulder as you spoke to him, direct eye contact through fluttering lashes, the dilation of your eyes.

"You have such pretty eyes-" You barely finished your statement before he interjected. He cut you off before you could even giggle, voice stern and hard and quick as those pretty dangerous eyes narrowed in a way that would have chased anyone else off. Not you though.

"Are you flirting with me?"

He asked, taking a looming step closer to you where you were standing by the breakroom coffee machine. He expected you to stutter out an excuse or apologize, or even frantically excuse yourself. He did not expect you to sigh, almost in relief(?) with that bright smile of yours.

"I have been for the last two years." You breathe in admittance, "But thanks for noticing now."

Bloody hell, you were trying to kill him.

----

I wrote this instead of paying attention in lecture

[nereidprinc3ss]

you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all. 

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him. 

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back. 

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep. 

Or so he’d like to think. 

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately. 

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it. 

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him. 

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank. 

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

You don’t make another sound for hours. 

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time. 

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back. 

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot. 

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand. 

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway. 

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums. 

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak. 

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts. 

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes. 

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue. 

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression. 

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. 

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way. 

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you. 

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid. 

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper. 

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like. 

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat. 

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake. 

Spencer is too stunned to follow you. 

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous. 

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction. 

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal. 

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. 

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief. 

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent. 

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out. 

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow. 

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away. 

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door. 

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom. 

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins. 

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed. 

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back. 

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist. 

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion. 

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t. 

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with. 

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.