#anyways .. i love how trusting and emotional he is

[crescenthistory]

Hi Carina! It’s the anon who referred to your fanfics as poetry if you remember lol.

Number 1 I still stand by that and it’s even more enforced after reading your most recent poly!postwar!marauders I was hooked!! And number 2 I finally have a proper request for regulus and whiskers - perhaps some scenario where reader comes to regulus all scratched up and he p a n i c s but treats her (the scratches are from some random student’s pet cat that decided they suddenly wanted that specific patch of sun reader was napping on or something silly like that) and it’s just a mix of fluff and humor?

You totally do not have to do this specific prompt especially if you think of something similar but better, I 100% trust your vision. Also I’d like to be 🧸 anon for future posts if that’s ok with you. Once again thank you for blessing us with your stories and sorry for the long message haha❤���

of course i remember, that is my favourite compliment to date 😭 all i want is for my writing to be considered poetry, thank you so much. i'll add you to the list as 🧸 anon my love, feel free to share your age and pronouns too<333

Words: 1.5k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, no use of y/n, light injuries, some blood, physical and emotional hurt/comfort, established relationship, mentioned bsf!sirius, idiots in love, like literal soulmates, some cat telepathy bc i can lmao

A/N: more of whiskers and shadow can be found starting with this fic ! the cat pictured below is @nrthernsong's sweet Echo who is my whiskers faceclaim, exactly how I picture her<33

Regulus heard that something was wrong before he saw it.

The past hour had been spent on the sofa closest to the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, alternating between lazily reading his current paperback and dozing off. You had grown restless and given him a sweet forehead kiss before whisking out the door, assumedly to run out your leftover energy chasing mice and climbing walls. The mere thought made him smile, but he was far too comfortable to join you, and you were sleeping over in his dorm tonight anyway.

He figured it was no harm; he enjoyed knowing that you were doing your own thing and would be coming back to him. That you were such a fully realised person with your own desires, impulses, life and friends – even if one of those friends had to be his very own brother. That you were such a remarkable individual and kept choosing him every day, with every ounce of that self. It was as good a way as any to spend the evening.

That was, until he heard the desperate clawing of familiar paws against the stone common room door.

Apart from his usual doomsday gut feeling, he found it strange that you weren’t transforming back into yourself to open the door and walk in. Though, he told himself, you clearly could not transform in the still half-filled room, and perhaps you just wanted to remain in cat form without giving your animagus status away. Yet, your scratching seemed almost fervent, even over the sounds of chatter and laughter, which told another story.

Regardless of why, Regulus shot up out of his seat from the second he registered the noise as coming from you, hurrying across the floor. A wave of dizziness hit him from how fast he went from a reclining to borderline-sprinting position, but he pushed it down without a second thought.

When he opened the common room door and a white and grey figure sped in past him at an unbelievable speed, he realised what the problem was. 

Because your usually beautiful, fluffy fur was ruffled all about and there were distinct streaks of redness across it. The blood was striking against the already blinding white, and Regulus could not fight the way his breath hitched. 

“Amour,” he all but hissed, speed walking after you to where you had hid away in the first available corner.

Despite remaining mostly aware of your human self, once you were in your animagus form, certain animalistic tendencies took over. It was how you were able to communicate so efficiently through hisses and pets, but also why in states of panic, you would seek out physical shelter to hide beneath rather than coming to him for protection and comfort like you otherwise would.

Uncaring of how he looked running after a cat and murmuring to it as if it was a person, Regulus followed you, crouching down on his knees before you when you hid beneath an armchair against the wall. He couldn’t see you well in the darkness, but he did see a pair of yellow eyes shine out at him, so stunning that the fear in them should be illegal.

“Mon amour.” Regulus decided to forgo any reservations, and laid down on his stomach with his cheek against the floor so that he could be face to face with you. “Darling, what happened to you? Are you alright?”

The whimpering sound you made shot straight through his heart, drawing a rather pathetic coo from him.

You curled further up into yourself. Regulus inched his hand forward so that it was close to your face, but you made no move to butt your head against it like you usually would. Your eyes seemed to be pleading with him, but in this form, Regulus couldn’t read you as well.

In this form.

Regulus suddenly knew what he had to do.

Before that though, he retracted his hand in favour of letting his fingers curl around his wand. He brought it up to rest before you, slowing his movements down so as to not alert you in this frightened state. Even in a moment like this, you still trusted him entirely, and only blinked slowly at him while you shivered. He brought the tip of his wand up to rest just above your red spots.

“I’ll make it better, amour, I swear,” he mumbled, almost as if to himself. With a light graze and two whispered incantations, Regulus spelled away whatever shallow scratches you had across your beautiful fur and cleaned up the blood that had stained you so unjustly. 

Though he could not be certain, he thought he heard a sigh escape you. This time, when he put his wand down, you leaned your patterned forehead down against his fingertips. Worry was still clouding most of his mind, but his lips did twitch at the sentiment.

“I’m not leaving you.” He declared before saying anything else, not wanting fear to take over you once more. “Just stay right there, lovely, and I’ll be right back for you.”

Regulus almost stumbled when he pushed himself up onto his feet and near-sprinted up towards his dorm, taking the stairs three steps at a time. If you were startled, he could neither see nor hear it, and fully intended to soothe you in a mere moment.

The second he was out of sight of any other students, Regulus twirled into his own animagus form, Shadow.

At this new level of elevation and with the animalistic instincts taking over him, Regulus felt the wave of concern spark in him anew. While he could sense when he spelled away your injuries that they were not serious, the thought of you scared ached throughout him. On speedy onyx legs, he leaped back down the stairs with just one thought swimming through his mind.

Amour, amour, amour.

You must have smelled Shadow on his way to you, because even before he saw you, he picked up on the keening noise you made at the approach of your mate. 

Still sheltered carefully beneath the armchair, you were perched up on your front paws, staring eagerly towards where Shadow was pouncing towards you. This time, you let him slip beneath the seat and into your hiding place without any hesitation. On the contrary, you made space for him, and as soon as he was within reach, you curled up against him, hiding away.

With your face burrowed into Shadow’s furry neck, he could finally feel you sigh out in relief, any tension and fear seeping out of you. It was exactly what he had been hoping for, exactly what he wanted, no needed to accomplish.

Your love was true in any form, but the connection the two of you shared in animagus form was different from anything Regulus could even think to communicate through words. He had yet to find any relevant literature on animagi explaining the bonding experience you had in animagus form, but perhaps this was one of the things in his life that Regulus didn’t need to intellectualise.

Instead, Shadow curled back up against you, keeping his head over yours in a protective manner as he held you close with his paws. Absentmindedly, he began grooming your fur, placing every strand back down in the correct direction, ridding you of any evidence of whatever tussle you had suffered when roaming the castle. Certain places of your fur seemed to demand more of his attention, and though Regulus could not prove it as he healed and cleaned you up magically earlier, he had a creeping suspicion that was where you had been scratched up. So he didn’t resist it, instead doting on you exactly how he wanted.

Beneath his touch, you were becoming soft and pliant once more, purring loudly and occasionally looking up at him with the yellow eyes he had come to love so. His Whiskers. His amour.

Using the very bond he had no words to explain, Shadow asked you through some odd form of cat communication and animagi telepathy: What happened?

Your grunt and huff communicated what he had feared. Mrs. Norris.

Shadow made a hissing sound directed at your shared menacing nemesis before doubling down on his efforts to soothe you, nudging you over onto your back so that he could groom and kiss along your neck and chest – your most vulnerable areas in cat form, showing you just how safe you were now. 

This was part of what occasionally living as a cat entailed, but Regulus would be damned if he did not care for you as if it was a tragedy each and every time. Spelling out I love you with every lick and pet and nudge and purr.

Based on the lovely sounds you were making and how you seemed to melt into him until you were one and the same, you loudly claimed I love you too.

Regulus could rest easy with you safe and sound in his hold, content just to have you near him, any anger subdued for as long as he was comforting you. In the meantime, he was dreaming up how a certain big black dog might have a little chat with Mrs. Norris.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

hi 👋 i love hearing your thoughts about things, especially when i feel like ive hit a wall with ideas lol. anyways i was wondering about whether or not you thought it was ooc for sirius to go after wormtail that night instead of stay with harry

Hi 👋

Thank you so much!

And no, I don't think it's OOC considering it's one of the first things we learn about Sirius. Sirius, when he's emotional, he's reckless. Actually, Sirius is reckless with his own safety in general. Throughout GoF and OotP he constantly tells Harry to not risk himself, but Sirius is constantly putting himself at risk. He is reckless with his own life and well-being almost constantly. His recklessness extends to others as well (I mean, the prank could've ended up with everyone finding out or with Remus killing Snape. So it's clear he doesn't care as much for Remus or Snape's safety). But not Harry. Never Harry's safety.

Harry's safety is incredibly important to him, not his own (or some other people, he's pretty selective about who matters).

After the Potters died, Sirius trusted Hagrid and Dumbledore to keep Harry safe, so he allowed himself to go after Pettigrew. I mean, it's his usual pattern, he makes sure Harry is safe, like he shouts at him to take Neville and run in the ministry in OotP:

“Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!” Sirius yelled, dashing to meet Bellatrix.

(OotP)

Before throwing himself headfirst into danger he might not return from. (Azkaban back on the night the Potters died and a fight in which he died at the end of OotP).

Besides, Sirius sees betraying his friends as the worst sin possible:

“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, Harry. I never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died before I betrayed them.”

(PoA)

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!” “THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black. “DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”

(PoA)

He is willing to die for James, Lily, and Harry in a heartbeat. It's not even an active decision for him, it's just how it is. To think it isn't the same for Pettigrew — that his friend let James and Lily be killed to save his own skin — there is little Sirius hates more than that. If Voldemort comes after you, Sirius sees no other option but to die to protect your friends.

Like, fandom likes to talk about secondary houses and stuff, Sirius' second choice house would be fucking Hufflepuff. His loyalty and how all-encompassing it is, is such a big part of his character. Loyalty motivates him to do almost everything he does. He breaks out of Azkaban to protect Harry:

“But then I saw Peter in that picture . . . I realized he was at Hogwarts with Harry . . . perfectly positioned to act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side was gathering strength again. . . .” [...] “So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one who knew Peter was still alive. . . .” [...] “It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and the dementors couldn’t destroy it. . . . It wasn’t a happy feeling . . . it was an obsession . . . but it gave me strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as a dog. . . . It’s so much harder for them to sense animal emotions that they were confused. . . . I was thin, very thin . . . thin enough to slip through the bars. . . . I swam as a dog back to the mainland. . . . I journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest ever since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry. . . .”

(PoA)

He stays in a cave and eats rats so he could be close by if Harry needed him during the tournament:

Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the bundle of chicken legs and bread. “Thanks,” said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.”

(GoF)

The original plan with the Secret Keeper was for Sirius to be the decoy. So, Voldemort would go after him and kill him, but James, Lily, and Harry would be safe. Sirius planned to die to keep the Potters safe:

“Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was the perfect plan . . . a bluff. . . . Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use a weak, talentless thing like you. . . . It must have been the finest moment of your miserable life, telling Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.”

(PoA)

He goes back to a childhood home he hates and lets the Order invade his privacy in a way that clearly strains on his mental state because he knows it'll help protect Harry. Sirius wants to be of use and of help to the people he cares about so fucking much:

“Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ house,” said Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.” Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded.

(OotP)

So, of course, he goes after Pettigrew to avenge James and Lily. His friends are dead, Voldemort is dead, Harry is safe, the only useful thing left for him to do is punish the traitor:

...but it was the other way around, don’t you see? Peter betrayed your mother and father — Sirius tracked Peter down —” [...] “Harry . . . I as good as killed them,” he croaked. “I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret-Keeper instead of me. . . . I’m to blame, I know it. . . . The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies . . . I realized what Peter must’ve done . . . what I’d done. . . .”

(PoA)

It's how his loyalty is.

It's such a major aspect of his character that is consistently a huge motivation for him.

I think it's telling his Animagus form is a dog — the animal most renowned for its loyalty.

So, yeah, I think it's 100% in character. It's reckless, as Sirius often is for his own safety. And it's out of Sirius' sense of loyalty that Peter betrayed. Sirius hates Peter at that moment more than he ever hated anyone probably. Because Peter abandoned his friends. Becouse he sinned against Sirius' highest value — loyalty.

Sirius holds everyone else to his own standard of loyalty, as well. He likes Ron and Hermione because they were willing to die for Harry in PoA and Sirius respects that immensely. Becouse to him it's obvious you should be willing to die for your friends. It's what you do.

Add to that the raw emotions of just losing his two best friends, the end of the war, the betrayal at the moment, the guilt he feels even during the events of the books for his part in it (for suggesting Peter) — and you have a Sirius who'd probably be willing to harm other people (and himself) on his way if he got to kill Peter.

So, it's actually very in line with the type of behavior we see from Sirius. The only situation in which he wouldn't have gone after Peter is if no one was there to take Harry and then Harry would be at risk if Sirius left. Becouse in general, with Sirius' morals (loyalty above all else) and emotions at the moment, he would always go after the traitor if he could.

[pureshoney]

knows that ainsley didn't grow up with religion and even knows she's not religious, but there's still something about hearing her choose him over god that blows his ego through the fucking roof. if he were a cartoon, he'd develop one of those bobbleheads that tilt to the side because it'd gotten too big for his shoulders. "god … you drive me fuckin' crazy, ainsley. you're gonna choose me over the almighty god?" words come out laced with a guttural groan; he can't lose her. thinks he would go fucking insane should she ever choose to leave him. "maybe you're right, princess. maybe god should just let the devil get to you …" he was captivated by the shadows in her soul that she dared to reveal only to him - the fierce intensity beneath her gentle exterior, the delicious darkness behind her bright smile. something was intoxicating about being trusted with these hidden facets of her nature. he cherished how she felt safe enough to show him her untamed thoughts, her raw emotions, the passionate fire she usually kept carefully contained. when she revealed these more profound layers of herself, it only made her more mesmerizing to him. not just the polished surface she showed the world. "was that meant to rile me up, baby? they can look all they fuckin' want … i know my girl is a head turner; they just can't touch," abel wasn't an insecure man by any means. knew the challenges of dating a woman as beautiful as ainsley, including the potential for other men to boggle their eyes in her direction, but it never bothered him. at the end of the day, he got to wrap his arm around that slender waist. it was him that got to take her home, pull up that tiny dress and bury his cock deep inside that waiting cunt. "why would i pull over to fuck you in the car, princess? you could always just climb into my lap while i drive and ride me as i take us down the freeway. you like the idea of that?" tattooed hand palms at her ass, spreading her cheeks wide so he could get a better view at her puckered hole. "i can hear it, baby. i can fuckin' feel it …" she was so damn wet her juices were beginning to coat and drip down his balls. "don't think you've ever been this wet. what is it about today, huh? you like knowing we're doing something we shouldn't be doing? naughty fuckin' girl …" his thumb presses against her asshole, smearing his saliva into a filthy mess. "since you asked so nicely, i'll spit in your mouth, princess." suck his cum out of her used-up pussy only so they could spit and swap it back and forth between their mouth until it disappears into nothing, his cock twitches with each thrust into her. sound of their skin slapping is obnoxious but he fucking adores it anyways. "i think they'd love it, baby. they're all gonna think you're so damn pretty."

ainsley couldn't imagine what pathetic chaos her life would reduce to if abel suddenly decided to stay away from her, in the past he's tried to emotionally distance himself from her and they both knew how that turned out. "then god will never love me, will he? because there's no fucking chance i'm ever going to be able to stay away from you abel", something tied them together, a chain made of the blackest diamonds that couldn't be broken and she would love for god to try. "god shouldn't waste his time on helpless cases like me, should he? i can try and repent but ... but i'll just be worse afterwards." abel indulges the darker side of her, pieces of herself that she had never shown another person, it was abundantly clear to the femme that heaven was not a place she was going to visit. "mm, tight little dress i can't even bend down in. might catch the attention of other men too, me waiting on the corner for you like that", redhead taunts, as if any other man could catch her eye when she had him. everyone else fades in to the background, completely indistinguishable from one another because they aren't him. "would you fuck me in your car, daddy? pull over in to an empty parking lot and take me in the backseat?" knows how he adores dressing her, picking out the sluttiest of clothing only for him to turn it in to scrap the moment he lays eyes on her. "s'so fucking good, daddy ... can you hear how wet i am? fuck." each thrust into her dripping heat sends ainsley further down that spiral, the intense urge to please her man in every single way tonight. the church will be stained by them before the sun rises. hardened nipples rub against the cold floor as her cunt squeezes around his fat cock, sweat beading at her temples as he praises her. she lives for it, being called his princess, his good girl. she might be a needy whore but she was his. hot saliva coating the tightest of her holes makes ainsley whine, an elongated sound that portrays just how much she loves when he stimulates her that way — when he acknowledges how filthy she is. "please daddy, please spit in m — my mouth, fuck i want it ... " the space around them may have been chilled from the night but ainsley feels like a furnace, as if the pair are creating their own sordid source of heat. "sc — scoop your cum out and feed it to me, daddy. sp — spit it into my mouth." she's almost delirious, those swipes to her clit combined with how harshly his dick enters her is mind bending. "think they'd like that, hm? me filled with god ... dripping with him." she's so close, stomach tightening and chest constricting, but she doesn't want it to end — doesn't want abel to stop using her, degrading her in the most perfect of ways.

[myoonmii]

I keep thinking about Merlin’s love for Arthur and how it’s so clearly portrayed in the show to the point that it practically drives the plot of the show. However when it comes to Arthur’s love for Merlin it’s more subtle and sometimes difficult to even grasp, and I started thinking why that was, aside from the obvious fact that Arthur has a lot of trouble expressing his emotions affection or otherwise. I think it also lies in the fact that Merlin knows Arthur intrinsically throughout the show; he is one of the closest people to Arthur, and sees him for who he really is. Arthur admits as much.

Sure, Arthur knows Merlin but the main part of the plot is that he really doesn't know Merlin. Merlin wants him to desperately understand him and “see me for who I am” but he can't yet. And I think this subconsciously creates a barrier in the way in which Arthur can care for Merlin, and how Merlin can let himself be seen by Arthur.

Which is why I think he was also so hurt when the magic reveal happens because more than the betrayal of Merlin having magic, it was the betrayal of Merlin not letting Arthur see him for who he really is and for hiding a main part of himself. Arthur says it himself “why did you never tell me” that’s what hurt him the most.

I think the most damning piece of evidence for this is the fact that while we see snippets of Arthur’s feelings for Merlin thought the show, the biggest signs are in the last episode after the magic reveal; in which he finally gets to understand Merlin, and this time REALLY know Merlin, and as the barriers of what held them back from understanding each other truly fall away, Arthur evidently “falls in love with Merlin all over again”. We see him actually express himself to Merlin.

This is another reason why I think if anyone was ever to create another season of Merlin after Arthur’s return, it’s physically impossible not to make it about Merlin and Arthur acknowledging their feelings for each other. Because there is no way forward without them acknowledging how deeply they care for each other, obviously anyone is free to argue what kind of love that is, but its impossible not to see the deep love there either way.

They always knew they loved each other, just maybe never realising how much and what that means, because its almost second nature to everything that they do.

[deadchannelradio]

my fanfiction abortion morgue is gaining another jayroy victim that is not long enough to clean up for ao3. this was going to be a very long and meandering noodle about in the river that is jason's mental health and trauma and relationships of all types and healing and the asexual/aromantic spectrum (not that that's the verbage jason would use or language hes even aware of) and low sex drives all that beautiful muck and mire but i have not put a single word on it in well over a year now. so i'm letting her go. be free little fish.

-

They’re better now, anyways, better than they ever were before. Jason had a crisis a few months back, stopping himself from reaching reflexively for his phone to give Dick a call about- nothing important. And then he had realized that he had reflexively gone to call Dick about nothing important, and had gone and stared out the window for 15 minutes, trying to work himself into a different, less horrifying conclusion than the one gathering in his brain like an avalanche. Roy had come home in the middle of it, taken one look at his face and dropped his bag on the floor with a thunk.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Who died?”

“I like him,” Jason said, somewhere between incredulous and horrified. “That cunt, that motherfucker- he made me actually like him-,”

“Who?”

“Dick!” Jason had shouted. “That piece of shit, I want to spend time with him, hours out of my actual human life that I can’t get back-,”

Roy had proceeded to laugh in his face for a solid ten minutes, positively gleeful about Jason’s horrible emotional crisis. “He does that to you, man,” he said once they’d settled in, still chuckling as he cracked open a can of soda, posted up on their couch with Ethiopian takeout in his lap. “One minute you’re sitting there thinking oh my god, this guy, he’s so loud and annoying-,”

“And he never fuckin’ stops moving,” Jason groaned from his spot laying on the floor below him. “His body or his mouth. And he chews loud, he’s obnoxious on purpose, and he’s a model and dated Kory but half the time he dresses like something a goodwill dumpster threw up-,”

“Have you seen his new shoes?” Roy asked. “I dress like dogshit, man, but those things-,”

“Wally got them for him,” Jason said, and then immediately slapped his hands over his face, horrified that he knew that. Roy laughed again. “He’s constantly in your fuckin’ business! Constantly! Last time I saw him he knew the social security numbers of the baristas in the coffee shop I’d been going to-,”

“He gets enabled,” Roy muttered, shoveling injera into his mouth.

“He gets enabled!” Jason said. “Everyone enables him! I enable him! And god, his fucking- puns, man, his quips, we’re all guilty of it but this is a fight, not comedy hour, and even if it was you’d get booed off the stage-,”

“He texted me what he said to Mr. Freeze two weeks ago and I wanted to eat my phone,” Roy said. “It’s amazing no villains kill themselves after he hands their asses to them, I would be humiliated.”

“He sucks!” Jason snapped. 

“He sucks,” Roy agreed. “And then you look around one day at your life-,”

“And you go oh shit, I think this motherfucker’s alright!” Jason mimed hitting himself in the face with Roy’s abandoned house slipper. “Fuck! What’s fucking wrong with me?”

Roy laughed at him, again. “Dick Grayson Derangement Syndrome gets us all in the end,” he said. Jason curled a hand around his bare ankle, and Roy looked down to smile at him, the smallest touch making his whole face bloom open like a rose. Jason had to look away from it, wanting to say: stop. No. You know I’m not enough. You know I’m not like you. You know I can’t give you enough.

He’s been wanting to say that a lot, these days. Toss Roy off the sinking ship with a lifeboat before he has to wake up one day, years on, and realize he’s wasted years with Jason, who can’t love that loud.

He wanted to call Dick about it, which was another horrible realization. Hi big bird, I’m having boy problems. Dick would probably tell him that it means more that Jason has to try, that wanting to try for it is selfless, makes it more significant, which is the kind of thinking that lands a motherfucker in bed with Barbara Gordon, who is enough like Jason to warrant a comparison, but not enough to call her and ask what he should do. Babs loves like the Bolton Strid, and sometimes Jason isn’t sure he loves at all. Not like that.

Jason isn’t nearly as selfless as Dick is convinced he is, not deep down. Because he doesn’t want to let Roy go at all.

It’s late, well into the witching hours, and they’re laying in bed in what was formerly Roy’s bedroom but now holds them both, blinds cracked to let the streetlights through. Jason doesn’t like the dark. Roy’s threatening to buy an eyemask. Jason thinks it’s stupid to blind yourself to potential attackers. Neither of them have brought up going back to sleeping separately. Roy’s nose is pressed between Jason’s shoulder blades, breath humid through his shirt. Not asleep yet, but close. Jason’s books are proliferating on Roy’s shelves, his boxers in Roy’s laundry basket, garrotte wires coiled next to bow strings on the desk that has framed photos, past-Jason’s mouth a little white slash in the bar of orange streetlamp.

Something is clawing at the inside of Jason’s chest, scrabbling like a wild little animal. Trying to dig its way through his spine, into Roy. It hurts.

He shifts, turns over, pushes Roy over onto his back and rolls on top of him, propped up on his elbows to look down at him. Roy grunts, half-awake and confused, but takes his weight. He blinks blearily up at Jason, a crease between his eyebrows- Jason must look intense right now. “Jaybird?” he starts, quiet.

Jason knows this feeling- as all-consuming as it is- is fleeting. It’ll be gone in the morning, and he’ll forget it was ever here. He won’t be able to recall its bite until it comes back around again, like Halley’s comet. He should say something now, while he has it. While he feels it. So Roy can know it’s real. He just doesn’t know how to describe it.

“Jase,” Roy says, sounding more concerned, “Jason, what’s-,”

“Something in here,” Jason interrupts, putting a hand on his own chest, a thudding sound of muscle on muscle, “Wants to eat you.” God, he feels dumb. He’s not good at this, he sounds so much better in his head. His words come out of his mouth sour and curdled and stupid, there’s a reason he doesn’t try to talk about this shit-

Roy lights up, slow at first, then all at once, his face creasing up in his smile like old paper, following familiar folds. Jason feels his toes curl next to his calves, his feet pointing and flexing in excitement. Jason wishes he could make himself smile back, anything other than the dead-eyed concentration he knows he’s wearing right now, but the weight in his ribs is too real and too wild for that- if his teeth come out this might get literal. He wants to crack open Roy’s sternum with his bare hands, climb in like a contortionist and slam it shut behind him.

“Really?” Roy asks, small and soft and giddy. Jason nods, serious. Roy’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, smiling so wide his nose is wrinkling up, little inky lines in the artificial twilight. “Cool,” he says. 

Jason’s hands spasm in the sheets next to Roy’s head. “Roy,” he starts, “Can I-,” stops. Doesn’t know what he wants. Maybe just to look at him until the sun comes up, just to watch the light turn his freckles from a smear in the dim to pinprick-sized marigolds. Maybe to go to sleep on him like this, the thunder of his heart under Jason’s cheek. Maybe he wants everything. Maybe he wants to be the greediest son of a bitch in Gotham. 

“You can do anything,” Roy promises, and the sincerity in his voice makes the thing chewing on Jason’s lungs shake. “Anything you want. I’ll let you do everything.”

Jason drops his head against Roy’s chest with a grunt like he’s just been punched, unable to choke it back. He pushes himself up- Roy makes a quiet, sad noise, grabbing for him- and fumbles the bedside lamp on. He wants to see everything. Roy’s pupils are huge, even in the light he’s flinching from, irises that strange half-color, too dark for blue or green and too flat for hazel and too light to be brown. His cowlick’s sending his hair in every direction at the left temple, and he’s still smiling at Jason, like he can’t help it. Jason doesn’t know what to do, now that he’s here. A restaurant with an infinite menu. What he wants is strange, probably. Not how normal people want things, not what they want. Jason is off-putting, sometimes on purpose, frequently not, and he doesn’t know how this will come across. But Roy said he could have anything. Whatever he wanted. Giving up all of himself, for nothing. For free. 

Jason should take it. Roy will stop him, if he needs it. He puts his mouth on the cowlick, not a kiss, tucks his nose into Roy’s hair and breathes in deep. The nothing-smell of hair that’s not clean but not dirty. Roy’s hands are pressing into his lats, his legs spreading and crossing behind Jason’s thighs, holding him there. Jason curls both his hands around Roy’s skull, presses gently, cradling his head- all of Roy is in there, somehow, and he needs to be careful with it. His skull feels too small to hold something so important, too fragile. 

Jason drags his thumbs over his eyebrows, presses a thumbnail into the scar bisecting the left one- string snap, Roy told him, nearly took that eye out. Roy’s looking up at him still, and they’re close enough that Jason could count his eyelashes, if he wanted. He runs his fingers over Roy’s ears, feeling the cartilage, gently pinches the flesh of his earlobe, over the hole where he used to have gauges. He moves down to Roy’s neck, puts his hands around his throat, doesn’t squeeze. He feels it when Roy’s breath hitches. Roy shuts his eyes, swallows, his Adam's apple moving under Jason’s palms. 

Jason bites him where his neck meets his shoulder, hard. He thinks about being normal, trying to make it a hickey- but Roy jerks hard beneath him with a strangled noise and that thing in Jason’s chest makes him hold that position until Roy stops moving, until the bolt of his jaw aches. He lets go, spit shining around the deep purple indents in Roy’s skin. Roy lets out a shaking breath, eyes still shut.

Roy already knows he’s an inscrutable freak, Jason decides. He’s going to do everything he’s ever looked at Roy and thought about doing, everything he thought might be weird that he’s ever refrained from. Roy won’t run.

If he does, well. Jason will chase him. Roy is the one who said he was locking Jason down, said nobody in or out. He can’t get too mad if Jason takes him up on it.

He presses his nose near Roy’s armpit. The sharp, live smell of his sweat in Jason’s lungs, muted by whatever axe deodorant he uses that always makes Jason think of a cold wet morning. He rubs his mouth over Roy’s deltoid, teeth dragging. Jason pushes up and kneels with his thighs on either side of Roy’s torso, picks up an arm, runs his hands over Roy’s bicep, digs his thumbs into his elbow. Puts Roy’s thumb in his mouth, tastes skin and salt, bites the draw calluses on his fingers, gentle. Does the other arm too, to keep it even. Roy’s breathing slow and even, looking at Jason again as he shoves his mouth into Roy’s wrist until he can feel the pulse against his lower lip. Roy’s trying to caress his face with that hand, can’t quite manage more than a brush of his fingertips against Jason’s ear. 

Jason knows what he should say here. What he hasn’t been saying, because he knows it’s not the same as how Roy will say it, thinking that it will somehow be a lie because the meaning’s different. But it’s words, which are only stories. There is nothing in a story that is a lie, and no analysis that is wrong, with supporting evidence. Which Jason has, which Jason has always had. Roy at his right shoulder. Never wanting anyone else at his back. Saying to Dick: if there wasn’t Roy, there wouldn’t be anybody. The way they keep finding each other at the lowest of lows, facedown in bottles or looking down barrels of guns to see if they can spot the bullet. Standing there feeling stupid in the holes they’ve dug, pickaxes in hand, before turning and finding the other, just as deep as they are. Saying: gimme a boost and I’ll give you a hand.

Even if he doesn’t mean it in the same way, he means it. I want you, I want you, I want you. The inflection changes the meaning, but only by the barest degrees. 

“I love you,” Jason says, and he’s not lying, because he means them, even if it’s not always how he thinks he should.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[shannonsketches]

I grabbed a bunch of caps for that last post so here's a few more in my favorite genre of bejíta

[skrunksthatwunk]

landing

[extravagav]

AND WE JUST DONT TALK ABOUT THIS?!?!?!!????

[loving-jack-kelly]

something something jack and davey both thinking they were acts of service love language types because they were both so deeply insecure in themselves that they needed to feel useful to feel loved. and something something both of them finding for the first time with each other that they don't need to provide utility to be loved. and something something this spilling out into the rest of their lives as they make each other better and push each other to grow.

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Okay but forreal, now more than ever I desperately NEED Aya to eventually wreck Fyodor's shit somehow. I already wanted her to get her revenge before, but I didn't think Fyodor would even remember or know who she was, and would massively underestimate her for that reason (just like Jouno knew that Fukuchi would underestimate her). But now the story has instead created this twisted, fucked-up dynamic between them, where Fyodor not only knows her, but is protective of her for reasons that are not his own: he has taken the pure, noble, kind, fatherly love motivating Bram to protect Aya and warped it into something horrific, vowing to protect her body only while not caring how much her heart and mind has been scarred, and claiming to be doing it for her own salvation, when he cannot possibly understand the selfless feelings Bram had that made him want to protect her and care for her — feelings that he does not have. He may genuinely have some sort of affection for children (the way he treated Karma, "blessings for the children", this), but it is twisted and hollow and is quite possibly only him unconsciously acting out the motions due to behavior instilled in him from the feelings of all the people he's subsumed in the past.

All this is to say that, now the narrative has specifically pitted Aya and Fyodor together as direct enemies: she not only had reason already to hate him because he killed Bram, but because he's also taken Bram's love for her and defiled it, dishonored it and him and all that he was; meanwhile, Fyodor has given himself an arch nemesis that he no doubt takes great pleasure in seeing how much she hates him/how much despair he's brought her, but paradoxically at the same time feels a compulsion to "protect" her that draws himself to her and that he can't ignore. Aya has to defeat him somehow (not permanently, mind you; Dazai will undoubtedly be his final end), and the setup for Bram being able to fight back enough to stop Fyodor from the inside with her help is all right there, too. Their love for each other is still enduring, stronger than ever, Fyodor is proof of that right now, and they will be able to defeat him together, at least enough that Bram can be freed and come back to Aya. Dazai told Fyodor that he would lose because he doesn't understand and underestimates the power of friendship bonds and love, and there is no better a time for that to happen than here, when he is literally using someone's strong love for and connection with someone (acting as that person and claiming to know how they feel and to be the same as them) in a way that he cannot understand, which will be his undoing.

[c-kiddo]

↖️ it became unwell thinking about calliope and caduceus again . that one like 6 minute conversation in ep 130 . deeply unwell from it . when caduceus told calliope: "I don't think I'm coming back. And I'm not okay with it, but I'm making peace with it. If there's a way for my body to get back here, I'd be very grateful, but there's every possibility that that won't happen. I'd like my name somewhere if I'm-- if there's nothing to bring back. That would be a comfort." and also "And I want you to take care of everybody. And especially, I want to make sure you take care of yourself, and don't, don't get locked up here on my account. Your job is to get everyone situated and then make sure that you find whatever destiny you're supposed to have. I don't think you're supposed to be here. Not forever."

[lemon-wedges]

...

[kaiser1ns]

OMG GUYS THEY FINALLY UPDATED THE WINDBREAKER WIKI YAYY I HAVE BEEN WAITING!

Chika is 183 cm tall 🎀 Hmmm cute mmmmm 🎀 Having a description of his personality won't stop me from writing fluffy things about him, nuh uh, he is going to show his more 'human' side to you and only you. I said what i said :3

[nyxi-pixie]

on a more srs note asagiri making fyodors pitfall not understanding emotional motivation properly is very dear to me in this era of loser men idolising being a super genius who equates optimal logic to the total disregard of emotion

like at evry point dazai one upped him its just cos he can work with people and understands emotional connection better (knowing tachihara had more loyalty to the pm than to the hunting dogs [or at least to their ideals] for example and being able to put every inch of his trust in chuuya saving his ass for the 58284892nd time while fyodor is busy assuming they have a shallow bond😭).

[batsplat]

maybe it's from the particularly acute disappointment of marc injuring himself at the sachsenring but this weekend (so far) has made me feel incredibly nervous for marc's future. like no guarantees of course but if marc was going to win anywhere this year (when the gap between the gp23 and gp24 is increasingly obvious, as you mentioned) it was going to be here. and i'm definitely overreacting because i'm emotional about it but it feels like him hurting himself here feels like a bad sign not just for this year but for the future at large. because it's a reminder that his body can't handle the riding style that used to take him so far. scary!

taking these two together ahahaa. this is truly the life of a sports fan huh

honestly with marc I've now swung so often and so far between 'it's so over' and 'we've never been more back' that I've gotten to an exciting point of. well. I suppose we'll have to see. I mean look, back in that jerez to catalunya stretch it did look like he might be able to be a serious title contender this season. at risk of making myself look like an idiot, I think we can pretty safely conclude that's not happening this year. but y'know, broadly what he needs to do is to figure his shit out for the rest of the year... like he kinda needs to just understand what this version of him can do under what circumstances. the thing about winning is that it's also a habit, it's something that becomes essentially muscle memory, you need to kinda have that reflexive understanding of how you've done it in the past - both in the context of races and titles. and it's still in there for him!! but he's just got to... take the rest of the season to chip away at the gap. currently, pecco and jorge don't just have the edge on him in pace, they have the edge on him in process. that's not just the bike, though it is also affected by marc being less familiar with the ducati. but pecco and jorge have just kind of gotten to the point where they know how to approach most weekends in a way where, more often or not, they will kinda maximise what was on offer for them that weekend. sometimes they chuck it down the road! but in terms of pure pace potential, right now they're getting to the point where they're there. marc is just a series of 'what ifs'. they're not all his fault, he's gotten unlucky, he's in a tough situation, he's still getting used to the new tracks on a ducati etc etc etc... but that's what this year is for. figure out the process, figure out how you actually go about getting wins in the current era - keeping your physical condition in mind - and take it from there

the physical stuff is the... yeah. the thing is, I do think he is capable of winning without all this crashing to figure out the limit. honestly, this approach of his made me deeply uneasy well well before what happened at jerez 2020. that injury and aborted comeback didn't feel like a fluke, it didn't feel like bad luck - in an awful way, it did feel like it had been a long time coming. that being said... well, y'know, marc was the only one who could win titles on the late 2010s honda, and part of the reason for that was that he figured out how to get a capricious bike just to the limit during races. you do not need to chuck the bike down the road fifty times per season to win the title on the ducati. pecco and jorge have very much shown that. sometimes it will just be dumb luck who gets injured or not! the sachsenring crash yesterday you can't really put down to marc being stupid or being irresponsible. he was hardly the only one who fell, weather conditions were tricky, shit does happen (not ideal that he tried to save the crash specifically because he knew his other bike had problems, plus the thing where he went out again before going to the medical centre, mind you). sometimes you fall a lot and you're fine, like marc for most of his prime. sometimes you crash at the start of the race and fall in front of the pack and your survival is up to fate. which is of course what happened last year to pecco, still one of the scariest crashes I've ever seen live in terms of crashes where you really do think you just got very very close to watching someone be killed in real time. this is the thing, right... at the end of the day, you can hope that marc finds an approach that relatively minimises the risk to his body - but also, you can only control so much. especially with where his body is at right now, there's only so many bad knocks you can take. you never know, you can only hope

overall, I have been thinking for a while that it's almost a bit... odd? how the physical stuff hasn't really featured at all in 2025-26 hot takes? I reckon people don't really want to think about it playing a big role, and also I suppose 'well one of them could get injured' is treated as just an underlying assumption of following motorcycle racing... but like we saw with catalunya last year, it's not just stuff that takes you out for ten races that can have big title race repercussions. especially given how marc traditionally went about winning titles, how big a part of that process it was for him. we've had such an incredible lucky streak from the start of the season until mugello that being afraid of injuries has almost... receded a little bit? in everyone's minds? after last year, in particular, where it just felt like you were always worrying about someone, it was just so relentless... and now injury worries have just come back with a vengeance these last few weeks and it is a little scary. a lot of this is scary. no real escaping it I'm afraid

but yes! anon! I agree with you! we'll get back to the smile and we'll get back to the optimism too.. at the end of the day, you can only do what you can do. we'll see what happens. if we're all massively underestimating just how much that sweet red bull cash can do and ktm comes out with a rocket ship next year and pedro wins the next ten titles, so be it. you never know