#did you know that in his universe not only were utterances of any sort of deviation beyond the norm considered to be punishable by severe

[hiraethwrote]

NEVER GOT YOUR NAME

✧ pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader ✧ summary: based of this drabble — you're ex is borderline harassing you. he just will not leave you alone, and in a desperate attempt to get him off your back, you tell a little white lie. in panic, you grab the first stranger to walk by and introduce him as your date ✧ cw: fluff, light profanity, one little comment about previous sexual relationship, arguing, word vomit ngl (i'm describing too much sorry) pining, reader is smaller than satoru, mild use of petnames, no use of y/n ✧ word count: 3.5k

He was a menace. A true and genuine menace, who seemed to have some sort of natural ability in finding you, no matter where you were.

Maybe getting a restraining order was the next step — there was no way he managed to just randomly run into at the rate that he was, whether that was in the grocery store, the gas station or just on the street. No, he had to be stalking you, right? The universe wouldn’t be so cruel to give this guy, your god awful ex, the privilege of fulfilling his desires of bumping into you.

Yet, here you stood in front of him again.

His eyebrows pinched together, an innocent little smirk tilting his mouth crooked, feeding you the same lines he always did.

“Great seeing you again,” like you hadn’t ran into him not even three days ago. “You look fantastic, as always. How’ve you been, sweets?” Urgh, one of the many nicknames he had named you — your stomach turning at the sound of it. You were scared you might actually hurl.

“Stop calling me that,” you demanded, keeping your voice low. He always managed to bring your anger right to the surface, to which you had to use all your energy not to blow up in his face. It had already happened once, about two months after you broke up with him. You had raised your voice at him and lashed out, causing some random bystander to interfere — who had then proceed to take his side. Unbelievable, as if he wasn’t the one who had taken you for granted for the entirety of your relationship.

“Sorry, old habits die hard, you know.” So full of shit. You’d been broken up for months, there shouldn’t have been any problem dropping the pet names. He only did it as a tactic to try and manipulate you into his arms again. And to think you willingly used to sleep with this guy. “Since we’re both here, why don’t we grab lunch together?”

“Oh, please,” you breathed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“It’ll be good for us, sweets-“ don’t punch him, don’t punch him, don’t punch him. “Maybe we can talk some things-“

“I’m actually here on a date!”

Finally he shut up, only for his face to twist into an expression of pure disgust. It was clear the idea had never even crossed his mind — and you would have been able to enjoy his agony had it not been for the fact that it was a complete and utter lie, thrown out in a moment of desperation.

What were you to do when your ex decided to wait around for your date to arrive, and he never showed? You could already picture his face — the patronising pity he would pay you, while you’d be able to read his satisfaction behind his eyes, as he would use it against you for months to come.

You had only bought yourself some time and you needed to think fast.

“Who? I mean, do I know them? Have you met them before?” He stuttered out questions of bewilderment as your limbs were growing ever more frantic at your side.

And then the bell above the entrance of the cafe chimed a sweet tune, eyes snapping towards the sound. “Ah, there he is!” Your arms acted on their own accord, hands grabbing onto the bicep of the person who had been so unfortunate to walk in right as you were spiralling.

Swallowing the worst of your anxiety, you dared turn your head towards the random person, hoping to god he wasn’t ugly (because that would just be yet another thing your ex would badger you about).

Due to his height, you had to angle your head more than expected to meet his piercing eyes that were ogling you with complete confusion — but you only had time to take in his appearance for a slit second before you shot him a pleading look, betting everything on the off chance that he would be able to read the situation — but also finding it in himself to play along to your little performance.

Your fingers squeezed lightly at his arm, bringing him back to reality. Then it only took him a second to make up his mind, the white haired stranger wiping off his confusion and confidently throwing his muscular arm across your shoulders. Once he turned to face your ex, he had painted his features with the smuggest grin one could imagine, revealing a charming dimple.

He tilted forward slightly, which only brought more attention to how much taller he was than your ex, and shot his hand out between them. “Satoru, pleasure to meet you.” His tone matched his expression, not a single speckle of insecurity to pick up on anywhere. Your ex stared at his hand with disdain before begrudgingly accepting the gesture and introducing himself in return. “Hm, don’t think she’s mentioned you.”

Your lips parted in surprise, not expecting this Satoru to take his role so seriously — and then put on an award winning show right off the bat, nonetheless. Was it finally your turn to be blessed by the universe with some good karma in the shape of the most perfect stranger to deal with the situation?

Turning to take a quick glance at your ex, you had to press your lips together to choke back the cackle that threatened to escape. His expression was priceless, Satoru’s innocent little comment rolling of his tongue so effortlessly, causing a slight twitch in your ex’s eye.

“Well, I’m her-“ then he cleared his throat, struggling to finish his sentence. You weren’t surprised his title died in his throat, having never really accepted the fact that the relationship with over.

“He’s my ex,” you said, finding some courage to casually place your hand on Satoru’s chest, hoping and begging you weren’t making him uncomfortable by crossing a line.

“Aaah, your ex,” this Satoru trialed off with an awkward raise of the eyebrows before he turned to look at you again. That’s when you finally got to take a proper look at his breathtaking eyes, the whole ocean trapped in his irises. But you couldn’t let yourself fall completely mesmerised — you shook off the affect his piercing eyes seemed to have. “Sorry I’m running a little late. I stopped by the bookstore down the street to see if they had that book you recommended on our first date.” Then he served you what seemed like a genuine smile.

Stop, not the time to admire the handsome stranger!

You bashfully tilted your head forward while the sweetest chuckle traveled past your lips, also having to sell the performance. “How sweet of you to remember.”

“Of course!” He smoothly removed his arm from your shoulder to slide it along your back, moving it in comforting circles — but he never let it travel too far.

Your ex had his glare glued to Satoru’s gesture, unable to look away no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Never got around to that one,” your ex said with an awkward, forced laugh in an attempt to shift the attention back to him. He probably thought he was being charming (he always thought he was), but his little comment only gave you another reminder to why you had broken up with him — he never cared about your interests, as he couldn’t be bothered to pick up your favourite book, no matter how many times you had asked him if he could at least give it a try.

“Huh, how unfortunate.” Again, your ex couldn’t conceal the little reaction Satoru caused in his face by his incredibly taunting tone.

He cleared his throat again, and you could see how he was grasping at straws trying to redeem himself. “So, what do you have planned?” It wasn’t too obvious, but you could tell — you could tell he asked as a challenge, certain your “date” wouldn’t be able to suffice an answer that would leave him satisfied.

You opened your mouth to answer, but only managed to take a breath before Satoru had already started his lengthy explanation. “Well, first I’m taking her out for lunch, obviously,” he mused, taking a quick glance around your surroundings. “And I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but I got us entrance tickets for the botanical garden uptown. She told me she’s been wanting to go for months.” Then he turned to look at you.

He said it with such a genuine smile painting the corner of his lips, both of you letting the eye contact linger for a second. For once you were thankful for your ex, because if it wasn’t for him drawing Satoru’s alluring eyes away, you were scared you might just have found yourself swooning a little.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” your ex chuckled in response with a nonchalant eye roll, “she might have mentioned it once or twice.”

“Hm,” Satoru huffed, sucking in his cheeks and eyeing him up and down

Pathetic was really the only word that Satoru would use to best describe the individual in front of him. He just seemed so puny, reeking of insecurity, only amplified by how he had so easily went along with the lie of a botanical garden — something Satoru had just pulled from the top of his head.

A huge, nervous lump traveled down his throat as Satoru held his gaze hostage, his dominant behaviour easily smothering any sprinkle of confidence your ex might have possessed at one point — all by just being there. And it was just so satisfying that it was finally your turn to watch your no-good ex being the one who was tormented for once.

“Well-“ his voice cracked the slightest, Satoru pursing his lips in amusement at the little slip, “I have to get going now. I’ll see you around,” stumbling over his words as his face shyly grew redder. Then he just turned on his heel and left, leaving no time for you to even say goodbye.

Satoru instantly felt your body relax at his side with a deep exhale, the hand that had shyly rested on his chest with modesty falling the second the door was shut — and once you took a step in front of him, he became hyper aware of how close to him you had been the entire time. With the sudden absence of your body next to his, he realised how perfectly you had just seemed to fit next to him. Nearly as if you had been made simply to be by his side.

And stood in front of him, he finally got the chance to take a look at you. A proper look at you, and damn, you were beautiful. Your eyes were kind, which amazed him considering the unpleasant encounter that had just taken place.

The chuckle you’d faked along with his act was still resting on your lips, but now it definitely seemed more real — warm.

“Thank you so much!” You gushed, “I am so sorry I just dragged you into that! I was panicking.”

Satoru watched intently as you spoke, unable to peer his eyes off you. His attention held on to every syllable, entirely captivated by your person, eyes roaming your face to take in every little detail there was to observe.

“Shit,” you suddenly interrupted yourself, taking a glance at your watch.

“I never caught-“

“I really wish I could stay and treat you for lunch, as thanks,” you cut him off, seemingly not even acknowledging how he had tried to speak, rummaging through your bag frantically before pulling out your wallet, “but because of him I’m running late. So, here, take this,” you chuckled lightly while stuffing his hands full of cash. “I really appreciate what you did!” Satoru was barely able to decode what you were saying as it all came tumbling out in one breath.

Continuing to spew a string of thank you’s, you quickly backed out of the cafe, his eyes following you as you jogged lightly down the street and out of sight.

Satoru was left utterly baffled, simply ogling the vacated spot you had occupied seconds ago.

Of all the times Satoru would end up tongue tied, this was the worst possible moment — he was cursing himself relentlessly for not being quick enough to demand a name, and now you were just gone, some random person he’d been lucky enough to cross paths with for a moment.

He knew he should just get on with his day — use the money you had gifted him and buy himself that sweet treat he wanted and forget about you. But he couldn’t — he wouldn't.

Had you just decided to walk into a random cafe you had just so happened to walk past that particular day?

Satoru certainly thought so. Because when he couldn’t rid you from his mind, he had gone back to that very same cafe, childlike optimism filling his body while he lingered the area, waiting for your figure to show.

It never did.

His patience quickly ran out, growing more restless every day that passed where he didn’t see you stroll down the street to return to the cafe to grab the lunch you never got to have.

He couldn’t let it rest in the hands of the universe any longer. After days of casually stalking the area, he decided to strut through the entrance of the building to simply ask.

“And how can I help you today, sir?” The sweet girl behind the counter mused, the perfect customer service smile greeting him as he leaned his entire weight in the edge of the counter.

“Hi there, remember me?”

He saw her shoulders rise slightly as she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t,” yet another polite smile.

“I was in here about three weeks ago. Was with this really pretty girl-“

“Sir,” she gently interrupted him, still the same smile on her face, “we see hundred of faces every day. We have no way of remembering them all.”

His head fell back dramatically, huffing in disappointment as his fingers flexed against the marble top. “Thanks, anyway,” he mumbled quietly, shuffling over to a secluded table in the corner, sulking in his lonesome while his eyes were locked on the door, still filled with a light glimmer of hope that you would show.

It became routine — sitting in the same corner in the back, ordering the same thing while he waited for three hours everyday before he eventually had to leave, with a heavy heart, to attend to his duties.

And if the nice barista didn’t recognise him before, she definitely did now, walking over to his table and serving him his plate with a sympathetic smile. “No show today either?” The most theatrical sigh would leave his lips every time she asked the question, sad puppy dog eyes on display as he shook his head. “Sorry, buddy.”

“It’s getting a little sad, don’t you think?” Her coworker would comment once she rejoined her behind the counter, both of them keeping an eye on him with pinched eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a little romantic.”

Then they would share a look, some judgement passing between their eyes before they burst into innocent laughter, wondering how long they would get to witness his yearning before he eventually gave up his dreams of finding you again.

For days, Satoru’s head would snap towards the door every time the tiny bell rang, witnessing all sorts of people come to enjoy a little treat but not a single one of them fit your description.

Maybe this was just too hopeless? Tokyo was the most populated city in the world — bumping into the same person twice was like finding a needle in a high stack. Scratch that, it was like finding a rice grain in the great Sahara desert. But he kept praying, hoping the universe would bless him with his desire.

It was a perfectly okay day.

The temperature was nice — higher than expected for a mid-fall day — but the weather wasn’t much to brag about. For the past week it had been raining. Not pouring, but a light, constant drizzle that tapped quietly against the cafe window as Satoru stared mindlessly out at the scenery of concrete buildings and trees changing colour.

There was only a single string of hope that kept him sitting in that chair day after day, but it was destined to break soon. His head didn’t even turn towards the door anymore when that little bell rang with the familiar chime. He simply rested his chin in the palm of his hand, giving all the responsibility back to the universe.

The familiar barista came to his table, picking up the plate littered with only crumps and not one, but two, empty coffee mugs (that had been more sugar than coffee).

“Same time tomorrow?” She asked sweetly, wiping the table clean while balancing the dishes in her other hand.

He instantly wiped away his disappointment, plastering on the most convincing smile he could muster as he turned to face her. “I don’t think so.” She stared wide eyed at him, mouth parted into a shy ‘o’, a little disappointed to see him finally give up, having started to root for him a long time ago. “You’ve had exceptional service,” he beamed from ear to ear as he got up from his chair, her eyes never leaving him as he stood to tower over her.

He gave her one last tight lipped smile as he passed her. “Goodbye,” she stuttered quietly, keeping her pitying gaze on him as he headed for the exit.

The bell rang one last time, and Satoru was a little relieved he wouldn’t have to hear the obnoxiously high-pitching ding again — his relief short lasted as he crashed into a figure smaller than himself the second he was about to exit.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching- well, if it isn’t my knight in shining armour!”

What were the chances?

After all those days — waiting, staring, stuffing his face with sweets — and to think he was just about to give up. Maybe the universe had finally decided to take pity on him, wanting to reward his patience.

You looked as breathtaking as the day you had desperately latched onto his arm — maybe even better. You seemed lighter almost, as if someone had lifted off pounds from your shoulders. Same kind eyes, but a sense of peace glossing over them instead of frustration.

“It’s you,” it fell from his lips involuntary.

“In the flesh,” you chuckled. The sweet, vibrating sound faded into a clear of the throat when Satoru only continued to ogle you without a word. “Oh, sorry, you were leaving-“ you stuttered, stepping aside to let him pass. You were left confused when he didn’t walk past you, but rather kept his glare on you.

“I never got your name.”

“Sorry?” You asked, his voice too quiet to pick up on.

The same smug grin you’d seen on his face so many weeks ago greeted you, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “I never got your name,” more assertive now that he had increased his volume.

“Oh,” you said shyly, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. Eyeing his attractive smile, you let your name roll off your tongue before mirroring his expression of happiness.

If it was even possible, his smile stretched even further across his face, the dimples you’d noticed last time appearing on each side of his face. “Nice to finally meet you. Properly this time.”

His natural charm just steamed off him in abundance, something you had only appreciated in glimpses in your stressed haze. “You too,” you smiled.

“I haven’t seen you here since that day.”

“Well, that’s because I haven’t been here since then,” you chucked nervously, glancing towards the register when you felt some interrogating eyes on you — both of the girls behind the counter wringing their heads away from you and Satoru. “My ex has had a tendency to linger in areas we ‘bump’ into each other,” you raise your fingers to gesture the quotation marks, “but I actually think meeting you might have scared him off for good. Haven’t seen him since, so thank you again.”

“Truly my pleasure,” he straightened his posture, his height growing even more impressive. He spoke your name, and despite not really knowing you, he said it with a tenderness your ex always lacked. “I was wondering,” he took a step closer, his eyes flittering between yours, “I owe you a trip to a botanical garden, don’t you think?”

Your breath instantly hitched in your throat, heat spreading modestly across your face.

Of course the handsome stranger who had come to your rescue in a moment of genuine despair had crossed your mind from time to time since then — you had just come to terms with the fact you would never be as lucky to cross paths with the polite stranger again. And the part of you that had been plagued with embarrassment was okay with that.

But the excitement in his eyes as he waited for you to answer slowly erased the uncomfortable feeling.

“Sure, I’d like that.”

tags (taglist form) @sad-darksoul ﾉ @05-simply-06-simping ﾉ @geniejunn ﾉ @alixris ﾉ @shadava

@gdamnackerman ﾉ @sunfl0werlevi ﾉ @gojonegs ﾉ @m0nsterzl0ve

@cupidxml ﾉ @lashaemorow ﾉ @cirquedelooney ﾉ @itsinherited

@elenor222 ﾉ @mima0127 ﾉ @lem-hhn ﾉ @mechanicalmari

a/n it's finally here and i think i'm happy with it... not entirely sure. think i've seen myself blind on this fic. however, thank you so much for the reception on the little drabble that took me literally ten minutes to write, hope this lives up to your expectations <3 likes, comments and reblogs is much appreciated

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[call-mi-jinx]

Theodore Nott X Reader - What of it?

warnings: the war did not happen, arguing, mentions of injury, mentions of hurting, slight hufflepuff hate, fluff

summary: you and theo were best friends. but when you both got accepted into hogwarts but sorted into different house. you made a promise to each other to stay together. after theo made new friends he broke his promise. now you and theo compete against each in quidditch and academically. until he badly hurts you in a match. will he change his ways? or stay the same person he now is?

Main Masterlist Theodore Nott Masterlist

a/n - this is based off of this ask, hope y'all enjoy becos i LUV this idea. ta ta my lovelies! xx

theodore nott x fem!reader

Nott and I had a history. We used to be best friends. Our houses were very close to each other growing up. And we were both accepted into Hogwarts when we were 11. He had run to my house and banged on the door 'til somebody answered to see if I had gotten a letter as well. We were so excited to go to school together. We hoped, prayed and begged that the universe would put us into the same house as soon as we were in the castle.

When Nott was placed in Slytherin and I was placed in Ravenclaw, we both promised each other we'd still hang out together every chance we could.

We both kept our promise. Until he became close friends with Malfoy. That's when the time he'd spend with me began to fade into less and less amounts. Until we never saw each other outside of lesson.

Now, I'm glad he didn't keep his promise. He's turned into a right dickhead ever since he became friends with Malfoy. We're in 7th year now, he hangs out with Malfoy and his lot. And I'm friends with the Weasley twins, Luna Lovegood and Delilah Halifax from my Quidditch team, we also share a room along with Luna. Although I only have 4 friends, I'm fine with it. I like when my circle is small.

It's lunchtime in the Great Hall and all of us are sat together. Although we're only supposed to sit at our House tables, the twins sit with me, Luna and Delilah at the Ravenclaw table. Delilah couldn't have lunch with us today, she decided to get some extra practice before the game later today.

"So Y/N, you ready to get beat at our Quidditch match on Friday?" I shake my head and laugh at Fred's cocky behaviour.

"That's if we beat Slytherin today first. So you should be the ones getting ready to lose cause Slytherin is an easy obstacle to get over." Fred and George mock fear and huddle together. That's until they both had disgusted looks on their faces.

I turned to see who they were giving dirty looks to, and it was perfectly understandable. It was Nott, Malfoy and Zabini. Nott and Malfoy had disgusted looks on their faces while Zabini didn't show any emotion at all. Sometimes I wondered if he was a robot.

"You seriously think you can beat us? We're ten times better than you even if we had only three people on our team." Malfoy laughs at us, Nott along with him. God, they were so annoying.

"That's rich seeing as you got beaten by Hufflepuff last month, and not to be rude to them but we know how bad they are." Malfoy and Nott stopped laughing. Obviously struck a nerve there.

"They cheated, of course they were going to beat us if they were cheating." Hufflepuff did not cheat baring in mind. Nott looked me up and down with utter distaste all over his face. I put my middle finger up at him and turned back to Fred and George.

"It doesn't matter who wins, it's just a game." Luna says to the Slytherin boys, trying to diffuse the situation. They look at her and burst out laughing.

"Oh pipe down Loony Lovegood, go chase some fargles or whatever you call them." Nott's words make Luna look down in embarrassment.

I stand up from the bench and get toe to toe with Nott. I was pissed. I'm fine him picking on me but when he picks on Luna. That's when I get pissed off.

"You better walk away Nott, or I swear to God." I looked at him with pure hate. My nostrils were flared, jaw and fists clenched, my back rigid, shoulders pulled back. He smirked then scoffed at me. What a prick.

"Come on, wasting our time on freaks like them." And with that, they turned away from us and walked to their table. I sat back down with Luna and the twins, and fake gagged.

"Cannot believe I used to be mates with him." The twins laughed while Luna smiled and then continued reading The Quibble.

"I can't either, you're the complete opposite of him. He's a massive dickhead, and you're not." I laughed at George's statement. But when I actually thought about it. I always wondered how and why he became like this. I mean, a lot can happen in 7 years but he changed drastically in the first year and has stayed the same since.

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It was 5 minutes before the match started between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. I was quite nervous, I really wanted to win this game. I had my broom in hand and was practicing my breathing techniques to calm me down. I felt a hand on my shoulder and it was Delilah, one of my closest friends on the Quidditch team.

"You're going to be amazing Y/N, don't freak out. You're literally one of our best players." I gave Delilah a tight lipped smile and that's when I heard the music, signaling for us all to come out and onto the pitch.

Ravenclaw flew up first and we all took positions, I was a beater. Then Slytherin followed and did the same, Nott was a beater as well. I just knew he'll try to pull the little trick he did our last match against each other.

Last match, he got one of the Slytherin girls to put a jinx on my broom, causing my broom to try and throw me off of it, but I had a firm grip and luckily I didn't go flying.

The whistle blew, starting the game. I still couldn't get control of my breathing, I don't know what was wrong with me today. I focused as much as I could.

The game was going quite well for us, the score was 50-30 to Ravenclaw. To put it simply we were winning. No one on our team had gotten hit by a bludger, pushed off their broomstick or anything like that. Yet.

I saw a bludger going straight towards Delilah so I flew over to her as fast as I could and successfully hit it in a different direction. She nodded her head at me with a smile but the smile soon turned to fear.

"Y/N! Look-" Before she could finish her sentence I was hit in the head very hard with something and was knocked clean out.

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

I wake up in the medical wing, I had no idea how I got here and looked around to see if I could ask anyone what happened. Until I saw the twins, practically running to my bed.

"Blimey Y/N we thought you had died. Took a right hit didn't you?" Fred said, with that cheeky smile he and George always have on their faces.

"Did Ravenclaw win?" Was the first thing I said. God I sound like a right weirdo only caring about a game. Fred and George laughed.

"Jesus Y/N, that's the first thing you think about when you wake up?" I gave George a look and Fred elbowed him slightly while trying to hold back a grin.

"But yes, you did win. And Ravenclaw beat Gryffindor as well." I was confused. It's past Friday? How long have I been out for?

"Wait... What even happened? And how long have I been out?" I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head and realised my arm was in a sling.

"Nott hit a bludger to the back of your head. You were out in seconds. Then you went falling and falling and then you hit the ground and you'd be able to hear the sound it made from Luna's house." George explained to me, my eyes widened. What the fuck? I get that Nott and I don't like each other but that is low, even for him.

"And you were out for about 2 weeks. You've never been hurt that long it was like a bloody coma." Fred piped up. He then paused, as if he wanted to say something.

"What? Tell me." George and Fred looked to each other, silently asking each other if they should tell me.

"Nott visited you every day after the match." They both answered in unison. I didn't know how to react. Why would he visit me?

"Did you ever ask him why?" They both shook their head 'no' in unison.

"Didn't want to get a bludger to the head like you did Trouble." Fred's words made me giggle. But the question always stuck in the back of my head for the rest of the day.

Why?

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It's been around three days since I woke up from my 'mini coma,' as the twins call it. Madame Pomfrey told me that I shouldn't go to Quidditch practice or move my arm until the potion she gave me wears off. Delilah checked up on me whenever she could though, she was very kind.

Luna has been by my side ever since I was allowed to go back to attending my lessons, said she "wanted to protect me." Bless her soul.

She was walking me to my potions lesson, which was second period, because she had a free period and had nothing else to do. While I was walking and checking my bag for everything I needed, she was skipping alongside me looking at the walls and everything around her. She was in her own little world.

When we finally got to the room I had to be in, dread filled my whole entire body. Snape had changed the seating plan and had placed me next to Nott. How wonderful.

I said bye to Luna and walked into the room, Nott was already there. And he was staring at me. God I really hope he doesn't take the piss cause after what he did I won't care that he visited me.

I sat down in my seat next to Nott and got my books and quill out. There was such an uncomfortable silence between us but I did not want to talk to him at all.

Snape began teaching his lesson like usual, until he said that we were making a potion. In the pairs we were placed in. Meaning I was paired with Nott. Could my day get any fucking worse?

We had to make a Wit-Sharpening potion. This is probably what I missed cause what the fuck even is that? And that is when I realised we had to talk to each other.

"You know what to do?" Nott finally piped up. Damn, didn't think he'd actually talk to me unless it was something rude.

"Not at all if I'm being honest." Nott nodded in response. I just stayed sat in my seat and let him make the potion, only passing him things if they were too far out of his reach.

The lesson went by quickly, thank God. And it was also break, so I'd be meeting the twins, Luna and Delilah in our usual spot at the courtyard.

When I reached the courtyard, all of them were already there and my usual seat on the bench was still vacant. Buzzing.

"Hey there girly." Delilah greeted me as she walked up to me and gave me a hug. We both pulled away at the same time.

"First day back going good?" My face answered her question. I looked exhausted and annoyed at the same time.

"Snape changed the seating plan so I have to sit next to the biggest dickhead I've ever had the displeasure of meeting." She immediately knew who it was and let out a slight chuckle.

We both then headed over to Luna and the twins and enjoyed our break. The twins were playing pranks on people, me and Delilah were talking about anything and everything, and Luna was reading an unnamed book. This is how we liked it. Although we were focused on different things, it was still spending time together.

Break then ended so we all had to go to our lessons. Luna and George had DAD, Delilah had Transfiguration, and me and Fred had a free period, luckily.

On our walk back to the courtyard, something popped into my head. And my first thought was to ask Fred.

"Why do you think Nott visited me? Do you think it's just because he felt bad?" Fred raised a brow at me, confused as to why I would even care.

"If you want to find that out, Trouble, you'll have to ask him for that. I groaned. I just wanted to find out without talking to him.

"Why do you want to know anyway? Think he likes you?" Fred gasped and put his hands on his mouth, when he finally took them off his mouth he asked, "Or do you like him?" I slapped Fred on the shoulder and gave him a dirty look. Of course I didn't like him, did I? All I think about is him, but only because he's a prick and all he does is be a dickhead towards me. That's what I told myself anyway.

"I don't know to be honest, it's just... In the past few years, he hasn't cared about a single thing I do. And now I find out he visited me every day while I was in the hospital wing." Fred nodded in understanding and we left it at that.

We finally made it back to the courtyard and sat down on our bench. But, as soon as me and Fred settled down in the courtyard after walking everyone to their lessons, Fred got called to Professor McGonagall's office. Great, he's going to be forever if it's McGonagall. Now I have to spend 2 hours on my own.

I thought I'd just walk around the castle and try and find a new place I haven't been to yet, but I've been everywhere we possibly could go when I used to skip lessons with the twins.

When I turned round a corner, I saw Nott, just leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. Gross. That's when Fred's words played back in my head. "You'll have to ask him for that." Maybe I should. Before I could even make a decision my feet were already walking me over to him.

He saw me, put out his cigarette, put his hands in his pockets then turned his body to face me fully.

"What? Want to argue with me bout some-" I cut him off before he could even say something snarky, which earned an annoyed look from him.

"Why did you visit me in the hospital wing?" His face went a shade lighter. He thought no one except Madame Pomfrey had seen him and he had asked her to keep it between them. Then he thought. The twins.

"What of it? It's a need to know basis anyway Y/L/N." With that he turned around and began to walk away. No. Now that I'm here, doing this, he is not walking away until I get an answer. I began to walk at a fast pace to keep up with him.

"Well I need to know, so tell me." It was hard trying to keep up with him, he had such big fucking strides it was hard to keep up.

"No. You don't." It went back and forth like this for around 3 minutes until I heard him groan and was then pushed into an empty classroom. He had locked the door when I had realised we were in a classroom and I was leaning against a desk.

"Why do you want to know so badly? This is the most you've talked to me in years and it's about me visiting you in the hospital wing?" I subconsciously scoffed. Why the fuck was he acting like I had been the cause for the end of our friendship?

"Well I'd have talked to you more if you had let me. But no, Theodore Nott is way too fucking good for me to speak to. You are the reason we stopped talking in 1st year. I tried and tried to keep our friendship, but you were too busy becoming bum buddies with fucking Malfoy. So just answer my fucking question so I can leave." Nott rolled his eyes at me, acting as if I had done something wrong.

"We are not bum buddies." I scoffed at him and raised a brow. I stepped away from the desk and took a step closer to him.

"That's all you got from what I said? God you really have fucking changed. Dickhead." Nott began to get pissed off. His eyebrows lowered and nostrils flared.

"Now just fucking tell me why you visited me." I kept repeating it to piss him off. He ran his hand over his face and looked like he was about to lose it.

"Fine!" His voice boomed throughout the classroom. I took a step back, my eyes wide. I had never heard him shout before.

"You want to know why I visited you? Because I care about you, more than you can imagine and I felt so fucking bad for hitting you with that bludger. I didn't even mean to! And before you ask how come I only just cared now I haven't stopped caring about you. Even when we weren't friends. And it's because I love you! I have ever since start of 1st year." What the fuck? My eyes widened even more and my jaw dropped. Well that was a bombshell and a half.

"I thought we hated each other. And why didn't you tell me this sooner?" Nott laughed, but had a sad look on his face. He took a few steps towards me, we were now toe to toe.

"Because I'd rather you hate me and talk to me, than for you to not talk to me or acknowledge me at all." I felt horrible. All these years. He hadn't hated me, but he had loved me instead. My heart shattered, I had never felt so horrible more than I do right now in my entire life.

"Oh Theo..." I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tight. I didn't know what else to do. He didn't reciprocate for a few seconds but then I felt him slowly start to hug me back. We stood like that for God knows how long.

We then both pulled away and just looked at each other. I had forgotten how beautiful he actually was. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue-grey. His hair fell perfectly on his face. His jawline had looked like it was carved by angels. He grew up to be bloody gorgeous.

"I'm sorry... Y/N..." Never in my whole entire life had I heard Theodore Nott apologise. Not once. And now the first time I hear it, it's to me.

"I wish you had told me sooner Theo..." My hands move from his neck to the sides of his face. He gave me a small smile and a slight chuckle.

"How could I have told you? I fucked it up for myself. Especially when I said all those things to your friends..." I rolled my eyes, he raised a brow at me in confusion.

"If you just apologise, and actually mean it, then I'm sure they'll forgive you. They don't hold grudges once someone has apologised and realised what they've done." Theo sighed with relief. He looked to the side, as if he was thinking proper hard.

"What?" His eyes come back straight to mine, his face looks like he wants to say something but doesn't know if he should or not.

"So what are we then?" The question took me aback. I didn't know how to answer that.

"Well... I don't know..." I paused, trying to make a plan in my head. "If anything can we just take it slow? Need to wrap my mind around all this." We both giggled. We both looked up to each other and just stared.

I felt myself moving closer to him, and I could see him doing the same. We both paused until our lips were centimetres apart.

"Fuck taking things slow." And with that our lips crashed together. His hands took place on my waist and he squeezed it. My hands were still on his face so I tried to pull him impossibly closer than he already was. My arm hurt slightly, even though Madame Pomfrey told me not to move it I ignored it anyway. The kiss was passionate, but soft at the same time. I think Theo couldn't decide whether to be gentle or not. We both pulled away for air, I opened my eyes and couldn't help but smile.

"I'm sorry Y/N/N, I mean it. I truly am." I hadn't heard that nickname in years. Only Theo used to call me that. It was reserved only for him, I told everyone else who used it the same.

"It's okay Theo, I was just as bad as you." We both laughed and then hugged each other.

Did not think my first day back would go like this.

[loveforsatoru]

Lots of things remind you of Satoru. The color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark. Quite frankly, everything reminds you of him. Wherever you look, he’d always be there. You love him so much it makes you sick.

He deserved it, though. He was a good man, the best you’ve ever known. The least anyone could give him was love– and god did you give him more than enough to satisfy his soul for this lifetime and the ones to come. Because he, for someone who often thought logically and did not put much attention onto what happens after death, always knew that he would be yours and you would be his, everywhere out there in this infinite universe, even if he cannot hold you in all of them.

Just like now as you stand over his grave with an emotionless face and tears running down your cheeks, an umbrella over your head to shield you from the pouring rain which mirrors your tears, reminding you that the world moves on despite your inability to do the same.

Your days have blended together like a never ending loop since his death. You live the same thing over and over and over. Grief, tears, mourning, sadness. You wish you could forget the image of his severed body laying on the ground, covered in blood. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just a bad dream and you’ll wake up soon, hopefully.

You’ve been standing here in the empty cemetery for hours. You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept, or uttered a single word. What’s the point? He’s not here to listen anymore.

You discard the umbrella, letting the rain soak you entirely, and sit in front of where he’s buried.

Satoru Gojo; loving teacher and husband. 1989-2018.

You gently trace your fingers over the engraved words, the same way you would over his cheeks when he’d come home from missions and fall right into your embrace– the place he always craved to be, where he should be right now.

During the entire fight, the only thing on his mind was you. You, you, you, you. And how badly he wanted to get it over with just so he could hold you and leave everything else behind.

He planned to retire after this final battle, so he could finally live a life of peace. Move away from Tokyo, perhaps to somewhere up in the countryside where the loudest sound in the morning would be that of chirping birds. He would go wherever the wind could take him as long as you were there, too. Without you, he’d feel like nothing.

It’s ironic, really. You’re the one who has to learn to live without him.

Part of you is expecting him to appear from thin air and wipe your tears away, telling you he’s here and he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

The final conversation with him was one you didn’t want to have. You waited outside the door while he spoke to Yuji, listening to every word before the younger boy left.

“Those kids won’t forget you, you know,” You say as you settle onto his lap and his hands find home on your waist.

“Yeah, but sometimes it feels that way,” He sighs, “Whatever happens, I’ll just have to accept it.”

You hum in response as he holds onto you a little tighter than usual and buries his face in your neck, drowning himself in you.

You let him do as he pleases, knowing you could never push him away even if you tried.

“You’re a little off,” You say softly. “Is everything okay?” You stare into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of warmth and reassurance amidst the clouds that swarm in them.

Of course it’s not. You can sense the little bit of doubt that radiates off of him. He wasn't the type to question his own abilities, but there’s a lot on the line, a lot to lose, a lot of you that he doesn’t want to let go of.

“You think so?” He tries to mask it with his usual tone. You can see right through it. “I’m a-okay. Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. You know me.”

“I do know you and that’s why I know you’re not a-okay. Talk to me, Satoru. Please.”

If this were any other day, he would, but it’s not. He just wants to hold and kiss you for as long as he can. He knows he might not be able to again.

“Let’s just stay here a little while. Forget about everything else for now,” He presses his lips against your temple and they linger for too long.

You huff in defeat and nod, because as much as you want to deny it, the impending feeling of doom won’t allow you.

“Okay.. but promise me you’ll be alright.”

It’s too much to ask for. He can’t make you a promise he can’t keep. You’re his wife, the love of his life. It would kill him even more to die knowing he broke the last promise he ever made you.

Instead, he pulls away to admire every detail of your face without a word.

“Promise me,” You repeat, “Promise me you’ll be okay, Satoru. I need to hear you say it.”

Your desperation is like a knife to his heart, but he can’t do that for you. This is the one thing he has to deny you no matter how badly he wants to bring you closer and say it’ll all be fine.

He hides his forming tears away with a chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it and kisses you like it’s the last time he will. It was. He remembers the way your lips taste even in death.

Sometimes, you can still hear his voice and the sound of his laughter rings in your ears. Nowadays, that’s the only thing that brings joy into your days. You don’t know yourself anymore. A part of you died with him and you’re afraid you’ll never be able to get it back.

You remember the way he smelt and the way his eyes would crinkle when he would smile a little too hard– mostly at you and your corny jokes that he found hilarious. The way he’d sing in the shower and hug you from behind before fully drying off while you prepared dinner because he knew it’d annoy you, but your scolds were never serious. He could tell with the way the corner of your lips threatened to curl upwards.

All of these cherished moments and many others have now become memories to remember him by. The day you forget any of it is the day you die, with your last request being to be buried right beside him.

Repeated sobs escape your once sealed shut lips. You cry and dig your hands into the muddy grass below you, clawing and clawing to seemingly reach the core of the earth and bring him back, but it won’t. Nothing will. You can’t do anything to bring him back and it rips you apart at the very center of your heart.

You’ll look for him in the skies, the wind, the trees, the color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark, and anything and everything else. Until one day, your time will also come and you’ll be reunited once again.

But for now, all you can do is cry. And you do, everyday without fail because any life would be better than one without him.

[glowinggator]

Prompt: Calling the Lackadaisy characters by their full name

A/N: University has been keeping me busy, and I've been in a bit of a writers block. So in the meantime, take this goofy little thing!

Includes: Rocky Rickaby/Reader Calvin "Freckle" McMurray/Reader Dorian "Zib" Zibowski/Reader Mordecai Heller/Reader Viktor Vasko/Reader Serafine Savoy/Reader Nicodeme "Nico" Savoy/Reader

Rocky Rickaby: 

Rocky's always pleased to hear his name fall from your lips… "Rocky Rickaby…" he loves to occupy your attention, and he's not above doing a silly trick here and there to get you to utter his name like that. But his given name? You can't even finish "Roark" before he's at your feet, begging for forgiveness. Queue the waterworks -- his muse, his winter sunshine, his summer breeze please, please forgive him. For he is naught but a mortal man, riddled with the propensity for mistakes, but is -- Hm?  The maple syrup is in the back of the pantry, yes. Yes, next to the peanut butter. -- is that not the natural state of such mortal endeavors? Surely, such a divine being must take pity on the folly of man!

He doesn't register that you were only playing with him. Or, maybe he's realized and is just committing to the bit. You'll never know. What you do know, however, is that you'll have him at your feet for the next hour or so. 

Calvin McMurray: 

Calvin, Cal, Freckle… Sweetheart, in private. McMurray, when you're teasing. Calvin really gets the gamut of names and nicknames when it comes to you. But when he hears his full name yelled out from the opposite end of the house, he's nothing if not panicked. The past two decades of Irish Catholicism really beats that into you. He rushes to your side, back straight, head down in silent apology for… whatever it is, that he did. 

"...Yes, dear?"

He has to bite his tongue a bit to not bring out any honorifics, but the message comes across just the same. There's only 2 times he uses "dear" as his go to-- 1.) In front of his mother, 2.) After he's done something he shouldn't. 

Decompresses instantaneously when you ask him to open the pickle jar. He exhales quietly, holding his hand out silently for the jar. His heart can't take this sort of thing. Don't do this to the poor man… too often. 

Dorian Zibowski:

Blinks owlishly when he hears his full name shouted out from across the house. If there's any way to sober Zib up… this is it. He's leaping to his feet in an instant, rushing to where you are… and slowing down when he's just out of sight. He smooths his fur and his clothes and takes a deep breath before waltzing calmly into your line of sight. Play it cool. 

"Funny way of pronouncing "Zibowski, doll. Need something?" 

He takes it in stride, but don't be fooled -- he's quaking in his boots, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He feels the weight lifted off his chest when you ask him to grab something from the top shelf, although you'd never know that. He does, however, press a lingering kiss to your temple after he passes the item off to you. Don't read into it too much. 

Mordecai Heller: 

He tears his eyes away from his book, glancing at you from over the rim of his teacup. "Yes?" 

He's truly unaffected. He's introduced by his first and last name all the time, and he was never scolded in such a manner as a child.  If you were looking for some outlandish reaction, all you've got is his quiet attention. And you might want to answer quickly -- he'd really like to finish this chapter tonight. This is quite a grueling read, you know. 

His true name, however, is a different story. But that's for entirely different reasons, and well, you wouldn't  know anything about that. Right? 

Viktor Vasko: 

Yet another one who is unaffected. He looms over you a bit -- which really, isn't unusual for him considering his stature -- humming questioningly.

He's a man of few words, and even fewer reactions. You've really gotta put some emotion in your voice if you want to get any sort of reaction out of him, and even then the most you're likely to get is a raised eyebrow… maybe a bit of a head tilt if you're lucky. And you can really only do this once -- he'll remember your little trick for next time. 

(If you really want to get a reaction out of him, use some sort of petname. He secretly finds them rather sweet, and the right one will force-reset his brain a bit the first few times you use it. )

Seraphine Savoy: 

Seraphine isn't unaffected by the use of her full name… rather, she revels in it. She's always enjoyed the flow of her name, but it always seems to fall from your lips like some goldly golden ichor. To call it heavenly would be a bit of a misnomer -- sinful, mayhaps? It's a difficult feeling to place, but she strides over to you confidently nonetheless. Her lips quirk up as she leans into your personal space.

"Yes, amou?"  

Nicodeme Savoy: 

Truthfully, he isn't the biggest fan of you calling him by his full name. Well, his full first name, anyways. Feels too stuffy, for his liking. But he takes it in stride, waltzing up to you lazily. He rests his arm on your shoulder and leans down to be eye-level with you, eyes half lidded with a grin. He throws your own full name right back at you teasingly. Need something?  Want him to grab something, or open a jar? Hm? 

His grin stretches a bit wider when you pout -- you really thought you'd get him this time, huh? He kisses you chastely, nipping at you softly in jest. Gotta try harder than that to shake him, bebe. 

[nariism]

the voice in my heart — i. sae

forced proximity + "oh no, the power went out, however will we stay warm?!" (/s)

synopsis. itoshi sae doesn't like how mushy you make him feel, but the warmth is nice. kinda.

wc. ~600

— for @saetoshi / @yoisagi my love 💗 | event masterlist ✉️

you didn't think it was possible, but somehow itoshi sae gets infinitely more irritable when he's cold.

he scowls more, hands permanently stuffed into his pockets, and sulks like there's no tomorrow. and he shivers, too. an embarrassing amount. (his pride is always severely injured when you ask him if he wants your help to warm up).

your grouchy roommate always found something to complain about when the weather dipped. whether it be the fact that his heater was always running, or that he has to scrape the ice off his windshield every morning, sae has never been able to see the beauty of winter.

"beauty?" he scoffed when you pointed that fact out one day. you were at the kitchen table and he was on the couch waking up from his midday nap—a typical sunday afternoon that he had long since added to his routine. "yeah, i'd rather admire it from inside. thanks."

"come on, don't be so pessimistic," you scolded, sauntering over to him to shove a pillow into his face. he knocked it away with a frown.

"i'm not pessimistic. just realistic. being cold sucks."

and that should have been the end of it. after that, you had stopped bothering him and purposefully trying to tease him with snide little comments about his disdain for the cold.

well. the universe has always had a funny way of fucking with him.

it's the coldest night of the season thus far. the snow storm raging outside has knocked out the power for the entire building and now the two of you are stuck pressed together under the warmth of your combined blankets.

"quit squirming around or i'll kick you out of my bed."

you make an undignified noise. "you wouldn't."

"i will if you don't stop that and go to sleep. i have to be up early tomorrow."

"this was your idea in the first place!"

sae had been the one to text you, after all. he hadn't even asked nicely, only sending you the word HELP in all capital letters as if he were going into cardiac arrest. you had rushed in to see what was wrong only to get dragged into his bed.

his greed for warmth was nothing new to you, of course, but he was careful to be gentle with you. to make sure he wasn't crushing you or making you uncomfortable. it was his way of being nice and somewhat apologetic that you were being treated as some sort of personal heater.

"i hate you," you tell him when he unceremoniously throws his leg over your entire body to keep you still.

"yeah, whatever. sleep before i kick you out."

"you're the one who asked me to share our blankets," you remind him again.

there's a long silence that follows that statement. it's so quiet that you assume he just ignored you and went to sleep without replying. but then he rolls over until his back is to you and he utters out, strained: "we don't speak of this, ever."

you raise a brow, shifting to face his back. "oh? are you embarrassed that i had to keep you warm?"

"i'm not embarrassed," he quickly corrects, even with the waver of his normally dead voice.

you reach around him, back of your hand resting on his cheek. you feel him tense up beside you in bed and you can't help but burst out laughing.

"your whole face is warm."

he groans, pulling the blankets closer to his side and up over his head so you can't observe him any closer. he's worried that if you did, you might have noticed how incredibly red he was growing. something so out of character would absolutely garner a new game for you and he would never hear the end of it.

for someone with an attitude problem about everything, he was surprisingly easy to shut down. maybe it was just you who had that talent, though.

itoshi sae doesn't like how mushy you make him feel, but the warmth is nice—

"i know you're trying to hide from me! if you just wanted to be held i'd be happy to help."

—kinda.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[hanafubukki]

Hello I'm here to deliver angst :3

Imagine an alternate universe where Yuu is king Henrik's kid

They've been secretly dating knight of dawn for a while and even fantasized about eloping

When the war starts they get locked away in a tower like a prisoner for their safety, only knight of dawn and Henrik were allowed to enter

When the humans lose the war Henrik accepts defeat and offers his child as a war trophy to the general in exchange for being kept alive in prison

Yuu and knight of dawn are devastated by this but Yuu goes through with it for the sake of making the lives of the people that used to be part of their now conquered kingdom

Time passes by and Lilia is now in a poly relationship with knight and Yuu. Yuu had given birth to silver not too long ago

Yuu was collecting some berries while their husbands were home with silver. Just before they enter their cottage a group of Henrik loyalists attack them

Lilia and Dawn try to get to them but just before they could Yuu gets hit with a spell that transports them to the future

Cue the plot of twisted wonderland

Lilia and Dawn deeply cherish silver as he's the only remaining part of Yuu they have. They tried Searching, interrogating but no matter what they did no one uttered a peep about what spell Yuu was hit with and no amount of tracking spells could find them

Malleus was the first person to recognise Yuu as they were a parent he loved but wasn't allowed to be with publicly due to the senate push back

Hello Anonie 🌷🌺🌸

You know Anonie when I received this ask, I laughed because I was like “I won’t make Malleus and Lilia angst to cope I won’t make angst to cope.”

And then I received this ask as if it’s a sign and just ended up laughing. 😂

OT3 angst it is, except I’m feeling a bit rebellious and I want a happy ending so I’m going to give it to them to the best I can. 😌👏🙏

But also imagine being Henrik’s kid? Silver had a breakdown? Imagine your father being the one to cause so much grief and death? Yikes. 😮‍💨

Your father just gives you up for his own head argh. You can’t do anything because you’re royalty and you don’t want your people to suffer.

You willingly go to the fae side as a royal captive, leaving behind you lover and your people.

You expected to be treated terribly, but you’re not? You still get fae that looks down on you of course. But the fae royal treat you cordially enough. You even get your own guard, a well known one in fact, General Vanrouge.

He’s a surly one and one that makes sure to keep an eye on you for any suspicious actives…but he doesn’t treat you bad.

In fact, he’s rather nice to you in his own way. It’s kind of charming. Similar and yet different than your Knight of Dawn.

Eventually a sort of tie is formed between humans and fae per Levan’s and your cooperation.

And you suddenly find yourself…in a relationship with both Dawn and Lilia. Meleanor finds it hilarious and this is used as a way to ease relations between races. Let’s call it an arranged marriage of sorts 😂

You (royalty), Dawn (well known Knight), and Lilia (the General) would make for a great image of peace, wouldn’t you say?

You’re enjoying life. A beautiful baby, wonderful husbands, and funny in laws and their cute dragon kid.

Everything was fine, until it wasn’t.

You get attacked by loyalists. They asked you to be the figure head of the rebellion group and cut ties with the fae. Of course you didn’t, in the end you got hit with a mysterious spell.

You disappeared right in front of Dawn and Lilia’s eyes. No matter what they did, they couldn’t find you.

And this is where I’m going to twist your scenario Anonie. A plan is made. This is yet to be a world of peace. It will take awhile. So Dawn, Silver, and Malleus is put to sleep. Until peace is brought. So history won’t repeat itself as it did with you.

Lilia is awake, he’s takes the mantle of helping relations between countries with Levan. An ambassador of you will.

The first one to wake is Malleus like in canon.

Then you have Silver.

A couple years after, it’s Dawn.

Years pass, and most of them end up at NRC. Dawn is a sword instructor at RSA but also part of NRC as well. Easier way to spend time with family this way.

Then comes the day of Grim’s mayhem but the difference? Diasomnia was evacuated from the mirror chamber. They had to make sure Malleus and co were protected. They weren’t going to make the same mistakes.

So how do you meet Malleus and the others?

Well of course like in canon, Malleus realizes someone now lives at Ramshackle dorm.

You noticed glowing lights and they look and feel familiar. You run outside and is shocked to see Meleanor…no, it’s not her but Malleus. He’s all grown up.

Malleus recognized you right away. You both have an emotional reunion.

You were reunited with one of your boys again. 🥹💞

Soon after, another emotional reunion takes place with the rest.

———

Extra:

*Some time in the future*

You’re reading a history book for Trein’s class but half of what’s written…didn’t happen that way?

“This didn’t happen.”

Lilia, nonchalantly, “Don’t mind it. We had to change some things on how the war took place and ended.”

You couldn’t be happier, “Good, I hope that asshole of a father of mine died in misery and shame.”

———

[catreadsbooks]

Jace kisses Alec (cut from City of Glass)

So below is, the original version of the scene that begins on page 137 in City of Glass, “Jace looked at Alec steadily. “What’s between you and Magnus Bane? In the original version, Jace actually does kiss Alec, more to make a point than anything else, but the resultant scene made me laugh and made my editor laugh, hysterically. It didn’t work — made the emotional impact of Jace telling off Alec less. I warn you, it is not romantic.  - Cassie

Jace looked at Alec steadily. Then he said, “What’s between you and Magnus Bane?” Alec’s head jerked to the side, as if Jace had slapped him or pushed him. “I don’t — there’s nothing —” “I know better,” Jace said, forestalling him. “I’m not stupid. Tell me the truth.” “There isn’t anything between us,” Alec said — and then, catching the look on Jace’s face, added with great reluctance, “any more. There’s nothing between us any more. Okay?” “And why is that? Magnus really liked you.” “Drop it, Jace,” Alec said in a warning tone. Jace was having none of being warned. “Magnus says it’s because you’re hung up on me. Is that true?” There was a moment of utter silence. Then Alec gave a despairing howl of horror and put his hands up to cover his face. “I am going to kill Magnus. Kill him dead.” “Don’t. He cares about you. He really does. I believe that,” Jace said, managing to sound only a little bit awkward. “Look. I don’t want to push you into anything, but do you maybe want to —” “Call Magnus? Look, that’s a dead end, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but —” “—kiss me?” Jace finished. Alec looked as if he were about to fall off his chair. “WHAT? What? What?” “Once what would do.” Jace did his best to look as if this were the sort of suggestion one made all the time. “I think it might help.” Alec looked at him with something like horror. “You don’t mean that.” “Why wouldn’t I mean it?” “Because you’re the straightest person I know. Possibly the straightest person in the universe.” “Exactly,” Jace said, and leaned forward, and kissed Alec on the mouth. The kiss lasted approximately four seconds before Alec pulled forcefully away, throwing his hands up as if to ward Jace off from coming at him again. He looked as if he were about to throw up. “By the Angel,” he said. “Don’t ever do that again.” “Oh yeah?” Jace grinned, and almost meant it. “That bad?” “Like kissing my brother,” said Alec, with a look of horror in his eyes. “I thought you might feel that way.” Jace crossed his arms over his chest. ��Also, I’m hoping we can just gloss over all the irony in what you just said.” “We can gloss over whatever you want to,” Alec said fervently. “Just don’t kiss me again.” “I’m not going to. I have other business to take care of.” Jace stood up, kicking his chair back. “If anyone asks where I am, tell them I went for a walk.” “Where are you actually going?” Alec asked, watching him walk to the door. “To see Clary?” “No.” Jace shook his head. “I’m going to the Gard. I’m going to break Simon out of jail.”

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

hey-hey! Hope you're good! What about short fic about crane's "manic periods" and how batman handle him? Arkham games version, but others are fine too!

Ps I reeeeealy like you fics and your view on scarebat!

howdy! i feel a tad better now. not the best! but not the worst, so it’s smth. i take small wins, over no wins at all. but ah, that’s such a fun request! i was itching to try to do smth with these two! also i didn’t joke about stuff taking me a long time. esp bc i tend to get a bit too invested … hehe …

anyways, this huge ficlet *bc yeah, even i know that it got a bit too bulky there* is smth of an attempt to give a backstory to aa!scarecrow’s ‘fashion choices’, along with other things. it also pretty much takes place in universe, where batman saves jon from croc, so arkham knight events never happen *the joker still dies tho* so what follows below is a recollection of what happened before an’ after that. ❗ a lil warning for suggestive bits there an’ here, but nothing too adult. + presence of canon typical violence.

*an’ thank you! that’s very sweet of you to say.*

༻❁༺

“Fear is…the only way, Batman. The only way to —”

Without as much as even a breath of reply, Batman tightened his grip on Crane’s noose, forcing Jonathan’s voice to switch from monotone preaching to sizzling choking. He shouldn’t enjoy any of this, but part of him was slightly relieved for a small break between Scarecrow’s barely coherent, creepy monologue. Which whirled from a somewhat personal territory to something more obscure as it did now.

During their fights there was always this sort of talk. But this time, it felt like Scarecrow was talking at him, rather than to him. There was a wild, unfocused look inside his eyes. The kind, that Batman usually saw only after Crane would breathe in some of his own fear toxin. But this time, he was already like that when he found him. Huddle up inside yet another substitutive lab, doing…something.

He still wasn’t able to piece together what exact scheme the mad scientist was working on, but by the looks of it, Crane wasn’t able to do it, either. At least, the utter mess, which was his workshopping table gave Bruce an impression that the one who left it, forgot what he was trying to do mid-way and just left the whole project in disarray.

This was new, but perhaps, not all that strange. There was another thing, which bothered him, howerer.

Slowly, he lessened the pressure on the older man’s neck, holding the noose more like one would a leash, rather than a dog collar. He will have to let him speak for this one.

“What were you doing here?” he demanded, voice slightly softer than usual. Carefully calibrated, so that Crane could make out every word.

He felt all of those bony fingers weakly scratching at his wrist; a lost look still barely able to focus on him.

“Come out to face your fears, Batman?” Crane crooked, like this should have answered anything.

Unsurprisingly, it did not so such a thing. So Bruce thought about how to pose his next question in a way, which might give him at least a vague idea about what other oddities in this current interaction were caused by. Even if partially.

There was no delicate way to inquire about this. Or if there was, Batman had no knowledge of it. He didn't had much of a choice, but to just plainly ask:

“Where are your pants?”

He was already visibly surprised, when Scarecrow rolled in to ambush him dressed in his usual stitched slacks, with mask and a hood, but no pants on. His white boxers had at least done their job of covering Jonathan’s privates, but they had also painted a rather disturbing picture. As there were spots of sweat, chemicals and even dry blood on it, giving Batman an impression like Crane had lost his trousers a couple days ago, not mere hours.

His pale, stick-thin legs were covered in small scratches, which was likely a result of him running around the nearby cornfield without pants. From afar, he could probably be mistaken for a farmer wearing those tall, cowboy boots. Someone, who just came down from their porch.

But up close —

“Crane.” he tried again, this time managing to actually grab the criminal’s attention for a moment as he repeated, “Where are your pants?”

Scarecrow stared at him. He stared back.

“You do know that you aren’t wearing any, do you?”

Crane slowly blinked at him. Those pale blue eyes ablaze, clearly not comprehending the question at all. And so far, he reacted like this to most things Batman had said to him. As if he literally didn’t hear him or couldn’t understand that he was being spoken to.

This was Batman’s answer, then.

“Is there anything past fear, I wonder?” the ex-doctor of psychiatry mussed, eyes skipping alongside Batman’s jaw, somewhat aimless in their thought process, “Do you wonder about that too?”

Batman thinned his lips, exhaling slowly through his nose.

It was a useless conversation. It had become clear that Crane wasn’t even aware about his partially undressed state, let alone be able to explain anything.

He took another look at him. Should he deliver him to Arkham like that? With no pants on?

Right now, the masked criminal wouldn’t have cared about it, but once Crane’s mind will stop being fogged, it might stir an intense reaction in him. He was an arrogant, prideful type and all things considered, it was never Bruce’s goal to degrade his enemies, even if he did humble them.

Solemnly, the vigilante looked around, attempting to pin-point where the missing trousers could have been, but the room was pretty bare, save from the table, a coat where Crane most likely slept for the past week and some random garbage littering the floor. Conclusion was simple: what he was trying to locate wasn’t in this room.

Another existing option was that Crane’s slacks were somewhere outside, but unless he shredded them next to his hideout, they most likely were lost in the vast cornfield. Batman had no time for searching through such a large area just for that. But it wouldn’t hurt to attempt and see, if Crane’s luck was on his side, and his pants were just lying around somewhere close by.

Walking a babbling and ill-coordinated Scarecrow was something of an exercise. But not an unfamiliar one. There were many occasions, when Batman had to do just that, after Crane had too much of his own toxin, and could barely get his feet underneath himself without falling over.

Once they were out of the building, Batman half-expected the other man to attempt and free himself. To either fight his way out or make a break for it. But to his mild surprise, Scarecrow stayed pliable. Devoted to merely mumbling fear included nonsense under his breath.

Dark Knight didn’t dispose of his mask just yet, deciding to keep it on him, while they would go on a ‘fetching’ quest. It was unknown how Crane might react to something like that in his half-lucid state.

Quick search resulted in nothing yet again. All the while, Scarecrow obediently followed after Batman, guided by the length of his noose. A small detail reminding Bruce of a bolo tie Crane used to sport, when he was still considered sound of mind.

(It felt like it was forever ago.)

In this current, recent situation, it looked like Scarecrow’s consciousness was someplace else. Nothing short of dissociation, but not as intense as his past psychotic breakdowns were. This time, no one seemed to get hurt and nothing was damaged besides Crane’s dignity.

To his credit, Bruce did nose around in order to recover the missing article of clothing for a bit longer. But come up short like before. When it was more, than apparent that the criminal’s pants were indeed lost, Batman turned his head, giving Crane once over.

He was met with unblinking, intense gaze, which in any other circumstances might have been considered creepy, but right now, it only drove the point home. It was a clear sign that something was very off, and more so than usual. Crane was both a bit too still and too agitated at the same time, like his brain couldn’t decide its own trajectory.

Bruce waited.

For what, he wasn’t sure, but —

“You look troubled, Batman.” it was almost a promising beginning, but then it slid right back into this new, partially unknown territory again, “I presume, your fear of abandonment had lead you to —”

Batman tugged on the noose, cutting off some of the oxygen, making Scarecrow stumble in the middle of no doubt another, winded speech. Or rather, it sounded like a continuation to something he was speaking of before, but the vigilante made a habit of not listening too closely to him during such times.

Insane or not, but Crane had a rare talent of worming his way under Bruce’s skin. Be it intentional or absolutely accidental. And Batman really wasn’t in the mood for this tonight.

Then, as if on some mysterious cue, blunt unclean nails dug into his forearm, forcing him to slightly lessen the pressure, so that he could make out what Crane was muttering. It was a mumble-jumble of words, but he did catch one of them, lamenting and simple, “C-cold.”

Batman stared him down, eyes slowly skipping past the other man’s waist, stopping on his shaking legs. Scarecrow’s bony knees were nearly touching each other as night air began crawling up his thighs, reminding both of them that he was very much half-dressed and very much out of it.

An idea came suddenly, and while it wasn’t ideal, it would have to do for now.

Reluctantly, he released his grip on the noose. Instantly, Crane stumbled backwards, not by his own will, but by inertia alone. Batman watched him for a moment, making sure that he wouldn't bolt into nearby fields. But running seemed to be the furthest thing from Jonathan’s disjointed mind.

Content with this reaction or lack of it rather, Bruce mutely uncliped his cape, letting it slide from his shoulders and just as silently relocated it onto Scarecrow’s hunched frame instead. Once the fabric touched him, Crane went rigid. His mask made it impossible to tell what expression he wore, but Batman read his body language as a slight confusion mixed with agitation.

He adjusted the cape some more, making sure that it was secure on those thin shoulders. This way, Crane will be more covered and less exposed to the cold too, he supposed. If he was actually high on some drugs of his own making, it was likely that he would have a rough withdrawal from this later on.

Thinking about him shivering inside his cell was the kind of thought, that usually either made his chest slightly tighter as pity bled in. Or it did an opposite, and made it swell with a bit of satisfied ire.

Today, it was the first one as Crane did nothing to warrant his wrath. He was merely being…unwell. And even if Arkham Asylum should be able to handle it from there, Batman was still responsible to deliver him to them in one piece and without extra discomfort, considering that it wasn’t him punishing the older man. It was him guiding him back to the place, which just might help him, if he’s lucky.

He cuffed Crane’s wrists mostly for good measure, just to be on the safe side as he was about to drive. The least of all, he wanted for Scarecrow to make him crash the car at full speed with both of them inside.

Surprisingly enough, in-between all of this, Crane went quiet. He was touching and tracing the hem of the cape, seemingly preoccupied with this way more, than he was with delivering Batman a word of wisdom, concerning fear. He didn’t cause a fit, when Batman made him wear a seatbelt. Nor did he say anything, head downcast, hands busy with examining the structure of the cape, like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

As they were leaving the property, by pure chance, Bruce looked in the rearview mirror, noticed a piece of brown clothes wavering on top of an old oak tree. It was raving in the air like a handmade flag, and there was no mistake about what it was.

Despite himself, he side-glanced at Crane, who must have felt his stare, as he angled his head to leer at him in return. Bruce had nearly broken ‘the character’ and asked him why Scarecrow's pants were up there and how they got there to begin with. But he knew that it would have been a futile attempt on his part. He had a worming suspicion, that Jonathan wouldn’t be able to recall doing this at all.

That night, Dark Knight felt a strange sense of perplexity. An odd wave of unease at such a simple thing, which unbeknownst to him wasn’t about to be just one occasion.

What, he firstly, assumed to be a mere negative reaction to a mysterious drug, turned out to be something way deeper than this.

But that night, he had no idea of it. That night it was just an exercise of getting Crane back to Arkham as usual — even if in unusual circumstances — and nothing more.

༻❁༺

The second time, when it happened, the situation was more typical. Crane himself acted more customary as well. Yet, once again, Bruce found himself feeling like something just wasn’t quite right. To the untrained eye, it was all the same. All the things Batman was used to when it came to Scarecrow, but underneath that familiar surface, behind all those accustomed cues and mannerism, he could sense something, which wasn’t there before.

(He later realized it was Crane’s voice that tipped him off. A change so subtle, so slight, but a change nonetheless.)

But back then, however, it was hard to put his finger on it. Not to meantion, that there wasn’t all that much leeway for throughout conclusions, as Scarecrow had a hostage with him. Someone from somewhere, who he knew and who must have looked at him wrong or said something mean to him once or twice. Crane had a good memory, when it came to keeping grudges. And perhaps, that’s why once he had Batman in his clutches, he seemingly completely forgotten that there was someone else besides them here.

Scarecrow wasn’t the only criminal, who had tunnel vision, when it came to him. Far from it. But his attention tended to be of a different nature than many others. He was more methodical and pragmatic about this, during their usual fights. There was always some sort of ‘final goal’ to his ‘research’. It felt more like a personal pet project, than a pure vendetta. For him, Batman was a test subject first, then he was everything else. Including being his enemy.

Yet, it was the first time in his memory, when this unspoken rule seemed to shift. And Batman struggled to name what, exactly, it had changed into. This uncertainty was more concerning, than the binds which tied him to a parody of an operation table.

Meanwhile, Scarecrow was looming above him. He had a new mask. Scarier, less human looking one. If before Batman could see his eyes through cut slits in the fabric, now all that looking back at him were dark, empty holes. Where once was an outline of a mouth (still hidden behind the sack, but somewhat visible), now was a mess of uneven, jagged stitches. All of this was accompanied by a pair of air-filters installed to each side, creating a slight echo to everything Crane said.

Homemade, personally sawed. It was unsettling to the most, as it was somewhat perplexing for him.

Even if Bruce was nearly impressed with the limited creativity, he could also see how unsteady Crane’s hand was, when he made it. Not because he was careless or lazy, but because something like an unknown drive must have been shaking his limbs all the while he made this creepy visage of his.

Yet, what made Bruce truly question all of this wasn’t a new look, but the fact that Crane didn’t wear his Scarecrow slacks. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers instead, like he was still a ‘normal’ Gotham citizen about to go to work.

He distantly remembered seeing him like that. It was years ago, when Crane was still a psychiatrist, not a walking nightmare he was now. But it was odd in its own right. But perhaps, not odder than the fact that his dress shirt was half undone, buttons only made right above his belt buckle, otherwise exposing a rather peculiar v-cut of undernourished, pale body.

Bruce’s eyes flickered down briefly, — a hint of stunted confusion barely touching his expression, — before his gaze settled back onto Crane’s mask, and remained trained after that.

“I was wondering, when you will come by, little bat.” Scarecrow said, leaning closer than necessary. Voice creaky and wet with emotion, Batman struggled to indify.

And —

Little bat?

This was new. Just like the mask or something vaguely threatening laying on the small metallic table, placed conveniently so that Batman wasn’t able to make it out properly. Only glimpse the outline of the unknown device.

“I have something special for you today.” Crane continued, tone simpering into something almost conspiring with each next word, “I already showed it to our dear guest —” he motioned toward the hostage, who seemed to be beyond terrified to be simply referred to, even if Scarecrow wasn’t even as much as looking his way anymore, “but I saved the first taste for you, little bat!”

He raises one finger up, half-turning around, the poles of his shirt accompany the movement, exposing Batman to more sickly skin. But he didn't truly pay much attention to it, instead looking at the thing, which Crane picked up with a rare display of care, as if he was genuinely proud of making this.

“It took me a few nights to figure out what exactly I wanted to achieve with this. And I’m afraid to say —” he chuckled in the middle of the sentence and it’s strange on its own, because he doesn’t do those things usually. That odd timed laughing, which feels more like something uncontrolled, rather than genuine. Still, Batman was more busy with attempts to mess with the cuffs on his hands to focus on this hard enough to actually get alarmed, “This is still just a prototype. I’m not so sure how effective it is at this stage. So I thought to myself, Batman won’t mind helping me test it, would he now?”

Crane’s hand suddenly wraps around Bruce’s wrist, forcing him to drop the lockpick. The small pin hit the floor with a loud, metallic sound. Crane wasted no time to kick it away.

“I’ll rephrase myself for clarity sake, since you seemingly have as little patience as I do.” Scarecrow said, demeanor and tone low and flat, fingers twisting around Bruce’s wrist with clear warning, not enough to inflict pain, but secure enough to tell that he just might go down that road if provoked, “I will either test this on you —”

This was when he showed it to him for the first time. The prototype of his syringed glove. It used to be more bulky, then it would be down the line. Less flexible too, but it was just as unsettling. Just as dangerously gleaming with chemicals, which he knew by the heart at this point.

“Or I will test it on them.” Crane partially turned his head, making Bruce do the same. They both looked at the hostage, who shrunk down on themselves. It was clear what he pick, they both knew this and yet, "So, tell me, Dark Knight. Which one is it going to be? You or them?”

(It was oblivious.)

Batman leveled him with a cool, hard look. Unflinching, unafraid. “Leave them out of this, Crane.”

We both know, it’s me you want.

Scarecrow didn't disappoint. He laughed, creepy and hitchy. His new weapon crawled closer to Batman’s neck, ends of syringes hovering next to his veins, almost caressing it, “Ohh, I hoped you’d say that.”

It was said in a whisper, almost intimate. Nearly fond.

Then, he plunged those things deeply into Bruce’s flesh and for some time the world melted into a barely recognizable maze between reality and dreamlike state. Each sound was easily twisted into screams or gunshot. As always unbearably vivid and loud.

He overcame it after a bit, as he always did. He freed himself both literally and figurally. But there was a sharp pain in his neck, and his head was positively swimming. The Scarecrow was somewhere around here. Hiding and cackling like a hyena, when he managed to avoid being detected yet again. Seeking cover within the thick shadows as they were kind enough to hide him from sight.

Batman waited a few minutes, walking or rather wobbling around, knowing that Crane would attack any moment now. And he did. Appearing from the side, hoping that it was Bruce’s blindspot, opting for an easy opening.

Side-stepping and grabbing the thin wrist was fairly simple. It was something, that Batman did without thinking too hard. Spinning the criminal around and slamming him into the closest wall, force noticeable enough to make Crane choke from the impact. Winding him for a split second, so that Batman could pin him there. One hand gripped the collar of his shirt, making the stretched fabric expose a bony, sharp shoulder, while his other one held Crane’s gloved hand, keeping it there as a parody of them locking hands. Palm to palm. Fingertips over knuckles. Or rather ends of syringes dancing over bruised knuckles.

“It won’t work this time, Crane.”

Mostly because he knew how he fought and he knew how fast he’d usually cower, once he realized that he couldn’t win. But this time, there was an unmistakable derisive or rather maniacal edge to everything Scarecrow did.

Crane stared at him through holes in his mask and without a hitch, he delivered his own response, “Crane isn’t here anymore, Batman.”

The level of conviction behind those words, irked him. The phrase was nearly similar to what he himself thought at times. That there wasn’t anything left of Bruce Wayne. That instead of him wearing the mask, the mask was now wearing him.

(But where for him, it was something that some people might call ‘coping’, for Crane it was something else entirely.)

Scarecrow, as if feeling some sort of inner, passive turmoil in him, angled his upper half closer to his own, pretty much dangling in his grip. The end of syringes shifted a bit as he moved his fingers, almost if checking the security of Batman’s hold.

“Is this something you are afraid of?” he asked, words rang loudly within the half-empty room, “Is this unsettles you?”

Batman didn’t reply, merely stared him down.

“You just cannot help yourself, but be constantly afraid, don’t you, little bat?” his hand gave Bruce’s own a slow, strong squeeze, which was nearly painful with all that metal in-between, “You know you cannot fix yourself, but you are scared that you cannot fix anyone else, either.”

Crane’s natural perceptiveness was always something of a throne on his side. Out of many of Batman’s enemies, he was the only one, who got under his skin in this specific way.

The fear toxin inside his blood made it worse, he knew. But it didn’t change the fact, that when he threw Crane across the room, making him roll over that damn metalic table, he felt something like dull satisfaction.

For a second, Scarecrow’s filters as if glitching allowed Batman to hear a very familiar, very Jonathan-like noise. A pitiful, pathetic half-whine, half-groan. It was almost stunted and confused in nature, instantly shifting into something else, – more scared — when his shadow enveloped the crouching man, making him freeze.

But this time, Scarecrow didn’t stay down for long. Bouncing back way faster, than he usually would. Syringed glove outstretched, a low hissy, aggressive noise lost somewhere between his teeth. The speed was surprising, even if the viciousness he attempted to embed those claws into him once more, was not.

After some hussle and Bruce kneeling Crane into his nose — mostly accidently — the fight ended with the older man flat on his stomach, unmasked and with a bloody face. Batcuffs hanging secure and cold around his bony wrists.

Yet, Crane giggled, like he had won something after all.

With a vague sense of annoyance, Bruce pressed the end of his boot into Crane’s ribs, making him heave and let out a pant, which almost sounded pleased. Batman lightly kicked him, forcing Scarecrow to roll onto his back instead. V-cut fully open now, facial expression stuck in a mixture between grimace and a crooked smile.

Batman slightly tilted his head, slow and calculated in each movement, now that he had Crane literally pinned under his boot, there was no need for any of those pleasantries anymore.

“Crane.” he called, noticing how the older man’s eyes glazed over, looking at him without seeing him yet again. “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

A snort, gruff and wet, as a thin trail of blood trickled down his chin. When he spoke next, his teeth were pink and shiny, “Do I? I don’t know. Do I? He-hooo.”

Bruce's jaw set tighter, his patience growing thinner.

He leaned down, grabbing the lapel of Crane's shirt, while pressing his boot on his thigh, forcing the other man’s spine to bend as he yanked his upper half upwards.

“I ask again.” he said slowly, staring into those yellow rimmed eyes, “Do you have any more weapons on you?”

“M-my only weapon —” Crane licked his teeth, gaze wild and distant, “The only weapon that I need is fear, little bat. Fear that I gift you with, that’s my weapon. You get it now, don't you?”

Bruce considered his next options silently, mulling over the dilemma, which he wasn’t fully unfamiliar with, but running into Crane, when he was like this was one thing. But for it to repeat and in fairly short amount of time too?

He didn’t like this.

“You can check.” Scarecrow suddenly offered.

Batman angled his chin, pressing his boot harder onto Scarecrow’s thin leg, which received him a grunt, “Thank you for an idea.”

He dropped him, without another word.

It turned out, that Crane didn't had anything lethal on him. So far, it would appear like he must have either made a bet on that new glove of his or maybe, something inside his brain just didn’t work quite right and he forgot about plan B, despite typically always having one.

When Batman’s search reached the hem of Crane’s shirt and outline of his belt, he paused. Wondering if it wouldn’t be past Crane to shove some kind of fear ampule down his pants, knowing that Batman didn’t tend to go so far as to force criminals to lower down their trousers, when he was making sure that they had nothing dangerous on them. But taking in Crane's state of mind and general situation, he decided to check, just to make sure.

What he found didn’t surprise him. It was what he didn’t find, which did.

Crane had no underwear on, and it was revealed as soon as tugged his pants a bit lower on his hips, instead of additional fabric seeing nothing, but skin and jutted hip bone. The beginning outline of thin trail of public hair and well…the base of his dick, basically.

Batman was rarely shocked by anything to the point of visibility, but this time around, he was sure that it showed on his face just how unexpected the revelation was for him.

Crane, instead of reacting accordingly, of reacting how he should have reacted to this, had merely laid there, blinking at him. No shame. No comprehension.

This time, Bruce didn’t bother asking him where the missing piece of cloth was, he merely tugged Crane’s pants back up, and then mutely got up, dragging him along. It felt like there wasn’t much to be said or done about this.

The hostage said their ‘thank you’ to Batman once freed, but they also appeared to be wary of the whole interaction, clearly wishing nothing more, than to get away not just from Crane, but from him too.

In highsight, it was almost embarrassing how Scarecrow wasn’t the only one, who forgot all about them. As to some degree, Bruce did too.

The ride to Arkham ended up being mostly silent. Crane’s expression went from jerky to demure, eyes more clear and partially attentive, hidden behind mop of messy hair as he refused to meet Batman’s gaze. He also at times went to touch tissue, which Bruce stuffed inside his nose, like he couldn’t either understand or remember why they were there at all.

But at least, he appeared to be more lucid. Less chatty. More sedated. More himself. As if along the way, between chase and flying punches, a small piece of his mind was restored.

It was almost like putting a broken bone back into place. Analogy crude as it was cruel, but Batman found himself feeling slightly relieved at absence of ‘fear talk’ and that disturbing, far-away look Crane something harbored inside his eyes.

At least, for a bit again, everything felt like it should have. Even if he could tell, that it most likely wouldn't last long.

༻❁༺

The fabric clung to Batman’s skin in a very chilly, uncomfortable way. His aching bicep kept close to his body as Crane’s half-naked from — fully soaked and fairly bruised — was pretty much folded over his arm.

He couldn’t feel the naked, goosebumped skin pressed against his form, while being oddly hyper aware of weight partially located on his lap at the same time. Crane’s breath was fast and shallow, small hiccups and coughs shook his frame, making it appear like he ended up swallowing some of the sewer water on top of everything.

Batman must have swallowed some of it too. It was hard to tell. His mouth generally tasted weird, like Crane’s brew of chemicals found a way to stale on his tongue and gums.

Amiss all of this, Crane shook with his whole body, before spluttering, “H…h-huuurts…”

It must hurt. Bruce was pretty sure, that one of Crane’s shoulders was wrenched out of its soaked, when Croc dropped him onto the stoned floor. Judging by the sickening sound, Jonathan must have landed on his arm wrong. And this wasn’t the only injury he carried, far from it, but it was one of the most painful ones.

He was, however, alive. Breathing so noticeably, that Batman could pretty much feel his rabbit-like heartbeat with his own arm. Hear him inhaling and exhaling, shakily and rapidly.

Death experiences were a part of Batman's job. Something he got used to over the years, nearly growing numb to constant danger looming over him, when he was meeting Gotham’s worst of the worst face to face on nearly weekly bases. Always mentally prepared to either witness torture (sometimes, it’s aftermatch) or potentially endure some form of it himself (more likely).

But here, he felt not wariness, nor tiredness, or even apprehension, no, what he felt was fear. Not the fear of death, but rather, fear of seeing death in real time (again) and being unable to do anything about it (again). The feeling of helplessness, which came with knowledge of how little control he had over those things. How one single wrong move could result in life being lost.

(The very thing, which forever changed his life all those years ago.)

“It’s in th-the water…?” Crane asked no one, and then, laughed in that new, high-pitch, hysterical way he adopted over two years ago, “You are too l-late, little bat. It’s in the water!”

Bruce distantly realized that he must be talking about that poisonous bag of his, which he knew was lying just a few feet away from them. Untouched and secured. But the sheer fact, that this was the first thing, which came up in Crane’s disturbed mind was enough to make him suck a long, stressed breath through his nose.

“You wouldn’t be a-able to prevent f-fear from spreading —” Crane muttered, delighted by the mere idea, “It would be….ah…it would be…?”

He angled his masked face as if to look at him, seeking something inside Batman’s limited expression. And what he saw must have pleased him.

“It would be just like it shall be, Batman. Each — ghh — and everyone af-afraid and you can’t d-do anything about it!” he continued, feverish in his conviction, “G-gotham will drown in screams and —”

He never stopped talking, but Batman stopped listening somewhere in the middle. His gaze focused on Scarecrow’s shoulder, which just didn’t look right. And he knew, that it must still hurt. In fact, it must hurt a lot, but Crane just kept rambling as if existing in a different plane of reality. All the while Bruce felt horribly stuck in that moment.

Pain helped before, he thought. It sobered him up before.

But it was no longer the case, it appeared. As now no pain, nor even the near death experiences seemed to get through whatever poisonous, dellisioned fog Crane’s mind was under.

And he was still going too.

“….after th-that Batman, what will you do after that?”

Laughter. Madness. Mirt.

Fear ebbed away, slowly. Lingering only in the back of Bruce’s mind, as anger came instead. He got back on his feet, pulling Crane along, not caring about his pained hiss or how rougely he tugged the wet sack off his face, exposing a mess of greying brownish hair and lost, crazy look inside those pale irises.

And before Jonathan could speak again, Bruce slapped him solid across the face. The action knocked any remaining wits and nonsense out of the ex-psychiatrist, and for a short, passing moment, he almost looked present again. For a brief moment, there was Jonathan Crane again, but this return to normalcy passed very quickly.

“I, wh —”

He slapped him again, the other cheek now. Crane's head jerked with the impact and his hands twitched, one shoulder still damaged and hanging lower than it should be, now weighed down by that terrible glove, which Batman glady got rid of.

The process wasn’t smooth, he knew that it hurt Crane to get it removed. Bruised skin and fractured bone made the whole overdeal exhausting on its own. Not to mention, that the other man began struggling and attempting to kick at him, be it on instinct or by some half-formed ploy, he wouldn't know for sure.

Once the glove was removed, he shoved Crane’s shoulder back into its soaked, recalling an ironic, unsavory metaphor he once had about this whole overseal a while back. It seemed to come and haunt him now, as Jonathan’s voice twisted into agonized, short scream, making his ears ring. Soon followed by a wet giggle, a half-formed sob. All too familiar. Very much Crane as it was not.

Batman watched his bony frame shake, unsure what he felt, besides grim resolution.

‘Batman?’ Barbara’s voice cut through the communicator, ‘What’s going on? Are you…?’

“I’m fine. I’m with Crane.” he replied curtly, “Everything is under control.”

Scarecrow laughed. “Everything is under control? Are you s-s-sure? The Joker is still — he’s still out th-there…”

He was. And not only him.

“I’ll deal with this.” he replied to Barbara and seemingly to Crane too. And then only to him, “Let’s go.”

Crane didn’t try anything as he led him to a temporary confinement. He didn’t speak, either. But he supposed, that it was more out of exhaustion, than him returning back to his senses, since as it came to be, the span between Scarecrow’s manic episodes was getting shorter and shorter.

Batman struggled to remember the last time, when Crane actually spoke to him ‘normally’, or as normally as he used to, when it was clear that he was less of a sadist and more of a sadistic scientist.

Always too driven. Too obsessed to do as much as look behind him.

This time, Bruce had barely managed to drag him out of death’s claws, quite literally, before more than a few bones were fractured. The question remained, though. He wasn't naive.

That time. This time. Last time. But what if one day, there will be no next time? What then?

The thought clawed at Batman through the whole way of him escorting Crane back into padded ‘safety’. And then, it proceeded to claw at him even harder, as the night was rolling along and the end, which he knew at one point might have come to be true, took its final shape.

༻❁༺

In all honestly, Joker’s death didn’t change much in the grand scheme of things. By the city and its people, the Clown Prince of Crime wouldn’t be missed nor mourned. The only person in the whole world, who was genuinely devastated about his demise was Harley Quinn. But with time, there was a chance, a small hope, that she would finally be able to get better, considering that agent of her obsession was forever gone.

(But Bruce wouldn’t hold a candle to that. Even before the Joker, there was something wrong with Quinzel. As the Joker didn’t create this time bomb. He merely detonated it.)

In retrospect, there wasn’t much to be said about this. And there wasn’t much he could force himself to say, either. But the fact stood. This was death. The death, which he didn’t prevent.

And even if more good than bad came from this, for Batman, Joker’s death was something of a personal failure. Not the sort, he wouldn’t be able to live with, but it was something to remember. To reflect on.

And as the time went on, as things grew heavier and heavier to carry, to handle, to learn from, rather than just be weighed down by them. His thoughts grew gloomier, his expectations turned bleeker. A new low in the history of crime fighting for him. He never spoke of it to anyone. Not even to Alfred, despite how it was oblivious, that the butler knew about this, without those things needing to be spelled out or even openly acknowledged.

Still, it was becoming hard to remain a symbol of hope, — hope for salvation and justice — when Bruce found himself viewing those ideals from a new, not all that improved angle. If before there was something of an absolute, of a verdict, that he would have saved anyone, no matter how horrible they are, now while it was still true, he realized that there was a huge difference between ‘would’ and ‘could’.

A lot of his enemies seemed to be less and less capable of redemption as the time went on. Instead of improving, they discovered new ways to disturb and main, and torture, and take, and pledge to whatever madness, that conquered them.

At this point, the likes of Professor Pyg and the Mad Hatter seemed to be so far gone, that Batman at times wondered what could even be done for someone like them. They were pretty much a lost cause at this rate, too out of it to even understand half of things they did, let alone be able to atone or even realize the wrongness of their actions. They were stuck in a world of their own. Twisted and sick. To some degree, almost cluelessly evil.

Looking at them, he couldn’t help, but be reminded of someone else. Of someone, who was slowly, but surely on his way on joining them.

“Crane.”

It was an old warehouse, where he found him at. Tracking him down for a few nights in the row as Scarecrow appeared to be on the move. Never stopping at one location for too long, driven by a sickening purpose of delivering fear.

This was almost his luck, that he catch him before he moved again.

“Little bat.”

Almost sweet. Almost approving.

(A voice coming from above.)

Batman raised his chin, looking up, pin-pointing a familiar silhouette next to the large, shattered window. After the asylum accident, Crane kept his ‘costume’ as it was. Tattered and pretty revealing. Adding a few more ropes there and here, but otherwise, keeping his ‘new’ outfit the same.

Or almost the same.

Bruce had nearly cursed himself for not being prepared to see Crane not only with no pants on, but with no underwear on. The only thing, which hid Crane’s privates from one’s eyes, including his, was a mangled piece of clothes. Batman was partially glad that Scarecrow seemed to have enough presence of mind, to at least leave this on, even if something urged him to get rid of his pants yet again.

He never got why exactly he did it. He imagined there was no sound reason for this. Nightwing once proposed, that it must be something to do with Crane’s age. ‘The man is nearly, what? Fortysomething? I’ve heard that people at his age begin to get all weird, when it comes to nakedness. At fifty, he probably will decide to be as naked as Poison Ivy. Just old people things, you know?’

Alfred’s throat clearing in the background and his dry response, that he doesn’t remember ever shredding his clothes in front of either him or Bruce had quickly shut that line of thinking down. But maybe, there was something in this.

At least, Batman was thinking mostly about that, while he dodged Crane’s attacks. The older man got very clever with the use of his glove. Not to mention, that it was prety distracting to be accidentally flashed with Crane’s everything, while he tried to wrestle him down.

And almost comical thing was, that if this was someone else, he’d assume they did it on purpose. But knowing Crane and his new found tendency, he doubted it. As something that would have been sexual with anyone else was just accidental and unhinged here.

The fight, as low-key awkward as it was, eventually was won and Batman found himself pressing struggling Crane closer to his chest, attempting to subdue him. One hand locked around both of his thin wrists, the other pressed across his stomach, as the other man’s back was pretty much flushed against his front.

Crane hissed, ranted and twisted around. Gloved hand spread in an aggressive attempt to somehow get a hit on him. If it was any other day, he would have gotten tired after a while. Never the man with the best stamina, but when he was like this, he was disturbingly energetic and seemingly stronger, than he looked.

All of this and the fact, that Crane’s ‘loincloth’ had got crooked, exposing some bits of him, which were currently rubbing against Bruce’s crotch, was somewhat irritating. But not as much as ‘fear this’ and ‘something something fear’ tirades, which just never seemed to end those days.

“Stop.” Batman said, feeling his patience nearly reaching its end. For good measure relocating his hold and instead of plastering his arm across that thin, fallen in stomach, he grabbed Crane’s naked, bony hip, making him freeze in what he assumed must have been mild shock, “Do not test me, Crane.”

Scarecrow shifted against him, emitting a weird, low noise, a small discomfort from a hold so rough and unkind, no doubt, but he didn’t do anything else. Either, somewhere deep down realizing the infertility of his escape attempts or knowing, that he had already lost this battle.

One thing was clear, when Crane was this still, it almost felt like something familiar. Like something he could rely on in how predictable it was. The sickness which changed was always the most dangerous one and Crane’s was slowly, but surely progressing. There was no denying it.

(And maybe, there was no stopping this, either.)

Suddenly feeling tired and way older than he really was, Bruce slowly placed his chin on top of Crane’s hood. The action was mostly unconscious, but despite this, it received him a reaction of sorts. Scarecrow let out a small gasp, which could have been confussion or maybe dull alarm, but regardless of what it was and what he was thinking, he slowly relaxed in the vigilante’s hold. Not fully, but enough for Batman to let go of his hip, — not before slightly adjusting his cloth piece to cover his crotch — settling his arm back around Scarecrow’s middle.

The moment was disturbingly uncanny in how calm, it appeared to be. With only noise being heard was Crane’s uneven breath, no murmurs of horrors, no statements about anything.

This was just a strange thing to find yourself in. This kind of serenity, which would vanish as soon as he think about anything longer than five seconds.

(And Bruce got very tired of overthinking everything.)

“Are you afraid, little bat?”

Scarecrow’s voice was soft in a way, that always unsettled him. Still, this was a genuine question. Most of Crane’s questions were genuine in some ways. Prying, unethical, tasteless, but they were asked sincerely.

(At least, when it came to him.)

Crane couldn’t see the set of his jaw or the look, which he had inside his eyes. But him tightening his grip was an answer on its own. The cue, which Crane might have been unconsciously looking for.

And as he kept him and this moment still, Bruce found himself thinking things, which he would have shot down four, maybe even two years ago, but now…

Now, he wasn’t so sure. And yes, he had to admit, that it was a bit scary. Even if not as scary as how much unconscious trust Crane seemed to put in him, even at his lowest. And how despite his better judgment, Bruce wasn't certain, if he could walk away from it, like he did from all other things.

"I have the fear, fear, fear, fear down in my heart." Scarecrow sung lowely and laughed.

"It's joy, Crane." Batman corrected him mostly out of pettyness or maybe, out of something else.

"No joy." Scarecrow said stubbornly, craning his neck to steal a look at him, "Only fear."

Batman didn't disagree, but his gaze turned darker. His thoughts continued to shift into direction, he never would have guessed they could of went to.

Crane remained still in his arms, singing a song of twisted nature and sick facination. As Bruce merely tightened his grip.

༻❁༺

“I see, you had finally decided to go along with that eccentric idea of yours, Master Bruce.” Alfred declared from afar, pouring tea in one of the porcelan cups, like he would do on any other normal day. “I admit, I was almost hoping you had forgotten about it.”

His voice was neutral. No bite of judgment or disapproval. Just stating facts, like one would state the weather outside. The accustic inside the cave made it sound all the more ominous in how the content didn’t match the tone.

And maybe, that's what had prompted him to admit it for the first time. Or rather, admit it to someone, “I’m out of any other ideas at this point, Alfred.”

Bruce applied extra strength, before turning on the drill again, making sure that all screws were as tight as they could possibly be. He couldn’t risk it. And this? It was as close to a bulletproof plan as he could get. After everything, this was the most secure option.

“I merely don’t see how this is all that different from Arkham.” Alfred continued, “If I may be so bold, sir. I’d say that this is exactly the same.”

Bruce paused, expression both determinated as it was cold. He knew how this looked from the side, he wasn’t that far gone yet.

“It isn't,” he said slowly. “Arkham doesn’t help him. Each time, when he goes out of there, he gets out worse than before.”

And it was a well-exposed knowlege. Where in some cases, Arkham did their job at containing the madness, at keeping it on dialed level, with Jonathan, it was the opposite. He was always returning less sane than he was, when he was put there.

Bruce knew that it wasn’t Akrham’s staff fault, that Crane’s brain was slipping everywhere like a broken egg, but it was clear that they couldn’t do anything about it. Perhaps, not for the lack of trying, but for the lack of means and actual commitment to do it.

He, on other hand —-

“Do you think, I went mad, Alfred?” he asked, gripping one of the metal bars he had installed and pulling on it, making the cage rattle slightly. Other than making a sound, the thing was sturdy. Would probably be able to contain a rhino, not just a single scrawny man.

“I didn’t say this.”

“But you thought about it?”

The reply didn’t land as a joke, and Bruce couldn’t fully say that he meant it as one. There were times, when he also had to wonder if madness was actually contentious and he had caught it somewhere along the way.

“No, I can’t say I had, sir.” Alfred answered after a long pause, still doing his usual, manual tasks, like he wasn’t standing inside Batcave, witnessing Bruce making a confinement. A prison cell underneath Wayne's manor, no less.

Batman watched the fruit of his labor with blank expression, some part of him briefly wondering if it was too far. But then, he recalled the stakes. And the simple fact, that there was literally almost nothing else he could do at this point. He did try everything. He tried talking. He tried reasoning. He tried to beat the shit out of Crane hard enough for his sense to knock back into his skull. But none of that lasted long. None of that truly helped or changed anything. Those methods stalled the process, but never truly worked.

But he knew, that something just might work, if he will have enough incumbency to try it.

“But I will admit," Alfred said after what felt like forever, "your attachment to this man is quite puzzling.”

Bruce craned his neck, throwing a partially questioning look over his shoulder. “Is this what you think this is? Me being attached?”

“You have to recognize, that you are looking out for Mister Crane way more, then you do for your other adversaries.” Alfred noted, gaze impassive, but his brow slightly raised, “At the very least, it would seem that you take the responsibility you feel for him on a different level.”

“I am responsible for him.” Bruce said plainly, putting down the drill, “I am responsible for all of them to some degree.”

“If you say so, sir. I merely don’t look forward to the day when you will decide to relocate the whole asylum down here.” Alfred sighed in a slightly exaggerated way, “I’m afraid that it would be troubling for me to feed so many mouths at once.”

Another joke, which didn’t sound like a joke.

“It won’t happen, Alfred.” Bruce reassured him, begging to get ready for the night, before adding something of an afterthought, “Just this one.”

Alfred said nothing, but his expression conveyed a rather simple, my point exactly, sir.

So maybe, yes. Maybe, he was to some extent attached to Crane. There was no helping it, he supposed. He had already made up his mind and Alfred seemed to know this too.

“Well, in that case, I feel like I need to ask what our guest will eat tonight, then?” Alfred required from his place at the top of stairs, watching Bruce putting on his vigilante regimentals, “I would hate to leave a bad first impression.”

“We’ll figure something out.” he said, putting on his cowl as his voice shifted from Bruce Wayne into Batman, “This isn’t the biggest concern right now.”

Crane was somewhere out there and he was going to find him. And when he do, this time, they will try something different. If Arkham wasn’t able to help him, it was only natural that Batman would see what he could do.

(No more failures.)

[sumerussproutcollei]

Alnst x Genshin AU Chapter 1 - Cyxiao

Do you believe…in god?

Eons ago, humanity believed in a divine power, and practiced something called ‘religion’

Things that were deemed unexplainable, were believed to have been accomplished purely by gods will.

They believed the entire universe had revolved around the nations of Teyvat and Celestia, and that beyond the sky, where humans and spiritual beings dared not reached, was where the creator of our universe lived.

Ultimately, the moment that humanity had left the universe, we had….forgotten.

Xiao could feel his tiny heart clench in his chest when his family said their good byes. But at that particular moment, he was far too young to understand why they were so upset. “Don’t be sad Mama, Papa.” he murmured under his own breath so quietly that nobody could hear it but himself. He pressed his tiny hand against the glass containment chamber he was put in, and gave a smile.

He was heading off to a new adventure! He was going to be back soon, but he was definitely going to be homesick. He had loved his home planet, after all. But that was but a mere sacrifice for the amazing life he had ahead of him.

Before he could’ve said anything out loud, he felt the glass transport chamber vibrate beneath his bare feet, before he could feel himself move away from the family he had once knew. Farther…farther…farther…farther…until the space station was but a speck of gray, his parents nowhere in sight any longer.

He had been allowed to take with him a few trinkets from his home planet, which lay scattered in his transport vessel messily. Only a few hours had passed since he had been deported from the space station, but it felt like it had been days.

The deep, infinite space that lay before his eyes had made Xiao feel so…lonely. Lonely, sad, and cold. He pulled a blanket he had taken with him over his tiny, frail frame and wiped a few tears that had ran down his face. He was supposed to be having fun, making friends and doing his best. So why was it like…this?

He turned around in his vessel, and faced a similar one that was travelling parallel to his. Salty tears droplets fell from his eyes, running down his face before floating like tiny bubbles in front of him. In the other vessel, he could see…someone else? A boy. A boy his age! He was faced backwards, put in a sort of elaborate costume with a hat on his head, almost like a plaything, soft white hair flowing behind his back with his neck skin a dark shade of brown.

Xiao could feel his breath catch in his chest out of awe. He found a million questions run through his mind at the same time, but couldn’t utter a word. Who was he? Was he like him? Were they going to the same place? Could he turn to face him?

The boy shifted just the slightest, leaning the side of his head against the glass walls of confinement. His deep, blood crimson eyes met Xiao’s soft, sunset like ones, his eyes almost devoid of any emotion. Xiao wiped his tears off of his face, and gazed at the boy intently as he wondered if he felt the same way he did.

Sad, alone, and cold.

Even if he was sad, he hated seeing others feel sad. He wanted to touch his sadness, and make it go away. He wanted to say ‘It’s going to be okay, you won’t be alone. Because I won’t leave you.’ but he couldn’t say anything.

Cyno heard the quiet sobs of the boy in the glass vessel opposite to his own, and tensed up slightly. He had heard his caretakers talking about this training facility they were supposed to be sent to. Trained for years for some sort of competition where could be only one winner. The losers would be eliminated, or at least that’s what he understood.

Knowing the fate he was condemned to, he silently cried himself to sleep in despair. His other fellow ‘pets’ only jeered at him and couldn’t be happier to send him away. He was ‘fathers’ favourite, and him being gone forever meant that the position would be up for grabs. As much as he despised home, it was certainly better than an almost guaranteed early demise. That is, considering he will survive, which was a miniscule chance.

He turned his head, his left cheek pressing against the cold glass, his every breath coming out in frosty mist as their eyes met.

His eyes…

Cyno turned to fully face the boy, who floated in his vessel along with the other items in his vicinit, fully letting himself go as he flowed with the gravity. His hair was wild and had a messy cut, coloured a dark navy shade of blue with turquoise highlights. His skin was incredibly pale, the only shade on his face being his rose tinted cheeks.

But his eyes…they reminded him of the sunsets of his home planet. They were one of the things that had brought him true happiness in his days. Why were his sunset eyes looking at him like that?

Mesmerised…

Don’t look at me like that..

It hurts…

A series of clacking sounds from the transport vessels echoed into the deep space, then suddenly, the glass vessels seperated, shifting their gears before moving away from each other in the opposite directions. The boy with the sunset in his eyes pressed his hand on the glass with an almost frantic look in his eyes, not wanting to be left alone, and Cyno had found himself doing the same.

The amount of new found affection in his eyes was strange, but he found himself wanting to know more. To touch his skin, to hear his voice, and to see his smile again. He couldn’t bring himself to forget the smile of the boy he saw, it almost bringing him a ray of hope.

His smile could be called beautiful.

But he may not get to see it again.

Cyno put his hand to the end of the confined space, clawing at it with his tiny, nimble fingers, trying to grab the boys hand before he left forever, and the other did the same. When it was in vain, the boys hands crumpled into tiny fists of despair.

They were floating away from each other, Cyno’s hands still against the glass and the other boy breaking out into sobs as more tears ran from his scrunched eyes. In an effort to say his goodbye, he waved at Cyno, as he tried to control himself.

Cyno’s hand slowly edged away from the glass, before giving a tiny wave. He didn’t put his hand down until the other was but a dot in the vast space as his heart filled with unspoken and unfelt emotions.

‘Please don't go’ his heart cried out ‘i don't want to be alone anymore'

Xiao woke up in a cold sweat, shaking all over. Where was he? What had happened? The ground beneath him was soft, covered with grass that almost felt real, and the sky looked ethereal. But beside him, fast asleep on the ground, was the person he loved the most.

His god.

His universe!

Xiao pressed a kiss to Cyno's left cheek, who stirred by the display of affection.

"Mmmh?" he mumbled softly as his eyes fluttered open, holding a hand to his cheek. "Oh," Xiao stuttered a bit, his face heating up just the slightest "I didn't intend on waking you up, I apologize..."

Cyno stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, fairly upset at the interruption of his rest, but couldn't bring himself to get that angry at Xiao. "Meanie.." he muttered, scratching the skin behind the collar on his neck "you dummy."

Xiao scrunched his tiny face in thought, thinking deeply about something when the words that come out of his mouth were "Wanna go bother Kokomi?"

Cyno sleepily nodded his head, his eyelids opening and shutting with every second. Xiao dragged him by the arm as they ran off into the sunset, laughing and intertwining their fingers.

I gained depression writing this (I had to analyse the mizisua vid for writing this) ueueueeeeueueueuueuueueuueueuueueeeeee 🥺nyom nyom ue ueee

[writerpey]

The Spaces Between

Lumon Industries falls after Helly R. speaks the truth about the company's treatment of Severed employees. All chips are removed and Mark copes the only way he knows how. This proves difficult, sharing a body with his innie and a brain fighting reintegration.

Age regressor Mark fanfic! (cross-posted on my ao3 account, here)

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

Word count: 1845

Mark Scout had an idea of what his life would be like after working at Lumon. He dared to hope that his time at the company would ease the pain of losing Gemma enough to return to the university. Maybe he would lecture on the Battle of the Somme again, and cut loose his grief by returning to a past far beyond that of his own. History could be an escape once he no longer pondered his own and spent time wishing the brake pedal had been pressed a fraction of a second earlier. Smoke and rubble would belong on paper rather than the recesses of his severed mind.

What Mark Scout didn’t hope post-Lumon life would be: the searing pain of new memories bursting from his eyelids into brilliant, white light – an endless labyrinth of walls and numbers, fear and wonder. And it certainly didn’t take place at his sister’s house, with the shrill cries of an infant ringing in his ears and Ricken, of all people, holding a cold compress to his forehead. The worst part about it? He found that he craved the attention from Ricken, a tender touch and attention to his pain. His innie had to be here too.

Devon’s voice sounded muffled and far away, as if water filled Mark’s ears and flowed into the torrential waters in his mind. “He was fine two hours ago. Is it reintegration sickness?”

“I think so. His spirit feels split.” Ricken’s voice boomed, almost drowning out the end of Devon’s question. Mark winced, and found himself being softly shushed by his brother-in-law. His mind lit up, his brother-in-law!

Mark opened his eyes when the baby – Eleanor – shrieked. But, his eyes felt wet. Could babies make you cry? No, no, that’s idiotic. I was a baby once. Yes, you were.

Another wave of pain surged through Mark, and he found that he was speaking every word aloud and crying much like Eleanor. Devon passed Eleanor to Ricken, swooped in on Mark, sitting next to him on the race car bed and turning the compress over so it was cooler on his forehead. Eleanor’s cries faded as Ricken took her out of the room.

“S’better,” Mark murmured, his speech slurred, breaths choppy. He closed his eyes again and felt Devon gently dabbing away his tears with a tissue. More still fell anyway. Did he cry at Lumon? Another memory passed his vision, one of Petey’s hands clapping him on the shoulder, offering him a tissue as the door to the break room slammed shut behind him and he was enveloped in white again. “Dev,” Mark gasped.

“I’m right here, Mark. I got you.” She replied, somber and empathetic, her heart being pulled in three directions at once. One, for her Mark, another for the sweet innie she was just getting to know, and the last for the Mark in between – the one who always seemed to be suffering ever since he was cut free from his chip.

Devon knew what was coming next. She felt she gained a mother’s intuition even before Eleanor was conceived, one that was gifted to her by her darling firstborn from eternity so she would know just how to help her brother when he couldn’t voice his unending grief.

Mark felt horribly desperate, like he was scrabbling for something he couldn’t see. And yet, the pain of two lives in his mind dissipated with one word, almost like the elevator at Lumon had carried him up to reality. “Devvie!” He uttered, eyes fluttering open reaching towards his sister with a hand to make any sort of contact.

There it was. Devon recognized her Mark, and the innocent place he retreated to when it was all too much. She pulled the compress from his forehead, clasped his hand in hers and wiped the dampness from his face. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Was that a bad one?”

“Hurt. And – my innie. I remembered.” Mark sniffled, his eyes hazy and his throat sore from crying. He sat up in his bed, Devon’s hand moving to his back to run her fingers up and down it soothingly. “Don’t like him.”

“You don’t mean that, honey. I know it’s painful when your memories mix with your Innie’s, but he feels it too.” Devon offered the statement in return, smiling softly at Mark’s childish speech.

“Don’t like him.” Mark repeated, this time with a scowl, brow furrowing with nothing but contempt.

“Well,” Devon pushed Mark’s hair out of his eyes, “He likes you.”

“Don’t care.”

“Okay, bud.” Devon breathily chuckled, more out of relief than anything else, but it earned her an even fiercer look from Mark. She liked him like this – bratty and quick witted, sure, but also willing to speak his feelings much more than when he didn’t feel young.

“Where’s Ellie?” Mark then asked, perking up at the thought of the baby, tears and pain dissolving into curiosity and alertness.

“Rick took her on a little walk around the house. Do you wanna go find her?” Devon offered, standing up and holding out her hand for Mark to take. His eyes danced from her hand to her face and back again, as if hesitant to fully accept the dynamic. His hand clasped hers anyways.

Unsteady on his feet, Mark swayed as he got up from his bed, frowning. “Ugh,” He groaned, an uncomfortable, dejected noise.

“I know. We’ll get you some hot tea too, it’ll help.” Devon steadied him with her other hand on his shoulder, and gently coaxed Mark into following her to the kitchen.

Ricken stood in the kitchen, rocking Eleanor in his arms and shushing her gently. The lighting was dim, warm and inviting, easy on Mark’s subsiding headache and tired eyes.

Mark looked like he wanted to say something to Ricken as his sister pulled him into the kitchen, but he kept his mouth closed and his eyes wide as he looked at Eleanor, who was calm and quiet. He found it harder to talk in front of Ricken when he was in this regressed state, uncertain with a whisper of embarrassment that he never told Devon about. Those feelings were much too big for him anyways – the point of a return to childhood was getting away from them.

“Feeling better, Mark?” Ricken asked in a hushed tone, expression worried as he rocked Eleanor back and forth.

Mark gave a single nod, but kept looking at Eleanor, even as Devon let go of his hand to put the kettle on to boil. “Umm,” He started, “D-did I wake her up?”

Ricken and Devon shared a look, and Ricken said, “No, of course not – well, yes.”

“Can I hold her?”

The couple shared another look, and Ricken shook his head. “I’m sorry, little guy, but I just got her settled. You feel bad about waking her up, right?”

Mark pouted, and nodded again. He didn’t like the guilt that was creeping into his stomach and turning his insides around. He hated causing trouble for Devon and the baby, and didn’t particularly enjoy all the aspects of the whole depending on someone else shtick that Devon had been very insistent on ever since he showed up on their doorstep in the middle of the night with his car in the bushes.

“Well, I know how you can make it better.” Ricken continued, tone lilting.

That made Mark’s pout fade and his nodding more enthusiastic. He could do something to help.

“Why don’t you go and find her pacifier? The one with the wooden handle?” As soon as Ricken asked, Mark set off to the living room, looking under the couch and flipping around cushions.

“You’re good with him.” Devon remarked with a wistful grin, pouring a mug of tea for Mark.

“Well, it is purely instinctual. But… His face is plastered with emotion when he’s like this. Little Mark needs unassuming coddling. Coddling without it being obvious.” Ricken replied, as if it was as simple as making the mug of tea that was sitting on the counter, steam trailing upwards and disappearing.

“But,” Devon chewed on her lower lip anxiously, watching Mark determinedly march past the kitchen and back to his and Eleanor’s room in search of the pacifier. “What if he fully reintegrates, and this doesn’t work anymore? When he’s young like this, it’s – Rick, you know as well as I do that this is the most content we’ve seen him since Gemma.”

“I know. But he needs time before we start theorizing. It’s been a month since the chip was removed, Dev. We’ve met innie Mark, what, five times? Six? They don’t switch often.” Ricken brushed Devon’s worries aside, moving toward some kind of inner peace that Devon couldn’t see herself finding.

Still, Ricken had a point, especially when Mark came around the corner, a rare and true smile on his face. Victoriously, he put the pacifier on the kitchen counter and watched joyously as Ricken coaxed it into Eleanor’s mouth, which made her little eyelids close sleepily.

Mark lingered by the counter, hands resting on its edge as he watched Eleanor settle. Devon studied him. The way his shoulders weren’t drawn so tight, the way his mouth didn’t immediately press into that exhausted, unreadable line. He was so much younger like this, even if she knew it was temporary. Maybe that was the part that scared her most.

“Good job, Mark,” she said, pushing the mug of tea towards him and his eyes flicked toward her, startled, as if he hadn’t expected praise. Somehow, it made his head thrum. He carefully picked up the mug and took a sip, the warmth soothing his throat.

Ricken hummed in approval. “Yes, quite. A man of action.”

Mark shrugged, but there was satisfaction behind his expression, burning brightly in his usually dim eyes. His fingers tapped against the ceramic mug, lightly dinging in the quiet of the kitchen.

“She’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” Ricken confirmed. “Because of you.”

Mark’s embarrassment spiked, and he attempted to hide behind his mug. Devon laughed softly, truly this time, and even moreso when Mark squeaked out, “Bedtime?”

The family headed back to Eleanor and Mark’s room, Devon pulling back the covers on the race car bed for Mark to climb into. Ricken gently placed Eleanor in her crib, removing the pacifier and pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead before joining the siblings.

Devon and Ricken both kneeled next to Mark’s bed, Devon pulling the blankets up to his shoulders but not quite to his chin – Mark had quipped one night that he didn’t like feeling suffocated when Devon tucked him in too tight.

“I’ll be back later to come check on you and Eleanor. Feeling alright, honey?” Devon asked one last time, gaze soft as her motherly instincts guided her words.

Mark answered with a sleepy “uh-huh,” eyes heavy and body succumbing to sleep, exhausted and safe with his family.

Devon leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mark’s forehead, loving her brother the same way she did her daughter. For now, it was enough

[prin-does-art]

Hi again, so the second chapter! I hope y'all like this fluff. I gave my best on this chapter, however this is my first fic and english is not my first language, so apologies if anything sounds confusing, and please let me know in the comments. Again, any spanish spoken will be translated in the end, so don't worry ;)

Title: One And The Opposite

Rating: Teens and Up (swearing, mentions of sex)

Summary: After filling the shoes of his alternate self in a parallel universe, Miguel O'Hara swiftly discovers that embodying a different version of himself is far more challenging than he initially anticipated. As he juggles with the complexities of family dynamics, with a wife and daughter who both expect him to be the man they remember, he tries to stay afloat, grappling with the pros and cons of navigating two lives simultaneously.

OR

A domestic Miguel trying his best.

Chapter 2: Sweet reunion

"Gordo, eres tú? Ya llegué!" he hears a voice shout from down the hallway, as the door slams shut, followed by the loud noise of keys rattling and plastic bags crinkling.

Miguel turns around to look at her for the first time, and it's nothing like he thought it would be, to say the least. He imagines it’s like if he were living life immersed in tiger illustrations, and then got to see the real thing for the very first time. It feels like he’s standing in the presence of a real tiger, with its raw power, the rhythmic pulse of its fur, and the untamed wilderness echoing in its eyes. His breath catches as he steps back to really look at her in awe.

Moving through the kitchen in a busy sway, she goes about putting the groceries away, all the while speaking almost too fast to understand like every Spanish speaker ever. It’s as if she hasn't even spotted him there yet — so comfortable with his presence. 

"... Tu hermano no deja de llamarme, deberías ver qué quiere. Ah, y el 'forecast' del tiempo dice que el aire será irrespirable por unas horas, así que recuerda cuando te dirijas a... estas bien?" She asks, getting on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss.

As much as he tries not to, Miguel is startled by the sudden contact, and it must show on his face because she notices too.

"Que te pasa, mi amor?" She asks, a look of confusion in her face that makes her look even more beautiful.

"I uh... I... Just got robbed." He blurts out. 

Even after a day of practicing his Spanish accent, English still instinctively surfaces as his immediate response — it's become much more natural than his native language at this point. The perplexity in her eyes immediately turns into worry as she puts a hand on his face and examines him up and down.

"Are you ok? Did they hurt you!?" She thankfully also speaks English, although with a slight accent that Miguel can’t quite figure out where it’s from. 

"No, no, yo estoy bien. I'm fine just... A little shaken. He had a gun." He answers, gently holding her hand back.

She stares at him, a twinge of shock coloring her features, then looks down at his hand. He gets worried for a second that even though his talons are concealed, something else might be giving him away. Something he doesn’t know about. He can't help the way his heart must be beating a mile a minute, threatening to jump out of his chest.

"Well, you're safe now, okay? Don't worry about it too much." The way she casually utters it confirms for him that this sort of thing happens frequently here. She only smiles sympathetically at him, not even asking what they took — if anything.

He sighs in relief as she says that, and smiles back, taking the chance to get a good look at her face. 

Brown eyes like his, a few moles here and there. Worry lines between her brows that paint a picture of a woman who hasn't had everything handed to her, or the easiest life. He can't help but think he chose well. 

"Listen, I can go pick up Briella, you stay here and I'll-" she says, swiftly turning around to grab her keys.

"No, no, it's okay, I can do it. It's fine." He quickly insists, knowing he has to use every opportunity to get to know his family, and his alternate version better. 

"Okay. Pero ten cuidado mi amor." She warns, placing another kiss on his lips.

*

He gets there early, watching from his car as some parents start making their way towards the entrance. While he contemplates waiting inside the front office — an idea that might be a bit excessive, though it would allow him to catch an earlier glimpse of Gabriella — staying in the car seems neglectful at best. So he settles on waiting near the front of the school until the bell rings.

When it finally does, a crowd of kids emerges from the building, and with them a cacophony of screams and voices as he nervously shifts his weight around, willing himself to stay calm while trying to spot his daughter in the crowd.

“¿Apá?” She asks, right next to him . Miguel looks down at her, startled. 

He must have been so distracted looking through hundreds of faces, that he didn’t even notice her coming up to him. It doesn’t help that she’s tiny, barely reaching past his hips, and the school uniform makes her blend right in with the navy blue crowd.

“Oh hi there! You scared me!” He tells her with a laugh, trying to play it off.

Gabriella blinks at him. “You didn’t wait in the car this time.” 

Uh oh. Is that bad? Maybe she was embarrassed of leaving with her father, maybe the kids would make fun of her for it now. He quickly scans the surroundings, seeing not that many kids leaving with their parents.

“Uh… Right. Well, I wanted to walk with you, if that’s ok…” He explains, fighting the urge to lean down so she doesn’t feel as small to him.

Thankfully she just shrugs, and turns to leave after he offers to carry her backpack for her. They start walking in silence, with Miguel more afraid of being found out than he was earlier, with her mother.

It’s silly, really: She’s a child, barely nine years old. However, his mind keeps racing trying to figure out what to say, what to ask that’s not going to give him away immediately, while at the same time reassuring himself that it’s okay, that she doesn’t know yet.

“So… How was school?” He asks, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants.

“It was alright.” She answers dryly, staring at the floor as she walks.

“Soo was it alright as in boring, or…?” He risks the question, wanting to know more about her day.

She seems pensive for a moment, considering him. “It’s just that the boys keep making fun of me and Isa again. Even Sam joined in, and he doesn't even play soccer!” She frowns, continuing. “They keep saying we’re never gonna play like Messi Jr because we’re girls.” 

He can feel his fists closing into tight balls when she says that. He knows first hand just how insufferable boys her age could get, especially dealing with Kron and all the hell he’d put him through at school, but he also knows that when it comes to girls they act ten times worse. 

So even though he has no idea who ‘Messi Jr’ is, he figures instead of speaking out of anger and cursing the hell out of these boys, he should at least try and help her with her insecurities instead. 

“Why are you worried about being exactly like Messi Jr when you can be so much better than him?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

She keeps silent for a moment, seeming hesitant. “Really? You think so?” 

“Of course I do! You’re great!” He answers honestly. 

Miguel remembers watching her play a little fútbol prior to coming here. He had been surprised to find out how good she played for her age before…  

Suddenly, he’s almost overwhelmed by the thought of what would have happened to her had he not been here. He has a vision of this lovely little girl he just met being thrusted into a childhood filled with grief. 

No paternal figure there for her. A perpetual sadness that got particularly worse on every father’s day, an endless list of things he would never get to teach her. A constant wondering of what it could have been, what would have been like to have him there. 

He can’t help but feel glad that he could take his place. That he could be there for her in this way and fill this void. It’s an impossible responsibility, yet one he’s happy to take nonetheless. 

Shaking his thoughts away, he continues. “And besides, it’s like you said, right? What does Sam know about soccer, he doesn’t even play! Also, there are some great women players around the world too.” He smiles with a sudden enjoyment, excited to play this role the best way he knew how to.

Gabriella looks like she notices his thrilled state, eyeing him sideways with a curious look. “I know, I know. It’s just that it annoys me, you know?” she says, back to looking pensive. 

“Yeah, that’s… True. And the more it annoys you, the more they do it…” He admits, more to himself than her.

Miguel didn’t want to be a walking cliché. He didn’t have much advice to give her, besides things he really wanted to say but couldn’t. Like: She’s a lovely little girl, that he’s glad to be here for her and she’s actually so much more than he ever imagined, that she could be anything she put her mind to, and already he couldn't think of a single thing he wouldn’t do if she asked him to. No, that would be too much in too little time. Instead, he had to go with what was appropriate.

“You know, you’re gonna find people like that everywhere you go. I have people I don’t like at work, too. The thing is how you deal with them. But don't worry, you’ll learn that with time. it’s not like there’s a recipe for it, you know?” He tells her.

She keeps quiet for a moment, listening to him. Was that also too much?

But then she just nods in understanding as he opens the door of the car for her to get in.

*

“Not again, Gabriella. Again!?”

“¿Qué?” Gabriella asks, rubbing her feet on a rug by the entrance of the apartment when the both of them come in.

“¿Cuántas veces te he dicho para no jugar fútbol con el uniforme? ¡Mírate! ¡Estás cubierta de pasto!” María raises her voice, pointing to her daughter's legs.

“But mooom! It was just a quick cascarita! And I’m not even that dirty!” Gabriella insists, gesturing towards her white socks, which funny enough are covered in green and brown spots, especially by the knees.

“¿A quién estás llamando 'mooom'? Anda, take it off and give it here.” She orders after letting out a breath. 

“Sí mamá.” Says Briella, pouting and dragging her feet to her room, looking annoyed.

Miguel also drags his feet by the threshold, setting his keys on a hook next to the door. He takes off his boots, eyeing the three pairs of slippers nearby. Hesitantly, he puts one of them on, the irony in the mundane gesture settling heavy in his chest, the weight of deception tugging annoyingly at his conscience.

Since he’s already taken a quick look around the place before she arrived from work, he gets to inspect things a little closer this time around.

The entryway is adorned with sleek porcelain tiles that extend seamlessly into the living space. A smart home system panel mounted on the wall offers control over lighting, temperature, and security, right next to the hook where he hung his keys. To the side, there’s a wall-mounted shelf holding a curated display of art and what looks to be some personal mementos. 

A water bill sits on top of it, the sight striking an odd chord — in a time where holographic displays and digital transactions were the norm, a paper bill practically seems like a relic from another time — but also allowing him to find out her full name, which he immediately commits to memory.

“I think she thinks the socks make her look more like a professional player.” María tells him a while later, while slicing some meat by the sink. “We should buy her a pair of those so she stops ruining her uniform.” 

He nods in agreement, putting a plate down as he lets the reality sink in, that this is really happening. This is his life now. 

He’s married, he has a beautiful wife, and he’s also father to a beautiful little girl. And he couldn't be happier. Couldn’t have asked for anything else in life. 

It’s like he just woke up from a bad dream, straight into the life he’s always wanted to live.

Like he’s exactly where he belongs. 

So he helps María with the food. Luckily, he must be incompetent at the kitchen in every universe, because her instructions are extremely detailed, as they prepare carne a la tampiqueña for three.

María yells for Gabriella to come, and they all eat in silence after joining hands around the table for a quick, silent prayer. 

*

Later, María is washing the socks while he cleans the table, and Maná plays in the background. She grooves with the rhythm, singing and humming now and then, completely oblivious to it all.

Objectively, he knows that he’s hiding a lot from her, but his heart can’t help but ache a little at how she’s not intimidated at all by his presence, in fact, she’s used to it. For once, he doesn’t feel like a freak or a monster the way he inadvertently does among the other spiders. 

She spots him there, lost in thought as he finishes up, and says “I heard they’re reconstructing his larynx.” 

“What?” He’s pulled from his thoughts by the weird phrase.

“Maná. The vocalist, I heard they’re reconstructing his larynx to help the A.I replicate his voice better. Can you believe that!?” She explains “That’s why I’m listening to their original songs, I heard it on the news today.”

He blinks slowly, trying to figure out if he’s supposed to be used to things like these. “That’s… Crazy, honestly.”

“Right? I mean, the fact that we aren’t able to tell the difference for most artists nowadays is already pretty insane to me, and now they’re reconstructing the larynx of a dead guy to make a robot replicate his voice better? Come on now!” She remarks, turning back to look at him.

“I know, it’s so wild to think about.” He says, taking the chance to look around the room. 

Sleek countertops adorned in marble, bearing the scars of a few culinary adventures that her and his alternate self probably didn’t have the time to clean yet; Rectangular windows above the kitchen sink, lined with cheap plastic containers labeled “basil”, “rosemary” and a few other herbs, bringing a nice green contrast to the brushed metal accents; A smart fridge on the corner, adorned with Gabriella’s drawings held by magnets all throughout it. Some things never change.

He approaches the fridge, taking one of the drawings to inspect it closer. It’s a crudely drawn version of him… His alternate self, with exaggerated triangular shoulders and, most tellingly, what looks like a phone buzzing in his hand.

María seems to notice his curiosity, approaching to look at the drawing too.

“Listen I know, you must be still a little shaken from… Before,” She tells him carefully “Just… Try not to think too much about it, okay? You’re here, you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

He puts the drawing back as she places a cold hand on his face again, gently willing him to meet her eyes. 

“I know, I know. It’s just… I was afraid for a second, that’s all.” He says, sincere in his words but not the real meaning behind them.

“And that’s okay. I’m here.” She assures him, pulling him by the arm gently.

The low hum of the city outside is a distant lullaby as they settle into the living room.

She takes a bottle from on top of a cabinet, wordlessly pouring two cups. He takes a sip, letting the burning soothe his nerves.

"I didn’t think I'd make it back." He lies, gaze lingering on the symmetrical floor panels.

Her hand finds his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You did, and you're here now."

“Yeah… I am.” An inward glow softing his expression, the sensation of a smile blooming from deep within as he stares into her eyes.

As the night unfolds, the room is filled with shared glances and unspoken understanding. María lays her head on his shoulder, caressing him. 

And he can’t help but think that this could work. 

This could really work.

*

When they go to bed, after making sure Briella did her homework and wishing her goodnight of course, María takes off her bra in front of him, and slips on a loose nightgown.

He hates that for so many things that he had considered before coming here, this hadn’t even crossed his mind at all. Hesitantly, he pulls off his own clothes, not able to help how flushed red his face must be. 

Thankfully, María doesn’t seem to notice this, as she’s busy settling into bed and pulling the sheets towards herself. He sits besides her underneath them, awkwardly stiff, and she pulls him into a sideways hug, humming quietly. 

"You seem so different today." She observes, fingers lightly tracing circles on the sheets next to him.

He freezes, eyes widening but trying not to look at her.

"Yeah… It's been a long day.” He says, clearing his throat. “I'm just tired, that’s all. Besides, I gotta wake up early tomorrow. You know how it is, work.” He explains, thinking it’s a good enough excuse.

She turns to fully look at him, blinking in amusement. “It’s friday. Did you forget?” 

He closes his eyes. Fuck.

“Yeah, yeah, right. I meant workout, you know? Gym? I just need some rest.” He corrects, pulling away from her a little and cursing himself inwardly for talking so much.

She seems to get the message, recoiling as well.

“You and your Gym. Should at least try eating those packed proteins just like everyone else.” She tells him, turning her back to him, reaching for the light switch on her side of the bed and then finally lying back down.

"Well, you know how I am," He says, turning off his side of the bed lamp as well but still remaining upright. She hums in agreement.

“Goodnight?” He asks, reluctantly.

“Goodnight.” She replies, sounding already half asleep.

*

"Gordo, eres tú? Ya llegué!” = Fatty is that you? I’ve arrived! 

(Keep in mind that ‘gordo’ is a wholesome way to call someone in spanish, and doesn’t mean she actually thinks he’s fat nor that she is body shaming Miguel).

"... Tu hermano no deja de llamarme, deberías ver qué quiere. Ah, y el 'forecast' del tiempo dice que el aire será irrespirable por unas horas, así que recuerda cuando te dirijas a… estas bien?”

=

“... Your brother won’t stop calling me, you should see what he wants. Ah, and the weather forecast says the air will be unbreathable for a few hours, so remember that when you’re heading to… Are you ok?”

"Que te pasa, mi amor?” = “What’s up with you, my love?”

“Estoy bien” = “I’m fine”

"Okay. Pero ten cuidado mi amor.” = “Okay, but be careful my love.”

“¿Apá?” = “Dad?”

“¿Qué?” = “What?”

“¿Cuántas veces te he dicho para no jugar fútbol con el uniforme? ¡Mírate! ¡Estás cubierta de pasto!” = “How many times have I told you to not play soccer with your uniform? Look at you! You’re covered in grass!”

Cascarita = an informal, purely friendly soccer match in Mexico. The equivalent for a ‘pelada’ in Brazilian Portuguese, although if you search for the term, make sure to include the word ‘futebol’ after it, as ‘pelada’ on its own simply means ‘naked’ haha

“¿A quién estás llamando 'mooom'? Anda [...]” = “Who are you calling ‘mooom’? Come on [...]”

“Sí mamá.” = “yes mom.” 

Carne a la tampiqueña = a traditional mexican meat dish

Lyla, play Mi religión by Maná :) Also you can read it on ao3

[therealslimshakespeare]

for the guys like gale… who’ve never had a sibling? brady has a sister to protect, bucky has sisters… but for gale? 🥹🥹 he loves ida but smith is something to protect 💔💔

Babe this is so beautifully put. The sibling aspect?! Oh my hearttttt. I do have a very crushing little storyline about all this. Cleven and what he’d do for Smith and the rest. But Smith is the one endangered -nothing like a little eugenics side plot in a nazi camp

Those Who Can Sneak Peak:

(18+ for thematic and disturbing material, medical horror I guess? racism?? universe warnings apply)

Something in his Major’s face showed a meekness that was as horrifying to Brady as it was pleasing to the doctor.

“You see this,” the doctor was eager to go on, lifting the dreaded folder and beginning to theatrically bury it beneath other papers, “this can stay here, if I am otherwise occupied. If more pressing matters require my skill. You have a woman with you of ethnic race, bronze, black hair -I can overlook her for these orders, on a few conditions.”

Brady could tell Cleven was hard at thought by the frantic twitch in his jaw, even as his eyes stayed mild and his mouth soft, he seemed to be trying to find that riddle answer. Brady felt sorry for him. There never was one in this place.

“You play many games to pass the time, you and your men, yes?” The doctor spoke again, having spent the past few deadly silent moments enjoying Cleven’s futile calculations, “I want you to play a game with me. I will not monopolize your time. But things must be fair, I cannot endlessly provide my expertise with no recompense, you cannot go on in your current state. The body flags, does it not? You have felt what I can do for you. That was just a taste.”

Gale Cleven didn’t think he was likely to forget those Adrenalin shots anytime soon, or their symptoms of panicked sweating and tight chested jitters worse than any flak shakes, the utter inability to sleep. Or its side effect of thudding blood in his temples and his armpits. And in his groin. The way Brady’s arms had been littered with the puncture wounds long before his first.

Maureen hadn’t been pleased for once to find him stiff, she’d said she knew of those kind of stimulants and they could kill a man by stopping his heart, said he should never take them just to please her. He’d had to tell her then it wasn’t to please her: that he’d had no choice in it, and that distressed her in turn.

Maureen was very far away from this hut and its gargoyle of an overlord and she needed to stay that way. Smith, he felt, was closer by the specter of her physical description.

“Games?” Cleven repeated and he felt rather than allowed his own mouth to smile, likely a wide and disbelieving thing because his heart might not accept the obvious here but his mind knew exactly what sort of games these would be. “We sure do.” he balled his fists on his arm chair to keep away the impulse to tap, “But I think you’ll find some of us -what did you call it? Allowing? I’d raise you; experienced. At these games.”

The doctor looked puzzled for once and on his own part Brady was sure he looked idiotically confused, although he felt the aura of Cleven’s meticulous precision in the air, some miasma of intent and calculation that made him snap to it and try to play along. Cleven’s smarts and intents were like that, tangible as a pet monkey on his shoulder but every bit as impossible to intelligently converse with.

“Sir,” Cleven leaned forward in his seat with that disarming cordiality that Brady had only ever seen him use on women or new recruits, “you and I know this game, s’why invite amateurs?” his meaning hung thin and obscure for a brief moment before he sucked in a breath and added his addendum, Brady should have seen it coming, “I can make it worth your while, a-and uh, and I am the one in need of treatment, like you said. Three's a crowd, sir. Send him out,” he didn’t even glance at the boy he was trying to save, just a callous jerk of the head to indicate his subject, “and we’ll play this, you and I -man to man.”

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [What If We Rewrite the Stars?]

For Day 4 of Carry on Countdown 23, Stars.

On proposals.

Rated M for Baz and Simon getting (un)surprisingly frisky.

⋆｡˚

If Basilton ever proposed to anyone– not that he had anyone in mind, and certainly not his roommate who wanted very much to defang him and who Basilton certainly did not want to snog– he already had his plan laid out. Mage weddings were notoriously elaborate and romantic, as anyone with their thumb to the page of Mage Histories would have been well aware, so of course Basilton, best mage in his class, would already have his plan. Not only did he have the general populace of magekind to contest with, but also his very own mother.

Everyone bloody well knew she’d hung the moon for his father. Basilton couldn’t hide the scowl the thought of his father brought him, shaking his head to clear his mind of it. He refocused himself back to the empty field before him and then up to the clear sky above.

If his mother had hung the moon, he could bloody well rewrite the stars.

It’s in the theory of it, not the literalness of the thing. He wasn’t trying to throw the entire universe out of sorts or ruin planetary alignments. What Basilton was going for was a simpler thing, the illusion of rearranging them. He wasn’t entirely sure into what yet, at least not for the proposal, he knew that should be more personal, but for this practice bout, he has an idea.

He’d already tried a number of quotes from the classics, “I defy you, stars”, “there was a star danced”, “the stars are painted”, and that was only a small sampling of the Shakespeare he’d performed for the empty field and night sky, but nothing had taken yet. He’d tried any number of classics, a good few popular modern publications, several different poems, and just about any song that had broached the top one hundred in the past decade that also made mention of the barest, but nothing had taken yet.

Today, Baz is trying something a little off the cuff. Not exactly about the stars directly, but maybe something that could cause that illusion. ‘You would not believe your eyes–’ his wand flourishing elegantly out and up towards the starts, but as soon as the phrase leaves his lips, the field floods with fireflies. Fireflies. Which were not stars. He supposed at least something had happened, but the phrases were too tied together, either as some sort of ubiquitous social thought or a pervasive tie within his own mind.

Baz lets out a sigh and sits himself back down in the grass, hand resting palm up on his knee, facing the swarm of lightning bugs in front of him, staring off into utter nothingness. A firefly lands on his palm, it’s little legs tickling at sensitive skin.

So they were real.

Basilton was probably going to get in trouble for this.

⋆｡˚

The moment Baz knows he’s going to ask Simon Snow to marry him is the same moment they’d banished the room to a swirling galaxy all around them. He’s awestruck, confused, alight with affection for the soft contact between their hands, even amid all the violent, frustrated thoughts flying about his head in a haphazard flurry.

He knows he shouldn’t think such ridiculous things about Simon Snow. It’s not like he’s ever going to confess to him, let alone ask Snow to marry him, but Crowley, something about the stars pulled down into their room is doing something to him. It’s not the feeling of fire in his veins, nor the crackling electricity on his skin, nor even the ridiculous alluring way Simon looks all open and vulnerable like this, but the whole situation.

Of course it was ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star!’ he’d spoken the magick into. He knows it’s not a spell, he’d tried it a dozen and a half times before this in a dozen and a half different ways and come to nothing for it. But this time, burned clean with Simon’s magickal fire at his fingertips…

This is as close as he’s gotten to success, it’s more magnificent than he could have possibly envisioned in all his years as a mageling up to this. It would probably be better than he could ever hope to deliver too, but that doesn’t matter to Baz in the moment. All he can think is there’s no one else he’d rather share a sight like this with than Simon Snow.

Merlin and Morgana’s sake, he’s a bloody lovestruck nitwit and Baz has never been more certain of anything before. He’s going to ask this ninny to marry him one day, if they both survive the year.

⋆｡˚

It happens two years after their graduation. Simon and he both are on break from classes and Baz’s father and stepmum have flown the girls to the states for their own hols away from home. Oh sure, Baz and Simon could’ve joined, but an extended stay with his dad sounds like hell to Baz, so Baz and Simon decide to take their holiday in Ireland. Well, rather Baz decides and Simon can’t deny it’d be nice for a change of scenery. Okay, so the weather wouldn’t be much different from London, but he’d never been before, and Baz excited always makes for a good time.

Apparently, the mages in Ireland are absolutely insane, in that their spells are like nothing anywhere else in the world, old magicks still running wild throughout the lands, but also in that they also throw a damn good holiday party. Baz has never been one to avoid an excuse to show up and show off, especially now that he’s got such a divine dancing partner. Simon makes excuses, says he doesn’t know the steps, he’s got two left feet, he’ll trip them both up, but he lets Baz drag him around from place to place anyway.

He doesn’t like to be in the spotlight anymore, Baz knows, not on his own. But Baz also knows when he’s holding Simon’s waist and leading him in their dances, in their lives, the world falls away from both of them, leaving everything but the music and their footsteps behind.

It’s an impulse, a moment of downtime between the parties and the socializing and sightseeing, a moment where Basilton doesn’t have anything planned in his neatly penned itinerary, and Simon sights a theatre across the way from their cafe where Baz had been enjoying coffee and cake.

“Let’s see a movie,” Simon hums between sips of his thick cocoa, eyeing the titles in the display across the way.

Baz hums his own acknowledgment, watching Simon more than anything else around them, nodding before Simon even decides on a feature for them. “Why not? We can have an easy night tonight too, take the night off dancing and stay in our room, enjoy some whiskey in our bed, kick our feet up.”

Simon’s eyes are already twinkling, his feet tapping under the table excitedly, and Baz knows he’s made the right decision immediately.

It’s a musical they agree on, something loud and high energy, in contrast to Baz’s idea of a lazy evening, but Baz can never say no to a musical, and Simon doesn’t really care one way or another whatever they watch. So it’s a musical they’re watching.

It happens not too long after the hour point in the movie. The song starts playing. Not just any song, but The Song. Baz hears it and he knows this is going to be the song that changes everything about his proposal, that it’s going to be powerful enough, popular enough, to sink into every blade of grass and tree and rock and, oh this song is going to be good magick. There’s not a doubt in his mind.

His fingers are already twitching to find his wand and try it, iching to see if he could get it right the first try, to see if the magick’s already powerful enough for it. Simon must sense his insane spike in energy though, because his hand snakes out to grasp Baz’s and twine their fingers together, squeezing over his digits and bringing him back from the machinations of magick for the rest of the movie.

Simon listens through all Baz’s technical ramblings on the music, the inspirations the writer’s must’ve taken, the absolute chops on one singer in particular, the confusing choices made about the one singer who had supposedly been an operatic. Simon listens patiently through it all until warm whiskey settles Baz’s anxious energy and the movie’s finally forgotten between their lips.

“You’re terribly adorable when you get like this, you know, Pitch?” Simon asks before stealing a soft, slow kiss, his warm hands cupping Baz’s cool cheeks to keep them close together. Simon presses Baz’s back down to the mattress and climbs atop him, knees braced at Baz’s waist, straddling him slow, kisses trailing tender along Baz’s jaw and cheeks until Baz is humming low for him.

Baz’s hands wander up Simon’s bare back, following the notches of his spine tenderly, mapping his back all the way up to his wings, even though Baz knows these plains of Simon better than he knows his own hands. “Oh, shut up, Snow,” Baz groans, voice heated between shared kisses, lips wet with their want, “You’re just as bad going on about any and every new pastry we try.”

“I am,” Simon doesn’t even bother to deny it, kisses wandering over Baz’s neck, marking him with soft love bites, sucking the skin underneath dark with his affections, “But there’s better things to think about right now, aren’t there?”

Baz’s fingers crawl up Simon’s wings, dragging soft over their leather, lips quirking into a frown. Simon wasn’t wrong, he supposed, but he wasn’t going to just say it outright. “Why don’t you tell me what you’d like me focusing on, love, and we’ll go from there…”

Simon kisses a soft trail down Baz’s chest, unbuttoning his perfectly pressed shirt as he goes, “You know what I want, Baz.”

One of Baz’s hands slides off Simon’s wings to grip over Simon’s ass, gripping tight and forcing them to grind together, pulling a sharp gasp from Simon above him, the nails remaining edging just on this side of sharp against sensitive joints. “Words, love. I won’t ask nicely again.”

“You,” Simon rasps into his chest, nosing over the soft hair there, “Just you.”

Baz’s tongue darts out to wet his own lips, grinding them together again before that same hand slips to wrap Simon’s tail about his wrist, tugging it sharp in the moments following. “Needy thing,” Baz murmurs back, but he doesn’t argue against it. Baz’s always been terribly bad at denying Simon when he was honest with him, “I’ll give you what you want, love of mine, all you want and more…”

The moments melt into hours like that, between heated kisses and soft marks burned into skin, hands tugging in hair, gasps and moans lost to the air between them. Naught between their skin but Simon’s whispered worship and Baz’s quiet praise, pressing closer and closer into each other until nothing remained but each other. 

Still, it keeps playing in Baz’s head the next morning, that week, through their anniversary and the rest of the month too. “Rewrite the Stars,” the song rang in his mind, and Baz knew that was exactly what he intended to do, what he’d always intended to do.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Winkfield Twyman Jr.

Published: Dec 27, 2023

I have a tender spot in my heart for race pioneers. My spirits were lifted when L. Douglas Wilder was sworn in as the first Black American governor of a U.S. state—the state of Virginia, of which I am a native son. My mom was dying of cancer at the time, but she wanted me to witness Black History in the making. So on that cold January day in 1990, I left her bedside and bore witness to the coming of a better time in Virginia.

Similarly, on the night of November 4, 2008, when Barack Obama was elected the first Black President of the United States of America, I joined family and friends to run into the darkness of the San Diego night, yelling and screaming, whooping and hollering. It was a sacred moment in our American history to be always cherished and never forgotten. That the American electorate would elect a Black person to the highest office in the land was something our grandparents and our grandparents' grandparents could only dream of.

I considered the project of race in America to be finished that November night in San Diego. The election of a Black U.S. president broke the psychological barrier in our minds. There is no higher office than President of the United States of America—in the entire world. For me, the questions of race were all answered. I was done with race.

But too many Americans can't seem to quit race. Fifteen years after President Barack Obama's triumph, some feel it noteworthy to remark that Claudine Gay is the first Black President of Harvard University. Worse, in the face of numerous mounting scandals, many are defending Gay by claiming that the attacks against her are racial in nature.

They are not. They are all well deserved.

The demand that Gay resign stems from the utter lack of moral competency she displayed in her testimony before Congress, in which she said that calling for the genocide of Jews is only against Harvard rules in certain contexts. She also failed to condemn the Hamas atrocities against Israel in real time on October 7, another reason she should resign. There is also now evidence of serial plagiarism. And did I mention Gay has published no books—an unprecedented feat for a Harvard President, unless one travels back in time to the year 1773?

And yet, many are coming to her defense. Having finally got their wish of a Black president of Harvard, Harvard seems unwilling to let her go. The racial wagons have circled around Gay, with President of the NAACP alleging that White Supremacy is afoot and Morehouse President David Thomas claiming in a Forbes interview that Gay is a scholar at the "top of her profession... as qualified as any President Harvard has ever had."

This is not only misguided, but deeply ironic. Did you know that Claudine Gay during her Harvard career has repeatedly targeted and disrupted the careers of prominent Black male professors?

As Dean of the College, Gay terminated Ronald S. Sullivan, Jr. as Faculty Dean of the Winthrop House. Professor Sullivan, Jr., a graduate of Morehouse College and Harvard Law School, was the first Black faculty dean of a house in the history of Harvard College.

What was Professor Sullivan's offense? Sullivan deigned to represent the disgraced movie producer Harvey Weinstein—an act of moral conscience, since all are entitled to legal representation in our legal system. Yet legal conscience mattered not to Claudine Gay, who terminated a race pioneer for doing his civic duty.

You may excuse this heartless termination as a one-off. You would be wrong. Economics Professor Roland G. Fryer, Jr. was next in the sights of Dean Gay. Fryer was a top Black professor at Harvard. After having overcome all sorts of hardship and childhood deprivation, Professor Fryer joined the faculty at Harvard to become the second-youngest professor ever to be awarded tenure at Harvard, and went on to blaze a trail of distinction, including winning the MacArthur Fellowship and the John Bates Clark Medal.

Yet when Fryer undertook research into the killings of unarmed Black men in Houston, Fryer's research found no racial disparities. He made the mistake of undercutting the racial narrative that the Left has adopted, and as a result, Gay did her best to remove all of his academic privileges, coordinating a witch hunt against him. Fryer survived Gay's crusade of discharge but Fryer's lab was shut down, his reputation tarnished.

No one in good faith should defend President Gay because she is the first Black president of Harvard. Even if you don't agree with me that our racial struggle is in our past, someone who has targeted Black male professors has waived any benefit of the "first Black" defense.

W. F. Twyman, Jr., Class of 1986 Harvard Law School, is a former law professor. He is also co-author of Letters in Black and White: A New Correspondence on Race in America published by Pitchstone Publishing.

==

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Claudine Gay is as corrupt as they come.

[gmun-ooc]

Stupid writing part 1 because i think i hit some sort of limit it wouldn't save the paragraphs after @-@

You haven't had a dream in a long time. You couldn't explain it, either. Plagued with the typical mares for sweeps, yet lately you close your eyes to dark silence. But that wasn't important right now. You were dreaming now. You knew this. The silent heat felt oppressive. Was that right? Silence? A look around. Everything is still. You get up, walk around. The sound of your footsteps seem to echo, but you just think you're imaging it. You're dreaming, after all. You know this. You know who you should check up on first. You move throughout the hive carefully. You know that compulsion you get sometimes when it's quiet and you feel the utter need to not disturb the silence? Maybe you're just paranoid. That's what everyone else told you. But sometimes you're right. You've been found out and everyone knows it. Everyone knows what you did. You shake your head. Take a step to yourself. Thinking too hard can dissipate a dream. This one seems to hold steadfast, though. You're curious about what you'll find. You're used to the waves of hyperrealistic gore, images imposed and flashing, taken from memories of your waking job. It would disturb you how well you know the insides of different trolls if you were anyone else. You stop again. You try to listen. You can't even hear wind. You don't worry that it's taking you too long to get through your hive. If you were a fool, you'd swear you had less stuffed beasts everywhere. You try to focus on his room. Maybe that will get you somewhere. You reach the door, at least. Opened. Nothing. Not nothing, truly, but it's redundant to mention all of the animals covering the walls floor to ceiling and the ones littering the floor. He's not there. You can't get over the heat. Where could he have gone? You've never thought you could be this warm. Where should you even start looking? You thought the chill in your blood would keep you a reasonable temperature. You go outside. The bright lights don't bother you anymore than the air. It's all too sickly warm, but that is not your concern. Where is everyone? You feel stared at. Exposed. But there is no one around. It's quieter, outside. No one on the roads, no one outside. You try looking at the sky, but in the way dreams are, you get nothing. Why are you treating it like this? Can't you make it cool off? It's warm. You try to picture your ward's friend's hive, next. He would be there, right? If there is anyone in this universe? Wait. Pause. Where is your lusus? You need her. For comfort. To find your ward, only. She has a good nose on her. She can always find him. Even when he runs away. Even when he leaves without a word. Hold on. Get a grip. You wipe your face. It's going to be okay. This is only a dream. Why does everything look so real. You're at the hive. It looks just as terrible in real life. You don't remember the layout too well. It doesn't matter anyway. There's no one inside. It's a bit colder, you think. You can't be certain. You step out, finding no sign of occupants. You ignore the feeing threatening to wash over you. You are not a failure. Nothing is really wrong. This is all a dream. You'll wake up and laugh or maybe not do anything because you won't even remember this. You try to giggle through the fear, but it feels weird. You stop laughing. You continue down the sidewalk. Maybe it wants to take you somewhere? You let the dream lead, letting everything fade away. As you expect, everything at your side kind of swirls in the blackness behind your eyelids. You ignore any faces you can make out. Everything is kind of terrible for you. You think you're handling it well. You think you see someone you knew, but it's gone before you can place it. It's warm.

*Wakes up from a dream where their hands were covered in the blood of someone they care for* Zur3ly th1z m3anz noth1ng. Haha.

[matthyeu]

perfect boy ― zh.

pairing ⇢ zhang hao x ftm!reader 

genre ⇢ hurt/comfort

warnings ⇢ gender dysphoria

word count ⇢ 792

synopsis ⇢ you can always count on zhang hao to cease your worries about your gender.

hao was not expecting silence upon entering the apartment. usually you were ready to greet him every time he came home from a long day of work. it was unusual for it to be as quiet as it was. if not waiting for him, he would expect you to be immersed in your latest tv show obsession. 

however, it wasn’t completely silent. once he stopped his steps, he could hear some faint sounds coming from inside your shared room. he furrowed his eyebrows, walking towards the door to find out what it was. 

his face shifted immediately from a confused expression to a worried one when he realized this wasn’t any sound. it was you crying. 

without any further hesitation, he pushed open the door to reveal you face down on the bed. the way you held the pillow over your ears probably muffled everything, so you might have not known he had come home. you were like that, always tuning out the outside world in times of despair so you could listen to yourself. whatever happened must have been serious. 

he carefully sat on the bed, the sudden dip pulling you out of your session. you whipped your head around, meeting eyes with your boyfriend. “ah, when did you come home?” you asked, voice breaking halfway through. 

“shhhh it’s okay i just came home. don’t worry about it,” he whispered, trying to keep the calm mood up for you, “what happened?” 

you looked hesitant to tell him, but he would never force it out of you. he wanted you to always be comfortable with him, so he made sure to respect your boundaries. he didn’t expect you to tell him, not to mention what you told him. 

“do i really look like a girl?” 

“huh?” 

immediately, you started breaking down again, forcing your head back into the covers. it seemed his answer, well lack thereof, triggered it again. regret came over him. it just caught him by surprise, so it wasn’t his intention to not deny your worries. 

panicked, he placed a hand on your back, trying to console you as much as he could with his touch. you wouldn’t hear him if he started now. he had to wait until you stopped your session again to say anything. 

luckily, it worked, the feeling of his thumb rubbing circles on your back always seemed to bring you some sort of solace. you took a deep breath, trying to suck in all the tears you could. 

“i’m sorry–” he cut you off right there. 

“don’t be sorry dear, i’m sorry for not being able to respond to your worries right away. i was just caught by surprise because in no universe would you look like a girl. you are the most handsome boy i’ve ever seen.” 

“are you sure?” 

“positive.” 

“but…” oh here was where he’d get the story of who made his love cry. “it’s just. i felt so comfortable today. i picked out such a great outfit. i looked in the mirror, and for once, i actually felt so comfortable. i looked, and there really was a boy there.” 

“there’s always a boy there,” he corrected, not wanting you to try to downgrade your own gender identity. 

you rolled his eyes at his interruption but felt very happy he did intervene on that day. it made you smile a bit before continuing your story. 

“besides the point. i went to the café, and after taking my order, he said ‘have a nice day ma’am.’ just…what part of me looks like a ma’am? i thought i looked so masc today, but that made it all crash down. i couldn’t even say anything.” 

“well that person’s just stupid,” hao finally responded, not letting you continue. he didn’t want you to relive that experience because it was utter bullshit. 

“you think?” 

“dearest, you are my wonderful boyfriend, the only boy i could ever have eyes for. you do not look the slightest like a girl. i can’t believe people are that blind. maybe they just need extra thick glasses to see past the transphobia. they don’t know anything. please don’t listen to them. you are so much more than what they have to say.” 

when you broke down again, crying into his shoulder, another wave of panic washed over him. had he said something wrong? 

“dear, are you okay? did i say something wrong?” he quickly asked. 

you shook your head quickly before throwing your arms around his neck. “you are just so perfect, the perfect boy. i can’t believe i have someone like you.” 

he laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull yourself close to him. “no, you are the perfect boy, and i don’t want anyone telling you otherwise.”