#fic scraps

[xirayn]

Sometimes most times I write things that probably won't go anywhere. Here's a Stonathan one since this fandom lives on scraps.

The bittersweet sting of his break up with Nancy lasts through what would have been their first anniversary. Jonathan ignores it, genuinely happy for her when she leaves for Emerson in spite of how it hurts. She has dreams, after all, and the ambition and support to follow them while Jonathan has responsibilites. Except, he doesn't anymore. His mother stopped relying on him now that she has Hopper and Will grew out of needing his big brother to take care of him. The one place he finds some sort of meaning is the open spot Robin left at Steve's side when she went to Indiana University.

"Hey Byers, what's our morning movie?" Steve looks up from sorting returns as Jonathan pulls on his vest. Family Video is not his dream job, but it will do until he figures out something better.

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," Jonathan answers easily because he thinks about what movies they are going to watch way too much. It is easier to think about than college applications or putting a portfolio together or if photography is even worth getting a degree in. Going into a trade would be more practical. Being a mechanic sounds like a perfectly fufilling way to support himself, including his hobbies.

"I'll see if it's in."

Since it is a Wednesday, they are mostly left to watch movies and talk as they sort and rewind and stock and wait. Jonathan is once again struck by how well Steve listens. He doesn't always understand, but he prompts and engages in a way that encourages the flow of conversation. It makes Jonathan feel seen in a way he hasn't before.

"I'd run away to Bolivia with the Sundance Kid," Steve decides before taking a drink of his soda. He had run out during his break to buy them bagel sandwiches from the deli down the street. Jonathan makes a mental note to vacuum behind the counter later.

"I didn't think Robert Redford was your type."

There have been hints that Steve is attracted to men, off hand comments or appreciative looks. Then there is the flirting.

"It's his eyes." Steve looks at Jonathan with the start of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "They're the type you could fall into and happily drown - Kind of like yours."

Jonathan has no idea how to respond to that. He collects his sandwich and drink instead.

"I'm going to go work through the returns list," he says on his way to the phone in the back office. "Call if you need me."

"Just in the work way, right?"

There is the hint of a smirk in Steve's tone. Jonathan rolls his eyes and tells himself it is just banter. He might get his hopes up otherwise.

[banapricot]

It's quiet in the wake of the fire, of Shoyo's arrest, of their home being destroyed. The muffled sobs peter out, and they're left to sit in their misery, not knowing what to do when the little they had has been cruelly ripped away from them. 

Then Kentaro starts crying. Wailing, really, like babies do, and it snaps Gintoki back to reality.

His legs nearly give out when he stands, and his arms ache from being pulled too harshly, but he makes his way to Takashi, who's overwhelmed by the screeching infant they must have carried out of the temple. They shove Kentaro onto him with obvious relief, and on a normal day - a better day - Gintoki would complain about always getting stuck on babysitting duty. Instead, he rocks the brat back to sleep and realizes they’re going to have to dump him in some orphanage. 

Already one person he can’t look after for Shoyo.

[televinita]

Booth believes in ghosts enough to know that when a light bulb explodes overhead and voices begin to whisper and murmur and sing in the blinding darkness, this is not a house he wants to be in one second longer.

I found a 1-sentence-fic meme on my old blog and although I will never develop this idea further, please know that this is one of my favorite things I've ever written.

[deviouz]

jason todd who fucks you harder when you try to refrain from making any little sound, any lewd facial expression, any telling that he’s got you practically soaking his cock with your arousal. you might try to hold back from letting him know just how well he’s fucking you, but your eyes always tell. they get glazed over and half-lidded with blown out pupils. god, there’s nothing he adores more than seeing them widen, seeing tears well up in your waterline after a particularly well placed thrust.

he’ll cage you in between his arms and look deep into those pretty eyes with a smug smirk plastered on his face, give you no where to look but at him. he’s got your body shuddering with every thrust, hands desperately grasping anywhere but him to find reprieve, but that plan inevitably falters. arms wound around his shoulders, body bucking upwards with every punctuated thrust, jason finally manages to break you. he’s got you damn near screaming on his cock in a matter of no time, and he couldn’t be more pleased with himself.

[frownyalfred]

a post patrol report on the Manor back steps, observed by Bruce Wayne:

Dick: yeah so I found Jason on my way back home from patrol—

Jason, who’s been chain smoking since Dick put him down: you didn’t find me. I flagged you down.

Dick: because you were in a trash can and couldn’t get out.

Jason: are you — oh my god, I’m too hungover for this shit.

Dick: you’re not hungover, you’re concussed.

Jason, blowing smoke everywhere: same thing

Dick: NO. not the same thing!

[murdertrashbabyrat]

It takes a little bit for Wade to notice but once he does he can’t stop. Logan likes being manhandled. He likes being moved around and pinned down and while both of them know that Logan is far stronger, Wade is still no slouch when it comes to strength, his mutation giving him the extra kick to successfully pick up and throw someone with fucking metal bones onto the bed.

He even let Wade hold down his wrists with one fucking hand while he fucked Logan as hard as he possibly could. The first time he lets him choke him, Wade is the one who needs aftercare because he literally cannot believe his luck and feels like maybe he’s hallucinating. Logan surprisingly doesn’t get annoyed or laugh at him but without opening his eyes his claws come out and straight into Wade’s side.

“That feel real to you bub?”

Wade starts to laugh, “I love you.”

“You better.”

[syluses]

panty-thieving caleb

do we need to discuss this? caleb truly does this. nobody’s undergarments safe from this man. does homeboy feel guilty? yes. will he do it again? u can bet ur ass on it

It’s… fine.

I mean, you’re gone for a few days, your little hunter’s gig requiring your presence elsewhere, and the apartment is quiet- almost uncomfortably quiet- for a short while; he has some room to wriggle. Be bad. He could throw a house party in your absence and you would never know. He’s good at keeping secrets, and he’s a masterclass in those pitiful puppy dog eyes that catch you for hook, line, and sinker. If he said he didn’t, then you’d believe him, ‘cause you’re a good girl.

(His good girl. Whether or not you’re aware of that has no effect on its truth.)

It’s not like the walls have eyes, that you’re watching, when he leans against the washing machine, his own dirty clothes swirling in a heap behind the clear window, and spots your hamper propped behind the door, a glint of interest in his eye- shameful as it may come.

You’re far from stupid. But you are naive, down to a fault- and Caleb thinks, flipping the lid of it and stooping over to rifle through your laundry, that it’s for the better.

It’s just marginally easier on his conscience if you’re unaware of what he’s about to do.

Look- to clear the air, he isn’t proud of it, alright? But fuck if he doesn’t need it. You’ve left him high and dry one too many times to count, and he doesn’t blame you for that, pipsqueak, he gets that your relationship had established boundaries from early on- too early to really even remember- and that you couldn’t begin to understand the depths of what he feels for you. He gets that. It’s only festering in the forefront of his brain on most days, squeezing in his chest in a way that reads longing just as much as it does guilt.

The knowing doesn’t stop him though, or the disgrace.

Might even drive him a little bit further, if he’s being honest.

He digs out a frilly pink article, pointedly ignoring all other clothes save for the few oversized shirts of his you must’ve snagged earlier this week- regarding them with a passive but somewhat smug smile- and pulls it taut between his fingers, marvelling a little at the intricate gusset.

Fuck.

And you know, the remnant of his guilt fades the longer he stares. Perverted or not, his imagination runs at a mile a minute and there’s a certain thrill he obtains in envisaging you wearing it. So, so beautiful, he’s sure, and how could you not be? A pretty nymphet strewn in blushing pink. He barely has the self restraint to pass up on finding the matching bra, but it’s a near thing.

He doesn’t think he really cares about how horrified you’d be, how much faith you’d lose in him- your precious Caleb- not as his cock stirs in his briefs and he pictures you wearing the underwear, sticking your ass out for him on full display. He’d touch it and grope it and guide you down onto his aching length- but not before getting your pretty pussy (well, he’s never seen it before, no, but he’s willing to bet his whole piggy bank that it’s as gorgeous as the rest of you) all primed and ready for him.

He’d worship you. Really, he’s just waiting on your green light.

In his dreams he kneels on the ground before you and laps at your folds ‘til you’re screaming and pulling his hair- but he doesn’t let up until he knows for sure you’ve nothing left to give him. When you’re wholly satisfied, then, and only then, does he hike his pants down his thighs and sink into your sopping heat.

The smell of you— “mmnh.”

Oh pretty girl, nothin’ compares.

Caleb lets out a little groan as he fists your dirty panties tight and thrusts it in his face, inhaling your scent- faded detergent mixed with an undeniably feminine musk- in lungfuls. He thumbs over the fabric with appreciation and gives it an oddly chaste kiss before getting to swift work on his growing problem.

This won’t happen again. He promises. If you were around for it, you’d hear him spew out his apologies and proffer out his little finger for a pinky swear. He never breaks a pinky swear, too. It’s sacrilegious in your household.

He’s half tempted to wrap your pretty panties around his cock and rub it that way, but he quickly thinks better of it, surprisingly clear-headed in his conviction to keep it untainted. Your underwear having been thrown in your dirty hamper or not- Caleb doesn’t want to mar them with his own release if he comes hard into the lacy folds of it- and no doubt he would. He respects you a little too much to tarnish your precious belonging, and while he knows his actions are disparaging in and of themselves, this is a front he’ll remain staunch on: your undies are valuable, not some material to use for jerking off before curtly disposing of.

He’ll be careful, he’ll be good to them. Okay?

Evidently, that respect he has for you isn’t quite enough to stop him from nabbing your dirty laundry and huffing it in like paint— but it’s the little things that count, right? The thought.

A rasping whine punches out from his chest, his eyes clamped shut as he strokes himself with long, slim fingers, desperately wishing them to be yours instead. Yours would be softer, more uncertain and unexperienced as they trail over his dick but fuck they’d feel so good, he knows this like he’s never known anything before. Just pines for it to become reality.

Of course, he’d start with something smaller to ease you in; he wants it to be romantic, your first time, full of sloppy, but meaningful kisses as confession and hands cupping your face as he vows to keep you happy forever.

But what he gets up to- you’d be so mad if you knew— He wants to save himself from the mortifying prospect of you ever unearthing his sordid inner world, but it’s a little too late to backtrack. He can’t reverse what he feels for you, in any case.

Shit. It sounds so bad- the dregs of his rationale rebuking him somewhere in the back of his head- but thinking about you frustrated just gets him riled up even more. ‘Cause you’re so cute like that... Furrowed brow and flushed cheeks, lips that pout and arms that cross over your breast and unwittingly press them up and present them to him before you either frown or inevitably turn your back on him.

He could die in peace to your catty moans and whines. And then he’d revive himself just to pull a few more out of you.

Hey, look, pipsqueak, he knows he’s a big meaniehead sometimes, but—

Pre dribbles from the tip and he smears it down the long column of his cock, sucking in a shaky breath as the washing machine drums out a steady tune. He could fuck you on it. It’d probably feel so good that way. Or he could drag you to the couch and eat you out for hours on end until his knees bruise on the carpet and you constrict your thighs around his head. Sounds like a dream. Like his dreams.

—but he just loves you so damn much.

And can you really fault him if he gets a little worked up over how you behave? I mean, yeah, he’s supposed to be your ‘gege’ and all, but c’mon... He’s still a man at the end of the day. You’re kind of setting a high bar for him, don’t you think? He’s only human. He’s fallen victim to love, and if you were experiencing even half of what he’s been for seeming eons now, then you’d understand it too.

It flourishes in his belly fast- the want to taste and take and consummate with you- pleasure reaching its peak as he keenly pumps his fist. He knows this is screwed up, he knows, but it feels so good and he just—

“Oh, ungh- pipsqueak-!” with a few sputtering gasps, he ruts his hips into his hand one more time before everything existing inside him erupts. He hurtles himself at the washing machine as it thumps, hugging your panties to his nose like it’s the one thing keeping him rooted in place right now and from buckling to the floor, dousing himself in the scent of you as his eyes flutter back. When he comes, he wants it to be to the essence of you and nothing else.

White gushes over the backs of his fingers; he rides himself through it, broad chest heaving as he talks himself down from his own high.

His inner dialogue is starker now as he settles and the desire searing his critical thinking abates. It’ll never happen again, he’s adamant on that. Because he’s more or less just betrayed your trust, to put it lightly, and it’s not right.

Guilt warms his heart to an unpleasant degree.

I-It’s fine.

When he’s done, he’s not quite comfortable with himself and the knowledge of what he’s just done- see? he’s not a completely depraved bastard, haha. He tucks himself in the waistband of his sweats with an almost rueful glance towards your hamper, grinding his jaw as post-nut clarity sinks its teeth into him— and pockets your panties.

It’ll make a nice triad to the other two he’s got stowed in his dresser.

You don’t need to know about any of this, though- you shouldn’t. Caleb’s the one who’ll shoulder this for the both of you. And if you come asking, he’ll just tell you the washer’s been eating up his laundry, too. No biggie.

It’s fine. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

[alchemistc]

Found this in my drafts and decided to finish it up, written before the Abby reveal so we're just pretending that never happened, have some outsider pov of the alt timeline where Tommy and Buck met before Buck was at the 118.

Tommy is being weird. That's the only way Hen can describe it. He's been quiet on calls, none of the usual banter and posturing she's used to; he's been quiet in the station, prone to staring at the space between his lap and the dinner table even as Chim spouts off some ironic quote that would have had him cheesing it up a few weeks previous; he's been quiet as he packs his shit and heads out for his truck. Each afternoon since he'd quietly announced his transfer to the 217, he's been quiet, and it's weird.

Hen's not entirely surprised. Tommy's nothing if not protective of his own feelings - years and years of Gerrard all hanging over their heads even though he'd admitted a few drinks deep one night that he was pretty positive his professionally scathing complaint about Gerrard was very likely what tipped the scales ("Could have been Sal's, though," he'd said with a shrug as his eyes drifted to the head on his beer.). From what she's gleaned off Chim, there's a good chance he'd been an ass in part to protect himself from feeling too bad about losing someone, too (again) - not that that's any type of excuse for the shit he'd had a hand in putting her through. An excuse for the things he's said, in the heat of the moment, in the quiet caverns of life under a shitty captain.

(Stumbled apologies, serious expressions on a face softened only by the shots he'd been buying all night, words said and unsaid between them and the gaping maw between a Chim happy to accept and move on while Hen downed her tequila and waited for the other shoe to drop.)

It's been years since then. Years and years winding between them all, a dozen captains and more than a few transfers of good firefighters away from the 118, and something good and warm and special brewing in their house with the arrival of the captain who'd made family dinners a daily occurrence.

She'd sort of expected Tommy might finally open up, when those family dinners kept going and Nash kept staying and things started to settle into something closer to friendly instead of the soldiers of war camaraderie they'd grown so used to. And maybe he has, to someone who isn't Hen - who'd taken his little efforts to change at face value and refused to put in more work than that for a colleague who'd made mostly bare minimum efforts post-Gerrard, always accepting the new status quo, refusing to make waves. She respects Tommy. Trusts him on the job, and sometimes off of it when they've had a shitty shift and need to decompress before they go home to the people in their lives who can never really understand losing someone to the heat of a fire, to blood loss and blunt force trauma. Doesn't care for him the way Chim seems to, doesn't really desire a closer relationship than the one they've maintained through the turnover of captains and the 48's they pull on occasion.

But Tommy's being weird, and Hen's pretty sure she's the only one who sees it.

She waits until she's sure Chim has a date to hit up Tommy for an after shift drink, and his eyes crinkle around the corners in suspicion because he knows just as well as she that she's putting them in an awkward position without the buffer zone of an extra coworker to fill in the blank spots of the things they don't say to each other. He'll be gone in a week. There's not a single fucking reason for her to try to get to know him better now.

"Sure thing, Wilson," he says, and when he offers to drive them both Hen makes up some excuse about needing her car in case of some Denny related emergency.

---

She expects it to take a while. Ply him with a few drinks, figure out what it is about Howie that always puts Tommy at ease so quickly when they're out like this and try to replicate it - he keeps things close to the vest but Hen has ways of weaseling things out of people once she's got them where she wants them.

Tommy sighs and picks at the label on his bottle. Thins his lips, and stares at her sideways. "I'm seeing someone," he says, in an undertone, and Hen hasn't even taken her first sip from the bottle he'd ordered for her, too, while she scrounged up one of the smaller booths. His eyes dart, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, that no one here recognizes him, and Hen - Hen knows that look. She just can't square that look with Mr. Toxic Heterosexuality himself.

Hen takes a sip. Forces herself not to vibrate out of her own skin because - because - because she's gotta wait this shit out. Could be he's found himself attracted to some weird goth chick, or a woman with meat on her bones, in which case he's in for a big ole smack to the head or one of the looks she reserves for when the boys get a little too caught up in their locker room talk.

He darts his gaze up. Meets hers, steady on, for the first time in...weeks, actually, now that she's thinking about it, and the guilt there in his eyes sure is something to behold.

"He's younger," Tommy says, and Hen rolls her tongue over her teeth so she doesn't do something stupid like hone in on that pronoun with either glee or full-on righteous anger.

Hen narrows her eyes instead, and is surprised that he keeps her gaze. She's expecting - unnecessary contrition, or maybe a ducked head or excuses. He chews on the inside of his lip and chuffs out a self deprecating laugh.

"I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing and he still lives in a frat house."

Hen's mind goes somewhere inappropriate, and she has to stop herself from making a truly horrible hand gesture because he can't possibly mean -

He rolls his eyes. "I know where to stick it, Wilson, that's not the issue."

She has about half a million questions queueing - things she's not sure they're close enough to ask, things she doesn't actually want the answer to but stick there in the back of her mind anyway, things she'd never ask someone who'd been kind to her from the outset. "How'd you do it?" he asks, and Hen remembers the way he'd stood, arms crossed and face blank and something sad and vulnerable in his face while she lectured from her red and chrome pulpit. Jesus. He's known. He's known a while.

"I've never exactly been passing," she tells him, and winces at the aggression in her voice, in that statement, in the very existence of the idea. He shoots her a bitchy look that's far more familiar, in line with their normal dynamic. It has her rolling her shoulders back, has her sitting up a little more in her seat. "Is that - are you asking me how to come out?"

Tommy shrugs. Tips his head. "You're the one who wanted to get drinks."

"And if I hadn't asked?"

She knows the answer. The dumbass would have transferred out of the 118 with no one the wiser. Probably fallen off all the group chats, squared with himself for however long it took, decided one way or another who to tell from there. But he's here now, talking to Hen. Telling Hen, the person he's probably the least close to.

Hen sighs. Takes a longer drag off her beer this time while Tommy folds up a piece of the label he's ripped off. She's not gonna be his fucking gay guru. They're not anywhere approaching that close.

He could have lied, though, is the thing. Seems like he's maybe been lying for a while, if the uncharacteristic fidgeting is anything to go by. She knows him under stress, knows him when he's walking through literal fire. Figurative fire is an entirely different matter. She doesn't know that Tommy.

The words that fall out of her mouth aren't the ones she's aiming for. "You and Sal." she says, and then bites down the rest of that sentence like it'll burn them both. His eyes dart up. He shifts in his seat.

"The only reason I'm saying a word is because the answer is no," he says, and - yeah that's fair. Everyone has the right to come out of the closet in their own fucking time.

"So this kid," Hen says, moving on, and - oh. There's that look. It's a little dreamy-eyed, the way he's been getting sometimes when he's looking down at his phone and trying his hardest to keep a straight face. "What's the deal there?"

"He's new," Tommy says, and Hen can feel her brow tic up of it's own accord, because he says it with the authority of someone who isn't new. Hen has to wonder exactly how many times the perpetually single Tommy joke had been made while Tommy was less than single. God, that had to have stung, hadn't it? "He's - apparently he didn't realize he was flirting until I kissed him about it."

That's remarkably brave for a man who isn't out to a single person he and Hen are mutually acquainted with. At least as far as she knows - Chim can't keep a secret to save his damn life so at least she knows he doesn't know.

"You know you didn't have to tell me any of this."

His expression is wry. He bites his lip, curls his tongue over his teeth, shakes his head like he's clearing cobwebs. "The transfer isn't the only thing I had on the docket for major life changes."

Karen's gonna be pissed if Hen doesn't get the dirt, she tells herself as she leans forward, so she throws a teasing edge to her voice as she quirks a brow. "This life change have anything to do with your baby gay or is that just a natural progression of the coming out process?"

Tommy's posture eases, just a little. He gives her a look that she's more familiar with seeing when Chim's in the booth next to him, or they're elbow deep in shit-talk at the station.

"Happy accident, actually," he says, and Hen leans in to listen to him dish when his eyes go all soft and gooey.

___

She's known Evan Buckley a total of six hours the first time he mentions his boyfriend. There's a nervous edge to it, like he's still testing the word out, like the syllables are unfamiliar, and he glances down at the phone in his lap right after he says it, like he's double checking something. Hen wouldn't have pegged him for it, for all that she tends not to make assumptions. It's just. He's so.

Hen shoves back against the stereotypical bullshit and throws him a bone, because he looks like he's fucking desperate to share information on the fact that someone cares enough about him to let him call them his boyfriend. She lobs a layup, something relatable about 'my wife, Karen'.

"Yeah, Tommy said you were married."

Hen pauses. Wonders if she can turn her head like an owl so that she doesn't have to shift her weight to look behind her at where Buck is happily washing dishes, elbow-deep in sudsy water. There's no one else up here with them - most of the shift is working off dinner downstairs.

"We never have meals like this at home, I'm lucky if the guys I live with don't steal my last packet of ramen before I can get to it," he'd said, and she remembers Tommy grinning at the memory of this Evan he'd been seeing being inordinately impressed by the fact that Tommy could grill a steak. ("Jesus, Kinard, are you sure you're not robbing the fucking cradle?")

Hen shifts. Eyes him a little more carefully as he turns his head to meet her gaze, and - holy shit, she's actually feeling a little protective of Tommy Kinard right now. "He know you're out here sharing his business?" It's not the tone she's going for - admonishing instead of exploratory, but Buck just grins at her over his shoulder, like he's pleased Tommy has someone watching out for him. Shit. She'd been a little concerned that Tommy was in over his head, stuck up on the idea of being out out and clinging to the first boy that batted his lashes, but it feels like maybe there's more to it than that. She can't square that with what has to be at least a decade of years between them, but -

Love is love, and all that.

"We, uh. We've been talking about it."

Hen raises an eyebrow, because that's not actually a green light to air Tommy's business.

"He - well last night we talked about it again. So. I mean it's not like Facebook official or anything. But he said it was cool to talk to you. A-all of you. He's - everyone at Harbor knows me."

It hurts a bit to know that Tommy's been there less than six months and felt more comfortable being himself with a bunch of strangers, but...

It's good. That he has that. That he's not walking the world just shoving bits and pieces of himself away.

Hen watches him rinse his arms and square his shoulders and shift to face her. "How'd you two meet, anyway?" she asks, because Tommy had been so stuck on the trying to figure out how to have an honest relationship piece that she'd never gotten around to asking.

Buck's expression could be easily mistaken for a solar flare, for the way it lights up the whole loft.

[miriammctroi]

Fic Scrap: Pregnant Regulus

Personally, I like the idea of trans Regulus agreeing to become pregnant, because this man will not let anything stop him from having James Potter's Baby.

Pregnant Regulus is doing well. His husband is very loving and gentle and indulges all his moods. His friends and brother are supportive. Everything is well.

Except that the family tapestry in 12 Grimmauld Place begins to change, announcing a new Black child.

Walburga is elated, of course. Even if its a Potter, at this point a pureblood heir is a pureblood heir.

She tries to weasel her way back into Regulus’s life with "motherly advise" and presents for the baby.

And Regulus, while weary, can't help but want to believe she has changed. He spent the majority of his life trying to please her and maker her love him. So, he doesn't immediately shut her down. He doesn't tell James about it, either. He'd only worry.

But of course Walburga has not changed whatsoever. As soon as she felt having an ounce of control over him again, she deadnames him, praises him for "coming to his senses" and "fulfilling his duties as a wife and daughter."

Regulus is a strong man, but his parents have always been his weakness. He wasn't like Sirius, who was happy to rebel and cut them out.

Regulus is riddled with anxiety & new dysphoria about the pregnancy, the baby, his husband finding out about all of this.

One afternoon, his mother has, again, forced her way into his home and sat in his living room sneering at the tea, making remarks about the decor and James and how Regulus needed to make sure he lost the baby fat as soon as possible after the birth because men "don't like fat women."

She's in the middle of such a tirade, when Regulus hears the floo and suddenly, James stands in the room. He takes one look at his pale, upset husband and all hell breaks loose.

How dare this woman enter his home? How dare this woman upset his husband? How dare this woman talk to him like this? She didn't have a daughter and she had no claim to their child!

He throws her out of the house - and she can be glad it was through the front door, not a second-story window - and then goes to comfort his husband.

Regulus is crying and apologising for being so stupid as to fall for her, and for not telling him about it.

James just pulls him into his arms, kisses him with all the gentleness of the world and assures him he doesn't have to apologise. It's not his fault for wanting to believe his mother could have a bit of humanity left in her.

He gives him tea and takes him to bed. He needs to rest after weeks of this torment.

Then he writes to Sirius to stay at their place for the rest of the pregnancy and curse Walburga on sight, if necessary.

[illbegottenfaith]

...and a bruise underneath

you can't help becoming distant as your relationship with theo starts feeling like an open wound (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - idek what this is anymore 😭 but I will say writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet every five minutes 🙈🙈🤭 this fic may or may not have been inspired by how crap my magnesium intake is :( college resumes in like a week for me and I get very cranky on less than 6 hours of sleep (i am a very light sleeper!!!) chat am I cooked

tropes/warnings - angst, happy ending (yayyy), suggestive but not explicit content, fluff, theo being befuddled, bamboozled, astonished, even; wholesome bickering

word count - 2.2k

taglist (everyone who asked to be tagged for part 2!) - @justaproudperson @pumpkinchee @lorenzozurzolocanruinmylife @smithieandy @augiemyers79

Once Theo returned from his trip, you somehow managed to minimise the little time you spent together, making barely convincing, half-baked excuses whenever you could. Still, he never commented on it. Perhaps he would have if he actually cared. You weren't sure if you were shutting him out to punish him or yourself.

Still, even you couldn't get out of spending time with your boyfriend entirely, which was how the two of you ended up in your dorm on a Thursday afternoon, working through your homework. You were sitting propped up by your numerous cushions, proof-reading an essay while Theo leaned against on the bed posts at the foot of your bed, reading a Potions book to help with his project.

The two of you worked in silence, equally absorbed in your work - or so you assumed until you heard Theo close his book and set it aside. Without warning, he shifted towards you, and before you could flinch or put more distance between you, his arms were encircling your waist and his head was resting on your abdomen.

You froze. This was the closest he had been since before the trip. You weren't sure if you had even hugged him when he returned.

You shoved down the stab of amusement in your gut. Theo was hardly the playful kind, but every once in a while, when your schedules allowed for it, he would be in a good enough mood to fool around with you in a manner that did justice to the expression. The two of you could lose entire afternoons to whispered giggles, frisky hands, and smothering kisses. Even now, your hand twitched with the instinct to comb through his soft, silky curls.

But while you normally found it endearing, today it was irritating, because you were in a fight with him, albeit one-sided.

"What...are you doing?" you asked in a bored monotone.

He shifted his head like he was getting comfortable. "Taking a nap."

You refused to pull your eyes away from your essay when Theo failed to elaborate. "With me?"

Theo sighed, like he thought you were being purposely difficult. "Yes, you."

Too thrown off to keep up the act, you finally looked up, watching the tiny shadows his long eyelashes cast against his face tanned from one too many summer Quidditch practices. "Why?"

He cracked an eye open and smiled lazily at you, half-drowsy. It wasn't fair how seductive his perpetual bedroom eyes typically were, let alone when they were laced with actual exhaustion. Despite yourself, you felt a flicker of satisfaction over being the only one who got to see him like this - uninhibited and free.

The satisfaction didn't last long. Without any warning, Theo plucked your essay out of your hand, casting it aside as he sat up with a teasing glint in his eye.

"Why? Would you prefer I take a nap with Mattheo?"

He was so close, you were sure he could hear your heart racing. Your mouth went dry. Days of subtly dodging his kisses or making excuses to sit away from him had gone down the drain. The thing about Theo's gaze was that it carried an intensity that demanded answers and explanations. Even as your pulse flickered under his relentless stare, you rolled your eyes without any real heat. "No, of course n-"

Theo leaned in, backing you up against your headboard. Your hands clenched in your sheets restlessly, aching to reach out to him. You struggled to focus on the words coming out of his mouth, dizzy with the proximity. "Is this your way of getting me to sleep with my best friend?"

You could feel it - your face was fully scarlet by now. Honestly, how on earth were you meant to come off calm and collected with a face that gave you away at the drop of a hat?

You shivered as he ran a hand up the skin exposed by your top riding up. You finally caved, settling your hands on his collar. "You're a real comedian, you know that?" you muttered, trying and failing to play it cool as your hands slithered into his hair, dragging him closer.

Theo obliged, hovering over you, broad-shouldered, not half the mess you were underneath him. Not yet, at least. "Next you'll be telling me you want to watch, you little perv."

Your lips twisted into a poorly suppressed smile. "It's why you love me."

"Your voyeuristic tendencies?"

You hummed as his lips finally connected to your pulse. As one of his hands started creeping up your ribcage, you were starting to remember why you put up with him. "Exactly."

You didn't hear what he had to say after that, blissfully distracted by the exhilarating feeling of his skin on yours.

"Cara..." Theo sighed, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear.

"Hmm?"

All too frustratingly soon, he pulled his hands away. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You fought the overwhelming urge to cry. Moments like these proved that he was soft and pliant underneath that rough exterior. As he leaned back, you tenderly brushed back a lock of hair falling in his eyes. Why couldn’t he love you the way you loved him?

"Do you want to tell me why you've been freezing me out?"

The giddy feeling in your stomach died almost immediately. Maybe he wasn't as oblivious as you had thought. Your teeth dug into your swollen bottom lip. You hadn't expected a confrontation, especially not half-naked, though you were beginning to realise it was an oversight on your part. The direct person that he was, Theo was never one for playing games or beating around the bush. You felt your head start to pound, suddenly feeling far too exposed in more ways than one. You distractedly started rebuttoning your shirt before he stopped you.

"Tesoro..." he prompted softly. You heard the firm message hidden in his tone - no more deflecting. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze fixed on the strong, slender fingers covering yours. It was the closest you had gotten to holding hands.

You felt the absurd urge to laugh. It was laughable, wasn't it? How tragically ironic the whole thing was? You had liked that Theo was low maintenance, but somewhere along the way you decided that low maintenance wasn't enough for you.

You shook your head, finally accepting defeat. How long did you think you could keep up the charade? How long did you think you could tolerate this misery? Indefinitely? Of course not. As soon as you had watched him step off the carriage, still as fresh-faced and only a little quieter than usual, you had known - you were going to have to tell them, and after one awkward conversation, the two of you would part ways, and he would fade into obscurity over the years, only to be remembered as some guy you had dated when you hadn't known any better.

This was it. The beginning of the end.

"Why didn't you tell me about Katherine?"

You thought saying that would be much harder than it was. But then again, you had nothing to lose - not that you ever had anything to lose.

Theo raised his eyebrows slightly. "Ka-"

"Katherine Sawyer," you hissed. After weeks of avoiding bringing it up, it suddenly felt unbearable, having to wait one moment longer for the answer. "You know, the one you've been cosying up with every other night?"

"I only know one Katherine," Theo started irritably. "Just the one. And I haven't spoken to her since we wrapped up our Transfiguration project before I left for my trip. You remember, the one worth half our grade?"

"...oh." Oh, indeed.

"This isn't like you, Y/N," Theo pressed. "You've never cared about who I talk to. You've always trusted me."

The implication stung. "I don't care who you talk to," you protested. "I still trust you."

And it was true - you had only very briefly, if at all, entertained the idea of Theo having an affair. Even then, it was a notion borne of weeks of exhaustion from catering to your aconite's every little need. But it had been the spark for your brooding resentment.

"I just wish you had told me about her or mentioned her some time. It feels - " Your breath caught. "It felt like you were keeping secrets from me."

Theo's jaw ticked. He let out an exasperated sigh.

"Then why didn't you just ask me?"

You dropped your eyes.

"Dunno. Just...didn't want you to get mad."

His eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

"Didn't want me to get mad?" Theo echoed incredulously. "Honestly, L/N," he said sharply, looking more than a little peeved, "what did you think I was going to do?"

"I don't know," you wailed, closer to tears than ever, "break up with me?"

Theo opened his mouth to respond before closing it again. He furrowed his brow, mouthing indecipherable half-words as if trying very hard to wrap his head around what you were saying. Then, without warning, he pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you.

"Right," he finally said, with the air of someone washing their hands of some uselessly challenging task. You could barely focus on his words with the thrill running under your skin. Theo didn't mind being hugged - it was one of the frills he indulged you in - but he wasn't exactly the hugging type. "Next time something's bothering you, I want you to stop what you're doing and come find me."

You twisted your head out of his chest with some difficulty. "What if you're-"

"No - no exceptions," he continued, tightening his hold around you. "No letting it spiral into - whatever this was-"

"So," you interrupted shakily, "you're not breaking up with me?"

Theo glanced down at you, looking like he was going to have a coronary.

"No," he said, with some effort, staring at you like you'd grown a third head. "I'm not." He tilted his head, still squinting at you. "Are you sure you've been growing your aconite properly? It seems like it's been screwing with your head."

"Hey," you scowled, wriggling out of his grasp and giving him a dirty look. "I'll have you know Professor Sprout thinks my mandrakes are -"

But you never got to what Professor Sprout thought about your mandrakes, because you had spotted a familiar teasing glint in Theo's eye.

"About time you started taking it out on me," he laughed, blocking your spirited yet ineffective efforts in shoving him off your bed. You flopped onto your pillows once you gave up, flushed with bedraggled hair. Served you right for dating a 200-pound brute of a guy. "I was starting to think you were going to keep that all bottled up forever."

"Yeah?" you panted, embarrassingly out of breath. "Just you wait. I'm not...finished. It's going to be two more weeks of...of this...once I-"

"- catch your breath, darling?"

You glared at him. Theo could make anything sound salacious while looking perfectly innocent, a trait that was especially inconvenient during some of your shared lessons. You debated giving him the finger, but that would only further amuse him.

Besides, you were feeling very comfortable lying on your mountain of pillows and cushions. You closed your eyes for just a minute. "Dead man walking, Nott," you mumbled, pushing back the hair that had plastered to your forehead.

You opened your eyes when you felt him rest his head on your abdomen once again, his arms coming up around your hips.

"I'm serious about the nap, though," Theo said. "Jet lag is a bitch and Mattheo's going to take the piss out of me if I'm too tired to show up for practice."

You softly carded your fingers through his hair, your fingernails barely grazing his scalp. "Yeah, yeah, sure, you're sleepy. You're always sleepy." You tapped his face insistently as he already looked halfway to dozing off. "You realise that?"

"'M not," he mumbled out the corner of his mouth, relaxing under your touch. "It's the jet lag."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, you are. All I have to do is get you to stop thinking for two minutes and you'll nod right off, jet-lagged or not. It's because you're always drinking that damn coffee at all hours of the night." Your hair-raking turned somewhat fastidious. "What's your magnesium intake like?"

Theo huffed. "You're so bossy, you know that?"

"Avocado, spinach, almonds, quinoa-"

"I eat plenty o-"

" - less coffee -"

"I like the taste!"

"You could always take decaf."

Theo choked, eyes flying open.

"You take that back."

You eyed him sternly but relented. He couldn't help his Italian roots. "Well, you still need enough magnesium to get a proper night's rest-"

Theo groaned, burying his face into your stomach once again.

"Enough with the magnesium." He sucked in a breath between his teeth, grumbling to himself. "Merlin, I forgot how bothersome you could be."

"It's not my fault you need someone to bully you into taking care of yourself," you retorted.

"Whatever," Theo muttered, and it was something so comfortingly familiar you couldn't hold back a smile.

"Honestly...you and your...fucking magnesium..."

[hey-hey-j]

anyway since we're talking early timeline again. Baby lore crumbs.

it's not a day any of them look back on fondly but the good part is that she at least has a loving support system looking out for her and rooting for her from day one so. Silver linings.

(second sketch is actually a scrapped first draft I'm throwing in because I've decided I like it after all)

[banapricot]

Started writing a ROTMHS Modern Zombie Apocalypse AU after I saw this fan comic

"Perhaps we should introduce ourselves," he said, because it seemed as good an idea as any. "My name is Baek Cheon. I'm a lawyer," he added, more out of habit than anything.

"Yoo Iseol," said the gorgeous woman who helped carry the fridge. 

"Ah, I'm Tang Soso. I'm a doctor," the other woman said, which was fortunate, though the "almost" she tacked on at the end was less comforting. 

"I'm Yoon Jong." The employee who'd guided them here. 

"Jo Gul," said a young man with red hair. Then he looked at the last person here, the teenager happily finishing his chocolate bar, and his tone turned a little strange. "That's Chung Myung. He, uh, runs a martial arts dojo." 

That kid? Is he even old enough to buy property? 

"You two know each other?" Baek Cheon asks instead, because it's polite. 

"I've been going there for a month," Jo Gul says, then mutters something like "Against my will". 

Chung Myung chucks the candy wrapper at his head. "If you'd joined the first time I told you to, you wouldn't have been so fucking terrified of those weaklings."

"Martial arts have nothing to do with goddamn zombies! I'd be terrified even if I was Jackie Chan!" 

"Who? And what the hell are zombies?" 

"Wha - oh my god, have you seriously never seen any movie? What are zombies - Do you live under a rock?" 

"I live on a mountain. And I have better things to do with my time. Like training."

"No, there's a limit to how much fucking training you can do! Are you trying to become One Punch Man?!?"

"Who?" 

Jo Gul makes a strangled noise of frustration and drops his head onto the table. Chung Myung looks offended but not entirely sure why. 

It's such a carefree conversation that Baek Cheon wonders if these two somehow forgot about the fast spreading disease melting people's skin and turning them insane.

[televinita]

Companions...as companions

(or, “things that have been in my drafts since early 2020″)

Back in December, I got overwhelmed by feelings and wrote a random little concept sketch re-imagining The (Tenth) Doctor as a regular human and the companions as various pets, summarizing each one's place in his life ("Donna is a dog he reluctantly fostered for a friend, still reeling from the loss of Rose. She's bigger, older, a bit more stubborn and independent, but he finds himself fond of her anyway. Until she gets adopted, and he has to let her go (enter Martha). A year later she's back in need of a home, and this time he doesn't hesitate.”) I also got sassy about the ending, because it wasn’t THAT serious. "And then Rose comes back, dirty and footsore but HOME, and he lives his best life with his 3 best girls forever and ever, the end.”

Last night I reread it and suddenly went, "What if I cleaned up the writing and made this a real fic," and now I'm a thousand words deep and it's getting elaborate. Nine is standing in for this doctor’s father (wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey), because he had Rose first. I'm also trying to decide if I should stick with the idea of Martha being a cat because Independence (her dynamic is just so different from how R&D pledged their lifelong devotion to traveling with him, and he treated her differently too), or if making her the only non-dog Others her too much and I should just make her a super-smart and elegant breed. But on the bright side, since Ten is a goddamn neverending tragedy and the original version saw me tack on a "SAD ALTERNATE END" section just to stab myself in the face (“At the end of a series of short-lived fosters there's Wilf, sweet old elderly Wilf who looks like Donna, and is there by his side when the cancer finishes wearing him down, too young by half, at 40"), now he gets a full life and the Companion Farewell Tour becomes a shameless Titanic-style/Rainbow Bridge escort of dogs from days past. ...which ALSO makes me cry, but for better reasons.

(And there at the end of time is Rose, younger than he’s ever seen her, crossing over with him when everything goes dark and light at once.)

[hanafubukki]

You didn’t remember.

None of them did.

The be-speckled ghost oversees the room.

He’s happy to spend Halloween with everyone again.

When Malleus Draconia offered to make an Endless Halloween night to continue the joys of Halloween, of course he jumped on board too.

Just to spend time with everyone just a bit more.

Especially now that he remembered.

How fun! It is to see everyone enjoy the Halloween they preached about. To see his life long achievement come to fruition.

The colors! The costumes! The music! All of it more merry more than ever with close friends present.

They might not remember outwardly but the occasional glances his way tells they feel a kindred spirit.

That’s enough for him.

He can enjoy Halloween with them once again. Old friends. From his time in the book. And one from his travels, a mischievous one who now has short hair. The only one who remembers him from this motley crew.

This is Halloween! He exclaims with the other ghosts.

Let’s dance and be merry!!

He approaches you.

He’s been watching you all night.

Offers you a hand, you accept with a slightly confused look.

A part of you remembers.

He kisses your hand before pulling you for a dance.

Unbeknownst to you and all, you were dancing with the King of Halloween.

One more night and then everything will return back to normal.

But oh what fun it is! To have spent it with you and friends.

To one Skully J. Graves, it was the best Halloween he’s ever celebrated.

Dead or alive.

He can’t wait until next year to visit again.

Until then.

Happy Halloween!

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

I can’t imagine what waking up in the Fade is like for both Lavellan and Solas. I feel like, based on the BlueSky response, that them getting to the Lighthouse somehow is a bit of a given.

Solas is badly hurt. Like. I don’t know how he’s standing before they cross over but you can bet he doesn’t last long like that. Lavellan drags that man there. Or. Maybe in a stroke of cosmic kindness, it’s exactly where they find themselves when they step through.

It takes hours to peel that man out of his armor and tend to all the cuts. There seem to be thousands. He’s too weak to stop her and he weeps when she kisses each one, not minding bloody lips. Lots of talking with and without words for them both in that quiet time of mending and reconnecting. But finally, Solas is clean, tended and in his bed, in his home.

Lavellan is finally there to watch over him. She can rest. He’s safe. And she’s with him. It’s a miracle. So she lies down where she can crook her head into his shoulder and not press down on him, and they both sleep.

And then the waking up.

Solas is sure it was all just a dream. A lovely one. Made of his deepest horrors and wishes. Finds himself in the Lighthouse and just “Ah. I became drunk and passed out. Again. *cough*.” But then he hears breathing near his ear, quiet and rhythmic. Someone sleeping.

It hurts but he turns his head and… no. This is still a dream. This is impossible. He’d know that scent on her hair anywhere. Who else would keep a protective hand on his shoulder as they slept? This can’t be real…

Then it’s Lavellan’s turn. She’s pulled from sleep by the sound of Solas on the verge of hyperventilating and she starts awake, terrified that he’s in pain or worse. “Vhenan? What is it? What hurts?”

Only to be devoured by the most tender of gazes. He doesn’t say a word or move a muscle. He’s too awed. Light comes through the window as if by his bidding and sets her aglow with all the heavenly radiance that befits her. And he can only stare.

“S-Solas?” So she leans down to check on him. Is he so weak that he can’t say? Worry and fear claw at her as she touches his chest, his neck, his face. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

She can’t know what this feels like to him. Her fingers seem to reach down past the flesh and bone, finding his spirit, mending the tears and rips suffered over the millennia at each careful press of a fingertip.

By the time her hands get to his face, Solas’ eyes are trying to roll back in his head of sheer delight. But then she gives a quiet hum of amusement and presses a kiss to his forehead.

The man is now good and boneless. And Lavellan can only smile, a bit pridefully, at how much he obviously enjoys just the barest touches. Her Wolf. Her Man. Her Heart. She’s wanted for so long to simply be free to love him as much as she wanted to, to protect him. And now she gets to.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Hm?”

“You… asked me what was wrong, Vhenan. Absolutely nothing is wrong.”

“Then kiss me, as we have both wanted.” And after a smile that Solas can honestly say he never thought to wear again, he does.

[lazy-ahh]

TRACING SCARS

pairing arkhamverse! jason todd x gender neutral reader

in the quiet hours between nightmares and dawn, jason todd lets himself be vulnerable—just for you. tracing scars instead of reopening wounds, sharing breath instead of bullets, he learns that some things are stronger than the past.

this is for the anon who requested arkhamverse jason todd! thank you so much for the request! literally enjoyed writing this one cause, well, you know, jason-

the dim glow of the city spills through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in muted blues and grays. gotham never sleeps, but here, in this quiet space, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you. the sheets are tangled around your legs, warm from the shared heat of your bodies, and jason’s arm is draped over your waist, his fingers lazily tracing circles against your skin.

you shift slightly, turning to face him, and his eyes—sharp, stormy, always so full of something unspoken—meet yours. there’s a flicker of hesitation in them, a ghost of the pain he still carries, but then his lips quirk into that half-smile you love so much. the one that’s rough around the edges but soft just for you.

“what’re you thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, voice low, rough from disuse.

you don’t answer right away. instead, your fingers drift up, brushing against the scars that litter his chest. some are thin, faded, barely there. others are jagged, raised, reminders of wounds that never quite healed right. each one tells a story—some he’s shared, others he hasn’t. your touch is feather-light, tracing the lines as if you could memorize them, as if you could take the hurt away just by knowing it was there.

jason tenses under your fingertips, just for a second—a sharp inhale, the slightest flinch of muscle beneath your palm. he always does. scars aren’t just marks on the skin for him—they’re memories, ghosts that cling to him like shadows. the jagged one along his ribs? a knife fight in the narrow alleys of crime alley, back when he was still just a scrappy kid with too much anger and not enough fear. the rough, uneven patch near his shoulder? the crowbar. (you don’t linger there. not unless he guides your hand himself.) but then he exhales, slow and deliberate, the tension bleeding out of him as he leans into your touch instead, like he’s reminding himself that your hands aren’t meant to hurt. that this—you, here, now—is something safe.

“you don’t have to be careful with me,” he says, voice rough but softer than usual, like the edges have been worn down just for you. there’s no bite to it, no defensiveness. just quiet understanding, the kind that comes from months of learning how to let someone in.

“i know,” you whisper back, thumb brushing over a faded bullet graze along his side. “but i want to be.”

his breath hitches, just slightly—a tiny, almost imperceptible catch in his chest—and for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hangs between you, thick and heavy. the warehouse. the joker. the sickening crack of the crowbar, the mocking laughter that still echoes in his nightmares. the betrayal he thought was real, the way it festered inside him for years, twisting into something jagged and raw. the anger still simmers beneath the surface, even now, a low burn that never fully goes out. you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch like he’s itching for a trigger.

but then your fingers brush over a particularly nasty scar—a knife wound, he’d told you once, back when he was still learning how to let you in—and something in him softens. he catches your hand before you can pull away, calloused fingers wrapping around yours, and presses a kiss to your palm. slow. deliberate. like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you.

“you’re too good for me,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough with something that isn’t quite guilt but isn’t not guilt either. there’s that ache in his words, the one that says he still doesn’t quite believe he deserves this. deserves you. like kindness is a language he’s still learning to speak.

you shift closer, until your forehead rests against his, noses brushing. “shut up,” you murmur, smiling even though your chest feels too tight. “you’re stuck with me, todd. no take-backs.”

he huffs a laugh, rough but genuine, the sound vibrating against your lips. “yeah? what if i wanna be unstuck?” there’s no real heat behind it, just the ghost of his old defensiveness, the armor he’s still learning to take off.

“too bad,” you whisper, pressing closer. “you’re mine.”

his breath stutters at that, just for a second, before he pulls you tighter against him, his arm a solid weight around your waist. his heartbeat is steady under your palm, a quiet reassurance, a reminder that he’s here. alive. yours. the city outside might be chaos—sirens wailing, gunshots ringing out in the distance—but here, in this moment, it’s just the two of you. tangled in the sheets, breathing each other in. and that’s enough.

eventually, his breathing evens out, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slow and steady against your side. his grip on you loosens, fingers going slack where they'd been curled possessively against your hip, but even in sleep he keeps some contact—a knee brushing yours, his forehead nearly touching your shoulder. you stay awake a little longer, fingertips ghosting over the landscape of his skin—the raised ridge of that knife scar along his ribs, the rough patch of a burn near his collarbone, the faint indentation of an old bullet graze. your thumb traces the curve of his jaw, committing to memory the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, the way his lips part just slightly when he's really asleep.

“you're staring,” he mumbles suddenly, voice thick with sleep, and you startle—you hadn't realized his eyes were half-open, watching you through the haze of exhaustion.

“can't help it,” you whisper back, brushing a curl off his forehead. “you're pretty when you're not being a grumpy asshole.”

he huffs a tired laugh, nuzzling into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “liar,” he murmurs, but there's no bite to it. his hand finds yours in the dim light, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to his lips for a drowsy kiss. “go the fuck to sleep.”

you smile, pressing closer as his breathing deepens again. because this—the weight of him beside you, the quiet sounds of his sleep-soft breaths, the way he reaches for you even when unconscious—is something you'll never take for granted. him. here. alive. choosing to stay.

and when you finally close your eyes, it's with his warmth wrapped around you and the certainty that no matter what ghosts rattle at the windows of his mind, no matter what shadows creep in from the past, you'll be there when he wakes. to kiss the nightmares from his skin, to remind him with every touch that he's not alone. not anymore. not ever again.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

you wake with a gasp, the sharp inhale tearing through your throat like broken glass, heart pounding so violently you feel it in your fingertips. the nightmare clings to you like second skin—cold hands dragging him away, his voice calling your name as the shadows swallowed him whole. the phantom sensation of empty sheets still burns against your skin, the echo of his absence carving hollow spaces between your ribs.

but then—

warmth. solid and real against your side. the familiar scent of gunmetal and cheap shampoo. the steady rhythm of his breathing, deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your trembling fingers as they press against his skin, desperate for proof. jason.

moonlight spills through the half-open curtains, liquid silver pooling in the hollow of his throat, dripping along the ridges of scars that map his body like constellations written in a language only you understand. your fingers trace them slowly, reverently—the jagged lightning bolt along his ribs (a knife in the dark, a fight he walked away from), the rough, twisted patch near his shoulder (fire and pain and the smell of burning flesh), the bullet graze on his hip (too close, always too close, his blood warm between your fingers as you stitched him up that night). each one a love letter to survival, a promise etched in flesh. each one a silent scream: i'm still here. i'm still here. i'm still here.

your thumb brushes the faint circle on his bicep—a cigarette burn from a life before the bat, before the mask—and his skin pebbles under your touch. alive. real. yours.

your fingertips drift higher, over the curve of his bicep, the dip of his collarbone, tracing your finger along his jaw. he’s beautiful like this, in the quiet hours—face relaxed, lips slightly parted, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. the tension he carries in daylight is gone, leaving only the man beneath the armor.

“mm. creepy,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. one eye cracks open, glinting in the dim light. “you plannin’ to sketch me later or somethin’?”

“shut up,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it. your thumb brushes the scar above his eyebrow—a childhood fall, he’d told you once. “just... needed to make sure you were real.”

his expression softens. he catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat over his heart. “feel that? steady as fuck. ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

you swallow hard. “promise?”

he tugs you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him, his arms locking around you like steel. “cross my heart, sweetheart.” his lips find your forehead, lingering. “now quit worryin’. i’m not some ghost you gotta chase away.”

“could’ve fooled me,” you mumble one of his favourite phrases into his chest, but you’re smiling now. his heartbeat thrums beneath your ear, strong and sure.

“oh, so now you're sassin' me?” he huffs, the words rough with sleep but laced with amusement. his fingers never stop moving through your hair, calloused tips catching gently on tangles before smoothing them away with infinite patience. the contrast makes your chest ache—how someone with hands that have known nothing but violence can touch you like you're something fragile, something precious. “real cute,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your temple. “wanna tell me about the nightmare? could shoot whatever scared you. just say the word.”

you shake your head, pressing closer until your nose brushes the warm skin of his throat. his pulse jumps beneath your lips, steady and alive. “not important,” you whisper. the nightmare is already fading, dissolving like smoke in the face of his solid presence. “you're here. that's all that matters.”

he hums, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. you can practically hear the gears turning in that stubborn head of his—calculating whether to push or let it go. “alright,” he concedes after a long moment, but his hand slides down to rest at the small of your back, broad palm spanning the curve of your spine. possessive. protective. a silent vow. “but if you change your mind…” his lips ghost over your forehead, barely there. “i'm listenin'. always.”

outside, the city murmurs its endless symphony—distant sirens wailing like wounded animals, the occasional shout cutting through the night, the ever-present hum of traffic that never stops in gotham. but here, in this tangled nest of sheets and shared breath, where his heartbeat echoes against your skin and his warmth chases away every shadow, the world narrows to this single, perfect point. small. safe. yours.

minutes or maybe hours slip by in comfortable silence before you whisper, “jason?”

“yeah, sweetheart?” his voice is thick with sleep but instantly alert, because he's always listening, always waiting for your call.

“...i love you.”

his breath catches—just a slight hitch in his chest, but you feel it everywhere. for a heartbeat, the entire world stills. then his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there's no space left between you at all. “‘course you do,” he mutters into your hair, but his voice is rough with something tender, something vulnerable that he'd deny if you pointed it out. his lips press against your temple, lingering. “go back to sleep, idiot. i'll be here when you wake up.”

and as you drift off, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the safety of his arms, you know it's the truth. you always know with him.

“so will i,” you murmur, already half-gone to sleep.

you feel his smile against your skin before he huffs a quiet laugh. “you better be,” he whispers, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. “or i'm hunting your ass down. swear to god.”

the last thing you hear before sleep claims you is the fond exasperation in his voice, and the way his heartbeat never once stutters in its promise.

2.1k words of soft, scarred, stupidly perfect arkhamverse jason todd... my heart does that thing where it cracks right open for him but also stitches itself back together. i cannot be normal about this man. hope you liked this little midnight cuddle session—i wrote it curled up in a blanket burrito with ‘soft spot’ by keshi on repeat once again (as one does). let me know if it made you feel things... or if you, too, need to gently hold jason’s face and whisper ”you deserve nice things” into his traumatized soul.