#i don't remember what tags i usually use...

[stormz369]

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 24

Jason Todd x (f)Chubby!Reader

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, will probably get NSFW later, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings/labels: little bit of trauma talk, but otherwise a light chapter!

wc: 2.1k

Chapter Selection

Damian handed me a large manilla envelope as he came through my door. “Father said to give this to you.”

I frowned, opening it. The first page was an employment agreement. For ‘services to the Wayne family' I was being offered a salary of $120,000 a year for the duration of my education, and a signing bonus of an additional $10,000 up front. Under that was a paper with the name and number of a friend of Bruce's on the board at Gotham University's medical program, and a scribbled note that he was expecting my call. And under that was a pile of pamphlets and booklets on the medical program at GU, with specific details and classes highlighted.

“... Well, he's nothing if not thorough.” I shrugged, setting everything aside and pulling out the ingredients to start on dinner.

“What is all that?” Damian grabbed a snack from the fridge. 

“Just some paperwork; I’m thinking about going back to school.”

He nodded, getting set up at the table to work on his homework. “... Father also mentioned you're going to be the primary contact at my school?”

I nodded; “is that ok with you?”

Damian looked over at me. “... Yes, that’s fine. … Do I bring you the papers they send home then?”

“Yeah, I can take anything they send home.”

He nodded, pulled out a flier for spring semester PTA sign-ups. I took it, reading it over. “Looks like PTA meets on the first Monday of every month during last period. Maybe we can make a day of it!”

“... Do what?” He frowned.

“I'll come for the PTA meeting, and then Jason could pick the both of us up, and we'll get dinner before we take you home.”

“... You're joining the PTA?”

“Yes, I am.” I smiled brightly.

Damian frowned, eying me suspiciously. “... Why?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

He watched me for a minute; “... You just … want to spend an hour a month with the parents and teachers at my school?”

“Let’s just say I’ve learned not to trust those people to treat their students right. I want to make sure they remember who they’re dealing with.”

“... Alright.” He nodded once, going back to his work.

I prepared dinner, humming softly to myself. Eventually, Jason knocked on the door, and I went to let him in. He smiled softly, kissing my forehead, and took a seat at the table. “... Babe, what's this?”

I looked over, he was looking through the paperwork Damian had brought. “Ah, I was gonna talk to you about that tonight. … I'm thinking about going back to school.”

“... Medical school? … And what's this about ‘services rendered to the Wayne family'? What services?” He frowned, looking up at me. I popped dinner in the oven and went to the table.

“... Should we go into my room to talk?” I looked over at Damian, who was staring at us.

“... Ok?...” He frowned a bit and I offered Jason my hand. He took it, following me to my room.

We sat on my bed, Jason still holding the paperwork. He looked through them, a confused frown on his face; “... What's going on?”

“... You said you were more comfortable than usual when I took the blood sample. Right?” He nodded slowly; “well, that night I was thinking about it … about your scars. … Bruce said you don't let anyone treat you unless you’re brought in unconscious?”

Jason nodded again, frowning deeply. “... I … I have a hard time trusting strangers with medical equipment … and I don’t like going to the Batcave for treatment either … they’re … they know what they’re doing, but … I don’t like the look on their faces when they have to treat me … makes me feel … ill.”

I nodded. “Well, I know some of your scars bother you, … and they wouldn't be so prominent if you were able to get proper treatment when you get wounded. So, I was thinking I could get the training to be able to do that for you, if you think you’d be comfortable enough for that?”

He blinked a bit, frowning. “... You … you want to get trained to- … why?”

I gently squeezed his hand, stroking his knuckles with my thumb. “Because you need someone you feel safe getting medical treatment from. You deserve to feel safe. And if I can help you with that, I will. … I don’t want you bleeding out in an alley somewhere, or trying to dig a bullet out of your own shoulder, or who knows what else, you know? … I love you, Jason, I want to help you.”

He frowned, squeezing my hand tightly. “... I … I don't know what to say…”

“You don't have to say anything right now. We don't have to decide this today, it's just something to think about.”

“... What about the ‘services rendered' part?”

“Well, if I get this training, I'll be able to act as an emergency clinic for the others too.”

“Oh. So, Bruce is going to pay you to be our medic?”

“Basically. That way I'll never be at the diner when you guys need care. I'm also joining the family's Thursday afternoon training sessions.”

Jason nodded slowly, pulling me into a tight hug. He sniffled softly, mumbling; “... I … I didn't want to pull you into this world…”

“If you’re in this world, I’m in this world.” I cupped his cheek gently, kissing his forehead. “I want to be able to protect myself, and I want to be able to help you, and Damian, and the others. I will not be dead weight, and I will not watch you suffer needlessly.”

“You wouldn't need to be able to defend yourself if it weren't for me…”

“It's Gotham, my love. Self-defense classes are probably the most popular type of extra-curricular activity in the entire city for every age group.” I stroked his hair, holding him close.

“... I guess … but I hate that you're in extra danger because of me…”

“I think it balances out; I'm also extra secure because of you. Who'd be stupid enough to knowingly fuck with Red Hood's girl?” I smirked a bit, running my hands through his hair.

He frowned, holding me closer. “... Only the worst of them.”

“And they'd fuck with anyone for any reason anyway. So it doesn't matter.” I cupped his cheek, rubbing the tips of our noses together. “I'm happiest and safest with you, and we'll deal with the consequences together.”

“... I wish things were different. … I wish loving me didn't come with consequences…” 

I sighed softly; “well, we could always leave Gotham. Start over somewhere else…”

“... Can't do that…”

“I know you can't. So, we'll just have to play the cards we've been dealt, right?”

He sighed softly and nodded, kissing my shoulder. “... Not gonna let anyone hurt you, baby. Promise.”

“I know you won't.” I hugged him tightly. “I know you wanna take care of me. And I wanna take care of you too.”

He nodded slowly, wrapping his arms tighter around my waist. “... Ok. … Th- thank you, baby… thank you…” I nodded, hugging him tightly. He sighed softly, kissing my jaw softly. “... Wait a minute, how much is Bruce offering you? …”

He picked up the paperwork, frowning deeply. “Oh hell no. Don't sign anything yet, I’m gonna renegotiate this for you.”

I giggled, kissing his neck. “It’s more than I make now.”

“It’s insulting. $120,000 for an on-call doctor? Is he trying to piss me off? No, if he’s gonna pay for this, he’s gonna  pay you a fair fucking wage!”

“Well, I’m probably not going to get a full doctorate; I only need to know enough to take care of your day-to-day medical care. More like … a field medic. He's also funding my education, is going to pay for any supplies I need, and has the connections to get me into the medical program with no questions asked. I think it's fair.”

Jason groaned, pulling me closer. “... I get to renegotiate after you're done with school.”

“Deal.”

Mrs. Webster frowned deeply as I took a seat in the auditorium at Damian's school. She slowly approached, holding a clipboard. “... What are you doing here?”

I smiled brightly; “this is where PTA sign ups are happening, isn't it?”

“You're not a parent.”

“Ah, no. But I am one of Damian's adults, and Bruce has made me the primary contact for school related concerns, so I thought I might as well get involved. I'm very … passionate about Damian's education, after all. As I'm sure you remember.” I smirked, watching her nose wrinkle. Eventually, she thrust the clipboard into my hands, and I signed up, providing an email address and phone number.

“... You won't be able to bully the PTA into doing things your way. I hope you know that.” She frowned.

“Fortunately I have no intentions to bully anyone. I do have a habit of calling out any bigotry I run across, but that shouldn't be a problem anymore. Right, Mrs. Webster?”

She very nearly growled as she stormed away. A few of the moms that were mulling around stared at me, but that quickly stopped when I waved to them. I thought I’d be left to my own devices, but soon enough, an older couple made their way over, sitting near me.

They introduced themselves, shaking my hand; “Which one is yours, dear?”

“Damian Wayne.” I smiled softly.

The woman blinked a bit. “You're Damian Wayne's mother? … Oh, forgive me, but I thought …”

“No, no! I'm a big sister.” I chuckled softly. “I don't even know who or where his mother is, I'm kind of a new addition to the family.”

“I see. Well, it will be nice for him to have someone getting involved. Our Sarah is in many of the same art classes as Damian, and it's always so sad to see him on his own at the after school events.”

I nodded. “That's exactly why I'm here. He was so pleased when I offered to come to the art show last semester, I want to see him happy like that more often.”

“Oh, that was quite the event! Did you hear? We didn't see it, but apparently someone threatened Mrs. Webster!” The woman cackled softly. “Such an unpleasant woman…”

“I wouldn't say I threatened her, just made her aware of certain facts. Including the fact that I am one of Damian's adults now, and she isn't going to get away with spewing passive aggressive microaggressions towards him while I'm around.”

The man chuckled; “that was you? She's been in a tizzy ever since!”

I smirked a bit; “What kind of tizzy?”

“Just insufferable. Our Sarah says she's been more harsh than ever in class.”

“I'm so sorry. I wasn't trying to make things worse for anyone…” I frowned deeply.

“Oh, you aren't responsible for her behavior, dearie. She's always been a rude one…” the woman gently patted my hand.

“Sarah has her troubles. You know, mental health stuff. All the kids seem to nowadays…”

“And Mrs. Webster, well … she doesn't ‘abide by that nonsense’.” She scoffed.

“And of course there was the instance with the lesbians.” Her husband frowned slightly.

“The lesbians?” I frowned deeply.

“This sweet little girl with lesbian parents last year. Mrs. Webster met her mothers at a parent-teacher conference and apparently started treating the girl … well, different. … They moved over the summer, I do hope they're doing better now…”

I frowned deeply, watching Mrs. Webster on the other side of the room. “Hm… so she's not just racist, she's ableist and homophobic too. Gross….”

“She's never said anything overt about anything, nothing worth bringing up with the administration. But she's a … vexing woman.” the woman sighed.

“Well, … maybe individually they're not big things worth mentioning, but together they make up a big pile of nasty. … Do you know anyone else who has ‘small’ problems with Mrs. Webster?”

“Oh, maybe a few people… it's really not worth bringing up though.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Yes, it is. We should bring the numerous ‘little things' to the administration. Establishing the pattern of behavior will be important to getting justice if they know about anything bigger. And no matter what comes of it, it's important that the kids see that their adults will stand up for them.” I frowned.

“Well … I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the other parents at least …” The husband frowned, looking to his wife. She nodded slowly.

“We’ll talk to the other parents.”

I nodded; “here, let me give you my phone number. Feel free to share that with any parents who have a problem with Mrs. Webster; I have no problem being the squeaky wheel with the admin.”

They nodded, putting my number in their phones. Mrs. Webster and a few other teachers started the meeting a few minutes later, and I sat back to observe.

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist (open):

@jawdropforkpop @krys0210 @snowy-violet @superthoughts @wordsfromshona @mystic60 @iwannabealocalcryptid @morstuavitamea-a @frosty--giants @arisa191 @prized-jules @phoenix666stuff @dinonuggysandhuggus @anuttellaa @whore-of-many-hot-men @cottage-worm @v1ckycheesue @roastyyytoastyyy @sarakmec

[redroomreflections]

A Covenless Witch

Agatha Harkness x original child character (don't know what to tag this as)

Summary: Agatha encounters a curious young witch in the Woods who won't leave her alone. Soon enough she finds out the girl knows more about her than she lets on.

Note This is kind of an open one shot. Actually Idk what it is. I just wanted to write it since I loved Hillary Duff in Casper Meets Wendy and thought of her.

W/c: 3k

Agatha’s boot crushed a brittle stick as she made her way through the dense undergrowth, each step slow and deliberate. The forest was quiet at this hour, and she found a strange comfort. She shifted her grip on the firewood under her arms. She'd been needing it for a long time now.

As she approached the mouth of her base, her pace slowed to a crawl, taking every chance to enjoy the silence before the inevitable. Soon enough, she would encounter more witches who wanted to find the road. For now, she would enjoy the silence. It had taken her longer than expected to gather enough. It always did, but she couldn’t bring herself to hurry. This time of year always made her a bit antsy. She refused to acknowledge the tickling in the back of her throat or the burn in her eyes. It had been… what, a century and a half since Nicholas had gone? Two? The years blurred together now. All she remembered clearly was the ache. She sighed and shook her head. There was no use in getting emotional about it. What was done was done.

The sting had dulled with time, but the hollow it left behind remained a permanent part of her, like a scar too deep to heal. As she trudged forward, a flicker of color caught her eye, snapping her out of her thoughts. She paused, watching a small flower bloom at her feet, its petals unfurling in slow, careful movements.

"Interesting," She murmured to herself. Flowers of that kind didn't usually bloom in this part of the country.

She knelt down and brushed her fingers over the silky petals. She couldn't help the smile that graced her lips. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?" She mused. She felt a tingling on her fingers and a gentle warmth. A soft, white glow filled the space between her hand and the flower. Slowly, the petals turned into a rosy pink. However, it wasn't her magic that had done it. It was more light, airy, pure. It made her roll her eyes. She stood straight and scanned the trees, feeling the energy pulse like a heartbeat.

"Show yourself," She demanded. She was met with another flower much bigger than the last. Then, a giggle. Agatha scowled, dropping the wood to the ground. She took a step towards the flower, reaching her hand out to rip it out of the ground. "Fine, you want to play hardball." Agatha raised a hand, bending her fingers to emit her purple magic.

"You have to find me, silly." The voice, childlike in nature, called out to her.

Agatha let out an exasperated sigh, folding her arms as she surveyed the forest with narrowed eyes. “A game of hide and seek, is it?” Her voice held a faint, mocking tone, but her fingers twitched with purple sparks, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble. Whoever—or whatever—this was, it had no idea who it was dealing with.

Another giggle drifted through the trees, high and sweet, like bells in a soft breeze. Agatha’s scowl deepened.

“Oh, very cute,” she muttered, stepping closer to where the sound had come from. As her boot crunched against the leaf-strewn forest floor, another flower unfurled at her feet, this one larger than the last. Its petals were soft lavender, shimmering with that same pure light that made Agatha’s skin crawl.

“Enough with the flowers,” she snapped. “I’m not impressed with nature’s little parlor tricks.”

The voice didn’t giggle this time—it sighed, sounding almost disappointed. “You’re not much fun,” it replied, petulant, and Agatha could practically hear the pout in the words. “My coven always likes the flowers.”

A spark of curiosity lit up within her, and her brow furrowed. What in the world was this?

"Coven?" She scoffed a smile of disbelief on her lips. "What kind of a coven sends a child out to do their dirty work?" She had her doubts this was a child, though. "I don't see anyone else. You must be terribly brave or terribly stupid."

"I'm not stupid," The child stepped out from behind the trees. She was sporting a solid red hat and red overalls. Her blonde bangs swept past her eyebrows, and her glasses were so perfectly rounded it was almost cartoonish. The girl, perhaps no older than eight or nine, stood there, looking up at Agatha with wide eyes and an impish smile.

Agatha, however, didn't smile. She looked the girl up and down, then scoffed again.

"If you say so," she muttered, waving her hand. Purple tendrils snaked around the child's wrists, forcing them together and pulling her towards Agatha. The girl responded with her magic wave, prompting a dozen little spiders to travel up Agatha's body.

Agatha’s eyes widened for a split second before narrowing to dangerous slits. She grimaced as the tiny spiders skittered up her arms and shoulders, their little legs pricking against her skin. Oh, the nerve of this child.

“Cute trick,” Agatha said coolly, though her fingers twitched with the urge to flick the creatures off. With another wave of her hand, the purple tendrils around Winnie’s wrists tightened, pulling her closer until the girl stood mere inches away. The spiders paused unison, sensing Agatha’s magic, but the girl’s innocent smile didn’t waver.

Winnie looked up, not showing the slightest bit of fear. “You don’t like spiders?” she asked, her voice sweet and playful, but a glint in her eyes told Agatha this girl knew exactly what she was doing.

“Not particularly,” Agatha replied, voice low, her smirk sharp enough to cut. “But you don’t like being tied up, do you?” She gave a little tug on the magical tendrils, just enough to make the child stumble.

Winnie only grinned wider, not the least bit phased. “My magic’s stronger than it looks,” she said, tilting her head as though sizing Agatha up. As if commanded by an invisible signal, the spiders scurried up toward Agatha’s neck, their tiny legs prickling against her collarbone.

With an irritated flick of her wrist, Agatha summoned a gust of wind that swept the spiders away, scattering them into the underbrush. “Adorable,” she drawled, though her tone was more sinister than amused. “You’re testing your limits, aren’t you?”

Winnie gave her a sly smile. “You’re fun,” she declared, as though that settled things. “The others just tell me what to do. But you’re… different.”

Agatha scoffed, but there was a hint of satisfaction behind her disdain. She released the magic around the girl’s wrists, letting her hands drop. “Different? You’re quick to judge for someone who couldn’t tell a deer from a danger.”

"What's that even mean?" The girl narrowed her eyes.

"It means you're reckless, and you're lucky I'm in a good mood today. What do you want, kid?"

Winnie tilted her head. "Why do you keep calling me a kid? I'm a witch, just like you. You're old and boring."

"Oh, I'm a witch, am I? How presumptuous."

"Well, if it walks like a duck," She shrugged.

"And if it talks like a duck."

Winnie giggled. "Are all grown-ups so stubborn?"

"Mostly," She smirked.

"Do you have a name, or can I just call you boring?"

Agatha rolled her eyes. "If you must know, it's Agatha."

"Well, that's not boring."

Agatha began to walk away. She gathered her firewood with a flick and began to walk forward. "Go back to your coven, kid. I know your Mommy is looking for you or something." The word Mommy was dripping with disdain. 

"I'd much rather spend time with you," The girl practically tripped over her feet to follow her. "You're powerful."

"Thank you," Agatha didn't bother to look behind her. "Now run along."

"I'm Winnie," She introduced herself.

"Winnie," Agatha echoed. "Wouldn't have been in my wheelhouse for a name."

"Do you have kids?"

Agatha stopped short and glared at her. "No,"

"Then why would it be in your wheelhouse?" Winnie raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up, kid."

"Okay," She fell into step beside her, a skip in her step. "Can I walk with you?"

"No."

"Oh, please," Winnie whined. "It's a long walk to the town. And it's cold and dark. I bet you can't protect me very well if I get lost. I could die."

"If that were the case, it would be no loss," Agatha muttered.

"Wow," Winnie scoffed. "You're rude."

"I've been told," Agatha shrugged. "How'd you find your way out here anyway? I live away from town for a reason."

"I have my ways," Winnie grabbed a piece of firewood she saw on the path. She held it out to Agatha as some sort of peace offering.

Agatha snatched the wood, shooting the girl a warning glare, then tucked the firewood back under her arm.

"So," Winnie began. "How did you end up in the woods, anyway?"

"How did you, kid?"

"I'm not a kid. I'm a witch. And I'm eight. How old are you? You look really old."

"I don't look a day over thirty-four," Agatha frowned.

"So, you're old, but not too old," Winnie concluded. "And I found you because I can smell a powerful witch from miles away. Can you?"

Agatha huffed, but there was a hint of a smirk on her lips. “Smell a powerful witch from miles away? Not exactly. That’s a cute little trick you’ve got there, though. Very… convenient.”

Winnie’s grin widened, undeterred by the sarcasm. “It is! My coven taught me. They say a good witch should know who she’s dealing with.” She tilted her head, studying Agatha as if assessing her strength. “And you… you’ve got a lot of magic. More than anyone I’ve met.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, a little flattered but more annoyed. “And you’ve met exactly how many witches, little Miss Flower Petal?”

“Enough,” Winnie said, her tone proud, chin lifting a bit. “They tell me I’m the best in my coven for my age. I can tell you’re strong, but you hide yourself. My coven doesn’t do that.”

Agatha’s expression darkened slightly, though she kept her gaze steady on the child. “Hiding has its advantages, trust me,” she muttered. “Keeps nosy little witches from sniffing around places they don’t belong.”

"Sounds lonely," Winnie shook her head. "What are you hiding from?"

"I'm not hiding. It's just not your business," Agatha shot back, her tone harsher than she intended.

Winnie was quiet for a few moments. "You remind me of my Mom. She doesn't let me have a lot of friends."

Agatha couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. "Your mother sounds wise," She paused and looked over at Winnie. Agatha knew she had been entertaining this little girl long enough. She should just leave her in the woods and never look back, but Agatha's curiosity was piqued. There was something about this child, something powerful yet not entirely tainted by the world. Agatha wondered if she could have been like that if Nicholas hadn't... No, that was a train of thought, and she had no interest in boarding.

"Your mom should be worried about you being a friendless loser," Agatha finally said.

"You sure do have a lot of insults," Winnie commented. "I didn't see anyone coming out of your cabin, by the way."

Agatha narrowed her eyes. "You've been watching me." She figured there was more to this little girl than getting lost in the woods. 

"Yeah," Winnie said as if it were the most obvious thing. “Sorry, I lied earlier. Had to get you to trust me.”

"I don’t, and that's a bit creepy."

"Only a little."

Agatha rolled her eyes and picked up her pace. Winnie jogged to keep up with her.

“So,” she began again, her voice cutting through the stillness of the woods, “you know this road, right? The one that goes on forever?”

Agatha shot her a sideways glance, her brows furrowing at the sudden shift. “What are you talking about?” She was trying to play it cool, but the mention of The Witches' Road had her on edge.

Winnie’s eyes shone with the excitement of someone who’d just stumbled upon an old secret. “The Witches' Road. I’ve heard stories. They say it’s not just a road. It’s... a place where witches walk when they’re lost. A place between here and... somewhere else.”

Agatha’s lips tightened into a thin line. She didn’t like where this conversation was going. “Stories, huh? And where did you hear these ‘stories’ from, exactly?”

Winnie didn’t hesitate. “My mom says it’s not a place you go unless you really need it. But she didn't - I mean, she doesn't talk about it much. She doesn’t like to tell me about the road because she says it's dangerous.”

"Your mother is a smart woman," Agatha muttered.

"Well, I also heard you're the person to find," Winnie hinted. "You know how to get to the Witches' Road."

"I didn't realize you were looking to leave."

"I'm not," Winnie smiled. "I just want to see it. To prove I could."

Agatha hummed, her eyes scanning the trees, wondering if she would find more witches hiding in the shadows.

"So, you survived the Witches Road, right?" Winnie continued.

"I've never seen the Witches Road," Agatha shrugged.

"You're Agatha Harkness," Winnie furrowed her brows. "I was told you would know how to get there."

"You seem to know a lot about me, you little liar."

"I asked around," She shrugged. "My mom isn't a big fan."

"And I can't blame her," Agatha smirked.

"Can you show me?"

"No."

"But-"

"You shouldn't mess with the Witches' Road, kid." Agatha wanted. "I'm only trying to save you."

"I knew it was too good to be true," Winnie sighed.

Agatha's eyes narrowed as she scanned her, trying to keep the edge from her voice. "Who sent you, exactly?" she asked, the suspicion growing in her chest. This wasn't just some random curious witchling asking about the Witches' Road—this felt like something more.

Winnie didn't seem to notice the sudden tension in the air. She only shrugged, offering a mischievous grin. "A woman. She said her name was Royal or maybe Rocky. Something like that." Her expression shifted to confusion, as though she wasn’t entirely sure. "She said you’d know what to do."

Agatha froze.

The air around her seemed to thicken momentarily, a dull ringing in her ears as her mind raced. Royal. Rocky. She didn't even want to think her name for fear of the woman showing up. She hadn't seen her in at least fifty years. Avoiding death was one of her strong suits.

"Right," she forced out, trying to keep her voice casual. "She did, did she? And why exactly does she think I can help?"

"She didn't say," Winnie replied, and Agatha could see her eyes scanning her face, watching for her reaction. "She was pretty vague. I guess that's part of her job. She's a seer or something, right?"

"Something," Agatha muttered. Her jaw clenched, a muscle jumping at the corner, but her eyes remained steady on the girl. "Did she say anything else? Or just send you to find the nearest old witch in the woods?"

"She said a lot," Winnie replied with another shrug, her innocent gaze unwavering. "But most of it didn't make any sense. She also said she wasn't supposed to talk to me. She's kind of creepy."

"Aren't we all," Agatha replied, her own mind spinning. Winnie paused, glancing up at the darkening sky, the first hints of twilight creeping over the treetops. The air was cooler now, a soft chill settling over the woods.

“I should get back,” Winnie said, her tone thoughtful but resolute. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Agatha didn’t respond immediately. She just watched the little girl turn and begin to walk away. It was strange—she wasn’t sure why she felt the urge to keep an eye on her. There was something about Winnie, something far too self-assured for her age, but Agatha couldn’t quite place it.

Winnie was almost out of sight when Agatha took a slow breath, her eyes narrowing. She wasn't about to let the kid walk off alone, not when she had made it clear she was headed for something dangerous. There was a reason Rio had sent this child to Agatha. She didn't want to think of the implications of that.

Agatha sighed, her mouth set in a firm line. “Tomorrow, huh?” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to anyone else.

She let Winnie get a little farther before she fell back into the shadows, deliberately putting enough distance between them. It was the kind of trick she knew well—watching without being seen. No one needed to know that Agatha Harkness had decided to stick around. Not just yet. She followed Winnie into another desolate part of the woods. This time, she noticed a few things. There was no one calling out for Winnie. There was no one looking for her.

"A covenless witch?" Agatha questioned aloud. That was highly uncommon. A witch without a coven was a danger to everyone around them. Covens taught witches control. Without that, a witch could become volatile and unpredictable.

Winnie had reached the end of the trail. It opened up to a small, dilapidated cabin. The roof sagged, and the windows were boarded shut. The door was crooked, held up only by a single rusty hinge. Winnie pushed the door open with a grunt, and Agatha watched, still hidden in the shadows. The little girl disappeared inside, and for a moment, all was quiet. Agatha stayed back, unwilling to risk being seen, though her curiosity burned.

After a few moments, she saw the flicker of a candlelight from within, casting a dim glow on the cabin's warped wooden walls. Agatha’s lips curled into a soft smirk. The child had found her way home to some quiet, forgotten place, far from the eyes of others. For now, at least.

As the light dimmed, signaling that Winnie had settled in, Agatha’s gaze lingered on the cabin for just a beat longer before she turned away. She didn't know why she saved the little girl from the wrath of the Witches Road. She didn't need to build a moral compass now. She almost couldn’t believe what she was doing. She had created the Witches' Road to trap witches, to harvest their power, to turn them into something she could control. It was supposed to be a tool—a means to an end.

But Winnie wasn’t just some witch she could use. She wasn’t a pawn. Agatha’s lips tightened, her mind wrestling with a truth she didn’t want to face.

She had expected to send Winnie to the Road after her probing, just like she had with countless others before, but something about the child had stopped her. Maybe it was the innocence, the purity of a witch still untouched by the harshness of the world. Maybe it was the curiosity in her eyes, the one that mirrored Agatha’s own when she was younger, when she still believed she could change her fate.

Her fingers curled into a fist, her thoughts spiraling. She had wanted power and control, and now, she was letting the child go free. With one last glance at the cabin, Agatha turned on her heel and disappeared into the woods. She wasn’t ready to confront what that decision meant. Not yet.

[irisintheafterglow]

Hello, I have a request. So I have these lyrics brain rotting me and I just know you, with amazing writer skills, will be able to bring it to life. So, from The Prophecy, "Don't want money, just someone who wants my company" and like reader being lonely for a long time before meeting katsuki. I see reader as a very important part of the society, like not a hero, but more as a spy that can also fight (the Hero version of a fantasy assassin) And she is paired with Katsuki for a mission and he sees her in her true colours. Maybe a series? It's up to you, or course, but thank you for writing and being so talented and considering this request <33 Hope you have a great day!!

lowkey this request broke me in all the right ways omg...i love the prophecy so so so much it's so heartbreaking and definitely one of my favorites off ttpd <3 ty for your ask and all the love, hope you like this :)) so sorry that it took so long to get to and ty for your patience, i haven't had much time to write lately

cw: explicit language, implied fem!reader but no she/her pronouns (reader does wear heels), angst/fluff with happy ending, angry forced coworkers to lovers, bkg being lowkey mean but he's just psychoanalyzing you

you liked the sparkle, to a certain extent.

it was nice to pad around in designer satin, your name embroidered in gold thread on the back tag. you could appreciate the crushed velvet sofas in the living room of your high-rise penthouse, the walls covered in abstract art gifted to you by painters whose names you don't remember. your closet was larger than your university dorm and lined with enough expensive fabrics to start a hospital. everything about your lifestyle screamed luxury, yet even a marble bathtub couldn't provide much comfort when you came home at two in the morning to a cold, lifeless apartment. tragic.

bound by contract, you weren't allowed to live with civilian roommates, and pro heroes looking for places to rent were as scarce as dust left behind by your cleaning crew. you figured it was better that way, not needing to explain to your roommate why you're gone for weeks at a time on assignments and coming back with several broken ribs and a staggering sum of money. instead of friends, you had your job, however dangerous it became sometimes. you were good at playing a character (it's why you had your current job in the first place) and made it look like you weren't lonely, but you'd be lying if there weren't times you were just begging the sky to send you...who? who do you even want? love was a foreign word, a privilege reserved for those not in your profession. so you withstand whatever life throws at you like a statue made to wait, constantly on the brink of crumbling.

it's mid-january when you receive the call informing you that you'd be working with a partner on your next assignment. you wrack your brain for the few people trustworthy enough to join you, only for the words to catch in your throat when your agent says they're assigning someone for you.

if you were bad at working with others, bakugo was unapologetically worse.

"could you walk any louder?" you hiss into his ear as you stroll through the lobby of the most luxurious hotel in the city. his bicep flexes under your fingers, something you can only perceive as him stiffening in annoyance. "your big-ass feet are gonna get us compromised before we even make it past the perimeter."

"i'm not trained for stealth, genius," he argues, adjusting his suit jacket with free arm for the fifth time in twelve seconds. "i usually go in, blast the shit out of people, and call it a day."

"well, your thundering steps are doing the opposite of helping us blend in," you reply bluntly with a pretty smile toward the concierge desk. "we're doing recon, not infil." you take an abrupt step to the right, simultaneously bumping bakugo in the hip and making him stumble. with the way you start to sway and lean into him, your perfume makes his brain go fuzzy and his ears pinker.

"what the fuck are you doing?"

"you are literally the funniest person i've ever met. i can't believe i fell in love with you, sweetie," you drawl, fluttering your eyelashes.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" he cringes away as you beam at him with a lovesick smile, one hand keeping him flush against your body while the other brushes the pant leg of a passing security guard.

"just play along, darling," you seethe through a fake smile. without taking your eyes off your partner's face, your prize finds itself between your fingers and you unbutton the keycard without blinking, bringing it to his chest and smoothly slipping it into bakugo's jacket pocket with the guard none the wiser. once you catch the guard round a corner behind you via the reflection of a gilded mirror, you drop your act and detach yourself from a very flushed bakugo. "yikes, you're worse at this than i thought you'd be," you deadpan.

"you-you just used me to get that guy's card," he sputters in pure disbelief while you continue to walk down the side hall in the direction of the bar and banquet room. "the hell is wrong with you?"

"i work alone, bakugo," you say boredly. your heels click against the glistening marble and you roll your eyes as his loud steps catch up to you.

"yeah, that much is obvious," he glowers. "we're supposed to be working together on this shit-"

"you are not my partner in this job. you are a tool." you have half the mind to think that your coldness was too harsh, but remember that working alone is what you're best at, for better or for worse. "look, i'll get the job done; you just sit there and watch so our agencies can get off our asses about this being done through 'official means.' got it?"

"you think you're good at being alone, but it's actually killing you," he states in a tone that barely echoes off the sparkling walls. "you think you're good at being alone, but what you think is the farthest thing from reality." if you weren't running four minutes behind schedule, you'd whirl on him and slap his pretty face. you settle for stamping his foot with your heel and he lets you, an ungratifying fuck you all you get as a reward.

"i should have told my agent that i'd quit if she made me work with someone else," you snap with your arms crossed as he fishes out the keycard from his jacket pocket. he gives you a look that enrages you further, something between loathing and sympathy.

"take my arm, for fuck's sake. let's get this over with so i don't have to deal with you and your self pity ever again," he snarls and, for the first time, he catches you off guard. you obey without a word, eyeing him warily while he swipes the keycard and guides you into the crime boss' exclusive campaign gala.

"you know nothing about me, so don't try to analyze me since i know it's not your strong suit," you mutter under the sound of blaring jazz trumpets, sidling past investor after investor as they chatter excitedly about the your target's recently announced run for mayor. "i've seen the leaks about you heroes' IQ scores."

"yeah, they were faked by some extra in the todoroki agency that wanted to undermine him. wanted to imply that he was a nepo baby or some shit like that," bakugo replies without missing a beat and you're barely able to detect any malice in his answer. it confuses you. shouldn't he be pissed that you just insulted his intelligence? "icy-hot's one of the smartest guys i've met, so don't you fucking dare discredit him for one second." he's angry that you insulted...a different hero?

"that doesn't change the fact that you don't know shit about what i do," you dodge, spotting your target at a table near the banner-flanked main stage. he's surrounded by a dozen women who fawn on him like moths to a fire, caressing whatever body part they can get their hands on. it's exactly the scenario you need to bypass his defenses. "there, 3 o'clock. he's got his harem with him."

"so what's your play, lone wolf?"

"dance me toward him and then get out of my way," you order, dragging him onto the dance floor while the jazz band in the corner eases into a mellower tune. "what, got two left feet?"

"no, i'm just trying to figure out why you are the way you are," he questions, slipping one arm around your waist while his hand intertwines with yours.

"don't go hurting that handsome head of yours," you reply coldly without thinking, suddenly feeling your ears go hot when he smirks. "what?"

"nothing. 's just funny when you actually act human rather than the killing machine you were made to be," he admits and your jaw clenches.

"again, you know absolutely nothing about me." you subtly try to move your dancing bodies toward the crime boss' table, but meet bakugo's eyes with a glare when he actively spins you in the opposite direction. "we should be going that way, idiot."

"what if i wanna keep dancing with you, idiot," he retorts. "now," he takes a deep inhale, "i'm gonna tell you exactly what i think you are so maybe your next partner doesn't have to dig into your ass and get your head out of it."

"you are putting this whole operation in jeopardy--"

"don't care, especially if i'm being told by a self-pitying, pathetic excuse for a public servant who hides themselves away because they're too scared to make human connections," he rants, looking you directly in the eyes so you could see just how molten they were.

"stop," you warn, looking for any excuse to go in on your target so you could get out of the spotlight that bakugo was putting on you. he doesn't let you, though, effortlessly dipping you in a way that outsiders could consider flirtatious. it's an unfamiliar sensation, your spine curved under his steady hands, but all you can register is the intensity of his expression inches away from yours.

"you hide behind your callousness and say you don't need anyone fucking else because you've never had anyone else. and then, one day, when someone comes along who actually wants to know you for you, you're gonna be too much of a little bitch to realize that there are people who care about you. even if you are the most irritating being to call themselves human." he abruptly stands you both up and steps back, both of you burning and withstanding each other's wrath. your voice is smaller than you want it to be when you finally manage to speak.

"how would you know any of that?"

"because i was that." his attention flicks to behind you, toward the boss' table. "now would be your best chance. i'll sit at the bar and you finish the job, alone."

"...alone?"

"that's what you want, isn't it?"

no. i don't want it.

you don't catch him in time, some shackle like pride chaining you to the floor. it doesn't feel like relief, you realize when he turns to leave and disappears into the crowd. it feels like a punishment, an unbreakable curse that you'd put on yourself. you were a fool in a fable and it was sinking in, even as you worm the information you need out of your target and slip out of a back window, alone.

always alone.

---

it's not until ten months after your initial mission with bakugo that you finally work up the courage to tell off your agent.

"you have no place to be making such demands!" you lean away unbothered while your agent screams, her anger distorted by your phone speaker. "you have no idea how to--"

"don't care. i'm done working alone in the shadows," you interrupt with the callousness that once benefited you in your job. now, you realize, it was only impeding you and making it harder to find people who saw you as a human, not a tool. "put me in the infil mission or i'm quitting. for good."

"you don't know anything about infil. they'll eat you for breakfast if you join the op now," she hisses. "you need me."

"you made me think i needed you. you and the sparkle, and the fancy pajamas, and the smelly bath salts. you made me think that, to keep all the nice shit, i needed to be alone. but now i know i don't need to be."

"how would you know anything--"

"i know that you've purposefully delayed the infil operation so that you can cover up your ties to the boss' campaign, and that you sent me in with bakugo that night thinking i'd take the fall for your corruption. too bad he caught on and helped me investigate the todoroki IQ files you gave me and said they were official leaks."

"you're making a big mistake."

"and you should have learned sooner that i don't want the money. i never did."

"bullshit. money is all we have in this hero-run society, the only way we can be equal to them. what else would you want?"

"company." your agent falls silent at the same moment you hear a faint knocking on her line. "speaking of, looks like you have some." the tell-tale beep beep beep! of the call being ended echoes off the walls of the apartment and you sink further into the plush couch cushions, counting down leisurely on your fingers.

five,

four,

three,

two,

one.

"got her, babe!" you hear from down the hall. "and we got her good," katsuki says as he appears from your shared bedroom and grins at you. he leans against the door frame, waiting patiently as you delete your ex-agent's number from your contact list and show him the phone. "i ever tell you you're a natural at getting confessions out of people?" you giggle and let him pad over to you on the couch, sliding down so that he could lie his entire body on top of yours. even after all the time he'd been with you, the skin to skin contact still made your stomach burst into uncontrollable butterflies.

"i guess it comes with being a spy for so long," you suppose with a shrug. "but i'm not one anymore." your fingers absentmindedly trace the creases of back muscle through his shirt and he hums like a cat purring contentedly.

"yep, and now you're stuck with me until one of us dies in combat." you click your tongue with a tsk and lightly pinch his side, feeling him snort in triumph against your sternum.

"why can't you just say you love me like a normal person?"

"because neither of us are normal, genius," he explains, his eyes shut against your chest. "how normal is it to be so lonely that when you're around another lonely person, your shit cancels out?"

"i guess not that normal," you concede. "but still...what do i do now?"

"as much as i wanna say it, i don't think 'me' is the correct answer," katsuki proposes and you burst out laughing. "but really? anything you wanna do, baby. your hand's off the throttle, so now you're just cruising."

"since when did you use so many metaphors?" you ask with a teasing smile. "last week you said 'lightning in a bottle' and 'cursed like eve.'"

"since i met your dramatic ass."

"you know you love me."

"mmm, now you're finally starting to get it."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! commissions and nsfw requests can be sent through my fiverr! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[2demondogs]

With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?

Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T

Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3

Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit

It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.

The house is warm enough, anyways.

There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.

Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.

During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.

Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.

You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.

Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.

Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.

"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.

"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.

Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.

Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.

The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.

He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.

Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.

For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.

Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.

Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.

"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.

"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.

The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.

The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.

It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.

Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.

"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.

"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."

"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."

The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.

A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.

"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."

The army knife was Hosea's.

"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"

"Yessir."

He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"

"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."

He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.

"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"

"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.

Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.

"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."

Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"

Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.

"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.

He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.

Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.

One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.

Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.

"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."

"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."

He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.

Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.

The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.

"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.

"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."

Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.

Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.

"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."

Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.

And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.

"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.

The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.

When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"

Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."

His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.

Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.

[jihyocentric]

I hope this is okay I feel like my writer brain can't do good prompts cause I might go into too much detail but imma try ngjgjgjh

Lawyers mihyo who're maybe working on a case together? Mina has this habit of going full hot girl sharon to mess with Hyo at random ass moment cause they're close enough that she doesn't feel as shy most of the times and she doesn't know that Jihyo is constantly one wrong (right) move from begging to be ruined. Ione day Mina does something that has Jihyo forgetting all her professionalism and downright pleading to get fucked. This makes Mina realise she loves making Jihyo beg which leads to maybe some edging and some teary Jihyo and some soft aftercare? Also since they're lawyers maybe all this happens somewhere at the law firm before an important briefing they're supposed to have with a client?

hi bestie! i could've done something much better with your request but ykw i was dying to post jihyo bottoming again... she was made for this... and i miss her

cw: mina has stiletto nails. and she still tops. power move. good for her. not so good for jihyo.

mina knows what she’s doing.

she knows exactly what she’s trying to achieve by the way she acts around her sweetest coworker, jihyo, being especially fueled with the reactions she gets.

that jihyo was adorable when pink was all over her face and she didn’t know where to look, mina knew. she was the reason for that, meticulously provoked that out of her, making her usually focused, serious coworker, shy and exceptionally flustered.

to mina’s surprise, when they were alone, their roles seemed to be reversed — jihyo, instead of being the cool extrovert she was most definitely proud to be, became no more than a timid mess, sometimes incapable of looking at mina in the eye when speaking to her.

the situation didn’t make their work any harder whatsoever, as they rarely worked on the same case along each other, with jihyo being a corporate lawyer and mina being inclined towards the criminal field. that time, they were working together due to one of jihyo’s clients, who happened to need assistance from mina’s field.

“miss myoui…” jihyo calls, using the honorific, as mina had never told her not to. every other coworker, except for the interns, called mina by her name — never ‘miss’. but something about having jihyo calling her ‘miss’ left mina too satisfied, unable to tell jihyo to drop the display of respect.

a small smile prods at her lips when jihyo calls her for the nth time, in a hesitant voice, unlike the way she spoke to others. with confidence, that is. when speaking to mina, jihyo often forgot that she wasn’t on a lower position than mina at the firm. if anything, it was mina who was supposed to treat her with such respect, as jihyo had been there for longer.

mina was supposed to be working. she didn’t tell jihyo she’d already looked though the files they were studying and found her ways to convince the judge that jihyo’s client was innocent — if he was, that didn’t matter. he could be if mina could prove that he was. mina had planned ahead, knowing she wouldn’t have time alone with jihyo again soon, deciding to make the best out of it.

and so, because mina already knew what to do and what to expect from the meeting they’d have with their client later that same day, instead of working, she observed jihyo — and distracted her when she felt like it. what starts with sitting next to jihyo with a leg over the other, intentionally exposing her thighs, escalates to suddenly praising jihyo at random times. (she does it for jihyo’s excellent work, and because jihyo looked pretty.)

mina takes her sweet time to make jihyo lose her focus entirely, having fun as jihyo slowly forgets how to use her words properly. jihyo doesn’t stutter, but she struggles to sound professional when miss myoui is touching her hair and telling her that it looked pretty when it was loose, that she should wear dresses more often, and everything she could possibly say to make jihyo red from her cheeks to the ears hidden under her hair.

jihyo doesn’t understand mina, the way she acts towards her. not at first, not on that occasion. mina has always been like that around her: charming, alluring. she was simply flirty by nature, and jihyo would never think mina was truly trying to flirt with her, but soon mina is massaging her shoulders, having the freedom to do so as they were alone in a conference room, and jihyo is no longer reading through the case’s files.

jihyo doesn’t know how or when mina gets there, behind her, with both hands on her shoulders, whispering questions about the case close to her ear, as if jihyo could possibly answer them. jihyo tries to — she does her best to muster up words to properly answer mina, frustrated when all that comes out from her mouth is a whimper and a stuttered ‘miss myoui’.

“no need to be this tense, jihyo. i’m sure our client will be fine. you’re the best after all,” mina coos, pretending to not notice that what had gotten jihyo troubled wasn’t their case, but her hands pressing her shoulders and nails close to sinking into her bare arms.

“m-miss… please…” jihyo mutters, desperate, still trying to figure how did mina get so close. she feels like she’s embarrassing herself then, calling mina so respectfully, feeling almost like she wasn’t a fellow lawyer, but an intern instead — someone mina could easily boss around, having all the power to do so as a result of being in a higher position.

“so nervous, park.” mina laughs, the sultry sound reaching jihyo’s ear quickly due to how close mina was. she pulls away, turning jihyo’s chair around so that she could see her face, not surprised to find jihyo utterly flushed, but curious as she sees jihyo’s cheeks adorned with tears that she’d hardly noticed falling from her eyes. “are these perhaps because of me?”

jihyo shivers, flinching when mina’s manicured hands are suddenly on her knees, raising her dress up to her thighs, sharp nails purposefully leaving their mark on the lawyer’s smooth skin.

“m-miss!” jihyo lets out then, more tears following her words. though mina had already expected jihyo to be just like that — amusingly shy and submissive, she wasn’t entirely prepared to hear jihyo begging. shameful words slip out of jihyo next, while mina is still admiring jihyo’s pretty face, relishing in the way such a respectable, honored lawyer like jihyo became but a precious prey that she’d love to ruin with just the slightest teasing. “i-inside… please… please!”

jihyo whines softly, holding one of mina’s hands with both of hers, spreading her legs slightly apart, both offering herself and pleading for mina to take her.

mina knows jihyo is aware she could get hurt — the same hands jihyo was politely begging to have inside herself carried the stiletto nails that left her arms and thighs reddened from negligible pressure. still, jihyo held mina’s hand like a cat with it’s owner, not wanting to let go, looking as if she’d cry if mina didn’t do what she so desperately asked for.

“interesting,” mina coos, resisting the urge to wipe jihyo’s tears away, finding her even prettier with her face all wet, enjoying to make her embarrassed, finding jihyo the cutest when she was ashamed. “are you sure, miss park?” mina taunts, raising the dress even more, to the point she could see how wet jihyo was. 

jihyo nods quickly, guiding mina’s hand to her center. “i-i n-need this, miss!” she insists, whimpering when mina’s index finger gets hooked under her panties.

mina stretches it far enough she can see jihyo’s pussy, licking her lips at the thought of having her face between jihyo’s thighs, forcing her to take more than she’d ever be able to handle. though she’d love to ruin jihyo right there and then, amazed by how easy that would really be, they didn’t have a lot more time to spend alone.

“so you like it risky, park?” mina laughs softly. “not that i’m opposed to hurting you,” she lets her fingers sink inside the soaked panties, teasing jihyo’s clit with the tip of her fingers, careful not to harm jihyo. “because you’d love that. i just don’t think you really want these inside of you.”

“but i want them! your fingers,” jihyo mumbles, pouting as she does so, moaning when mina applies more pressure over her clit, circling the sensitive nub slowly. “…inside me. want them inside.”

jihyo would cry harder if mina truly said no, mina realizes, amused to get to know that part of her. jihyo could handle her, even if having mina inside her that way meant that mina wouldn’t be able to fuck her properly — jihyo didn’t care.

“begging already, huh…” mina offers her a gentle smile, though what she says next doesn’t come out as soft. “convince me.”

jihyo becomes even more frustrated then, bucking her hips to feel more of mina’s fingers, earning a click of mina’s tongue.

“’m s-sorry!” jihyo quickly makes up for her mistake. “i c-can take it!” she insists, pouting slightly as she looks up at mina, cheeks burning when she notices just how close mina really was, towering over her, with her eyes so dark that part of jihyo became scared. “y-you don’t have to… t-to move them, miss… i just wan’ them there.”

“keep going.” mina encourages her to beg, her free hand finding the table behind jihyo for support, the other still inside her coworker’s panties, spreading jihyo’s wetness, wanting to know if she could grant jihyo’s wish.

jihyo was wet enough by the time mina lowered her hand further, still rubbing mina’s ego with her pitiful pleading. mina attempts to sink in and jihyo whines, clenching around the tip of mina’s fingers, prepared for the discomfort she’d feel until mina stopped, knuckles deep into her.

it doesn’t hurt — mina is careful and her fingers happen to slip in easily, but if she were to move, then jihyo would certainly be left with unwanted bruises.

perhaps it felt almost as good as having mina really fucking her, thrusting her fingers in and out without an obstacle, as knowing mina could easily tear her apart made her stomach clench, aroused by the idea of it but knowing she wouldn’t want that.

“it’s like you were made for this.” mina praises, lowering herself until her knees were touching the floor, knowing she couldn’t do much with the fingers she had stuffed inside jihyo. she pulls jihyo’s panties down to her ankles, looking up at the already disheveled girl, wondering how jihyo would look if she could really take her time to ruin her. “now, i don’t kneel. but since you’re such a good girl, miss park, i think you deserve this.”

it takes jihyo a lot of effort to not come undone the moment mina’s tongue meets her clit.

everything is hot. despite the cold air in the room, jihyo sweats, her skin burning as mina works her tongue against her sensitive nub, thighs locking mina there, letting out pitiful ‘miss myoui’s, not trying to fight against the urge to have mina destroying her. not in the slightest. it was far too late for that, and jihyo was too weak to pretend that that wasn’t exactly what she’d been craving for.

it’s all too much for her. the way mina sinks her nails on her thigh and moves the fingers inside her just barely, merely pressing her fingers against the slick walls carefully, velvety tongue making jihyo melt on the chair. whimpery moans reach mina’s ears sweetly, making mina moan against jihyo’s pussy, fighting back the urge to lay jihyo on that table and forget about their meeting.

“miss… can i-i…” jihyo hardly finishes her sentence, and mina sends her into a wave of bliss.

her fists become white as she holds the arms of the chair, crying as she gets ready to come for mina, impatient hips moving for more friction of mina’s fingers — but mina stops. what should’ve been an orgasm doesn’t happen, making jihyo open her watery eyes and search for mina’s, wanting to ask why she’d stopped, desperate for her release.

but nothing comes out from her mouth.

“i’m afraid our client must be arriving, miss park. you should probably get yourself clean. we wouldn’t want our client to make... vulgar assumptions, would we?” mina laughs, stuffing jihyo’s mouth with the two slender fingers that had been inside of her. she pulls them back before jihyo gets to fully clean them. “i’ll be waiting for you.”

during the meeting, jihyo gets to be the professional she was. mina doesn’t try anything while they’re discussing important matters with their client, and jihyo is allowed to prove mina she’s still a great professional after having her pride previously hurt. (not that jihyo cared if mina knew about her tendencies to submission, but part of her wanted mina to know she was more than that.)

when their client leaves, it’s already night. jihyo then finds herself trapped against mina and the table again, but this time, all mina wants is to let her know that they’re going home together — to mina’s. all mina says is that they weren’t yet done, and jihyo had no choice other than follow mina.

when the sun is rising, jihyo is still at mina’s mercy. mina is impressed with how far she was able to go with jihyo, only allowing her to come when she knows jihyo is about to break and beg her to stop rather than letting her come.

she learns then that she’s especially fond of the way jihyo sobs into the pillow when she is finally allowed to come, ass up for mina (barely able to stay like that, because her knees falter and her legs start trembling as she comes), body completely ruined by mina’s teeth, the palm of mina's hands and her sharp nails.

“you cry a lot, jihyo.” mina mumbles, pulling out of jihyo, slowly taking the harness around her waist off. jihyo turns her head to the other side when mina leaves the strap on the bed, next to her face, her body finally falling against the bed, still inevitably crying as mina kissed her back. “did i push it too far?”

jihyo shakes her head, incapable of looking at mina in the eye as she comes back to her full senses.

“talk to me, hyo. i need to know you’re feeling well,” mina’s voice softens, entirely different from the way she’d been speaking to jihyo all day long. she makes jihyo turn around and face her, thumb brushing jihyo’s cheek tenderly as she inches down for a short kiss. “do i have to make you speak?” mina taunts then, making jihyo’s eyes widen.

“n-no, i’m o-okay!” jihyo manages to say, tears falling as she blinks, her body still trying to recover from being used, abruptly forced to not come several times. “i’m just… i-i… you make me nervous!”

“i didn’t even notice.” mina smiles and jihyo pouts, losing her breath when mina presses her lips to her forehead. “you’re cute, miss park.”

jihyo huffs, the reaction more instinctive than intentional. “i’m not.”

“sure,” mina coos. she pulls away, intending to take jihyo in her arms and take care of her.

for a moment mina stops, admiring her well-done work ruining jihyo’s body, licking her lips when she runs her eyes down and catches a glimpse of jihyo’s reddened, soaked core, thoroughly ruined from being played with for far too long. mina’s stomach tightens at the realization that jihyo was still leaking with her own wetness, getting mina’s bed soaked under her.

jihyo sits up on the bed, face close to mina’s, wanting to get her attention away from her body, feeling shy again. “miss myoui.”

“it’s mina. no need to call me miss all the time,” mina passes her arm around jihyo’s waist. “though i liked to hear it when you were begging for me.” she finishes, and jihyo’s head fall to her shoulder. “mind to join me on a bath, miss park?”

“i like hyo better.” jihyo mutters softly. “can you give me a minute?”

“mhm.” mina agrees, but she pulls jihyo closer, making jihyo sit on her lap while jihyo finds the courage to get up and let herself be taken care of by mina. “just don’t sleep yet.”

“i won’t…” jihyo yawns, drowsy, closing her eyes and slowly forgetting her own words.

[genshin-projection]

wow wow wow ok ok ok ok

so im partway through the wardance event in HSR 2.5 and my mind is SPINNING

in particular finishing the most recent main quest with the Borisin, then hearing about Igor Haft of Belobog...

it's FASCINATING to me how the civilizations in HSR seem to not only follow a path that they value, but a path that they need and end up getting very little help from

belobog following the preservation because their small, impoverished planet is constantly under threat of death and destruction... such that very little is actually "preserved" with any success

the xianzhou alliance following the hunt to root out and eliminate their enemies without mercy... only for those same enemies to stir up trouble from within their own ranks, with the xianzhou luofu in particular failing to realize until two major disasters had already been set in motion. and even before then, considering everything implied with dan feng, i doubt this is the first time they've faced internal conflict like this

penacony following the harmony to ensure the happiness and unity of their people, only for what little harmony actually exists to simply cover up the turbulence and suffering belying every luxury... such that the order arose in the first place to deal with what the harmony couldn't, a thick undercurrent of inequality and divisiveness that plagued every worker, every poor soul that saw penacony as their safe haven, their last hope

that those desperate for preservation would come out with so little, with so many wounds. that those desperate to hunt down threats would be perpetually plagued by internal betrayals and setups. that those desperate for harmony, peace, and unity would allow its weak to suffer until the only option left is not prosperity but silence and preconceived "happiness"....

it's just fascinating to me how those following a path actually have the least of it. it's fascinating how the pathstriders of the preservation are on the brink of demise, the pathstriders of the hunt are under threat of ambush, the pathstriders of the harmony struggle to remain united and fair to their people.

[butchriptide]

Falls to my knees. Qiblijou. Kinkabli. Whatever you want to call it. Does anyone understand. Does anyone understand.

Now, as a certified AroAce, I am not the type to pedal that every dynamic ever has to be romantic. But also. I think they're cute as a couple. But ALSO also, even if you do not care for them as a couple, I need more people to discuss and write about and draw their dynamic. I need more if it like, yesterday.

Having to put this under the cut because it got crazy fucking long but like trust me. Trust me okay.

The element I find so compelling about them is that they read very much as similar characters at first-boiling down largely to "silly and kind". They diverge from this shared center point largely in how they react to trauma; They both are survivors, persistently... Goofy in the face of hardship. Kinkajou's seems to act as a natural element of her personality, rising up in face of being a generally lonely and somewhat disliked child. It's interesting how her impulsive nature and cheery demeanor overlaps with the genuine emotional intelligence she seems to hold. In moments of low-tension, where her head's clear and she's not immediately tunneling down something else, she seems fully able to process the fact that her trauma DOES effect her and often at least somewhat how. She doesn't have any big feelings on it, but she can still recognize her knee-jerk reaction to a Nightwing roommate being due to her trauma. Later conclusions about Moonwatcher being an exception due to some general difference from Nightwings as a whole, while not fully "correct", does still show her own ability to recognize these knee-jerk feelings as irrational-At least when faced with significant proof of that being the case, rather than doubling down on her own internal logic that's been shaped by her traumas. Her impulsivity and general hyperactivity tends to push this understanding to the side however, leaving a lot of her trauma something she's working past but not necessarily resolved. It isn't that Kinkajou is purposefully trying to avoid her pain to an unhealthy degree, so much as I think she largely doesn't think about it until she's forced to.

Meanwhile, Qibli's goofy exterior seems to largely be a mask; Or, at the very least, somewhat purposefully curated. He lives almost entirely in his fight or flight response, and seems to interpret his own overthinking and anxiety responses as a boon rather than an effect of his trauma. He likes his scar, but can't reconcile how he got it; Can't reconcile the part of him that loves his mother and wants to believe she loves him back with the fact that she hurt him, repeatedly, through pretty much every avenue one can neglect or abuse a child. This makes his optimistic veneer a lot more purposeful, an attempt to earn people's love because there was never any guarantee of receiving it from anyone. I don't believe that being this silly, playful person is necessarily fully disingenuous of Qibli, so much as I think he forces himself to amount to ONLY this. Shoves himself into a box which is used largely to ignore his trauma, as opposed to cope with it. He can't acknowledge everything that's happened to him affecting him because its incongruous with his image-both to others and himself. Despite being perceived as traditionally intelligent, Qibli's honestly incredibly lacking in the realm of emotional intelligence.

I think that ultimately, this leads them to having a very interesting balance and chemistry that's effective in getting me invested in them even though they have very little one-on-one time during the arc. They don't have any particularly "deep" moments together, but there's this implicit understanding and trust in a lot of their interactions. They match each other on a level that the rest of the Jade Winglet doesn't quite hit due to the vastly different levels they're coming from. While Qibli's not lacking his own impulsivity issues, his tendency to scrutinize and overplan becomes much more effective when it's actively curbing Kinkajou's tendency to fling into danger head-first, while Kinkajou's high-energy and quickness to action forces Qibli out of his own head in order to keep up with her.

Beyond the way they balance each other out, there's a strongly showcased, implicit trust between the two of them. Kinkajou and Qibli are co-conspirators, and them dealing with Chameleon in Book 10 (for all the gripes I hold against this book) showcase this perfectly. Qibli keeps Kinkajou from immediately jumping to action, but he doesn't talk over her, and Kinkajou's information is both pivotal to their planning and prompts Qibli to act. An important element too is that Qibli's trust in Kinkajou doesn't result in excessive idolization, like it does with Moon-Not to say that Moonbli is bad, but rather, it's an element of the relationship that makes Kinkajou and Qibli mesh much easier while Moonbli, I wholeheartedly believe, requires a lot more work to make work than canon would suggest. I think this trust is particularly important due to Qibli's issues with control, which he still easily puts aside for Kinkajou when he lets her simply keep the scrolls from Chameleon, instead of doubling down on them destroying them. Kinkajou opts to keep the scrolls at that's the end of it; even if Qibli's worried over Chameleon coming after them, he simply trusts Kinkajou to take care of them, and that's the end of it.

The way they match each other's energy is also just incredibly sweet. The Vase SceneTM comes immediately after it, so nobody ever talks about it, but they literally greet each other like 2000s scene kids who just found out what a "glomp" is.

My ultimate point is I think Kinkajou and Qibli's personalities bounce off each other in a very compelling way already as friends, and find the idea of them as a romance interesting largely because I don't think it would change much of their chemistry. I think they already feel very natural from what we're shown of them (although a lot of the non-ship dynamics in arc 2 are vastly underutilized due to how fractured everyone in the winglet is through the series to begin with) and I think they're sweet due to how much I think they can understand each other. They're interesting parallels that doesn't really get to shine in a lot of books due to the pacing of Arc 2 nor in fan works due to how people don't really read much into Kinkajou and choose to take her as just sort of a flat comic relief.

Also Kinkajou likes tortured guys <3

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Thirty-Nine — The Warm Hands of Ghosts

Everyone was hooked up to tubes, IVs or cannulas hanging from their body as they got the treatment necessary to keep them comfortable.  How long would it be till I was hooked up to wires?

3.6k words | 13-17 min read time | TRIGGER WARNING: Hospital, illness, fuck them OCs, hyp...notism?

⚠️AUTHOR'S NOTE: once again, thank you @lobotomizedlemon for giving me god's greatest disappointment to man. I would kill for Sia. And to @infamoussparks for letting Rosa be Bad News Bear here!

To the other person that's been patiently waiting for this moment for over a year (I checked the PMs! We started talking about this last July!) — I love you.

I thought palliative care meant something for kids, like pediatrics. 

I had no idea it basically meant making people comfortable enough to suffer. 

Now, to be fair, that wasn’t all the wing did; it actually seemed really cozy, in a strange way—or as comfortable as an in-patient hospital wing could be. Stock photographs of nature littered the blank walls between room doors, and the doors that were open revealed blued rooms decorated with white furniture, picture frames of family pinned to the walls and personal belongings all around the room. There was one old lady with a bed covered in fuzzy pink pillows, another had dozens of plants on the windowsill in theirs. Everyone was hooked up to tubes, IVs or cannulas hanging from their body as they got the treatment necessary to keep them comfortable. 

How long would it be till I was hooked up to wires?

I tried to shake the thought out of my head, following Aunt Sia and Dr. Sims deeper into the wing, the both of them tensely silent. Whatever crowds were in front of us parted with Aunt Sia’s stomps and stayed staring at Dad; I know I’d probably do the same, if I saw some woman in a blazer with spikes glued to the shoulder and chains decoratively falling from it leading Delsin Rowe and Eugene Sims down a hall. 

We probably looked like the world’s strangest funeral procession. 

The hall jutted right, and we moved with it, all the way to where the light the windows let in couldn’t reach. The last door on the right had stuff plastered on it, and it took till being right at the door to realize they were warnings. “‘Wear mirror glasses provided upon shift assignment,’” Brent read aloud, staring at the clipart picture of the black ski goggles like they were runes before looking at me, eyebrows raised. 

Dr. Sims reached into his jacket’s pocket to pull out a handful of black disposable glasses, the sort that Reese came to school in after an eye procedure. “Here, put these on,” he instructed, beginning to pass them out. 

Aunt Sia instead pulled a pair of modified steampunk-looking goggles, slipping them over her eyes and then regarding Dad, Brent and I individually. “Listen—keep those on.” She stressed. “I know this Conduit personally. They may seem like they’re not fully there, but that doesn’t make them any less powerful. And, hey—it’s them. They, them.”

“What the hell do you two have me walking into?” Dad tried to joke, looking between the childhood besties. Neither laughed. 

“Let’s get in the room first,” Dr. Sims muttered, trying to position the blackened glasses over his own. I followed their lead, trying to fit the awkwardly flimsy film over my nose before looking up at everyone and nodding, feeling like an idiot. What sort of power did I need to wear glasses against? Maybe this was one of the light Conduits Zeke talked about.

The inside of the room was adorned in pink and green. I think that was the first thing that shocked me—the brightness of the room. The wood and dull blue visitor’s chair was covered by a strawberry quilt freckled in green squares, there were little succulents on the dresser across from the bed. There were long, sheer green scarfs hung over the curtain rods in their own protest against the sterile-hospital white, and an old stuffed fox sat slouched over on the windowsill like it was trying to get the sun to hit a specific spot on its lower back. 

And the bed. It was still a stiff and uncomfortable looking hospital bed, but someone tried making it anything but. A large, fluffy blush pink down comforter was draped over the too-small bed, engulfing the small form that was laid in it. Their arm laid over a green rectangular throw pillow, IV embedded in the hand lying listless on top. They stared off into a corner of the room but it…didn’t look intentional. It didn’t look like much was behind the stare at all. Wires fell from the sleeves of their shirt to the bed around them, the steady thrum of a heartbeat monitor puncturing the silence with its rhythm. 

The red-headed doctor, Hutch, was there, looking closely at the patient’s monitor and only turning when the door was closed. “The nurses aren’t fond of me being here, so we’ll need to be quick.” she said. 

Dr. Sims huffed. “Why not?”

“Considering I usually don’t stray far from pediatrics, they see me as overstepping.” Dr. Hutch responded. 

Aunt Sia wasted no time in closing the gap between her and the patient in the bed, one hand going to hold the one laying on the pillow while the other touched their frayed braid, looking for a hair tie that was no longer there. “Hey, sweet pea,” she hummed softly like a mother at a cradle, fingers brushing knots out of their long reddish brown hair. They barely moved, not acknowledging Aunt Sia with a look or with words. 

Brent, ever so tactful, decided now would be the perfect time to ask, “So what’s wrong with them?”

“Dude!” I hissed.

“What? I’m just asking–”

“I know them.” Dad’s voice was soft as the statement passed his lips. I couldn’t see his eyes, but his brows were knit so close together and furrowed that they started disappearing behind his film glasses. He looked at the back of Aunt Sia’s head, who stopped combing through their hair. “Why does it feel like I know them?”

Aunt Sia sighed, moving her hand away from their hair to gently cup their face, thumb running along their jaw. Another move they didn’t react to. “Garrett, Delsin’s here—remember him?” 

Something shifted in Dad, and his shoulders visibly sagged. “Garrett?” he asked. “That’s Garrett?” 

I glanced at Brent, who was already facing my way with an eyebrow raised. Who was this person? Why did Dad look so shocked, so sad, to see Garrett in that bed?

“I apologize,” Dr. Hutch cautiously chimed in. “But…if you don’t mind…”

She left the question open ended, looking across the bed to Aunt Sia, who nodded after a pause. “You’ve got my permission,” she said, letting her hand fall from Garrett’s face to instead take their hand in both of hers. 

Dr. Hutch reached out, resting her hand on the bare skin of Garrett’s bicep, glancing between where they met and the small vial in her other hand. Why did she ask Aunt Sia if she could examine Garrett? They looked almost the same age. I thought you only needed someone’s permission for hospital stuff if you were still a kid. 

Dr. Hutch’s lips moved silently as she counted to herself, looking between the tube of black tar and the air around Garrett. We stood in tense silence as the seconds passed, Dr. Hutch’s face grew from studious, to sad, to worried before she pocketed the vial and looked at Dad. “May I check Jean one more time?” she asked him. 

It took Dad a moment to force his head to turn away from the bed to look back at me. He motioned forward, a silent beckon to go to the doctor, and I listened, swapping my dominant hand for my left at the last second so she wouldn’t have to worry about my cast. 

Dr. Hutch took my hand, staring straight at me in such an uncomfortable way that I let my eyes fall to the ground, listening to the little puffs of air she let off with every silent count and subconsciously counting with her. She hit ten, and I raised my head to watch her stare at the air around me before clearing her throat, letting go of both Garrett and I. “Dr. Sims, if I may have a moment with you?” She asked, motioning towards the door. He nodded, passing Brent to head out while Dr. Hutch looked between Dad and I. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she said genuinely. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say more, but she faltered, instead giving us both a nod before moving around me to leave the room. 

The door closing seemed to activate something in Dad, because he spun around to look at Aunt Sia, and while I couldn’t see his eyes, his jaw was tense. “You didn’t think to warn me about who we were going to see before coming here?” He asked Aunt Sia.

She seemed a bit miffed. “Well, considering you left without telling them goodbye, I just figured you two weren’t all that close.”

Dad immediately bristled. “I didn’t have a choice,” he retorted, eyes aflame. “You know that.”

Brent, deciding to diffuse whatever was about to happen, slightly raised his hand like he was in class, asking without waiting, “So, who exactly is this?” 

Dad glanced back, eyes hesitating on where I stood in the meantime, and seemed to remember we were in the room with him. “They’re…They were a therapist of mine, I guess.” He said. “After your mom…we were hunkered down in Seattle for about two months while the government tried to fight my enrollment into witness protection during the trials. They tried to help me.”

So the person in the bed was his…therapist? 

Dad turned to look at Aunt Sia again, who grabbed the bedside chair to scoot it closer to Garrett. “What happened, though?” 

She sighed. “Curdun happened,” she said at first, as if that explained everything. But then she readjusted, flicking a corner of the quilt off of her leg as it fell with her movement. “They’d been bad for a while. It started maybe a year after you left? They…they tried toughing it out on their own for a while, but it got worse, so much worse. They called me about seven years ago asking if I’d help them. Make sure they were taken care of before this happened.”

“That’s why you left.” Dad realized. Seven years ago, this person asked for her help. Seven years ago, she moved. “You said you were leaving to oversee COLE openings on the east coast.”

“I was.” Aunt Sia said. “But I also needed to be here to help with their care. They needed someone to sign off on documents when they…” she motioned at them in the bed, the unfocused eyes and slack jaw. 

Dad’s head shook, and he almost seemed annoyed at the lack of answers. “This—they have conducrinopathy. Like Jean. What caused that?”

“When they were in Curdun, they were given an implant right—” Aunt Sia raised a hand somewhere near her temple, “—around here. It completely hindered their powers while they were in there, and stayed in after they got out.”

“You can do that?” Brent asked, genuinely shocked. 

“Augustine figured out how.” Aunt Sia responded curtly, tension in her voice. “It may not have worked fully, but it worked well enough. They weren’t able to do anything to the normal degree of their power.”

Dad had slowly begun to shake his head in the middle of Aunt Sia’s sentence, like he didn’t agree with her despite her conviction. “No, that doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Garrett, they—I knew them after Curdun. Their powers were working fine then!” 

“You saw who they were after the implant failed to keep them powerless,” Aunt Sia said softly. “But it did something, and they started getting bad. They…we thought the implant just affected their motor skills for a bit, and then they started forgetting. Seeing things. Eugene was the first to suggest it might be conducrinopathy. We’ve been trying to figure it out since.”

Dad opened his mouth to speak, and was instead immediately interrupted by Dr. Sims reentering the room, followed by a snow-covered and eyeglass-wearing Zeke. Dad’s mood immediately shifted, something Zeke could sense as well as he went on the offensive. “We’ve got news vans pulling up right now,”

“What?” Dad hissed, brushing past Brent and moving to the window on my left. He pressed his face against the glass, head swinging both ways before he cursed under his breath. “Can’t see shit,”

“The main entrance is to the southwest,” Dr. Sims grumbled, evidently not excited about being cornered at a hospital again. “We need to start putting a face mask on you when we’re in public, Delsin.”

Aunt Sia sighed. “It probably doesn’t help that we’re both here as well, Eugene.” She reminds him. “There’s a lot of animosity for us right now, too.”

Not to mention me. 

I let my head hang, looking at the patterns in the flooring as Dad asked, “What’s going on, you two? Why are we here? What happened to Garrett?”

There was a pause as Dr. Sims and Aunt Sia looked at each other, having some sort of silent conversation on who should actually answer Dad’s question. It seemed Dr. Sims lost the mental game of rock-paper-scissors, as he cleared his throat and said, “When I started the conducrinopathy study a few years ago, Jorrer was already showing symptoms of Lewy-Body dementia—but there were some preceding symptoms that were worrisome. We could never get many answers on why or how…until now.”

Aunt Sia turned when he said that, and Dad glanced between the two of them. “What do you mean?”

“We didn’t know if Garrett’s conducrinopathy was caused by their disease, or the implant, or somehow both. And with them being the only other prime Conduit to experience it, we needed to see if their manifestations were related in any way.” Dr. Sims paused, moving to cross his arms. “Dr. Hutch was able to confirm that, whatever it is in the tar that made Jean sick is what made Jorrer ill too.”

“What?” Aunt Sia whispered, aghast. 

Dad shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Dr. Sims reached into the pocket of his top coat, pulling out that goddamn vial of tar. “The aural signatures on this match both Jean and Jorrer.”

“That can’t—” Aunt Sia struggled with her words for a moment. “Garrett was never injected with anything. What do you mean their illness is related to the tar?”

Dad scoffed. “Augustine’s really at the center of this.” He began to pace, running a hand over his face before spinning around to face Dr. Sims. “Is that why those assholes broke her out of Curdun?”

“We still know nothing about the implant they were given,” Dr. Sims reminded them both. “We can’t examine it without extensive surgery that I’m not even sure Jorrer would survive—“

“An implant?” Zeke looked at Dr. Sims like that word mattered, obviously trying to grapple with information past.

Dr. Sims’ brow furrowed. “Yes, when—when Jorrer was in custody with the DUP, they placed an implant in their brain. We assumed for the longest time that that’s what caused their decline—”

“Did nobody plan on telling me about any of this?” Dad demanded, looking angered. 

“When Cole was snatched up by Moya, she was going to put an implant in his head.” Zeke said. “He said DARPA wanted to control him and his powers.”

“They what?” Aunt Sia nearly demanded as Dad decided that was a good enough statement to give Zeke attention, turning to actually face the man. 

“Do you know anything else?” Dr. Sims asked, moving to set the vial of tar on the overbed table to my left and instead pull out his phone. I barely caught him opening his notes app before he left to stand next to Zeke, beginning to fire questions at a rapid pace. 

Everyone kept talking over each other, the sound more like arguing than trying to solve whatever mystery was at their hands. Brent was falling silent on my side, and I couldn’t blame him—especially as we both looked at Garrett Jorrer. God, was that going to be me? Trapped in a bed and held down by tubing, not able to acknowledge the world around me? 

Well, no, that wasn’t true; as Dad and the other adults got a bit loud trying to talk over each other, I watched Garrett shift, readjust like they wanted to move away from the sound. Dr. Sims said something about them having dementia, right? I didn’t really get how it worked, but…there was still a person under there. They could have lucid moments, I was sure of it. Maybe it just needed a little prompting. 

I moved to step forward, Brent shooting out a hand to grab me by the arm and whisper, “The fuck are you doing?”

“They’ve gotta know something,” I murmured back, glancing over at the adults; they were all standing in a circle, more concentrated on whatever Dr. Sims was pulling up on his phone than us. “I’m gonna see if they can tell me anything.”

“They’re drooling on their shirt.” He deadpanned. “You really think they’re gonna answer any questions for you?”

I shrugged off his hold. “If what Dr. Sims said is true, they’ve been sick for a while. And if it happened in Curdun? Whatever made them sick would have happened before Mom’s, even if it took longer for them to show it. They’ve gotta know something.”

“We don’t know if Mom had the same sickness you did,” Brent hissed back in a whisper. “It’s not like we can test her.”

“No, but—” I cut off, “Process of elimination here, Brent. Every forced Conduit from Curdun ends up sick, two normal Conduits end up sick—and then I end up sick after meeting Augustine? There’s a common denominator.”

I kept his gaze, unwavering; he had to admit it was weird. It was! Something was going on and Augustine was at the core of it. Brent’s jaw flexed but he let me go, seeming entirely uncomfortable with the idea but relenting nonetheless. I broke from the place Dr. Hutch left me in and got closer to the bed, crouching beside it. 

And I faltered, because I had no idea how to even start shooting questions at someone so cognitively impaired. 

Garrett’s head was turned away from the noise now, staring indiscriminately at the floor beside me. They looked…uncomfortable, and I could imagine why. I actually felt pretty bad trying to pull something out of them when they were obviously hating how many people were in the room at the moment. “Hi,” I decided to say, keeping my voice soft. A greeting was the best way to start, right? Probably an introduction too. “I-I’m Jean.”

Nothing. 

My mouth grappled on air for a second as I tried to find more words. “I…I don’t know if you can really understand me right now, but you might know what’s wrong with me. With us. And if you can…if you can tell us anything about it, that would really help.”

Nothing. 

I looked over at Dad, who was busy trying to pull more answers about Garrett’s past from Aunt Sia and Dr. Sims, head swiveling over to Zeke as he asked if he knew more about DARPA. I hated seeing it. I hated knowing that we were both unknown variables treated like volatile solutions that would explode if jostled. Maybe they hated it too. “Look, you were in Curdun Cay, right? My—Alessia said something about an implant. And there’s some doctor here who thinks that whatever made me sick did it to you, too.” 

I turned, grabbing the vial from their rolling table and putting it in their line of vision. I didn’t want everyone talking about what was going on with them without involving them. It was unfair. I know I hated it.

The tar in the vial moved like syrup—and I watched Garrett as their eyes tracked it. They were starting to understand something, I just needed to keep pushing. “This is what was put in me,” I continued, a bit more feverish now. Did lucidity in these sorta patients have a timer? “Augustine put it in me, and I think she did the same to you. She—” I reached out with my dominant hand and took theirs gently, letting them feel the awkward press of my cast’s lattice. “She did this, do you—”

“Jean!” Dad snapped, making me jolt in place, “What are you doing?”

I blinked, confused; everyone was now turned to look at me and, aside from Brent, they all looked…scared? “I’m…” I drew off, glancing between Dad and Aunt Sia, who had started to walk towards the bed with her hands out like she was placating a wild animal. “I’m just trying to talk to them, see if—”

I wasn’t prepared for the yank on my arm. 

Garrett’s fingers laced around my wrist and pulled me forward, the move sending me sprawling forward as I lost balance on the balls of my feet. With one hand pinned in theirs and the other holding glass, I had to use my elbow to brace my fall, the jostle enough to light up a nerve hiding in the crevices of my bone and send the film glasses fluttering off of my face. I followed their fall, eyes only peeling away to look at the white-knuckled grip Garrett had on my wrist before glancing up, blood running cold when I saw how hard Garrett was staring at me.

Their eyes were this marbled blue, the sort of hue you expect a diamond to actually be, and the moment I met them, everything around me ceased to exist. The pain from my funny bone disappeared, Aunt Sia yelling my name left—all that existed was that blue. 

The shade spread, tunneling my vision into the icy hue before the edges turned platinum, and I lost all sense of where I was. 

Love you @neverdewitt

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

people can use this site however they want but there's something almost- idk, sad? about how few people are actually using their blogs. you can turn themes on and have skeletons dancing in the background. you can make everything hot pink. your blog is your scrapbook and you can put whatever you want in there. tags are okay at organizing things so you can have just a whole archive of cool shit to look at later. i know people complain a lot about people liking stuff about reblogging for engagement, and on one hand i get that- it is WILD to see a drawing i spent hours on get only 12 reblogs and 60 likes. Absolute culture shock compared to my previous fandoms. but i don't think you should reblog anything to make artists happy. i think you should reblog things so you can find them again. i think you should queue things to appear on the dash at specific times on certain days. i think you should reblog things so when you're talking to your friends about xyz post you saw you can look in your blog's archive and find it again. i think you should reblog things so that your dash is filled with one really sleepy cat. with the loss of reblogs there's the loss of engagement, which Does hurt the community-focus that makes tumblr so appealing, but idk i just wish people were more excited about the incredible amount of customization that tumblr allows and took advantage of that more

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

reading dungeon meshi

[onetwothree-moved]

oc time!!!!

[hussyknee]

4th ECT session yesterday. Two more to go. The first one made my brain feel like a shuffled deck of cards, by now it feels like holey cheese. I can't remember half my life for the last few months, I can't remember half my current hyperfixation book, I have no memory of reading any of the fics I've bookmarked the last two weeks, I keep forgetting what year and month and day of the week it is. I keep forgetting words. I don't feel connected to anything in my life. Just an electron adrift in the vast.

This some Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shit. Maybe how it works is you can't be depressed if you can't remember what you're depressed about. Amnesia fics are ruined for me forever. By next week I might go full-on Bourne Identity.

Never doing this again thanks very much.

(Just to be clear though, it's nothing like the ableist Cuckoo's Nest movie stuff. All I ever remember is the sedative being administered through the cannula and then being told to get down off the bed and wheeled into the ward. Don't even remember falling asleep. The most I've gotten is a slight headache afterwards.)

[levil0vesyou]

Having a post get popular enough to be independently reblogged by someone you follow but aren't mutuals with is. Wild

[parad-ice-lostandfound]

bitches hate me 'cause im in my no fucks given era, and I'm like, 'stay mad darling'

[dice-boy]

[anationofthieves]

omg i love your icon so much <3

Hi!! 😀

Oh my, thank you so much, I made it aaaaaaages ago, like literal years! I was taking a glance at my icons page the other day when I saw it, and what better occasion than now to use it again?! (also I miss Miranda, like a lot 🥺)?!