#i even have something i want to draw for that...

[kaiser1ns]

#. 店長はメイド様 ！

featuring 𝘀𝗮𝗷𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝘅 𝗳𝗲����!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

fluff + angst + hurt with comfort. equal parts chaos, cute, and crackhead energy and you're right in the middle of it all, the unofficial babysitter-manager of the saja boys. somehow, being a maid ended up on your resume, too.

CHECK OUT THE SERIES MASTERLIST

HOW IT ALL BEGAN you can't believe this. how did you lose a bet to JINU, of all people? you knew the moment he flashed that smug grin and shuffled the uno deck, that something was off, because he just made you draw not one or four, but twenty cards. you're 99% sure he had a second pile tucked into his hoodie sleeves, and you're 1000% sure someone helped him cheat, most likely BABY, who accidentally knocked over the draw pile every five seconds.

behind you, ROMANCE is gently patting your back like you just got stood up for a date. ABBY gives you a headpat, which somehow makes you feel even smaller. and MYSTERY hands you a cold soda like it's some kind of reward just for putting in an effort.

“this is not fair, jinu!” you said, or rather shouted, slamming your uno cards onto the table like you've lost everything important in this life. maybe because you really have lost any respect for him, and whatever dignity you had left. “you cheated!”

“woah, hey now,” he says with this fake tone full of innocence and justice, raising his hands like he's some criminal who robbed the bank. “don't make assumptions if you can't prove them. you lost name-ssi, now pay up.”

you can't believe this is happening. how? when? what? why?

your punishment is even worse than losing the card game. you have to be the maid for an entire day. not just a maid…his maid. you didn’t even want to ask how he had prepared a maid outfit so fast. did he plan this all along? 

jinu shoved you into a room, as he just grins. the audacity. “come on, don’t keep your master waiting~”

“you’re weird,” that's all you managed to say before the door closed completely. it's just you and the dress that was on the hanger. a maid outfit. a real maid outfit with ruffles, ribbons, a little apron … and a fluffy cat tail. oh, no, he didn't. it’s already embarrassing enough that you lost to a cheater in a card game, and now this.

when you look in the mirror, you have to admit... it’s not that bad. it fits suspiciously well. actually, you look good, but that doesn’t change the fact that you now have to say things like welcome home, master~ and giggle like an anime girl with no self respect who exists only for the fanservice. hopefully, you'll have a well-deserved break from idiots like them after this disaster.

stepping out into the living room, and the reaction is not what you expected.

romance literally explodes into floating pink hearts. he’s glowing like a firework, with sparkles and glitter. how does he do that? baby chokes on his energy drink and drops it on the floor. abby suddenly buttons up his shirt like he needs protection. mystery stares at the table because he doesn't want to look at you. and jinu just stares at you like his brain just short-circuited. wait, is he blushing?

“ew,” you mutter, covering yourself with your arms, even though the outfit isn’t even that revealing. “don’t act like i wanted this. you made me do it.”

he walks up to you with that stupid little smirk, then plops something on your head. a fluffy headband with cat ears.

“there,” he says, adjusting it while maintaining eye contact with you. if you could gouge his eyes out with the black ribbon from your corset, you would have done it already. “that should do.”

you’re going to kill him. perform an exorcism, spray him with the emergency water bottle, smash a cake in his face. only after you survive the next twenty-four hours of saying ‘master’ every time someone asks you for service.

ORDER ONE: MORE TEA PLEASE! it started rather normal, really. just you sitting on the swivel chair in the kitchen, your hands lightly tapping the kitchen island with your nails in a soothing little rhythm. it was calm and quiet, manageable for now. you hoped it would stay this way.

but knowing him, or rather, knowing them, nothing is ever as it should be. it’s like they were summoned straight out of the ninth circle of hell and deposited into the mortal world solely to destroy your peace. you always wondered if they were demons. very possible, especially jinu. is he their power-hungry demon lord? honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was.

still, you tried to enjoy the calm while it lasted. emphasis on tried.

because a voice came in a low tone, like a whisper, right in your ear—

“boo~”

you jumped out of the chair and slapped the intruder with so much force that the sharp smack echoed through the kitchen, followed by a dramatic yelp of pain and agony.

“ow! what was that for?” you turned to see jinu holding his face, his hair slightly tousled from the attack, looking at you like you’d just committed a sin that would be hard to forgive. and then, you started laughing. yes, laughing directly in his face. 

“deserved~,” you said, arms crossed smugly, then muttered under your nose calling him an asshole, bastard, jerk, a demon spawn. the usual nicknames you have for him. he rubbed his face like he was collecting evidence for a lawsuit, then locked eyes with you. except it wasn’t a normal look. no, no—it was the jinu look. the smug kind, the dangerous kind, the infuriating kind.

“what did you call me?” he asked, pretending to be offended, what a drama queen. “i think you should read the instructions again.”

hold up …instructions? what instructions? were you in a fever dream or some prank show with a secret camera?

“i’m not calling you that,” you muttered, breaking eye contact immediately because if you looked at him any longer, your soul would start to leave your body. he raised a brow. “you know you should do everything i tell you to, right?”

you sighed, disappointed, without a shred of will to live and full of regret. “yes, i know.”

he leaned in a little. “yes, who?”

this was it. this was your villain origin story. not counting anything that's happened so far: the photo shoot with abby, the dates with romance, the secret cuddling sessions with mystery, the hot sauce from baby. no, it was this.

“yes…master.”

he giggled. oh no he just didn't giggle like a girl who just pulled her bias photocard. even worse because the torture didn’t stop there.

“can i have more tea, please?” he asked sweetly, stretching like a smug little prince on the couch, legs up on the table expecting to get the royal treatment he oh-so deserved.

you smiled through gritted teeth. “would you like green, herb, or black tea? i think the last one matches your intentions, mind, and soul, master.”

he blinked for a few seconds, then shrugged, ignoring your comment. jinu will spare you the punishment this time, you will still mess up again anyway. “herb, and add honey too.” fine. herb it is. you served it with a sweet smile, placed it gently on the table in front of him like a polite little servant.

and then you waited for the moment the cup touched his lips, he let out the most heavenly, high-pitched shriek. it was music to your ears. it's so nice to watch him suffer after he thought he was the boss.

justice is served. so was the tea, burning hot by yours truly.

ORDER TWO: CINDERELLA REINCARNATION it had only been four hours since your shift started, and somehow, you were already reconsidering your life choices. you’d been cooking, cleaning, folding clothes, brewing teas, blending smoothies, and responding to every ridiculous whim of master jinu. a phrase that made you want to eat a poisonous apple like snow white. master and jinu should never be in the same sentence, in fact, they shouldn’t even be in the same dictionary.

you were currently mopping the kitchen floor, all because someone decided you weren’t working hard enough and just so happened to spill their entire drink right in front of you. who was that someone, you ask? take a wild guess. yes, bingo! jinu. master jinu, destroyer of peace, menace of society, the devil in disguise.

“oops,” he’d said with a smile that could’ve won him millions of awards for best villain in a k-drama. “you missed a spot there~”

thank you, master jinu, for your generous gift of sticky soda and extra labor. truly, what a divine blessing. your spirit is overwhelmed with faith, love, and just the tiniest urge to scream into a bucket.

you threw the wet rag at him, but of course he dodged it, effortlessly, might you add. he was truly born to be an actor, especially for the role of the main villain. jinu laughed at you and you considered mopping the floor with him next time.

at this point, you were convinced you were the reincarnation of cinderella and jinu was the evil stepmother, baby was definitely one of the wicked stepsisters, probably the one with the louder laugh, and abby was the other one who just giggles and agrees with everything. abby is the definition of a traitor.

at least mystery and romance hadn’t betrayed you…yet. they seemed sweet enough, but who knows when they'll snap and request a five-course meal with handmade napkin origami shaped like swans, dragons or tigers.

as you scrubbed, your brain short-circuited and automatically started playing that one song from cinderella, the mice version. you could hear the high-pitched voices in your head:

"cinderelly, cinderelly, night and day it’s cinderelly. make the fire, fix the breakfast, wash the dishes, do the mopping!"

accurate. painfully accurate. the story of your life before you were even born.

finally, you finished the mess and got up to go wash your hands in the bathroom, but jinu stopped you in the most jinu way possible.

“would you cook something, please? maybe some eggs with bacon? or ramyeon? oh! what about handmade pizza?”

would he like to be handmade murdered?

you hate him. you hate his stupid perfect face with his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid charming voice that definitely shouldn't make your heart beat faster but unfortunately it does. you smiled. a smile full of thoughts, and not the nice ones. “yes, master,” you said, dead inside.

in the bathroom, you looked at your reflection and barely recognized yourself. the dark circles were giving a woman who worked seven days a week, twenty-four hours with no breaks. lifeless, exhausted, annoyed.  splashing your face with cold water and whispering a motivational speech to yourself, which sounded more like desperate sobbing.

“i got this. just a little longer and i will be free. fake it till you make it.”

trying to remember who you were, before this. freedom was a concept, peace was a myth, and saja boys didn't even exist.

when you stepped out, you were met with romance standing in the hallway. oh, sweet angel romance. the one person who could offer salvation. your face lit up, and you ran up to hug him.

he held up a hand. “jinu said he needed you. also, can you make kimbap?” your smile dropped and your soul left your body. eyes filled with tears, as a single scream echoed through the hall. somewhere in the kitchen, jinu took a calm sip of tea and smiled to himself like the smug little prince he was.

you were the real reincarnation of cinderella, minus the fairy godmother which you wanted to have so much, so she could free you from all the pain and suffering.

ORDER THREE: MYSTERY IS HISTORY it’s been seven hours. seven hellish hours since you became jinu’s so-called maid. after blood, sweat, and nearly crying over a mop bucket, he finally let you have your ten-minute break. wow, how generous, how benevolent. someone give this man a medal for basic human decency.

so naturally, you went to the only safe haven you could think of: mystery’s room.

sweet, quiet, actually listens when you speak. mystery is the only one who hasn’t pushed you into a breakdown or tried to make you be the main lead for another anime maid fantasy. he’s done some dumb things, sure, but he’s never made you scrub the floor, he just spilled soda on because you missed a spot.

you crept in, closed the door behind you, and face-planted straight into his bed. fluffy, warm, and not covered in jinu’s crimes. this is what it feels like to ascend in heaven. mystery didn’t even flinch when he saw you. in fact, he looked happy. “hey,” he said softly, “you okay? do you need anything, (name)-ssi?”

“no,” you groaned into the blankets, “i just need peace and quiet. to be far away from jinu before i commit a crime.”

he chuckled and sat near you, listening as you ranted about how humbling this whole day has been. “i bet even huntr/x treats bobby better than this. maybe i’m paying for the sins of my ancestors. or wait, what if i killed jinu in a past life and this is his revenge arc?”

“seems like something he’d do,”

your eyes were starting to droop as you talked. you were just so tired. cook this. clean that. jinu wants eggs. jinu doesn’t want eggs anymore. jinu thinks the floor is thirsty and pours juice on it. he doesn’t want help, he just creates more unnecessary work for you. and the worst part is when your heart speeds up a little when you think about him. ugh. it’s not affection. it’s hatred, right? hatred. anger. intense desire to throw him off a balcony. yes, that’s it.

before you knew it, the hallway echoed with jinu’s voice. break’s over, time to return to the seventh circle. you sat up, hugged mystery like a soldier off to war, and whispered, “goodbye, my angel.” then sprinted out before jinu could catch you red-handed. you didn’t think anyone saw. it’s strictly forbidden to seek help from the others. jinu’s rule, of course.

but when you got back to the kitchen, there he was. lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like a celebrity at a hair salon.

“a little birdy told me you had a nice, relaxing break,” he said without looking at you, flipping through pages because he clearly had nothing else to do but pick on you. across the room, baby was sipping juice. you glared so hard it nearly curdled his drink. you picked up the broom you used not long ago and had murder in your eyes.

“nuh-uh,” jinu said smoothly. “you stay here, i don’t trust you.” the broom snapped in your hands like your nerves and the last little drop of your patience.

they are all so dead when this torture is over.

later, when another break came around. yes, shocking a break. you returned to mystery’s room. your safe haven, your one and only angel, but…he was gone.

you blinked, looked around. nothing. no mystery, no peace. no, this can't be. he was right there, you saw him with your own eyes, you literally saw him go to the fridge to get something to drink and now... your savior couldn't be saved.

then you turned your head, and there he was. jinu was leaning against the doorframe, smiling, with eyes glowing in a demonic gold. what a jerk was your master. my condolences, may the heavens save you now. even though you doubted it you will make it in one piece. hope dies last.

ORDER FOUR: TRIP TRIP FALL FOR ON HIM! after nearly ten hours of living the life of a disney princess…well, more like before the singing animals and magical makeover, you were currently experiencing actual war flashbacks. hands still slightly wrinkled from hours of washing dishes, and arms sore from fetching snacks, drinks, and everything in between.

now, all five of them were lounging on the couch, while you stood next to them, awaiting their demands. ready for another order from the wish list: bring juice or scratch my back or suffer for my amusement.

mystery wasn’t allowed to talk to you (still unclear why, but you know why). baby and abby were furiously pushing the buttons of the joystick, playing a tv game. romance was doing what he does best; watching things happen while looking good. as for jinu…that man had fused with the couch. if you looked too quickly, you might mistake him for a pillow.

you were just standing like a statue. too scared to sit, too tired to live. you had mastered the ancient skill of sleeping with your eyes open. now that your mind was drifting somewhere soft to your bed. clouds for pillows. a pile of warm blankets, tiny stuffed animals cuddling around you. a baby staring into your soul—

wait… a baby?

baby, the actual boy, not some figment of your sleepy hallucinations, was right in front of you, blinking slowly.

“yes, baby?” you said, with a smile faker than their real intentions. “do you need something?”

“i need more juice.” of course you do.

thus began your olympic marathon to the kitchen. congratulations, you were officially on juice run #36! fun fact: you once gave baby room-temperature juice and were nearly exiled. and no, he didn’t want the same snack as earlier. and yes, he now wanted sparkling water, peach-flavored

you were losing your mind one step at a time.

romance asked for seaweed snacks. jinu wanted fruit, peeled and arranged in a heart shape. abby asked for energy drinks, and baby just liked watching you run around. much to your relief, mystery didn't want anything, he just sat there like a lone wolf.

you mixed up two orders accidentally. gave abby’s drink to baby and jinu’s snack to romance. jinu didn’t even flinch. he just raised an eyebrow and said, “that’s not my snack,” then started judging for your poor service.

you tried to stay strong, but you only had two hands and zero patience.

at some point, everyone left except for jinu, of course. because why would he move when he’s so comfortable doing absolutely nothing? 

you just finished the dishes, never mind that there was still more to wash. going to go check on couch prince jinu, and that’s when the lights went out.

in that pitch-black room, you tripped. k-drama style. over a can, a carpet wrinkle, and maybe your own broken will to live. your arms flailed in the air, your mouth opened in slow motion with life flashed before your eyes: memories of snack orders and juice spill.

you braced for the impact, but you landed... not on the floor. no, you landed in his lap. back against his chest, his arms had instinctively wrapped around your waist.

it might have been dark, but somehow, you could see him perfectly. like you were drawn to him and only him. you looked straight into each other’s eyes, his beautiful chocolate irises soft and deep, shining with a warmth that made your breath catch in your throat. his gaze was so soft.

his pupils were dilated, wide and dark, and you were sure yours were too, mirroring the surprise and the tension. you had never been this close before.

your skin burned where his arms held you, and you couldn’t tell if it was the room’s heat or the heat rolling off of him. every second stretched, slowly and intoxicatingly, as if time would stop itself. he was so handsome. too handsome, and right now, dangerously close.

you both blinked, trying to wake up from this dream. how sweet that you think it's a dream. your faces leaned in, you both weren't thinking, because you were behind pulled by something magnetic. your lips were just a breath away from his. almost touching, millimeters from what would have been the second big bang the universe may experience.

was this real? was this romantic tension? do i…like him?

and then, the universe said let it be light. the sound of the lamp clicking was heard and baby had his mouth wide open, shocked, staring like he just walked in on a drama finale. you immediately got up from jinu, brushing past baby as you sped up your pace to go somewhere that was not here. your life depended on not glancing at the maknae, with your eyes glued on the floor, you were close to the room you used here.

behind you, jinu calmly looked at baby and said, “not a word should come out of your mouth. pretend this never happened.” baby nodded like his life also depended on it, mouth zipped shut, and his feet carried him to his room.

now jinu was left completely alone with his thoughts and heart that wouldn't stop beating like crazy. no amount of pretending would make that go away.

ORDER FIVE: HOUR OF THE SOUL you couldn’t sleep after that. how could you, when every thought kept going back to what might have happened, what could have happened, if baby hadn’t shown up. for once, you were glad to see him, even if the moment he walked in was probably the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to you.

tossing and turning in your bed, still dressed in the same uniform, you hugged your pillow like it could rewind the time. it was exhausting, but your mind kept replaying everything: his heartbeat, his arms around your waist, the way your lips nearly brushed–

you groaned and rolled over again, smothering your face in the soft blanket. there would be no peace and quiet tonight, only the services of the manager as a maid.

it’s 2:34 a.m. and they’re at it again: complaining, bickering, calling your name like a broken record. dragging your feet out of bed, eyes barely opening, arms ached, your head pounded. you didn’t even feel human anymore.

just a walking, breathing puppet knew nothing but to serve.

they wanted more blankets, a charger, a midnight snack, a lullaby. what more do they want? they already have your patience and sanity off the list.

you were so tired, barely awake when dragging your feet from one room to the next, mumbling yes, and okay, and coming as if you were born to say only this, and to do what you're told.

and then came the final straw, the moment everything shattered.

you turned the corner too fast, and so did jinu. the tray slipped from your hands, and the cold liquid soaked his shirt. it was a harmless incident. “i’m sorry—” that’s all you managed to say, before he snapped.

“can’t you do something decent for once? pathetic, watch yourself.”

you stood there for a second. frozen, paralyzed, shocked. then something inside you just twisted. you slammed the tray to the ground, and it clattered with a loud, echoing sound through the hall. doors opened with familiar faces peeking out, but you didn’t care, not anymore.

“i’m not your maid,” you hissed, voice trembling as tears spilled down your cheeks. “i’m not your babysitter, or your doll. is this all i am to you? a joke you can laugh at?”

they stared at you, not knowing how to react, let alone say something. they’re not human, most definitely are not, because no human could be so heartless. maybe they really are some otherworldly creatures, your worst nightmare dressed in perfect skin.

“ungrateful,” you spat. “that’s what you all are. i didn’t hear a single thank you today. not one sorry. it’s always ‘i want this,’ ‘bring this,’ ‘give me that’ like i’m not even a human being.”

romance flinched, and abby stepped back. mystery didn’t meet your eyes, baby was silent for once. and jinu just stood there, staring. 

“you,” screaming until your voice cracked, tears falling freely as you pointed at jinu. he didn’t flinch, never does because to him you are not a threat. “you are the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

your voice broke. you wanted to quit, to walk away and go back to being just a girl. someone who studies, who sleeps, who breathes, who is herself.  you don't want this, not whatever they turned you into.

jinu lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. he didn't know what to say in a situation like this. he's always so sweet-talking, always knowing what to do, but now he doesn't know. 

“you made me hate this job. hate myself when i used to dream about being someone. and now i dream about escaping.” you reached up and yanked off the headband from your head. those stupid ears, those stupid challenges, those stupid jerks.

you threw it to the floor, stepped on it until it cracked. “i never want to see any of you again.”

they felt something then. something foreign and wrong. maybe it was shame, guilt, or regret. a sting deep in their chests, and the strange thing is that demons don’t feel. but tonight... unfortunately they did. 

you didn’t know the truth, at least not entirely, but you didn't need to know what they really were. it was crystal clear. that they’re not humans, not even close to that. their souls are twisted by power, feeding off the world they pretend to belong in because they broke something human. 

they broke you.

and maybe you were fragile, too soft for this world, or too good for this world, too good for them. despite that, it didn’t mean you deserved to go through hell and back.

jinu reached for you, but you stepped back. his touch used to be warm, now it chilled you, made you put an icy wall to keep him away. you looked at him, not angry anymore, just empty, done, soulless.

then you turned and walked away from them. no words, just the silence of the broken trust and the sound of your door slamming shut. they watched until you were gone and only jinu’s eyes dropped to the broken headband at his feet.

and suddenly, none of them felt powerful anymore.

ORDER SIX: TO SMILE AGAIN you haven’t blinked since then. you were just sitting on the ground, hands resting on your knees, head falling forward, your back against the door. how many hours had passed already—three? four? most likely five. the sun was spilling through the window blinds, a beam of light shining right onto you. how ironic, to have light shine on you when everything inside you is complete darkness.

you were tired, energy drained, couldn’t fall asleep, or even feel anything. there was nothing to be sad about anymore. you thought about quitting this position. you’d still find another job, something that pays well, or at least enough to support yourself. you’re a smart girl, hardworking and persistent. there’s no way you wouldn’t be able to handle whatever’s about to come.

exhaling deeply, heavily as you felt how much your body hurt. you could barely stand, but you did it. at the very least, you wanted to go to the bathroom, to freshen up your withered self as much as you could.

but something was stopping you. you didn’t want to open the door, or see any of them.

they were probably asleep by now, it was still early. after all, they were the spoiled princes who didn’t care about anything or anyone.

your hand slowly reached for the metal handle. your movements were hesitant at first, but then it touched the cold surface, sending a shiver through you as you rose onto your tiptoes. that’s when you noticed the atmosphere around you. you were still in that mocking uniform, didn’t even have the energy to change out of it.

blinking slowly, swallowing painfully hard, you gently pressed the handle. the door creaked open with a quiet noise, and you closed your eyes. you didn’t know why. perhaps because you didn’t want to face reality or take a step forward. 

you wanted to take a step back. to close the door, to lock yourself away somewhere. but you took that step forward: without looking. your foot hit something that blocked you from going any further.

and then you opened your eyes.

what stopped you were the boys, who were sleeping outside your door. you blinked, rubbed your eyes once, twice, except they were still there curled up in sleep, like guilt had covered them instead of a blanket.

leaning against the walls, backs slouched, curled in exhaustion. you almost closed the door again. you don’t want to see them, you shouldn’t. but it’s hard, isn’t it?

why does it feel like this? there’s no word for it, no way to describe what you are experiencing right now, not really.

your chest tightens, like someone’s wrapped a chain around your heart, pulling until it either explodes or crashes straight down. there’s a lump in your throat and you start to tremble.

is it panic rushing in? or is it fear? being afraid of forgiving them, afraid of being hurt again. to be used and treated like someone who is nobody.

you really don't know what to think and feel at this moment, not when your eyes timidly and slowly stopped at abby, then baby, whose head rested on his shoulder. your gaze followed other colors, pink and purplish hues, romance and mystery, a little apart from the others. then you looked down, right at your feet.

jinu was directly at your door. his legs in the entrance, arms folded, breathing soft and steady.

have they been sitting here all morning...but why? weren't they the monsters who never did anything for you? why are they only doing something like this now?

so many questions you didn't know if you wanted the answers to.

you hadn’t expected them to be outside your door, let alone sleep. you assumed they had walked off when you slammed it. you wanted to hate them, but your heart didn’t know what to do with their silence.

you just stared at them, couldn’t move, otherwise you would wake them up… if they weren't already awake. then you saw it, a small movement.

abby slowly opened his eyes and looked at you. he smiled and it was kind, sweet, sincere. you watched as his shoulder gently nudged the green-haired boy beside him. baby stirred, rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning before looking up at you. he didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes.

romance and mystery followed, stretching their shoulders, preparing to stand but abby stopped them with a simple lift of his hand.

then you looked down again. jinu was awake, and he was already looking at you. staring at each other again, soul to soul, just like yesterday.

nobody said anything. not you, not him, not them. what doesn’t seem unfamiliar, feels unfamiliar.

and then they stood up. lined up, and bowed down to you. it’s not casual, it’s heavy. the kind of apology that doesn’t expect forgiveness, only acknowledgment.

and you freeze, because no one’s ever bowed to you like that before. not them, especially not when it mattered or when it hurt.

your breath catches, and you hate how fast the tears come, but there’s no stopping it. your chest lurches, too tight, with the chain around your heart pulling harder, like it wants to snap, but instead it breaks you.

you cry, no, you break. right in front of them. a choked sob slips out before you can swallow it, and once it starts, it doesn't stop. for a second, you don’t even know why, because it’s not just sorrow. it’s anger, grief, and relief all at once. you hate that you still feel something. that their bow means something. 

“we are extremely sorry, (name)-nim. please forgive us. but even if you don’t… we will understand.”

their heads almost touched the ground. it's inhuman because it is not normal for them to bow to you. is this shocking because they are not supposed to express regret?

they looked up slightly, enough to see you trembling and sobbing. they didn’t know what emotions were coursing through you. hell, you didn’t even know. panic set in. not know what to do with you, until your legs gave out, and you fell to the ground.

“you are the biggest idiots i have ever met.” you said through cracked sobs, a shaky voice, and only your muffled crying was clear. “you’re awful, terrible, insensitive, ruthless, heartless jerks.”

they didn’t speak in defense. because you were right. they just lowered their heads again; however, you hit each one of them and told them to get up.

the saja boys had never done anything like this before—never apologized.

this was new. and you prayed it was real and not just a tactic to get away with it. they all stood up, rubbing their heads when jinu spoke.

“i’m sorry, (name). i didn’t mean to take it that far. and you’re right… about me, about us. about how we treated you. we didn’t see how much you were doing—how much you already gave.” he bowed again. like a man with dignity, with respect for you. “if your choice is to quit… you’re more than free to do so.”

that was the icing on the cake. jinu apologizing to you, jinu admitting that he was wrong, to look like a person with a pure soul.

“get up before i make your face kiss the ground.” he stood up very confused because he expected another reaction and you…you just hugged him. “others too… group hug.”

they surrounded you, arms wrapping around, warm and gentle. you melted into the embrace. it was nice, comforting, exactly what you needed.

someone to notice you.

you weren’t going to quit, but if something like this ever happened again. you were packing your bags and saying hasta la vista.

“one more screw up, and you will be on permanent boathouse duty. scrubbing old men’s backs and feet until your fingers start to fall off.”

and just like that you were back to your usual self and you felt how the boys tensed.

“yes, ma’am!”

SHIFT END: MANAGER-NIM VENGEANCE somehow, everything was back to normal, and technically, you won the challenge. because you never changed out of that cursed uniform. one of the rules was simple: if you changed, you automatically lost. but you didn’t, so you won.

and what better reward than making them your maids instead?

yes, you heard that right. the saja boys, guilty and worried, told you that you could wish for anything, and they’d make it happen to make up for everything. they didn’t even ask how you got maid outfits that fast, just shrugged and said, “manager magic,” probably. ready for anything, anytime.

abby’s muscles were practically about to tear through the fabric, but wow... what a view. baby looked like a grumpy little kitten, pouting in lace and ribbons. romance? absolutely slayed. he looked better in that outfit than you did. mystery was awkward but cute. and then, of course, the maid of honor, your personal servant, the one and only jinu. doesn’t he look criminally good in a corset and skirt?

you were now lounging out on the dorm’s big balcony. mini kids pool at your feet, deck chair underneath you. abby fanned you gently while mystery held up an umbrella to keep you shaded. a peaceful, well-earned vacation with the best possible staff.

romance was giving you the softest little massage on your arms. baby stood nearby, holding your drink. “wait,” you said, lifting up the sunglasses. “i wanted apple juice… actually, no. orange juice now.”

baby groaned and trudged off to the kitchen. cute. and then there he was, the star of the show, maid jinu, returning with your sweets and a tray of carefully peeled fruit cut into… stars? you raised an eyebrow. “i asked for heart shapes.”

his eye twitched. “yes, master,” he muttered, and went back to the kitchen without a word to fix it.

you let out a long, satisfied sigh and closed your eyes again. the breeze, the pampering, the silence. it was perfection. and no, this wasn’t just a one-day deal, they were doing this for a whole month. every single day.

you were, without a doubt, the saja princess.

because they needed to taste their own medicine. and what better way to do it than serving you? besides, you totally deserve it.

MANAGER-NIM 1, SAJA BOYS 0.

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©2025 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes. None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship. And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader, Original Female Character TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers

🜼 :: i am not very familiar with the canon material, please forgive me. i just got into this fandom recently cause of the edits with the bubble guppies songs—you know what i’m talking about—but i can't resist writing when i get an idea. i did read up the lore as much as i can so i hope that's enough of a crash course.

🜼 :: i really wanted to introduce the reader this chapter but it was getting loo long and i hate to end it short but i had to. next chapter, for sure

🜼 :: lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part two

Wayne Manor was not the kind of place where surprises went over well.

Bruce liked his routines. Alfred had his cleaning system optimized down to a science. And the Batkids—well, chaos followed them often, but even they liked their chaos scheduled. So when a child appeared out of nowhere, no one was quite sure what protocol applied.

It was just past nine in the evening when the silence in the Wayne Manor dining room was fractured.

The long dining table was actually being used—not for mission briefings or post-patrol first aid, but for something bordering on domestic. Plates were half-full, conversations across the table—mild teasing, half-finished stories, arguments over who had the worst form on a grappling hook. Damian sat near the end, posture too straight, silently judging every word coming out his brothers' mouths. Jason occasionally grinned, the scar near his mouth twitching with each bite of sarcasm. And Dick, ever the glue of the family, kept the mood light.

It was a rare moment having all—most—of the kids over for dinner. The kind of gathering that only happened a handful of times a year. 

But peace never lasted long with the Waynes.

The lights flickered—just once—then the air shifted. A stillness that felt charged. Like the hush before a thunderclap, or the space between heartbeats when something goes wrong.

And then—she was just there.

No door opened. No footsteps. No warning.

She appeared near the head of the table, close to the dining room door. Dressed in a red dress and a black cardigan, ponytailed, carrying a small black bag, and hugging a Red Robin plush. She blinked wide, curious eyes up at the room full of people staring back at her like she was a time bomb.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft and light. “Please don’t tell Mommy.”

A beat.

The little girl’s lip wobbled.

And then she burst into tears.

Damian tensed, already halfway into a defensive stance. Jason blinked like he’d forgotten how his eyes worked. Bruce looked vaguely horrified. 

It was Dick who stepped forward, calm through the rising confusion. He crouched low, arms open, and scooped her up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, gently rocking her. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

The sobs quieted, just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough for the shock to start setting in.

Twenty minutes later, the rest of the family was assembled in the drawing room. Bruce, Jason, Damian, and Dick were all watching the small girl now wrapped in a blanket on the couch, holding a juice box and kicking her feet. The Red Robin plush she carried now sat beside her like a silent bodyguard.

Bruce stood in front of the fireplace, arms folded, eyes fixed and unreadable. Damian leaned against the far wall near the door, keeping his distance. Dick sat on the armrest beside her, elbow on his knee, one hand propping up his chin. Jason had taken to standing behind the couch, watching the child with intrigue. 

“I didn’t just hallucinate that, right? She just appeared?” Jason finally asked, cutting through the silence. “Like—poof?”

“No alarms or sensors were triggered,” Bruce said, frowning slightly. “One moment the room was empty. Next, she was standing right here.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “She’s tiny. Like, what—three?”

“Four,” the girl corrected, holding up four fingers with mild exasperation. “And I’m not tiny. You’re just giant, Uncle Dickie.”

Dick blinked, taken slightly aback. “Uncle Dickie?”

Jason snorted from behind the couch, grinning. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

“She knows you, Grayson,” Damian muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Before anyone could respond, the little girl rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.

“Uncle Dami, you dummy,” she said, completely unfazed by his glare. “Of course I know Uncle Dickie.”

The room stilled for a breath.

Jason choked on a laugh. “Did she just—?”

Damian’s jaw twitched. “I am no one’s uncle.”

The child gave him a judging look, like she’d heard this line before. “Yes, you are. You’re my grumpy Uncle Dami”

Jason doubled over, wheezing. “This kid’s killing me.”

Damian glared, but it had less bite than usual—more confusion than fury.

Bruce, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from his place by the fireplace, but his gaze had sharpened. He was watching the girl closely now. Familiar. Intimate. Confident in the truth of every word she says.

“What's your name?” he asked, voice low.

The girl gave him a patient, very unimpressed look.

The girl huffed and crossed her arms. “Grampa, you’re also a dummy,” she said, frowning with all the authority a four-year-old could muster. “You already know me.”

A few seconds passed. Nobody moved. 

She paused, blinking at them like they were the ones being ridiculous.

Then she pointed to herself with both thumbs and declared with exasperated pride—

“I’m your granddaughter,” she said. “Duh.”

“I’m Georgina Drake” She beamed. “But you always just call me Gia.”

The room fell silent.

“Drake,” Jason echoed. “As in…?”

“As in Tim.” Bruce confirmed, voice steady and low.

Across the room, Damian looked as if someone had insulted him personally.

“No,” he said immediately, folding his arms. “Impossible. Drake doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”

“Could be a prank,” Dick offered, though his tone was more tentative now. “Or a clone. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen.”

“I’m not a clone!” she said primly, chin lifting in defiance. “I’m a princess, like Mommy.”

Jason raised a brow. “Okay, princess. Who’s your mom?”

Before she could answer, her head turned—eyes catching on movement by the door.

Tim had just stepped into the room, phone in hand, brows drawn in confusion at the unusually quiet gathering.

The girl’s face lit up.

“Daddy!” she squealed, voice echoing off the walls as she launched herself off the couch like a missile.

Tim was late. Naturally.

He'd been held up in a meeting at WE and was still reading the message from Dick—

come home now. emergency

—when he stepped into the room, still in his blazer, earbuds in, looking confused. 

“Hey. Got your text. What’s the emergency—?”

Then he saw the child.

And the child saw him.

With an ear-splitting squeal, Gia launched herself across the room with terrifying speed. 

“Daddy!”

Tim had precisely two seconds to process that before she crashed into his legs, arms wrapping around his knees like she’d known him her whole life.

He froze.

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to him.

Tim looked down. She clung to him like a koala, babbling in excitement with enough energy to make his brain short-circuit.

“I missed you!” she chirped. “You were gone forever! I thought maybe you got lost—Uncle Bart said you do that sometimes—but we told Mommy we’d be back before dinner so you can't get lost!”

Tim stood frozen, blinking. “What.”

“But then Uncle Bart had to go too” she went on, not missing a beat, “‘cause Mr. Jon called him on the commy thing and he told me, ‘Don’t touch anything, Arti, not even a little bit!’ and I didn’t, ‘cause I was being super good.”

She paused, looking up at him, pouting and looking guilty. “But then I got kinda bored… and I maybe touched the glowy thingy just a little bit. And it was really shiny! And then—poof!”

She flung her hands out like fireworks, eyes wide.

“And then I blinked and I was here with Uncle and Grandpa and they’re being weird and dummies and Uncle Damian is grumpy—again.” She rolled her eyes like that was the most annoying part of her day.

Then she looked back at Tim and grinned, soft and warm, like everything was finally right again.

“But it’s okay now!” she said, with absolute certainty. “’Cause you’re here.”

Tim’s jaw slackened. No words came out.

He looked like his entire operating system had crashed. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Breath caught somewhere in his chest. His hands hung uselessly at his sides as he stared at the tiny girl still hugging his legs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Tim looked to Bruce, looking for answers. “What the hell is going on?”

“Her name’s Gia,” Dick supplied, still perched on the arm of the couch, grinning like this was the best thing that had happened all month.

“Congrats, Replacement. She’s yours.” Jason said, far too casually, visibly trying not to burst into laughter at the sight of Tim—speechless, wide-eyed, completely out of his depth.

“She says she’s yours,” Damian corrected with a scowl, arms still folded. “We haven’t confirmed anything yet.”

“She’s—she’s mine?” Tim sputtered. “I don’t—wha—what?”

“She does have your eyes,” Bruce said mildly from his place near the fireplace.

Before Tim could respond—or fall over—Gia’s expression shifted.

Her eyes flicked past him to the doorway, searching. “But where’s Mommy?” she asked softly, her voice losing some of its earlier bounce. Her smile faltered just a little. “Is she outside?”

The room stilled. That single question cut through the noise like a blade. 

Tim’s heart stopped. “Mommy?”

She looked at him, confused. “Yeah,” she said. “My mommy. Where’s Mommy?”

Tim swallowed hard. “What’s your mommy’s name?”

Gia scrunched her nose. “You know her.”

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, lowering himself to her level, his blazer wrinkling at the knees. “I don’t think I do.”

Around them, the room held its breath.

Her eyes stayed locked on him, her little face scrunching even more like she didn’t understand why he was asking such a silly question. “Yes, you do,” she said with the kind of unshakable confidence only a child could carry. “She’s my mommy. And she’s your favorite person.”

Tim’s breath hitched. Behind her, Jason made a sound—half laugh, half breath—but didn’t speak.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me her name?” Tim tried again. “Can you tell me what she looks like?”

Gia tilted her head, like he was playing a very weird game she’s still not understanding. He could see her small brain working behind her eyes, wondering why her Daddy was being so weird tonight.

“Is she not here yet?” Her brows furrowed. “But Mommy said don’t be late for dinner.”

Tim swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak carefully. Softly. “Sweetheart… I don’t know who your mommy is.”

She only blinked at him, like he’d just said the sky was green. Her mouth opened, then closed again. 

“Yes, you do,” she insisted, but the certainty in her voice wavered. “She kisses you on the cheek every single time you go to work with Grampa. And she gets mad when you don’t sleep. And she calls you ‘Timothy’ when you’re in trouble.”

“And she does your ties for you,” She continued, rambling, “because you always get distracted when you’re talking and then you mess it up. And she always says, ‘Come here, dummy,’ and fixes it.”

The room had gone completely quiet. Even the shadows in the room felt still. The fireplace crackled softly. A phone pinged once in the background but no one looked away.

“You know Mommy, Daddy. She—she’s gonna be mad if you say you don’t.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Tim’s heart shattered. “Hey, hey, no,” he said quickly, reaching for her hands, small and shaking. “She’s not gonna be mad. No one’s mad.”

But she wasn’t listening—not really. Her eyes darted around the room—searching for her mother in every corner, every shadow. She saw the people she knew—Grandpa, Uncle Jay, Uncle Dickie, even grumpy Uncle Dami—but not Mommy.

“Mommy always says,” she mumbled through hiccuping breaths and tears that have begun to flow down her cheeks, “that you’re really smart, and you forget stuff that’s not important…”

Her tiny shoulders shook.

“…but you never forget me and Mommy.”

Tim’s chest tightened. The world was closing in—what was going on—too fast, too much. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to breathe.

“Daddy, you dummy,” she whispered, and it broke him. “You can’t forget Mommy.”

And that was it. She crumpled, falling into him fully, sobbing now with hiccuping breaths and clenched little fists. She pressed her face to his hand holding hers and cried like her whole world had gone sideways. 

Tim didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know how to hold her. He didn’t know if he should.

But his arms moved anyway, instinct more than thought, wrapping around her small frame and pulling her in tight. Her weight, so light and yet overwhelming, settled against him like she belonged there.

His throat burned. He opened his mouth, and he whispered the only thing he could think of, even though it was a lie.

“I’m sorry, baby.” His voice trembled. “Daddy’s only joking. Of course I know Mommy”

She sniffled once. Lifted her head from his chest just enough to look him in the face. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red and shining, but there was a flicker of hope in them now—small, but it made her eyes bright again.

“…You do?”

Tim hesitated. And in that half-second, he hated himself.

“Yeah,” he lied again, smiling through the crack in his heart. “Of course I do.”

She stared at him for a moment longer. Then let out a tiny, hiccupy breath and buried her face in his shirt again.

“Daddy, you dummy,” she whimpered, pouting into his chest. “I’m telling Mommy you’re a meanie.”

That nearly undid him.

A broken laugh caught in his throat, and it sounded more like a gasp. He hugged her closer, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You should. She might yell at me, though”

“She’ll ground you,” Gia  mumbled, and though she was still hiccuping, there was a smile in her voice now. “No phone time.”

Tim let out another shaky breath. “Brutal.”

Her little arms curled tighter around his neck.

“You better say sorry,” she said seriously, one last sniffle escaping.

Tim’s laugh broke through this time. “Daddy’s sorry, baby.”

Behind them, no one spoke.

Tim held Gia a little closer.

He didn’t know her mother. Didn’t remember having a daughter.

But the child in his arms believed in him.

So he kept holding her.

Gia had cried herself to sleep.

Alfred had taken her from Tim the moment they realized she was too tired to stay upright. He’d carried her gently past the quiet hallway and into the sanctuary of Tim’s bedroom. The others hadn’t followed.

Now she lay in Tim’s room, small and still, her arms wrapped tight around the Red Robin plush like it was armor. She was asleep within minutes, curled into the center of the bed like she belonged there. Her cheeks were blotchy, her breathing soft and uneven from exhaustion. 

Down by the drawing room, the heavy silence left behind still lingered. 

They didn’t know what to make of her. Neither did Tim. He didn’t know who she really was. He didn’t know who her mother was. Didn’t even know how she got here. 

And still didn’t know why she called him “Daddy”.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting shadows over wood and marble. Tim, seated, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingers locked together. Focused. Trying to make sense of the impossible.

Dick was the one who broke the silence.

“You didn’t see her when she appeared,” he said gently. “One second the room was empty. Then, she was just there.”

“No alarms,” Jason added. “No signs of breach. Nada. It was like she’d teleported.”

Tim’s brows pulled together. “No signs of a Zeta Beam?”

“Possible.” Bruce said. “Highly likely considering she mentioned Bart earlier.”

“Gia said,” Dick began, “that he told her not to touch the ‘glowy thing’. Then she blinked and ended up here.”

Tim’s mouth felt dry. “And she knew all of you?”

“By name,” Damian grumbled.

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “She could be a clone. We can’t rule that out.”

Jason raised a brow. “She said before that she wasn’t.”

“We can’t assume she’s telling the truth. Not yet.” Bruce said, voice firm.

“She’s a child.” Jason shot back. “A weird one, sure, ‘cause she didn’t even flinch when the Demon Spawn glared at her, but still a child.”

“Children can lie,” Damian said coolly, arms still folded. “Especially when taught to.”

Jason scoffed. “She’s four,” he said, throwing a hand in the air. “You’re telling me a four-year-old can lie well enough to fool us? All of us? At the same time?”

Damian didn’t flinch. “Age doesn’t guarantee innocence.”

“She could be telling the truth,” Tim said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “We need… something. Something to believe her.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What kind of proof could a four-year-old have?” Dick asked, frowning. “Crayon drawings? An imaginary friend who vouches for her?”

Damian didn’t miss a beat. “The kind that bleeds,” he said coldly. “DNA. Unquestionable data.”

Jason grimaced. “Jesus, demon spawn. She’s not a threat.”

Damian turned to him. “She could be. And if she is, we don’t have the luxury of sentiment. You think just because she calls you ‘Uncle,’ that makes her real? We don’t know what she is.”

“She’s a kid,” Jason snapped, pushing off from the wall. “She cried when Tim said he didn’t know her mom. You think that was a performance?”

Tim flinched.

“We’ll run the tests,” Bruce's voice cut in. “Alfred’s already prepared the labs. We’ll have answers by morning.”

Jason muttered something under his breath.

Dick leaned back in his seat, eyes flitting towards Tim. “If she is… that means you and someone else—”

“Don’t,” Tim said flatly. His voice was too raw for argument. “Not yet.”

Tim wasn’t able to sleep. 

He barely sleeps on a regular day—too much on his mind, too much to do, and not enough hours to do it. But tonight, there wasn’t even the illusion of rest.

Not with the child’s words echoing in his head.

Tim sat in the corner chair of his room, one leg folded under him, fingers wrapped around a now-cold mug of coffee. He’d changed out of his dress shirt hours ago. He hadn’t turned the lights on. He didn’t dare.

In the middle of the bed, Gia was still asleep—hands curled around the Red Robin plush like it was her most precious thing. She hasn’t stirred much. Her tiny form was buried in the blankets, hair messy, mouth slightly open in the softness of sleep. One of her feet had slipped out from under the comforter and now peeked over the edge, small toes wiggling with a dream.

The clock on his nightstand glowed past 3:00 AM. 

Still no word on the DNA.

Tim hadn’t expected results until breakfast but every minute that passed in silence stretched the knot in his chest tighter.

He kept stealing glances at the child in his bed.

She looked so safe. 

Like she belonged there.

The sun was rising by the time something happened.

There was light peeking through the windows—thin and gray, the kind of morning only Gotham could manage. It cast long shadows across the floor, faint gold lining the edges of the curtains, the dresser, the empty coffee mug cooling on the table beside him.

Tim hadn’t moved.

His back ached. His eyes burned. But he didn’t move.

The soft click of the door made Tim lift his head.

Alfred stepped in, silent as ever, a man who had crossed thresholds in this house with worse news in the past—but somehow, tonight felt heavier. He held a single envelope in one hand, the edges crisp.

Tim straightened in the chair, setting the untouched coffee aside. He didn’t ask. Didn’t breathe.

Alfred looked at him with something that wasn’t quite pity, but close enough to make his stomach turn.

He offered the envelope forward.

Tim took it, hands slower than they should’ve been.

It had already been opened. 

Of course it had. Bruce wouldn’t wait for him. Not with stakes like these.

He stared at it for a long moment.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a warning. A delay. A chance to prepare himself for the answer.

He didn’t get one.

His eyes dropped to the top of the first page. A simple heading:

WAYNE BIOTECH Genetic Identity Verification Report Report ID: WE-FSD-PAT-22341 Requested By: Bruce Wayne Analysis Type: Paternity – DNA Comparison Subject Information Child: Georgina Drake Alleged Father: Timothy Jackson Drake

His eyes skimmed the paper to the only line that mattered.

Probability of Paternity: 99.997%

The paper crumpled slightly at his tight grip.

Alfred didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The bed creaked softly behind him as Gia shifted in her sleep, clutching her Red Robin plush a little tighter.

The world didn’t shatter or explode.

It just shifted.

He still didn’t know how the hell she got here. He still didn’t know who the mother was. But now he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

She wasn’t lying.

She really is his daughter.

He swallowed hard. “What did Bruce say?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Alfred stood a few steps away, hands folded neatly in front of him. “He read the report. Twice.”

“And?”

A pause. Then:

“He did order secondary testing. Just to confirm. The result was the same.”

Tim let out a short, humorless breath. “That sounds about right.”

“Does the rest of the family know?” he asked after a beat.

“Master Richard saw the report with Master Bruce.”  Alfred replied gently. “Master Damian is pretending not to care. Master Jason had opted to not stay at the manor, he’ll likely find out later today”

Tim dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. I mean—it is. The test says it is. But how?”

He looked over at Gia again—her face half-buried in the pillow, tiny fingers still curled tight in the plush’s arm. Her lashes fluttered with sleep, mouth slightly open.

She looked so at peace. Unlike the anxiety he was feeling 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I imagine no one does,” Alfred replied. “Not at the beginning. But you’re not alone, Master Timothy.”

ARCHIVE PART TWO

🜼 :: @jenjubili

divider: @enchanthings

[moonstruckme]

A continuation of this because I could not shut up

cw: vague mention of past injury

Who’s That Girl AU

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

The congestion in your chest keeps you from sleep. The coughing isn’t even violent; it’s pitiful, honestly, weak little puffs of air that do nothing to dislodge the mucus sticking in your throat. You lie in bed and succumb to them, doing all you can to be quiet with your head under the covers and your mouth pressed into your pillow. 

It’s not enough. A floorboard squeaks in the hall. You hope one of your flatmates has only gotten up for a glass of water—Sirius does that sometimes, he has trouble getting to sleep. If you or Remus doesn’t show up in the kitchen to chat with him, you know he’ll go to James’ room to settle down. Then there’s a knock on your door. 

You do your best to clear your throat, but still another cough punches out of you when you attempt to whisper, “Yeah?” 

Though both the room and your hall are dark, you can make out the distinct shape of Remus’ silhouette between them. If you hadn’t recognized him by that, you’d know him by the tentative way the door opens. Like he’s asking for permission a second time. 

Once it’s open, though, Remus comes to your side just like he had earlier. Incautious. Purposeful. Concerned brown eyes and a warm hand laid across your forehead. You’re holding your breath to keep from coughing on him, but you don’t think that’s what’s making your head swim. 

“Alright?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah, I—sorry,” you rasp, bringing up a hand to cover your mouth as you start coughing again. 

Remus doesn’t move. His brows draw closer together and he reaches over you to rub your back through the covers. “Hardly your fault,” he says, in a croaky sort of voice that hints he had been sleeping at some point. “Can I get you anything?” 

You shake your head. “I used all the honey. So we’re out, sorry.” Remus tsks sympathetically. “Out of cough drops, too, so. I think I just have to ride it out until the pharmacies open.” 

Your flatmate’s eyes glint humorously in the dark. “What, you still need cough drops? Didn’t James’ soup heal you completely?” 

“I don’t want to badmouth Euphemia,” you hedge. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t be. She only makes a good soup; James came up with the idea that it cures everything all on his own.” 

“Then no. But in fairness, your vitamin C didn’t work either.” 

“Well, I never claimed it was a miracle.” You’re teasing, but Remus’ voice has turned somber, his palm making slow circles on your upper back. He looks almost sorry. 

“Yeah, I know,” you murmur. “I think we’ve exhausted all avenues. Sorry I woke you.” 

“Sorry you’re being kept up,” he replies softly. 

You shrug, hapless. There’s nothing more either of you can do. You’re stuck with this, but Remus can still go back to his room and get some sleep. You expect he’ll do that now, so it surprises you when he asks, “Aren’t you hungry?” 

You cough a bit in surprise. “I had soup.” 

“So that wasn’t a piece of coriander I saw sticking out of the kitchen sink drain a bit ago?” 

You shrink. “Shit. I thought I rinsed it all down.” 

Remus smiles. It’s a lovely sight, and a rare enough treat that you relax. When Remus smiles, you always feel like you must’ve done something right to earn it. 

“I won’t tell,” he swears. “James will say it only didn’t work because you didn’t eat it all. He’ll want to go get you more.” 

“I tried to finish it,” you say weakly. “But it was a big bowl, and it wasn’t really to my taste…” 

“Careful, you’ll wake him from a dead sleep saying things like that,” Remus teases you. You smile, and watch his expression soften in the low light. “You must be hungry, though. Maybe a different soup? Something warm might calm your throat long enough for you to get to sleep.” 

Remus starts to get up before he’s even finished talking. You think your poor facial control is to blame; you probably look like he’s just offered you a spa holiday. 

“Rem.” You catch his wrist as he stands, letting go when a coughing fit takes you and you have to cover your mouth. Remus stays put anyway. “It’s the middle of the night.” 

“I know,” he says patiently. 

“You really don’t have to.” 

“Okay.” 

“So, you…” You eye him, caught between wishing for him to get a good night’s rest and really, really liking the idea of some soup. “...won’t?” 

“No, I am.” Remus straightens the rest of the way. “Do you want to come with? You can breathe the steam while the pot’s boiling.” 

You do follow him, obviously. You express your desire for one of you to get to sleep a couple more times before Remus tells you kindly to piss off, but then you’re not going to let him slave away for you in the kitchen by himself. 

Remus outright forbids you from helping him chop vegetables, because I know you think you’re steady right now, but I promise you you’ll cut off the same finger you did last time. You end up sitting on the counter beside the stove, face growing warm and dewy as you lean over a simmering pot of broth. 

“Do you really think Sirius is going to get sick now?” you ask. 

“Yes,” Remus answers, chopping carrots with a practiced rhythm. The thunk-thunk-thunk of his knife landing on the cutting board is soothing. “You can’t blame yourself for that, though. Sirius is always getting sick. He’s got the worst immune system of anyone I’ve ever met. You’d think that’d make him used to it, but no.”

“Just like hay fever?” you guess. 

Remus glances over his shoulder to give you a commiserative look. “Just like hay fever. He whines like mad the whole time.” 

You sigh, pleasantly surprised when the cough it provokes feels less painful than usual. The steam may be helping. “I’ll stay home and take care of him. It’s the least I can do, seeing as I brought it here.” 

“Maybe wait and see how well you still like him before committing to things like that. When Sirius gets really stuffed up, he turns on the shower and just steams in there. Runs out all the hot water.” 

You smile ruefully to yourself. “I hope he doesn’t get it as badly as me, then.” 

Remus turns fully now, walking over with the cutting board to dump diced vegetables into the pot. He pushes a damp piece of hair away from your temple. “Me, too,” he says sincerely. 

You look at Remus in the warm glow of the stove light. It softens his skin, blurring freckles and blemishes and melting the amber of his eyes. It feels too intimate, holding his gaze like this while you’re alone, but you can’t pull yours away. 

“Thank you for the soup,” you say. 

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches. “It’s not finished yet.” 

“I know.” He’s teasing again, but you’re not in the mood anymore. You want him to know how much this means. “It’s just really nice of you. I appreciate it.” 

Remus sets a hand on your shoulder, steadying you both as he moves closer. You’re unwell and probably a little delirious, so you think you can easily blame the steam or your fever for how warm you get when your flatmate’s lips ghost your forehead. “Don’t mention it.”

[hatethysinner]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[bananonbinary]

"ip unfairly owned by giant corporations" is not, and never has been, the defense for fanfic. i mean sure, disney, the corporate entity, owns star wars, and might get litigious about it, despite it being a monolith of a company that didn't "create" anything.

but what about the anne rices of the world? she created The Vampire Chronicles, fair and square. no big scary corporate entity stole it from her. should we purge all the gay fanfic, with a, "oh no, i'm so sorry i didn't realize you said no?" what about all the game of thrones fic, do we delete all that too? George R R Martin certainly doesn't think there's a difference between "intellectual property" and "individual works."

there are plenty of creators that HATE fanfiction and are willing to use the law to see it destroyed. it doesn't MATTER if they created the original IP and don't want anyone else to touch it. once you put art out into the world, you don't have the right to control the conversation about it, for better or for worse.

and ai is certainly not just reposting the "individual works" it's drawing from. it's just not. you can't ask it to reproduce something and get access to it in its entirety, or even in substantially large part. which is the ONLY place we currently draw the line between plagiarism and fanworks. if the AI creations are notably different than the original "individual works," (which they ARE), there is no distinction you can make between AI works and fanworks on a copyright level, no matter what you THINK is going on deep in the bot's servers.

Like it's always funny how in this website it's almost always the fanartists and fic writers voicing the most hardcore anti "art theft" stances like buddy you REALLY don't know what you're asking for.

[viviansturns]

𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

... in which you confess you're bored with your sex life because its always missionary, so matt makes sure you're never bored

cw: backshots!!! several positions, eating out, p in v no protection, dom!matt, multiple orgasms, self-orgasm denial?

The room is warm with late evening air, the single lamp casting a circle of light over the bedspread. Matt is leaning back against the headboard, phone in hand, scrolling.

You’re lying next to him on your stomach, cheek propped on your arm. You keep glancing over at him, chewing your lip.

He doesn’t look up. “What?”

You swallow. “Nothing.”

He squints at you over the phone. “Nah. What?”

You hide your face in the pillow.

He pries it away easily. “Stop that. Tell me.”

Your voice is tiny. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

He perks up immediately. “Oh now you have to say it.”

You sigh, heart thudding. “It’s just... every time we have sex, it’s missionary.”

He freezes. His eyebrows raise slowly, one side of his mouth ticking up.

“Yeah?”

You stammer, mortified. “It’s not that I don’t like it! It’s good—really good—I just thought maybe... something different could be fun?”

He blinks at you.

Then he laughs once, low in his throat.

“Oh. You want different.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already moving.

He grabs you by the waist, lifting you easily and tossing you onto your back. You squeal, arms flailing.

He climbs over you, pinning you with his hips, face close enough that you feel his breath.

“You think I can’t fuck you every way you want?”

Your heart kicks in your chest.

“Matt—”

He grins. “I’ll show you different.”

_________

He kisses you hard, so rough your lips burn immediately. His teeth catch your lower lip and tug until you whimper.

Your hands scramble at his shirt. He breaks the kiss only to yank it over his head and throw it aside, his skin flushed from the heat.

You run your fingers over his chest and stomach, tracing the ridges of muscle, feeling how warm he is. He hisses, eyes dark.

“Touch me more,” he mutters, voice gone gritty.

You flatten your palms against his chest, nails raking lightly over his nipples. His stomach jumps under your hands, breath stuttering.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Keep that up and I’m not gonna last.”

He grabs the hem of your shirt and yanks it off in one brutal motion. He doesn’t even bother unclasping your bra at first—he just pulls the cups down, exposing your breasts.

“Look at you,” he says thickly.

He palms them, thumbs rolling over your nipples, watching them pebble.

You arch under him.

He doesn’t tease long. He takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, pulling a choked cry from your lips.

He can feel your pulse fluttering in your chest as he licks around the sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

He groans around you, the sound vibrating in your skin.

“Fuck—you feel so good in my mouth,” he mutters as he switches sides.

Your fingers bury in his hair, tugging.

He loves the sting of it. Loves how you yank him closer, silently begging.

He suckles hard, drawing another desperate whimper from you.

His cock is throbbing in his shorts already, leaking precum, the fabric darkening where the head drags against it.

_________

He pulls back and yanks your bra off properly, tossing it behind him.

“Gonna ruin you tonight,” he promises.

Your stomach flips.

He smirks, dipping his head to mouth along your ribs, leaving open, wet kisses.

“Matt—please,” you gasp.

“Please what?” he taunts, breath hot.

“More—please.”

“Yeah,” he growls. “I bet.”

He hooks his fingers in your waistband and tugs your shorts and underwear down in one go.

You try to close your legs, embarrassed.

“Open,” he orders, voice sharp.

You obey immediately.

His gaze drops between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His thumb drags lightly through your slick folds.

He can feel how soaked you are, the heat of you, the way you flutter around nothing.

“Already dripping.”

You squirm, face on fire.

He chuckles darkly.

“You want it different? I’ll give you different.”

He shoves your legs further apart and leans down between them.

You barely have time to gasp before his mouth is on you.

He licks you broad and slow at first, tasting you deliberately.

“Goddamn,” he groans into you. “You taste so fucking good.”

The vibration makes your hips jump.

He grips them tight to keep you in place.

He flicks his tongue against your clit, making you yelp.

Then he flattens his tongue and drags it, slow but firm, over your whole slit, collecting every drop of slick.

For him it’s intoxicating—the salt, the heat, the way you’re so wet he can barely keep up.

He’s painfully hard, his cock pushing insistently against the waistband of his shorts with every noise you make.

He noses at your entrance, inhaling deeply, the smell of you making him dizzy.

“Fuck, baby. Keep moaning. I wanna hear you.”

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, hard.

You jerk, nearly sobbing.

He loves how you writhe. How he can feel your thighs quivering under his palms.

He adds a finger, pushing in slow.

You’re so hot and tight around it he groans.

“God—you’re squeezing me already.”

He starts fucking you with his finger, curling it deliberately to press that spot that makes your hips buck.

When you cry out, he grins against you.

He adds a second finger, scissoring you open, tongue working your clit in relentless circles.

Your moans turn breathless, broken.

“Matt—I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me.”

He thrusts his fingers faster, sucking you so hard you see stars.

Your orgasm slams into you, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

He keeps going, dragging it out until you’re whining, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

He finally pulls back, chin shiny, eyes dark.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Never get tired of that.”

You’re boneless, gasping.

He stands and strips in record time.

When his boxers drop, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, wet at the tip.

You can see the vein pulsing along the shaft, the precum leaking steadily.

He wraps a hand around it and strokes once, groaning.

“Look what you do to me,” he says, voice hoarse.

Position….1

He pushes you onto your stomach with firm hands on your hips, pinning you flat against the sheets.

“Stay,” he orders. His voice is deep, edged with anticipation.

You swallow hard, cheek pressed to the mattress. You can feel your heart hammering.

You try to squirm, but he plants a heavy palm on your lower back, holding you down.

“Stop moving,” he growls. “I want you still.”

He shifts behind you, the bed dipping under his weight.

You hear the wet, obscene sound of him stroking himself once, twice—lining up.

You shiver at the heat of his cock pressing against your folds.

“Fuck, you’re soaked for me,” he mutters.

You whine, fingers curling in the sheets.

He pushes in slow.

You gasp—the stretch is so different this way, so deep. Your legs automatically try to spread wider, but the mattress keeps you trapped.

He groans behind you, voice cracking.

“Jesus. So fucking tight like this.”

For him, it’s blinding. The way you squeeze him when you’re pinned—no leverage to move or squirm away. He can feel every twitch of your walls, every ripple of heat dragging along his cock.

He bottoms out, hips pressed flush to your ass.

You choke on a moan.

“Matt—”

He leans forward, his chest hot on your back. His lips brush your ear.

“You feel that?” he hisses.

You nod frantically, breath stuttering.

“So deep,” you gasp.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Can’t run. Can’t do anything but take it.”

He starts to move.

Long, slow thrusts at first—so deliberate you feel everything. The drag, the stretch, the way he pulls nearly all the way out before pushing back in, making you choke on your own moans.

For him, the sensation is exquisite. Your heat clings to him, so wet he can feel the slick coating his length every time he slides back in.

He curses under his breath.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me so good,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips.

You whimper.

“Please—”

“Please what?”

“Faster—”

He laughs darkly, voice ragged.

“You want faster?”

He braces both hands on your hips and slams in.

You cry out, high and broken.

He keeps going, snapping his hips so hard the bed creaks under you.

Each thrust drives you into the mattress, your face buried in the sheets as your moans go muffled.

But he can hear every one.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

You try to speak but it breaks into a sob of his name.

Your pussy clenches around him so tight he has to grit his teeth.

“Fuck—don’t do that. Gonna make me cum,” he snarls.

He pushes even deeper, adjusting his angle.

You scream, stars bursting behind your eyes as he finds that spot.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice shaking. “God, you feel fucking perfect.”

His abs tighten, sweat dripping from his brow onto your back. He can feel his orgasm threatening already, the heat curling tight at the base of his spine.

But he holds back.

Barely.

“Not yet,” he pants. “I’m not fucking done with you.”

He slows just enough to keep control, the long, grinding thrusts making your toes curl.

He presses a hot kiss between your shoulder blades, breathing ragged.

“Tell me you’re not bored,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You manage a breathless, half-sobbing laugh.

“Not bored—Matt—please—”

He grins against your skin, teeth scraping lightly.

“Good girl.”

He gives one last deep, slow thrust that makes you shiver all over.

Then he pulls out, your slick dripping onto the sheets, his cock wet and throbbing against your thigh.

He doesn’t give you time to recover.

Position….2

You’re panting into the sheets, still shaking when he pulls out. Your whole body feels boneless, slick dripping between your thighs.

He’s leaning over you, breath hot at your ear, cock rubbing wetly against the back of your thigh.

“On your hands and knees,” he orders, voice low and cracked with lust.

You try to move, limbs trembling.

“Now.”

You push up shakily, planting your palms on the bed, ass in the air.

He sits back for a moment, just looking.

“Fuck.”

His voice is reverent, almost ruined.

You feel his eyes on you, taking in the curve of your spine, the wet mess between your thighs.

He slides a hand down your back, pressing firmly, adjusting your hips just how he wants them.

“Perfect,” he mutters roughly.

You shiver, feeling open, vulnerable.

He slides the swollen head of his cock through your folds, gathering slick.

It feels so hot—so heavy—nudging your entrance but not pushing in yet.

He leans forward over your back, breath ragged.

“Stay just like that.”

Then he thrusts in hard.

You cry out, head snapping back, eyes rolling.

The angle is brutal—he hits so deep your vision goes spotty.

He shudders at the heat of you, the way you clamp down automatically.

“Jesus—fuck—you’re tight like this,” he groans.

He pulls out almost all the way, teasing your entrance, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your walls.

Then he slams in again.

You scream, palms sliding on the sheets.

He grabs your hips so hard you know you’ll have finger-shaped bruises.

You’re gasping, shaking, trying desperately to keep yourself upright.

But your arms give out halfway through.

You collapse onto your elbows, face buried in the mattress.

He snarls behind you, adjusting immediately.

One hand fists in your hair and yanks you partially back up.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t you go limp on me yet.”

You’re whimpering, barely able to hold yourself up, shoulders burning.

He wraps an arm around your waist to keep you in place, fucking you hard and deep.

He watches himself disappear into you, the sight enough to make his balls draw tight, precum leaking freely.

He feels everything—the heat, the wet squeeze, the flutter every time you moan.

It’s insane how wet you are, the sound of it obscene as he pounds in.

“Listen to that,” he pants, voice cracking. “Fucking soaked for me.”

Your cries are high, helpless.

He loves it.

He feels like he’s going to lose his mind, the tight heat of you milking him, the sight of your body trembling under his grip.

He hisses through his teeth, eyes rolling back.

“God—you feel fucking unreal.”

He leans over, chest to your back, lips at your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you sob.

He thrusts harder, making you scream.

“Again.”

“Yours, Matt!”

He snarls in satisfaction, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

Your pussy flutters, squeezing him even tighter.

He groans, voice ragged and raw.

“Fuck—keep doing that and I’m gonna fill you up right now.”

You shake under him, walls clenching, so close it hurts.

“Matt—I—”

He knows you’re about to cum.

He fucks you through it mercilessly, pace going erratic, chasing his own edge.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard, pulsing around him so tight he has to stop, burying himself deep as he gasps curses into your skin.

But he doesn’t cum yet.

He forces himself to pull back slowly, watching your release drip down his shaft.

He’s shaking from holding back, sweat dripping onto your spine.

He breathes heavy at your ear.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice shredded.

Position….3

You’re still limp on the bed, panting, when he withdraws slowly, groaning at the wet, obscene schlick of leaving your heat.

You whimper at the emptiness, slick dripping messily onto the sheets.

But he doesn’t give you long to catch your breath.

He grips your hips firmly, dragging you toward the edge of the mattress so your ass is perched right at the end.

You squeal in surprise, legs kicking weakly.

“Shh,” he says, voice low and commanding. “Don’t fight me.”

He presses you down with one big hand on your belly.

Your legs dangle for a second until he hooks them over his shoulders, forcing you open.

You feel exposed, every wet, needy inch of you bared to him.

He groans at the sight, fingers digging into your thighs to hold them wide.

“God. Look at this fucking view.”

You squirm, face hot.

“Matt—”

He drags the blunt head of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick.

You both watch it smear across him, his shaft gleaming with it.

His eyes go nearly black.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” he mutters.

He pushes in slow.

You feel everything. The head catching slightly at your entrance before stretching you wide, the wet heat of you wrapping around him inch by thick inch.

He curses viciously when he bottoms out.

“Fuck—so deep like this,” he gasps.

For him, it’s overwhelming. The angle makes you impossibly tight, squeezing every nerve ending.

He can feel the flutter of your walls around him, the slick warmth coating him all the way down to his balls.

He shudders, fighting to hold still.

Your head falls back limply, mouth open in a silent moan.

He braces his feet wider on the floor, adjusting his grip on your thighs.

Then he starts moving.

Long, hard thrusts.

Your body jolts with every snap of his hips, your moans breaking into sobs.

He watches your tits bounce with every impact, the way your belly trembles.

“Fucking perfect,” he pants. “Made for this.”

He leans forward slightly, folding you even tighter, pressing your knees back toward your chest.

The new angle makes you wail, his cock hitting so deep you swear you can’t take it.

Your pussy clenches around him, wet and messy, the sound lewd in the quiet room.

He loves it.

He loves watching himself slide in and out, the ring of slick around his cock getting wetter and sloppier with every thrust.

“Listen to you,” he growls. “So fucking wet.”

You’re barely coherent.

“Matt—please—so good—”

He snaps his hips faster.

The slap of skin on skin gets louder, the bed frame creaking in protest.

His abs tighten with the effort, sweat dripping down his chest.

He can feel how close he is—balls tight, cock pulsing inside you, your heat dragging him to the edge.

He hisses through his teeth, fighting it.

“Fuck—gonna cum—”

Your eyes flutter, dazed.

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please, Matt—inside me.”

He groans so loud it breaks into a snarl.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling on his shoulders.

He loses it a little, pace going ragged.

His vision tunnels on the sight of you spread and begging, your pussy gripping him greedily.

He slams in once, twice, so deep you scream.

Then he pulls back, panting hard.

He doesn’t let himself cum yet.

He’s sweating, chest heaving, hands shaking with the effort to hold back.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice wrecked.

He lowers your legs slowly off his shoulders, letting them fall open on either side of his hips.

He leans over you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping.

“Next one,” he pants. “I’m not fucking done.”

Position….4

You’re still sprawled on the edge of the bed, gasping, hair stuck to your sweaty face.

He’s hovering over you, panting like he ran a marathon. His whole body aches and shakes with restraint, trying to hold back.

But the second he gets his breath, he grabs your hips and yanks you up.

You squeak in surprise, legs wobbling when they hit the floor.

Your knees buckle, but he hauls you upright with ease, pressing you against his chest.

“Not done,” he growls into your ear.

He kisses you hard—all teeth and tongue and groaning, like he’s starved.

You’re dizzy from it, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

He doesn’t even let you answer.

He grabs you under the thighs and lifts you, slamming your back against the wall so hard you gasp.

Your legs wrap around him automatically, arms clinging to his neck.

Your bare, slick folds grind against the thick, hot length of him, both of you moaning at the friction.

He leans his forehead to yours, voice wrecked.

“Hold on.”

Then he lines up and shoves in all at once.

You scream, head hitting the wall behind you, eyes rolling back.

The angle is insane—he’s deeper than ever, pushing your body up the wall with every thrust.

He curses loudly, voice cracking.

“Fucking—god—so tight—can’t—”

He has to brace one arm against the wall to keep you both upright, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise, forcing you down onto him.

You’re just taking it, legs locked around him, completely at his mercy.

Every thrust drives you higher on the wall, the friction delicious and unbearable at once.

Your pussy is so wet it sounds obscene, your slick drooling down his balls.

He feels every ripple of you clenching around him, dragging him deeper.

It’s almost too much.

He buries his face in your neck, biting down hard enough to make you sob.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice muffled.

You’re crying his name, fingers digging into his back, nails raking red lines into his sweaty skin.

He growls at the pain—it spurs him on, makes him thrust even harder.

Your walls flutter violently around him, milking him.

“Gonna cum,” you wail.

“Yeah? Fuck—cum for me,” he snarls.

He slams you into the wall, pace brutal, chasing it with everything he has left.

You break.

Your orgasm hits like a truck, your body locking up, pussy squeezing him so hard he sees stars.

You’re wailing, face buried in his shoulder.

He can’t hold back anymore.

Your heat strangles him, that desperate wet clench milking him for everything.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He thrusts once, twice more and roars, hips jerking.

He buries himself as deep as he can go and explodes inside you.

He cums hard, pulsing, filling you with so much you can feel it dripping down.

He’s gasping curses into your neck, shaking, cock twitching helplessly inside you as aftershocks roll through him.

Your bodies slide slightly down the wall, still locked together, breathing like you’ve both run miles.

He doesn’t let you go.

He keeps you pinned there, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes glazed, lips brushing your cheek.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice completely ruined.

You’re limp, whining softly at the oversensitivity but unwilling to move.

He laughs, breathless and hoarse.

“Still bored?” he manages, voice cracking.

You whimper an incoherent sound and he smirks, pressing a shaky kiss to your lips.

a/n - so um guys im taking a break from writing smut cause i dont fw my writing at all lately... hope u guys liked it tho??

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

daddy j.t.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k words

A/N: Despite the title i swear this is an innocent fic. i actually kinda hate it cuz it went better in my head but this is really more of a rando fic abt y/n ft. jason but oh well

credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

The end of the day was always a little bittersweet.

The scent of Play-Doh clung to the air, the carpet was speckled with glitter and suspiciously sticky spots, and somewhere behind you, a rogue pipe cleaner poked out from under a beanbag like a warning. But the chaos had quieted. The last of your tiny humans were zipping up backpacks, putting on Velcro shoes with dramatic effort, and waving their latest masterpieces in the air like sacred scrolls.

“Dorothy,” You called one of the little girls in the class, her parents were waiting at the door to pick her up, “Your mummy and daddy are here!”

“Mummy! Look!” The child beamed, clutching their drawing with pride.

You loved your job. Even on days when your knees hurt and you were 98% made of hand sanitizer, there was something sacred about teaching kindness, counting, and how to open a banana without crying.

The last kiddo was scooped up by their parent with a tired smile and a thank you, and as the door shut behind them, you exhaled.

Peace.

For about seven seconds.

A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. You turned to find your supervisor, Ellen, standing there with a polite smile and her signature clipboard clutched in one hand. You’d worked with her long enough to know what that clipboard meant: You were not in trouble, but you were about to be annoyed.

“Got a second?”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, “Always.”

She stepped into the room, glancing around at the day’s chaos, “Your class room is always too clean after arts and crafts day, (Y/N). I'm impressed.”

“I almost got shanked with a glue stick during Free Play.”

She didn’t laugh, which meant: yes, this was definitely a clipboard conversation.

“So,” She began carefully, “I got an email this afternoon. From one of the parents.”

You nodded slowly, “Let me guess. Someone thinks snack time is pushing a pro-fruit agenda again.”

“It’s about something you said,” She said, a little sheepishly, "It was Elliot’s mom.”

Of course it was.

You’d dealt with Elliot’s mom before. Perfect nails, perfect teeth, perfect judgmental stare. The woman wore yoga pants like battle armor and asked things like “Have you disinfected the ball pit between uses?” as if you had a pit crew hiding in the janitor’s closet.

“What about Elliot’s mom?” You asked, already mentally bracing.

“She said she was uncomfortable because you called her husband ‘Daddy’.”

You blinked, “...What?”

“She just said she didn’t like it and would prefer if you didn’t use that language when referring to them.”

You squinted, “Did she mention me calling her ‘Mummy?’ Because I always say both. ‘Mummy’s picking you up,’ ‘Daddy’s gonna love that drawing.’ That’s just how the kids talk about their parents.”

Ellen shrugged helplessly, “She didn’t mention that. Just that she doesn’t want you using those terms anymore.”

You paused, “Okay… can I say Mum and Dad then?”

“That’s fine,” Ellen nodded, “As long as you’re not using ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy,’ she’s happy.”

You tried. You really, really tried.

After your chat with Ellen, you scrubbed the words "Mummy" and "Daddy" from your vocabulary like you were preparing for court. When it came to Elliot, you retrained your habits, rewrote your daily phrases, and caught yourself at least five times a day before you slipped into the dreaded forbidden words.

"Here’s your bag—Mum will be here soon." "That’s a drawing for Dad, right?" "Let’s put that in your folder so Mum and Dad can see it tonight."

And Elliot, sweet sponge-brain that he was, picked it up almost immediately.

Which is how you ended up here, standing in your classroom during pickup, facing the one woman who made your blood pressure spike worse than juice-box cleanup day.

Elliot’s mom.

She walked in with her usual tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, designer tote slung over her shoulder like she was late for a brunch reservation. Elliot skipped over to her with the unfiltered joy of a four-year-old, shouting:

“Mum!! Look what I made for Dad!”

You smiled, crouching down to his level, “You tell Dad that’s going right on the fridge, okay?”

“I will!” He chirped, grabbing her hand.

You saw it happen in real time—her face twitching, smile faltering, lips pressing into a line of thin disapproval.

She turned to you.

“Can we talk for a second?”

You glanced at the drying station, then at your imaginary patience, “Of course.”

She waited until Elliot was distracted with a beanbag chair before leaning in, arms crossed.

“So… Elliot doesn’t say ‘Mummy and Daddy’ anymore.”

You blinked, “Right. I’ve been saying Mum and Dad, like you asked.”

She narrowed her eyes, “And now he says it. Like you.”

You tilted your head, trying very hard to keep your voice pleasant, “That’s… kind of how language modeling works in early childhood.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for you to change the way my child talks.”

You blinked again, slower this time, “You… asked me not to say ‘Mummy and Daddy.’ I adjusted.”

“I meant you, not him.”

You opened and closed your mouth, “...That’s not really how it works. The reason I use ‘Mummy and Daddy’ in class is because the kids internalize it. When adults model language, children mimic it. That’s literally how early language development works.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Don’t patronize me. You don’t say ‘Daddy’ to the other children’s fathers the way you say it about my husband.”

Your brain screeched to a halt.

You stared at her, “I—what?”

She leaned in like she was sharing some scandalous secret, “You have this little look when you say it. Like you’re thinking about something filthy.”

You paused. Visibly. Dramatically.

You blinked, “…Are you—Ma’am. What look?”

She didn’t flinch, “Don’t play dumb. You know what you’re doing. You say ‘Daddy’ like it’s some kind of game, like you want him to look at you.”

You blinked, absolutely stunned, “Ma’am, what—what are you talking about?”

“I saw that smirk,” She cut in, “You slut.”

That one hit like a record scratch in a preschool. You stared at her, stunned into absolute silence.

“In a nursery?” You said, voice sharp now, “You’re using that kind of language in a nursery now?”

She crossed her arms triumphantly, as if she'd uncovered a grand scandal, “You don’t have to pretend. I saw it. I see everything. That little smirk, that smile—”

“I smile at everyone’s parents.” You said flatly.

“Yeah,” She said, leaning in with mock sincerity, “But you don’t say ‘Daddy’ like that when it’s anyone else.”

You blinked. Then laughed. Just once. Incredulously.

“I have a boyfriend.”

She raised her perfectly plucked brow, “Oh sure you do.”

Your patience, already hanging on by a thread, snapped with a quiet, deadly precision.

“Your husband,” You said, “is not my type.”

“Oh really?” She snorted.

Before she could clap back, the door creaked open behind you—and speak of the devil.

That was the moment the door opened.

And in walked Jason.

He carried his motorcycle helmet in one hand, his leather jacket half-zipped over a black T-shirt that stretched snug across his broad chest. Built like a double-door fridge, he was easily twice as tall as Elliot’s dad. His shoulders were wide, and his presence filled the doorway without effort, making it clear he wasn’t someone you’d want to cross.

“Hey, babe,” He said, glancing at the parent you were with before checking his watch, “I thought you finished at 5?”

You turned slowly, “Hi, sweetheart. Yeah, we were just... clarifying a few things.”

Elliot’s mom turned slowly. Her eyes landed on Jason. Then traveled up. And up.

Her entire face paled.

Jason looked between the two of you, then walked over and casually pressed a kiss to your temple, “Need me to wait outside?”

“No,” You said sweetly, “We were just finishing up.”

You caught Elliot’s mom actually take a step back.

She looked between you and Jason. And then, with the elegance of a crumbling meringue, she grabbed Elliot and left—no goodbye, no “thanks,” no passive-aggressive parting shot.

Just silence and retreat.

As the door shut, you exhaled. Jason turned to you with an amused grunt.

“So… what was that about?”

You rubbed your temples, exhaustion catching up with you, “Apparently, I’ve been seducing people’s husbands by saying ‘Daddy.’”

Jason blinked, clearly trying not to laugh, “...I mean, I do get a little twitchy when you call me that.”

You swatted his arm, lowering your voice, “Jason. This is a nursery.”

Jason laughed softly, hoisting his helmet under one arm as you headed for the door.

As you stepped outside, you caught voices drifting from the hallway behind you.

Elliot’s mom, speaking loudly and with venom, was complaining to Ellen, “That man—that man—he has a record, I’m sure of it! It’s unsafe for him to be around our children! I want him banned from this nursery, and I want her fired. She shouldn’t be allowed to bring someone like him here."

Ellen’s tired, no-nonsense reply came seconds later, “He wasn’t even inside the building, just at the entrance to pick up a member of faculty. You need to stop stirring up problems and just—get out.”

There was a long pause.

Then a faint sound of flustered, sputtering denial.

You exchanged a look with Jason—who was trying very hard not to laugh.

You slid your hand into his as you headed out the door.

“Ready to go, Daddy?” You teased.

Jason smirked, “Always.”

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[booksandteaandtears]

In sickness and in health

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinvitch x sick!wife!reader

summary: You've been having some weakness in your right hand and Robby encourages you to get it checked out. You end up at the neurologist, who gives you bad news.

Angst.

warnings: mentions of ALS and its prognosis, talk of DNR, reader will die in future (not written).

Masterlist

"Damn it!" You whisper as your knife drops to the floor. You bend to pick it up again, forcing your fingers to close around the utensil to grab it.

Robby puts his own cutlery down, his big brown eyes looking over you, trying to figure out what is wrong.

"You know," he begins softly, "That's the third time you dropped something with no reason these past couple of days. I'm starting to get a little worried."

You inspect your hand, trying to figure out why it's been feeling weird this week. "At least the seventh time, actually. I keep dropping my pen at work and I smashed my phone on the floor without warning this morning." You squeeze your finger together, relieved they seem to be working again. "You think something's wrong? Something bad?"

Robby keeps his eyes on your face trying to bring this delicately. He takes of his glasses and puts them on the table, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"I'm an emergency physician, my brain always heads straight for something bad, that's what I'm trained for. But that doesn't mean it actually is anything bad, we just have to rule it out. You've probably strained a muscle somehow, or you've been overworking yourself. You've been tired these past few weeks, it could just be from that as well. But check in with Dr. Smith, just to be sure. He'll draw some blood, maybe send you to a neurologist, and then it's probably nothing. You're healthy, you exercise. I'd guess it's probably just fatigue."

You nod at him, forgoing your knife to tear of a piece of toast with your fingers.

"Right. So diagnosis is probably just fatigue or something with a muscle, but possibly something a little worse to do with my brain?"

Robby smiles at you reassuringly. "Right. Just call doctor Smith today, go in to see him tomorrow and then we can stop worrying, all right?"

Two weeks later you and Michael are sat in the office of a neurologist. What was supposed to be just a few blood tests has turned into a whole array of other testing, and with each one you've grown more scared of what might be going on. The doctors and nurses keep saying they can't tell you anything until all the tests are done. You had the last of your test a couple of hours ago and you've been waiting on the neurology floor for the doctor to give you the results. Robby was paged up just a minute ago.

He is holding your hand when the doctor breaks the news. He feels your hand start to tremble as you listen, his big thumb stroking your hand to let you feel that you are there.

"So what's the next step in this?" You ask, trying to control your voice, "Surgery? Medication of some sorts?"

Both of the doctors in the room stay quiet.

You turn towards your husband. "Michael. Please tell me. I can take it I swear. I can guess at what your silence means, but I need you to tell me. I need to know."

He swallows and tears fill his eyes. "There's no... cure. Not for ALS. Not yet."

Your throat feels constricted. "What do you mean there's no cure? Explain it to me, because I'm not sure I fully understand. There must be something we can do right?"

The neurologist steps in.

"Unfortunately, at this time there is nothing we can do to stop the disease. We can treat your symptoms to slow the disease, make sure we help you to keep living your life the way you want to for as long as possible. But you have to understand, ALS is a fatal disease."

You feel panic rising in your body, constricting your breathing and setting your brain on fire.

"Are you seriously telling me I'm dying right now? I don't feel sick at all. I'm not even fifty. I just came for a check up 'cause I was having trouble holding my pen at work. I wasn't even going to come in. Robby convinced me and I wanted to soothe his worries. This is- this is...."

You swallowed, your throat terribly dry all of a sudden, "I'm supposed to have another thirty years at least. I'm supposed to grow old with Michael. We have so many things planned, so many dreams."

Michael releases a sob next to you, crumbling, hiding his face in his hands. You look 'round to him in shock. It's not like Michael to break down like this.

You try to control yourself, try to remain calm for Robby's sake.

You aren't sad, you tell yourself. You're angry.

It must be a mistake. Yes. That has to be it.

You don't notice the tears rolling down your own face.

"Are you sure about this? My primary care doctor sent me here just to be sure. He said I was probably just overworked, wanted to rule out anything that had to do with my brain. That's all. We just had to rule it out."

The neurologist continues. "That is what we hoped, but the results are very conclusive. We did several tests and we believe your disease has not progressed far, but you do have ALS."

Robby has stopped crying, he's looking at a drawing of a brain behind the neurologist's desk.

"How long do I have?" You demand. Robby shrinks in his chair.

"ALS progresses very differently for each individual." The doctor answers.

"Don't give me that crap." You snap at him, any grasp you thought you had on your emotions now failing you, "How long?"

"It could be months. but it could very well be years as well. as many as one in every ten patients makes it to ten years. With the right treatment we can keep you around as long as possible."

You swallow. "And on average?"

"The average is around three to five years."

You slump back into your chair, unable to speak. Your hand finds Robby's. He squeezes your fingers and looks over to you. His eyes are red and you can see the path of his tears on his cheeks. He tries to smile encouragingly, but you can only see the pain and worry in his eyes.

The doctor closes the file in front of him and looks you in the eye.

"I think you need some time, both of you, to process this and talk about it. It's very difficult news to come to terms with, I know. Talk about it together, let it sink in. I'd like to see you back here the day after tomorrow, we'll talk more about what's going to happen and what our treatment plan will be. There's some clinical trials we should discuss as well. You can always call me with questions, but I think doctor Robinavitch can answer most of them as well. We'll take it day by day from here, all right?"

You were sitting in Robby's car half an hour later, both without words. Robby had gone down to the Pitt, had whispered to Dana what was going on and left without speaking to anybody else. He left a senior resident in charge. All colour is gone from his face, his brown eyes popping even more against the pale skin, the skin around his eyes red from crying.

You were the first to speak. "Michael, I wanna say something, and I need you to respect that, okay?" He turns towards you.

"I did some googling while you were inside." Robby tries to interrupt. "Let me just finish, please. I probably shouldn't have looked it up, I know. Doctor Google is almost never right. But I did look it up."

You look at some faraway point, trying to focus enough to put your words together correctly.

"I read that, uhm, I read that I'll probably die because my muscles won't be able to support my breathing, or my heart anymore, and I'll go into respiratory arrest. Am I right so far?" You looked back at him and he nodded, his eyes focusing on yours.

"Okay. I want to sign a DNR then. Tomorrow."

Robby pulls at his hair with both hands. "Jesus, fuck! Darling. I'm still trying to process you being sick. I'm nowhere near discussing this."

You put a hand on his thigh and give a little squeeze. You reach for his hands to hold them so he will stop pulling his hair.

"Thats fine. You don't have to be ready to talk about it. But I am ready to talk about it and I need you to listen and except what I'm saying. I want you to know, I need you to know; I don't want any heroic measures. If I stop breathing, I stop breathing. Thats it. If I'm going to die anyway I don't want to do it at a hospital with a tube down my throat. I'll die on my terms. And I'll do everything to slow the disease, I promise you that. Absolutely everything I can. But when it's time you've got to let me go. I want to make sure of that tomorrow, so there won't be a time where you have to make a decision. Not like with Adamson. I can't put you through that. It's my decision to make, and I've made it."

Robby can't talk anymore. He feels like his tears should be close to drying out but they keep coming.

You climb over the console, into his lap. You stay there in his arms, your tears disappearing into his black scrub top, his big hands rubbing circles on your back.

"I promise." He murmurs to you after some time, his lips touching your hair. "We'll do it all on your terms; living, dying, you tell me how and we'll make it happen. I promise."

A week later Abbot finds Robby on the roof. He'd taken a week of work, but at your pushing he was back to work that day. You want to continue you own work as well, want to feel like a normal human being while you still can. So you kicked him out of the house and back to the Pitt that morning.

"Hey man," Abbot opens, "You wanna come on this side of the fence? So we can talk?"

Robby turns around but doesn't leave his spot.

"Dana told me. I am so sorry." Jack keeps his focus on Robby, ready to sprint if he moves any closer to the edge. His face is calm, his eyes filled with pity.

Robby nods his thanks. His arms hang still at his side.

"How do you do it, Jack?" He asks, "Wait for your wife to die?"

Abbot keeps his eyes locked on his friend. He thinks for a minute before answering. "You don't wait, brother. You live life, keep on living, till you can't anymore. You lean on your friends, your family. You go to therapy so you can deal with what you feel, you love her, spend every second you can with her. You try to engrain every part of her into your brain so you don't forget. It's damn hard, and you'll cry and curse out the universe for doing this, but the two of you can handle it. Together you can live life a little longer. You don't wait for her to die, brother, you live, together, while you still can."

Robby moved to the other side of the fence, hugging Jack before going down the stairs together.

[azonewithu]

I dont mind brating americans up they dserve it. And everyone knows it. They deserve the treatmrnt frommGod ive been giving them. So has anyone else. Snd i beat them sll up and wulo continue to. Ots cLled pathetic what they ate but how are you thats not you. Because you did t griw up thete alsee how gast i am faster than sny if them on the draw or with words. Theyte scated of me Emma and they should be. Fuck movies aside thays diffetebt byt no one who meets them who is r an ass kissing idiot really actually likes them. Youre in that in the industry and its fucked snd you know it but thays why i like you. No movies ate that fuckn great. Msybe ten you can say actually Great you can never get enough of. Ten. Out if all of them made. Its a failures art. A nonnvisionary slog. To maje something secent irs rasier to write a goosd book and people ate actually better off by reasing it than watching any movie. Ha ha ya eat shit and die illiterate film world. God hates you abd i confirmed that. Bit how you doin. No shes snnpyi g but i gree up with her. Not yhat beight she cant write. Shes sirtnof a posyer girl she gets dited on does she have an oscar? I do t eben knoe msybe she foes but if i have to think hard…not yhe greatest femsje actor. Not as goid as you in my opinion but who cares. Thats a lot if peoples opinion. Who knows why. Of all the people i best up in a fight yhen liked yourecthe best. Fo t wirry about anykne who i kilked im Gods assassin. Thats anothervthing theyre jealoys of my relstionship with God. In that reslect Emna ive proved its better yo he my feiend than any of theirs. Ahh her fsns ate just mad i crished them sll and all of them pyt together cant fight eorrh shit. Americans these days dont hsve a reputstionnfor bei g good fighters. They lose every way and the mid east abd russia ate just starting. Americans actually hsve wrak psorioning and only yheir writers think theyre doung well. Its called oropagsnda. Theyre not feared abd will get hot by like 20 terror attacks in a row soon. No just them everyone else gets a pass. Theyre not that fucon bright. Theyre in horrible debt thats behind all this trade shit. But spending more only makes more debt. Stock market never saved anyone. England doesnt fo well with the weather in the end. Nobody does. But thrres a reason im in the great lakes. No we re not worried he dies. No one who bullies like that gwys what they want. Now people see how he is we lo just all get sling togetner abd let them try snd help the world. You stipped ot with the filmmworld. You could hsve gone role to role to role but didnt. I think maybe thats ehy i like you mpre. And youre a reader. No im not kind you are im even deadlier than i let on. Bit im kind enough to you. Ah, americsns ate overated i oroved that too. Esoecially at fighting. Anyone who says things on earth are good fied slready. Hete comes worse. And yeah God foes not like them at all. He coild he. Yheyre just mad they cant fight je but i can fight sll of them. They suck tgey really do.

[spencersmopbucket]

Sleight of Hand | Jasper Hale

Pairing: Jasper Hale x Reader Summary: Jasper is a southern gentleman. He hates showing any sort of aggression around you, flashing teeth or using his strength. But you're human and you're fragile -- and not everyone acknowledges it. Some people (or wolves), he just has to correct. Themes & Warnings: fluff, protective!Jasper, Eclipse era, slight violence, Jasper is such a sweetheart i love him <3

When you said you had the sweetest, most trusting husband in the world, it wasn't just a lie like other women told. You were serious. Jasper Hale was seriously the softest, cuddliest, most gentlemanly killing machine on earth.

Being the most protected woman in Washington or even in the world was a wonderful feeling. You never had any doubts in your husband, despite the horrible things you'd been through with him and his family. He treasured you, respected you, catered to all of your needs, and really was a perfect Southern gentleman, just like he'd told you he was the day you met him.

You'd just been married after being together for years. In fact, the plan was to turn you as soon as a solid window of time allowed. But, of course, danger and turbulence with Bella had disturbed your plans. You were still human and still fragile. You would've thought he was going to hover over you at all times, like Edward did Bella. But it was different. It helped that he could feel when you were scared or uncomfortable, but Jazz was comfortable at a distance, trusting you in your ability to identify a dangerous situation and be smart about needing help. And when you did need him, he eliminated the threat swiftly and effectively, reminding you and everyone else just how deadly he was.

The current threat was the newborn army. Most definitely organized by Victoria, it held a certain amount of weight, a palpable danger. Jasper had been tense lately -- he could feel the unease of everyone around him. And you, his human mate, were directly in danger, at risk of bloodthirsty newborns every time you were alone.

He'd recently decided that now, while things were so risky, you'd be by his side under constant protection. Knowing the threat and knowing Jasper's story, his experience with newborns, you didn't complain. You just followed your Major's orders.

Today, you were in the clearing, listening to your husband teach the family and the Pack about how to defense and offense. You couldn't lie, Jazz was dangerously hot like this.

Jasper Hale was never louder than necessary. He didn’t bark orders or boast about his skills. He simply moved and spoke with such controlled confidence that the entire clearing naturally stilled around him.

He stood at the center of the field, broad shoulders squared, golden eyes scanning everyone like a quiet commander taking stock. The tension in his jaw only made him look more dangerous. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing pale, scar-marked skin that shimmered faintly in the weak light -- reminders that he'd lived through so much violence and survived.

His hair was windswept, messy from combat demos, strands falling over his forehead. Somehow, that only made him hotter.

When he moved, he was all precision: a blur of muscle and reflex, striking with the speed of someone who didn’t hesitate. He never wasted energy. Every movement was elegant, efficient.

There was something deeply attractive about the way he balanced that lethal force with his gentlemanly calm. He wasn’t showing off, he was teaching. Guiding. Protecting.

“Newborns don’t think. They react. You use that. Wait for them to lunge -- then redirect their momentum.”

“Don’t aim for the head first. You want the arms, the legs. Disable them. Then finish it.”

“Stay low, keep your center of gravity under control. Don’t rely on brute force if you don’t have to.”

“Speed isn't enough. You gotta predict. Anticipate. That’s how you outlast ‘em.”

“Rosalie, you’re telegraphing. I could see that from a mile off.” (a soft smirk, drawing a glare from Rosalie)

“Don’t swing wide, Emmett. This isn’t a bar fight. That move would’ve gotten you killed a hundred years ago.”

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. That Southern drawl carried low and smooth, just loud enough to demand attention. You could tell he was holding back, like every part of him was wired to snap, but he was too controlled, too good, to let it show.

Watching Jasper fight was like watching a storm gather in the distance: quiet, beautiful, and inevitable.

Could be anyone. Wolf or vampire. They were quickly and strategically disarmed, usually with one move. It was like Jasper could tell exactly what they were going to do before they did it -- because likely, he could. He could feel whether they were cool headed, overconfident, agitated, restless. He was truly formidable. It was incredibly sexy to you.

Every once in a while, Jasper could feel your stares. He could feel your feelings of.. affection.. too. He tried to stay focused, his eyes locked onto whoever he was speaking to or whoever was swinging at him, but you could tell he knew. A crooked lift of his lip in a slight smirk would expose him.

Now, he stood facing off with Paul.

You'd never liked Paul. He was temperamental, cocky, arrogant and out of line any time you'd talked to him or been around him. But he was part of the pack and needed to be trained, so he was here.

Jasper could immediately feel your discomfort. His golden eyes met yours knowingly, reassuringly, in an attempt to soothe you. You felt yourself calm down considerably before you leaned back against the log, sighing.

He turned back. Paul was already snarling, fur prickling up in confidence and aggression. He hated vampires, whether they were fighting for the same cause or not. He wouldn't take it easy on Jasper, not that it mattered. Jasper never needed anyone to be careful, never needed to take it easily. He was almost sure that if Paul could, he'd go for the kill.

You swooned at Jazz. His face was still calm, staring down at the beast with anticipating eyes. Relaxed stance. He nodded, curving a hand to show Paul that it was time.

“Give it your best.” He said, one final statement, before Paul growled.

Paul lunged, massive wolf body coiled with muscle and teeth.

Jasper shifted just enough to the side, one pale hand shooting out to catch Paul by the ruff of his neck. He used the wolf’s own momentum to slam him to the ground, pinning him with one knee between his shoulders.

His voice was low, unbothered: “Far too predictable. A newborn would've snapped your neck,” he said. “You need to think it through before making an attempt. You have to be better than them -- more patient, more measured.”

Paul snarled and bucked under him, forcing Jasper to release him. The wolf twisted, hackles raised, and launched again with a furious roar.

Jasper didn’t flinch. He waited, eyes cool, then sidestepped at the last second, hand flashing out to catch Paul’s foreleg mid-swipe. With a sharp jerk and a twist of his hips, he threw the massive wolf onto his back, sending him sliding into the treeline.

Jasper leaned in slightly, voice calm but firm.

“Again. But try learning this time.”

With a furious roar, Paul gave it one more shot.

He jumped into the air, not taking Jasper's advice, not thinking, but heading for the southern man full force. With an audible and disappointed "tsk," Jazz landed another blow, a final push, intended for teaching. The blow made contact, once again sending Paul towards the trees. He barreled into them, knocking two over.

Jasper turned around to the group, using it as a teaching example.

“That's why you have to think. Control yourself,” he explained, gesturing towards the direction he'd flung Paul. “They're stronger than you and far more excited to fight. Even more excited to kill. You can't be sloppy.”

While Jasper was explaining, Paul got angrier and angrier.

He hated being beaten. Hated being embarrassed. Hated being talked back to. And hated vampires.

You sat across the clearing, watching him get up from the trees. His teeth dripped with spit, a permanent snarl etched onto his glaring face. His paws were heavy in the dirt.

And the direction he stalked? It wasn't towards Jasper.

It was towards you.

He was angry, embarrassed, and wanted to teach Jasper a lesson by terrifying you. Of course, by pack law, he wasn't allowed to touch you. But scaring a vampire's mate seemed to be equal punishment for the embarrassment.

Your eyes widened as you straightened off the log. Paul got closer and closer, drool dribbling off his teeth and lips, looking positively murderous. He was now within five feet of you, paws crossing the grass in enormous strides.

Jasper’s voice faltered for half a second as he felt the shift in you -- the jolt of fear, sharp and cold.

His golden eyes flicked immediately to you, then the aggressive, snarling wolf right in front of your face. Less than five feet now, pushing you back, making you cower against the wood log.

Jacob spoke from behind Jasper first.

“Paul! Stop!”

It was too late. The damage had already been done. Jasper was angry now.

Jasper didn’t explode.

He didn’t shout, didn’t bare his teeth or make a scene.

He simply went silent.

So silent that even the wind seemed to still in the trees.

And in that breathless, deathly quiet, he moved.

One blink and he was no longer in front of the pack or your family. He was between you and Paul, standing nose-to-snout with the enormous wolf, whose growling abruptly cut short at the sudden presence of something far, far more dangerous.

Jasper’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to press, flat and firm, against Paul’s fur covered shoulder, holding him back like he weighed nothing at all. His voice came low and dark, quieter than anyone had ever heard it.

“Foolish dog.”

Paul snarled, tried to shove forward -- instinct, fury, shame. He didn’t make it an inch.

With one hand still on Paul’s shoulder, Jasper’s other came up in a blur -- grabbing the wolf by the scruff of the neck and slamming him into the earth with a crack of force that shook the ground.

Gasps, footsteps, and whining from the pack echoed behind you.

Jasper didn't look at anyone else.

“I gave you every chance,” he said, voice thick with venom now, words curling with Southern fire. “I trained you. I warned you.”

He leaned into the wolf's snarling face again, letting him snap and growl at him, unfazed. His eyes were deadly, but his face was relatively relaxed.

“You won't make it on the field if this is how you present yourself,” he hummed, squeezing tighter onto Paul's body. “I cared at first. But now?”

Paul growled and twisted. Jasper slammed him down.

“I'm almost certain this world could use one less insolent mutt.”

The threat in his words wasn’t shouted. It was drawled, cold and certain, landing heavier than any yell could have. Paul let out a strangled, furious snarl, thrashing harder beneath Jasper’s unyielding grip. Dirt and grass tore up under his claws.

Jasper didn’t even blink. His golden eyes stayed locked on the wolf’s, steady and unflinching.

“You think you’re ready to fight newborns?” he asked, tone dipping almost to pity -- almost. His fingers tightened just enough to make Paul yelp. “You can’t even manage your temper.”

He waited for the next lunge. When Paul tried to twist again, Jasper slammed him down harder, making the ground quake.

“You’re sloppy. Predictable. And worst of all?” Jasper dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“You’re willing to threaten something of mine to save your own pride.”

Paul went still beneath him at that. Breathing hard. Growling, but with a tremor that wasn’t all rage.

Behind them, the clearing had gone silent. The pack frozen. Cullens unmoving. Even the wind felt like it held its breath.

Jasper’s lip curled faintly, not quite a smile.

“Consider this your only warning.”

He held Paul down one second longer, driving the point home. Then he stood smoothly, brushing the dirt from his hands like he hadn’t just manhandled a half-ton predator into submission.

“If you ever step foot near her again,” he drawled, Southern lilt dark as pitch, “I’ll put you down myself.”

He let that promise hang in the frozen air.

Then he turned, utterly calm, and walked back toward you without another glance at the wolf.

His cold hands met your skin immediately, gently nudging you into a standing position and smoothing your clothes out. He searched you silently for injuries -- you prayed he didn't find a single scratch. Even if Paul hadn't done it, he'd still pay the price for it.

Jasper’s touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared he might hurt you just by being too rough. His cold fingers brushed along your arms, checking for any sign of bruising. He smoothed your hair back from your face, golden eyes scanning you with laser focus.

“Hold still for me, darlin',” he murmured, voice lower now -- gentler, but still taut with restrained fury.

You swallowed hard, letting him fuss over you. His thumb grazed your jaw, tilting your face toward the light to check for any marks.

Nothing. Not a scratch.

He exhaled, slow and shaky despite the careful control on his face.

“Good,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

His hands lingered at your waist, gripping you just enough to anchor himself. He didn’t look back at the pack, didn’t even acknowledge the others. For Jasper, in that moment, there was no one else but you.

As he felt you relax against him, Jasper’s hold softened even more. His thumbs brushed soothing circles at your waist, the cold of his skin forgotten in the warm hush between you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, southern lilt a low rumble only for your ears. “Easy now, sugar. I’ve got you.”

He dipped his head just low enough to press his lips gently to your forehead, leaving his lips there for a few seconds and letting his eyes flutter shut. Grounding himself. The tension bled out of him by slow degrees, like smothered coals on a fire being put out.

One of his hands drifted up to cup your cheek, wiping the startled tears from under your eyes.

“No more cryin’, sweet angel. He’s never gonna come near you again.”

Once you were sufficiently comforted, Jasper returned to the training session, but decided that he wasn’t going to do any demonstrations. For the rest of the day, you’d be by his side where he could focus on you.

However, Jasper was a practical and respectful man. A warning always came before he broke loose.

Jasper didn’t raise his voice or even turn fully away from you. He just lifted his head enough to look past you, eyes finding the pack’s leader with that glint of cold command still in them.

“Sam,” he called evenly.

Sam’s ears flicked forward in wolf form, body tense, watching every move. No one had much to say, just stared. Emmett and Edward watched cautiously, awaiting a fight to break out.

Jasper’s jaw flexed once before he spoke, his tone unyielding.

“You’ll be down a pup if you ever let one of yours so much as growl at her again,” he asserted, tone cutting through the air like a knife. “She’s human. If you’ve forgotten your rules, if you’ve forgotten the treaty, I can be your reminder.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one.

His gaze lingered on Sam another beat, making sure the threat was received in full, before he lowered his eyes back to you, all that deadly fire softening in an instant.

[enviedear]

JASON TODD and a mean!gf…

and it’s not that she’s cruel or hateful, she’s just navigating some issues with control and disorganized attachment. she’s hot and cold—sometimes at the same time. she’s draws him in just to feel suffocated. she presses for signs of weakness in their relationship like they’re bruises.

jason, for all his flaws, does love deeply. truly. earnestly. he broods, he definitely has issues with trust, and tends to not be able to let go—he needs to talk things out, seriously—but he’s perceptive. he can see echos of himself in her, in ways. she challenges him, pushes him, brings him to his wits end…but she also loves him like so right. he feels it in his bones.

he knows she need her space from time to time. that she operates best when given ample opportunity to examine her own mind and emotions. he’s fine with that—he enjoys the restraint she exhibits in that way, making time for herself. he loves her, and he never wants her to feel or get lost in the dynamic she shares with him.

say she’s particularly stressed. a mix of everything hitting all at once. all she wants is time to indulge in herself and her own mind—divulge into her own activities, maybe see friends she hasn’t spent time with in a while, or maybe catch a movie alone—something that’s just about her, what she needs. so she brings it up to jason, “babe? can you find something to do for the evening? i need some time.”

and it’s as simple as that. jason respects when she’s up front.

only—she’s not always up front. sometimes she tries too hard to mold herself into what she assumes he wants or needs. maybe he had a bad patrol week, got hurt, and is doing that silent sulking only he can do so well around the apartment. she doesn’t voice much, but she’s there. ignoring her own issues and feelings in hopes he’ll feel better. trying to play the role of perfect—not that jason ever asked. and besides, that’s not how it works—she gets too overwhelmed—it’s just not sustainable.

it always reaches a breaking point. something boils over. a snap. she’s fine and gentle until she’s not. she suddenly feels like she’s been asked too much of—and there’s a guilt with that feeling as well. the nagging idea of, ‘he deserves peace. be that for him’.

but despite the guilt, the feeling remains, and she feels a need to test and scrutinize the relationship. to make problems before he can notice she feels like one.

like when he comes home bloodied from patrol and she’s had a day from hell. her boss was a condescending prick, her friend canceled plans last minute, and she’s running on three hours of sleep—but jason’s lip is split and there’s that look in his eyes that means someone died tonight.

so she swallows it. make him tea, starts his shower, lets him hold her while he stares at the ceiling processing whatever fresh trauma gotham served up.

three days of this. three days of being what he needs while her own shit festers.

then he has the audacity to stare at her. notice her. say, “you seem off lately.”

“off?” her voice could cut glass.

“yeah, distant. like you’re not really here.”

she slams her coffee mug down hard enough that the counter echos, “not here? i’ve been nowhere but here, jason. wiping blood off your face, pretending i don’t have my own problems because, god forbid, you have to deal with anything that isn’t your own guilty conscience.”

“baby, that’s not—”

“no, shut up. you want to know what’s off? what’s off is that i’m so tired of shrinking myself into whatever shape you need that i can’t even remember what i actually feel anymore. it’s all just you.”

his jaw ticks. the vein that appears when he’s fighting his temper mares his forehead, “nobody asked you to do that. that’s all you.”

“didn’t they? because every time i even think to bring up my own shit, suddenly there’s some new crisis. some new reason why your problems are bigger and more important than mine.”

“that’s not fair.”

“fair?” she laughs, and it’s ugly. mean, “you wanna talk about fair? fair would be dating someone who doesn’t treat me like an emotional support system with tits.”

and that’s when jason’s patience snaps. because he can take a lot—has taken worse than she could ever dish out—but that particular accusation hits every insecurity he has about being too much, too broken, too damaged, and too dependent for anyone to love.

“you know what? fuck this.” he’s off the couch, grabbing his jacket, eyes glaring into her own, “you want space so goddamn bad? have all the space you want.”

“oh, so now you’re leaving? because…what? i’m right? perfect. very mature, jason.”

“what do you want from me?” he rounds on her, shadowing her, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now, “you snap, pick a fight, tear me apart, then get mad when i don’t stick around for more. it’s fuckin’ exhausting.”

“i want you to notice before i have to snap—and stop running away the second i’m not perfect!”

he tugs at his hair, eyes rolling, legs moving toward the door, “you think this is me running? baby, when i run, you’ll know it.”

the apartment door slams hard enough to rattle the windows.

he’s gone for two days. doesn’t answer texts, doesn’t come home. her disorganized attachment goes into overdrive—half convinced he’s never coming back, half planning what cruel thing she can say if he does.

she gets through it the way she always does—detachment. short responses to everyone, cutting remarks that leave people emotionally bleeding. her coworker with no sense makes a joke about her hair, and she smiles sweetly just to ask how his divorce is going. a guy at the coffee shop tries to buy her drink and chat her up, and she looks him up and down like he’s something rancid she stepped in.

because if jason’s not coming back, she’ll be in hell—and everyone else can go to hell too.

except he does come back. walks in like nothing happened while she’s aggressively reorganizing her (their) bookshelf.

“we need to talk.” he says, tone like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb.

she doesn’t even look at him, “do we? or are you just here to grab more of your shit before you disappear again?”

“i wasn’t disappearing. i was thinking.”

“how very enlightened of you.”

“jesus christ, would you just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “look, i get it, okay? you’re pissed. you can be pissed. but we can’t keep doing this.”

now she turns around, “doing what?”

“this thing where we hurt each other just to see if the other person will stay.”

she wants to argue, but he’s right and they both know it. so instead she deflects, “maybe some of us are just too much for other people to handle.”

“maybe. but i’m still here.”

“for now.”

“no, not for now. period.” he steps closer, “you think you’re the first person to try to push me away? sweetheart, i’ve been rejected by everyone i’ve ever cared about. if i was going to leave because you’re difficult, i would’ve been gone after the first week.”

“i’m not difficult, i’m complex—”

“you’re mean as fuck when you’re scared.” his voice is matter-of-fact, “you go for the jugular. you say things specifically designed to make people give up on you. and you know what? sometimes it works.”

her throat feels tight, “even with you?”

“no. not with me.” he cups her face, forces her to look at the broken man that loves her, “i’ve been dead, baby. i’ve been tortured, betrayed, abandoned, replaced. you think a few nasty words are gonna break me?”

the thing about jason is he doesn’t just love her despite the mean streak—he loves her because of it. because he knows what it’s like to be sharp edges and defense mechanisms. because when she bares her teeth, he doesn’t just see a snarl—he sees the hurt underneath.

“you know what your problem is?” she says later, when they’re both calmer, sitting on opposite ends of the couch like fighters in neutral corners.

“enlighten me.”

“you think you deserve to be treated like shit. so when i’m awful to you, part of you thinks it’s justified.”

he’s quiet for a long moment, then shrugs, “maybe.”

“and you know what my problem is?”

“tell me.”

“i think everyone’s going to leave eventually. so i try to control when and how, even if it means burning everything down myself.”

“and how’s that working out for you?”

she gestures between them both, “jury’s still out.”

but here’s the thing about loving jason todd—he doesn’t stay because it’s easy. he stays because she’s worth it. even when she’s testing every boundary, pushing every button, daring him to prove her right about being unlovable.

especially then.

because jason knows something about being too much for people. and he’s decided—fuck those people. he’d rather have all of her—sharp edges, and mean comments, and midnight fights—than some watered-down version that fits into other people’s idea of comfort. she fits his.

“come here.” his voice is low, gentle in his own way.

“why?”

“because i love you when you’re mean. i love you when you’re scared. i love you when you’re picking fights just to see if i’ll stick around.” he holds out his arms, “and ‘cause i’m tired of sitting on opposite sides of the couch like we’re enemies. c’mere baby.”

she doesn’t take his embrace immediately. because this is the part that scares her most—not the fighting, but the making up. the moment when he proves, once again, that she’s not too much, that he can handle all of her.

“what if i’m always like this?” she huffs, burying her face into his side.

“then you’re always like this.” he shrugs, “i knew what i was signing up for.”

“i’m serious, jason. what if i never get better at this? what if i’m always going to be the girlfriend who says terrible things when she’s scared?”

“then i guess i’ll always be the boyfriend who leaves for two days instead of dealing with his feelings.” he pulls her closer, his hand at her waist. “we’re both fucked up, baby. might as well be fucked up together.”

and finally—finally—he feels her relax.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

a/n: this is my first time really giving reader a set personality or personal issue…do we hate it? also trying something a bit different for how i structure thought drabbles—idk if i like it. i may delete this LMAO, tbh i just wrote it mostly for personal comfort. but shoutout the mean!gf’s of the world and our disorganized attachment. we will prevail. love is not always scary or meant to be analyzed like a true crime case. speaking from experience.

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[seewetter]

If we take a step back, we can see that fantasy can have a broad definition that includes things like surrealism or a narrower definition in which describing a fantastical setting whose characteristics remain mostly stable throughout the story is expected.

If someone is writing something that is stream-of-consciousness imaginative or highly abstract, dreamlike, then I don't necessarily expect the author to deal with ramifications of the setting (though it's totally possible, and possibly quite interesting, if someone writes about slavery and textiles in a dreamlike or disconnected way!)

If the story is set in a concrete setting, then our discussion gets complicated:

Part of the reason it gets complicated is that fantasy authors are products of their environment. That is to say that some fantasy writers will make things like slavery a topic of their writing even if they don't draw connections to economic specifics if slavery is a topic that matters to them, while other fantasy writers won't address the likely existence of slavery even if the textile industry in their world looks glaringly like something that would be built on a slave economy.

The reality is that the reason writers should do research on questions like these is because it's (a) morally right to do so and (b) people who want to see this topic addressed will appreciate it.

In my experience, the outcome of fantasy writing advice like Tough Guide to Fantasyland, where racism and misogyny are not confronted as ethical issues but instead purely taken issue with as boring stereotypes and cliches leads to people finding feminist ideas or anti-racist ideas "cliche" after a while. And I would say the same applies to describing ethically dubious writing as badly crafted -- it doesn't encourage people to actively think about how to avoid take ethical responsibility in their writing, instead it gives them the impression that certain things are "badly crafted" and then they proceed to mess up elsewhere.

I would also say that the OP (warthogreporter) describes an approach to worldbuilding that I think isn't simply "obsession".

Okay, look: I agree that obsessive worldbuilding, worldbuilding that takes someone years, is an unrelated hobby to writing. Tolkien is admired for it, but most fantasy authors, even the most successful and beloved ones, don't go that route and save themselves a lot of trouble and a lot of wasted time.

But warthogreporter is describing something more fundamental: to construct an entertaining story, I mainly need to have a few ideas that excite me enough that I'm willing to write about them. To what degree do these ideas need fleshing out? Well, I wouldn't think in degrees, I would think about specific outcomes: is your climactic finale interesting and does it have something to say? Do your characters tie into this fantasy you have of your world -- do they have goals that fit this environment? And do you have some good ideas (or some intriguing language or details) to sell specific events that happen as your story picks up steam? If this is a story with lots of magic battles, it makes sense to figure out how to keep the magic interesting: who or what (creature or circumstance or physical/metaphysical limitation) prevents magic from instantly ending a magic battle? What strategies do the participants in these battles have to think about? Are there things they can run out of throughout the battle?

I say this because the finale is going to leave a final and lasting impression, the goals are what allows a story to move forward (because people without goals tend to be passive, while people with goals tend to do stuff) and events are what keeps things interesting throughout.

Additionally, you can obviously come up with other fun ideas and pepper them throughout. Maybe you love languages so you're going to design vocabularies or writing systems. Maybe you love beasts so you come up with new creatures and creative behaviours.

But a lot of fantasy writers don't think much about how their finale or character goals or events work and instead prefer to think of their fantasy world as a sort of simulation that runs in the background. They don't have languages because they love languages, they have languages because it's "the thing to do". They don't spend time on geography because this is a story about climbing dangerous mountains, they spend time on geography because "it has to work". It doesn't matter if they're obsessed with it or spend much time on it, their fundamental understanding of why things may matter misses the mark.

When I was young, I played a game called Guild Wars Prophecies. I loved the worldbuilding, for reasons I misunderstood. For example: I thought that this world was better than, say, World of Warcraft, because "it has two dwarven factions instead of one" and that this made the world more fleshed out than a single dwarven faction. But this is nonsense: what I was reacting to was that this is a game where your character, recently having become a refugee and escaping horrific disaster is crossing dwarven lands to get to a southern country -- but crossing the dwarf territories is deeply difficult, because the dwarves are in a civil war, North versus South, on the issue of slavery (the north is against slavery and tries to protect you and other refugees from the slavers). In other words, the worldbuilding works not because it is innovative or detailed or realistic or fleshed out (I think you can guess which civil war they shamelessly used for parts in their story) but instead, because the game placed the audience into the mind of a character trying to flee a country to get to freedom and confronts that character with slavers who could take that freedom away...and forces that character to move ever-closer to slaver territory to leave all the horrors behind. The dwarves are interesting because they impact character (and player) goals and because events are taking place...the dwarves aren't just showing you their dead, abandoned mine filled with goblins and they aren't just showing you their flintlock weapons or whatever else dwarves often do. They are at war, and this big event generates countless side quests, where the anti-slaver dwarves hire you for scouting or sabotage jobs or rescue missions.

A lot of worldbuilding advice for TTRPGs like D&D has to include "geography, agriculture, economics, or any other logistics" because the players are trying to understand where they are and where they can go and how long it will take (local geography), need to know the basic lingo to do trade with NPCs, like what is the currency called (economics) and what is on the menu in the tavern, what can we order (agriculture) and other logistics questions (what hierarchies are there in this society, what customs and religious and arcane lore must we know).

Now obviously this goes off the rails quickly as people start suggesting figuring out how bread is made in this society instead of relying on cliches to focus on the main things your game (or story) needs to tackle. If your story is about breadmaking or you want to try some interesting ideas so you look into some stuff, great. But a lot of people seem to think that this will make or break the high bar of quality they want for their story/game/world. They don't realize that describing breadmaking (or ricecakemaking) in detail is like describing all the leaves on a tree so that you have described the tree well. Tolkien, of course, had worldbuilding notes on all leaves in Fangorn forest... No, he didn't.

I say this as someone who wants to see more fantasy worlds with excessively large pantheons and fantasy worlds bursting with weird details. I say this as someone who isn't trying to sell people on a lack of creativity or a stale world. Also I can appreciate that some people put their geography or physics degrees to use to flesh out fantasy worlds in really compelling ways. Like of course I want to read about the story where magic portals being common means that foreign threats can come from within the borders of a country so the big empire has little independent countries within its borders that act as politically neutral buffer states. But that doesn't mean I would appreciate it if fantasy authors got criticized for having portals but ignoring this "reality".

As mentioned above, when it comes to issues of ethics, that's a whole different question. There, criticism is more than fair, but it just isn't necessarily criticism about "lacking research skills" and instead criticism of a lacking engagement with the kind of historic responsibility that underlies not only the act of writing as a real-world activity, but also just being a human being and doing the right thing.

My stance is that if you're a young and/or beginner fantasy writer, you need to stay far away from online fantasy discourse because it will get you obsessing over shit that does not actually matter to anyone other than online nitpickers.

If someone can't read one of the foundational works of fantasy about the importance of seemingly insignificant persons because the map has unrealistic geography, that's actually a them problem. You don't need to research geography, agriculture, economics, or any other logistics so that everything is realistic, you need to tell a story.

[smittenkittens]

Kryptonite courage.

Clark Kent x childhood friend reader

Your best friend from childhood meets you for coffee and he also happens to be Superman. But he’s acting weird and he boldly decides to seduce you. He’s so out of character but you realize that maybe he just needed a little…courage.

CW: Red K influence, manhandling but nothing hard or harmful. Oral (female) unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, confessions, and mis-use of superpowers 😛 not proofread.

I’m down bad yall. Requests open. Dividers by @saradika-graphics

When Clark showed up without his usual uptight behavior, it made you a little wary but alarm bells went off when he nonchalantly used his heat vision in public. He never used his abilities recklessly, always trying to maintain anonymity with his alternate identity. In all the years you’d known him, growing up together and being his childhood next door neighbor, it made you worried.

You had moved out to metropolis a few months before he did. Clark worked at the daily planet and you were working as a bartender while going to school. Being a nursing student, you often used friends as practice and that’s what initially caused Clark to meet you at the coffee shop.

You needed him to help you study and you brought flash cards. After he used his vision to warm up his coffee, you quickly looked around.

“Clark, what the hell? Someone could have seen that!”

Your friend shrugs and leans forward. You glance down, seeing something red glimmer but Clark seizes your hand. He gives you a small smirk and brings one of your fingers to his lips.

Your eyebrows draw close together and time stops as Clark gently sucks the tip of your pointer finger. He looks at you with half lid eyes and you feel his tongue brush the skin. Pulling back, you feel your skin burn. “What was that for?”

“You had leftover donut glaze and I wanted to see if you tasted as sweet as you look.” This caused you to straighten but Clark wasn’t fazed. Rather, he seemed to enjoy you being nervous and he wrapped his large hand around the legs of your chair. You gasped as he pulled you closer, effortlessly moving you between his open legs.

Clark’s dress pants graze over the skin of your legs as he sets his hands on your hips. Your eyes are as wide as saucers, clearly your friend has lost his mind. He’s never been this bold with you. You weren’t blind, obviously you were attracted to him but this was out of character.

“Clark-you’re acting weird.” Nervously, you laugh but it dies in your throat as he lowers his head down further. Clark brushes his lips to your cheek, imperceptibly kissing the area. You hear him inhale deeply.

“You know I can smell you, right?” Clark uses his other hand to lightly rest on your thigh. This makes you stand up.

“Are you high? Is that even possible?” You hardly whisper and scramble to gather your belongings. You were also wearing your work clothes, short skirt and platform boots. You showed off your curves, it always made tippers feel generous. It made you feel exposed as Clark stood up, even with heels on he was much taller than you. His blue eyes flashed the same red color and he chuckled darkly.

“Awww, did I make you flustered? I’m not as naive as you think. I know all about your dirty little secrets. The nights you’ve spent fucking yourself and moaning my name, and let’s not forget the times you’ve watched me shirtless.”

His vulgar words shock you but his knowledge makes you want to disappear. A bigger smile crosses his face and Clark glances at the other customers. He starts to look angry and before you can even register, he puts his hands on your lower back, right above your ass. Possessively and with firm determination, Clark presses his lips to your ear, you smell his aftershave and he whispers, “You’re gonna be a good girl and get in my car.” Scoffing, you shake your head in protest but he doesn’t allow it. “Get in the car,” He repeats himself with authority and you are ready to give in.

But the stubborn streak and complete confusion of his behavior makes you defiant.

“Why don’t you make me, Clark?”

Before you can speak another word of disobedience, Clark has used his super speed to bring you both to your apartment. Dizziness makes you crumble but he doesn’t let you fall. He lifts you by the waist and instinctively your arms wrapped around his shoulders. Your back meets your living room wall and it’s next to a photograph of both of you at graduation.

“What the hell is going on with you? Why are you manhandling me like bale of hay?” You shriek and your legs flail as panic seeps in. Clark’s eyes are still glowing red and you can now see a crimson jewel on a necklace around his neck. You were well aware of the effects of different kryptonite but now it dawned on you that this one was affecting his thoughts. You made a move to touch it but Clark stopped you by holding your wrist down.

“Oh no. This stays on, sweetheart. Otherwise I wouldn’t have the nerve to do this.” You fall silent as he hefts your thighs around his waist. You’re snug against him but comfortable and all resistance leaves you as Clark confesses. “I’ve had feelings for you for a long time. Being so close to destruction made me realize that I can’t go one day without having you. You’re my girl and you belong with me.” Without further words, he captured your lips in a kiss. You sigh into his mouth, thoughts in a thousand directions as fireworks explode. His heartfelt admission contrasts from the way he mouths his mouth with yours.

Clark kissed with his whole body, his tongue presses through your lips and meets yours. You make a small noise as your fingers bury in his dark hair and he groans. His teeth tug your lower lip and he speeds you both into the bedroom.

You know he has to hold back but the physical tension of his muscles bulge as Clark tosses you onto the mattress. Your skirt flares up and he crawls over you. He pulls off his shirt and gives you a hungry stare.

“Fuck, you look so good.” Clark hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and peels them down. They’re sticky in the middle and he balls them up, bringing them to his nose. He smells them and moans. Your naked core drips onto the bed and Clark nudges your thighs further apart. His enormous hands easily holds them open as he sinks to his knees.

He shoves his face into your cunt and you cry out. It’s been so long since you’ve been touched intimately and let alone with this vigor. Clark laps at your clit and his lips suck it like a piece of candy. His crotch is obviously hard as he grinds against the mattress and he plunges his tongue into you. You’re soaking wet as he eagerly and messily devours you. Your eyes shut while you pant and your thighs squeeze his head but he moves them back open again. You can’t move while Clark shifts between your clit and your entrance. Tears prick your eyes and you tremble as you begin to cum. It hits you like a tidal wave and you let out a series of loud sounds of pleasure. Clark licks you through it and doesn’t show any sign of stopping. It makes him even more focused and you see his mouth, chin completely drenched in your slick.

“Clark-please-i need you to fuck me.” You whisper with glistening eyes. You’re left to his mercy as Clark looks up at you. He gives you a particularly lewd kiss on your pussy and playfully nips at your thigh.

“Awww, you need my cock already? But you taste so good, babydoll.” He sucks your clit slowly and adds his tongue. Another orgasms rips from you, stomach tightening and uncoiling. Your mouth goes slack and he pushes your knees to your chest.

This angle makes it more intense and drool escaped from your lips. “Superman, please!”

He immediately pulls off and you find your legs over his shoulders. Clark’s pants are off and his dick slaps over your pussy. He’s well endowed and he slaps the tip over your clit, smearing the precum. “I don’t think you know what you just did, princess. I’m gonna ruin you.” He promises and thrusts into you. You squeal at the fullness, hands flying to his chest but Clark seizes your wrists.

“You can take it, you were made for me.” He presses into you further and you feel like you’re gonna split open. The necklace dangles over your face but his hold keeps you from being able to take it off.

“You’re such a slut, wanting Superman to fuck you. Corrupt this little pussy, huh? You finger yourself and say my name. You are a dirty little girl.” He jerks his hips with each word of the last part of the sentence and white fills your sight. Clark flips you over, pulling your ass up and gives it a hearty spank.

“This is what you want, huh? You wanna be fucked like a whore? You got it.” He plunges back into your entrance and this position is impossibly deeper. The entire bed frame moves with him and your hands dig into the sheets.

You’re sobbing with pleasure as Clark fucks you hard and his pace brutal. It hurts but he spreads you wider to ease the pressure. You reach your peak again and he follows suit.

“Fuck, I can see my cum in you.” You realize as he shoves his fingers in your mouth from the back that he’s using his x-ray vision. He’s watching himself cream in you. Your pussy pulses around his cock but he moves you onto his lap. Clark bounces you on his dick and you put his palms on your tits.

“You should wear that more often,” You groan and Clark licks up your neck.

“I took it off.” You glance back at him but he turns your head back forward. “I don’t need that shit to fuck you. I just needed the boost. Now, I gotta eat that pussy again, baby.”

Clark makes you cum more times than you can count as he’s in between your legs and you barely are able to move. Finally, he rests his forehead on your stomach and kisses up your body. He hovers over you, his shyness back and you recognize him as your lifelong best friend.

“You okay down there?” He cups your cheek and presses his lips to your forehead. “Was I too rough on you?”

“No, it was so good.” You manage to say and he kisses you again.

“We can talk about everything but I think you need a little rest.” He smiles softly at your drifting state and moves you around. Clark settles behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You fall asleep as he rubs gentle circles on your side.

[ficletwrittenatdawn]

It's absolutely 100% true because i refuse to believe there is universe where the first thing they thought was "yeah of course Rumi's dead mother hooked up with a demon that's the most resonable answer" like not happening.

But I think it's also problem with movie that i have all along. Which is very little lore and rules the world have.

Like i have a lot of questions about how killing demons work but it's not important right now because for us viewers it was obvious. Rumi IS half-demon end of discusion that we forgot that it's not that obvious in their world.

Also about whole reveal thing the worst thing that make betayal even worse is that girls KNEW there was something wrong and they TRIED to help, multiple times with diffrent strategies i would even say all possible. And in right order too.

First being easy i know you are stresed we are here for you

Then we don't know what wrong but you can talk to us

And the most direct aroach "what's wrong please tell us"

Last two can be switched cause i'm not sure what was first in movie but you know what i mean

And they do EVERYTHING they knew what could help because to them the problem was voice not some existensial guilt that literaly was eating Rumi up.

And that's where we talk about their reaction. We saw the hurt AND doubt and it was beautifull (i just like a little hurt) but i think we all know that drawing their weapons was the only logical thing to do. Cause they don't know how much of Rumi there is. God we don't know if they know how big controll Gwi-ma have against demons (aparently big for example flying lady he literaly telekinesis to himself) they don't know if she would attack them or not. Mira and Zoey in my opinion never wanted to attack Rumi it was for defence.

And second after Rumi run away. This shared look "what we are going to do know?". I think even if they thought they could save Rumi (of course it's all if we could assume it's possible because it was never explained) they couldn't done it because they always sing in TRIO it was always Rumi, Mira and Zoey and if there is any idk exorcism ritual they would need Rumi too. But it's more theory/headcanon than anything.

Mira and Zoey's first thoughts when they see Rumi's patterns were pure horror and self-loathing. Because there's only two ways they know of that Rumi could have them. Either Rumi made a deal with Gwi-Ma before even attempting to open up about her needs to them, or she's a demon imposter who's infiltrated their group for who knows how long. If the first, Rumi has betrayed them in the worst possible way, and how had they failed so much as friends to let her get to that point? If the second, how had they not noticed? How long had the human Rumi been gone? Was she dead? Had she been gone since before they ever met her and their entire friendship a ruse? Had she been taken from them just weeks ago and they'd been so caught up in their own woes they had even noticed?

Celine had been clear; there were only two ways a demon was created. Birth, or choice. They were never victims. You don't just grow patterns one day. It doesn't happen by accident.

Yet the demon wearing Rumi's face came to them pleading. Came to them in the midst of a panic attack, acting for all the world as if she should still be considered friend by the two of them. She was crying. As if she were the victim here.

The way Rumi was talking about fixing things, the way she had never acted like Not-Rumi like, the secrets she'd obviously hiding for a while: it became clear which way Rumi had gained the patterns. She'd betrayed them for a deal with Gwi-Ma. Why? What had she possibly needed that they couldn't have helped her with? She really turned to their sworn enemy first? Before even telling them she was hurting?

Then she shouted and it was demonic and the honmoon rippled. So much work and effort instantly ruined as the honmoon weakened.

She had made her choice. She chose to betray them. Now they had to make theirs, and they had to choose humanity.

She left them first. She chose to become their enemy. Even if they were assuming wrong, and she was actually a demon imposter, she'd chosen to manipulate their emotions and lied over and over and wasn't their friend.

As much as Mira and Zoey wished otherwise, wished it was all a mistake, they didn't know of any possibilities that could make Rumi an innocent in this. So they guarded their broken hearts with their weapons and waited for the fight that never ended up coming.

---

When Rumi came back singing and saving their lives, they had no clue what on earth was happening. But one thing was clear, Rumi was choosing them and to do good, despite her demons. She was letting them in for the first time in their lives, and they were going to trust that for now. Emotional and in-depth explanations could come later.

[revelboo]

Asking idw megatron, whilst he's busy and or tired, stupid questions, like, 'if I was turned into an energon cube would you notice or would you just eat me?' Or 'if I was a mech, what would be my alt mode?' He doesn't know what's put you in this silly mood, but he's trying his best, because he loves you, despite his patience running thin 😭💕

Sorry about the radio silence today- it’s been a chaotic day at work

Curious

Megatron x Reader

• Striding into his habsuite, he spots you on his berth sitting on his datapad screen drawing with your fingers and you look up at him as he vents and hooks a servo against the side of the pad, slowly tipping it up until you slide off. And he smiles tiredly at the indignant look you shoot him. After spending the day putting out proverbial fires, he’s exhausted. Apparently the Stunticons, mostly Vortex, had ambushed and attacked the Autobot Aerialbots and when Vortex’s team had backed him up, the Protectobots had gotten involved. Now Medbay is full of wounded. No one seems able to find those three psychopathic bugs. Still. “You left an imprint of your little aft on my report,” he mutters, tipping the screen so you can see. You’d also drawn all over Shockwave’s notes on Ore 13, apparently.

• Wrinkling your nose at him because you know he likes your aft, you stretch as he scowls at his datapad. You watch him ease down to sit on his berth with his back against the wall and you wander closer. Listening to him vent loudly when you try to climb up on him, not even really making an effort. Until he finally takes pity on you and lifts you up onto his chassis. “Hey,” you say as you sit down on him. “If I got turned into an energon cube, would you notice and still love me or just eat me?” And the look he levels at you over the top of his datapad has you struggling not to laugh.

• “If you were turned into an energon cube,” he repeats in exasperation. Why are you like this? Because you’re just smiling up at him, fully aware of how silly your question is and that no one else would dare waste his time with something like this. “Are we assuming I saw you turned into a energon cube? Because if I found a random energon cube just lying on my berth where you should be and didn’t see it happen, I’d assume it was a lazy poisoning attempt and dump it out. And then go try to find who’d taken you to murder them.”

• “Would you be upset if I was just gone without a trace because I got turned into an energon cube and you dumped me down the drain?” You ask and the back of his helm thumps against the wall with a growl. Struggling not to crack up as he stares at you. “Would you have a funeral for the empty energon cube? With flowers and a lot of fanfare?” And you laugh when he slowly and deliberately pushes you over with a servo to pin you on your belly.

• “I don’t enjoy or understand this game,” he mutters, frowning down at you as you squirm and push at his servo like he’s squishing you even though he’s being careful not to. Setting aside his datapad as you grin, he rubs a servo against your jaw. ‘Okay, okay. What do you think my altmode would be if I was Cybertronian? Would you still love me if I was-’ You start to ask and he mass shifts to roll you under him, listening to your laughter as he presses soft bites against your neck and shoulder. Because anyone else? He wouldn’t put up with this nonsense, but he enjoys when you want to tease and play. Letting himself relax a rare thing and you’re the only one who gets to see him like this.

[foxtrology]

can you please write prompt 10 🥹🥹 i need more diff!harry castillo

dad! harry castillo

prompt 10: harry finds one of adella’s baby teeth under her pillow. she forgot to tell them it fell out. he leaves a twenty dollar bill.

prompt list

⸻

It started with laundry.

A sock under the dresser. A chocolate wrapper tucked inside a hoodie pocket. One of Adella’s drawings folded into the sleeve of Harry’s sweater—a blue sky, three stick figures, a cat, and a pink house labeled “Home.”

She’d drawn it last week.

He ran his fingers over the crayon wax like it was scripture. Smiled. Set it aside.

He didn’t even mean to go into her room. Not at first. But it was Tuesday, the house was quiet, and his wife was in the tub with her book and her tea, telling him to “go do something useful, like rest or obsess over our child.”

So he wandered.

The rain had just started. Light, whispering against the glass. The kind of rain that felt like background music. The lights were low. Adella had fallen asleep reading—book still open beside her, blanket half-off, mouth parted like a little “o.” Her lashes were wet at the edges. Probably a dream. Probably something good.

Harry stood in the doorway and just watched her for a moment.

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

Watching.

Committing things to memory with the urgency of someone who understood how fast it all went. How quick the years snapped by. One moment she was learning to walk, now she was losing teeth and correcting his pronunciation of dinosaur names.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to wake her.

He tucked the blanket back around her shoulders, brushing curls off her forehead. Then he saw it.

Just a sliver of white beneath her pillow.

He froze.

Gently reached under.

Pulled out a tiny baby tooth, wrapped loosely in tissue. No note. No fanfare. Just the quiet, unceremonious reality of growing up.

His chest did something strange.

He looked down at her, confused for a second, before it hit him.

She hadn’t told them.

She hadn’t even mentioned it.

She’d lost a tooth and just… handled it. Quietly. Like it wasn’t something to be celebrated. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Harry stared at the tooth in his palm for a long time.

Then backed out of the room like it was holy ground.

He didn’t go far.

Just down the hall, into their bedroom, where she was still soaking, book propped on the ledge, candle flickering near her elbow.

He walked in with that look on his face.

She noticed immediately.

“Did something happen?” she asked, sitting up. “Is she okay?”

“She lost a tooth,” he said, holding up the tiny bundle.

Her mouth fell open. “What?”

He nodded.

“She didn’t tell us.”

Her heart cracked a little.

He sat on the edge of the tub, still holding it like it might break. “She just… put it under her pillow. Like she didn’t want to bother us.”

“Oh, baby.”

His wife reached for his wrist.

He let her take the tooth from him, and for a moment, they both just stared at it like it held the weight of the universe.

“She’s getting so big,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“And independent.”

“I know.”

He exhaled, rubbed his face. “I thought I’d have more time.”

She touched his jaw.

“You still do.”

They sat there in silence for a while. Just the two of them and the sound of the rain and the ghost of a little girl’s missing tooth between them.

Later, he found a crisp twenty in the drawer by his desk.

He didn’t hesitate.

Slipped back into Adella's room, as quiet as a thief, and slid the bill beneath her pillow where the tooth had been. He kissed her temple before he left. Whispered something only she could hear, even in sleep.

“I’m proud of you.”

Back in bed, his wife was waiting.

She was wearing one of his old shirts, legs tucked beneath the duvet, the lamp casting soft shadows over her collarbone.

He climbed in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her in close.

“She’s going to be taller than us,” he murmured against her neck.

“Impossible.”

“She will.”

“She still asks me to open her applesauce, she’s got time.”

He didn’t laugh.

Just sighed.

“She’s slipping away from me in inches.”

She turned to face him.

“You’re not losing her,” she said. “You’re watching her become.”

That hit him in the ribs.

God, he loved her. The woman who gave him this life. This softness. This home where he could be gentle and raw and undone without shame.

“I don’t think I knew what life was until you,” he whispered.

She cupped his face, kissed him slow. “That’s because your old life didn’t have blueberry muffin crumbs in the couch.”

He smiled against her lips.

They fell asleep like that—legs tangled, breath synced, a twenty-dollar bill tucked beneath their daughter’s pillow, and the world outside rocking softly under the rain.

In the morning, Adella came bounding into their room with a grin wide enough to split her face.

“The tooth fairy came!” she shrieked.

Harry sat up, eyes still heavy with sleep. “She did?”

“She left me twenty dollars! Twenty!”

His wife gasped. “That’s way too much.”

Adella shrugged. “I must be her favorite.”

Harry smiled.

She was right.

She was.