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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days ago

Text

On Good Behaviour 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: after release, you try to get on the right track but your new boss isn’t much help. (ex-con reader)

Characters: Loki

Note: :)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your first day at work brings both excitement and anxiety. It's been a long time since you felt possibility ahead of you. You don't know that you ever really have. That's probably why you did what you did. No excuses. You made bad choices and didn't care who you hurt.

You grab your new bag, in your brown blazer, a white satin blouse, and a black skirt, and head off. You feel like an imposter already. You get on the bus, standing as you avoid the musty seats, and figure you'll be sitting a bit too long that day.

The office is building is just as it was before. Smaller than other business towers. The grey brick gives it an antique feel. Quaint, almost. You don't think you'll feel that way for long.

As you enter, you recall the withering look from those green eyes. The timbre of judgment in his voice. The glint of mocking. You should be used to it by now, shouldn't you?

You approach the office door and hesitate. What do you do? He gave you a time. You have no key. The door does not give off an essence of welcome.

You knock and shift in your heels. You got the lowest ones you could find and they're still awful. You hear movement within. Mr. Laufeyson opens the door as you straighten your posture.

"Good morning, sir," you greet.

"You will fetch my coffee," he skips over any semblance of propriety. Even you know how to say hello.

"Oh, yes sir," you reply, put off by his suddenness.

"There is a cafe off the lobby. You must've passed it on your way in. Cortado." He demands.

You take a breath. He could say please or thank you. You're used to a lack of manners but when you feel demeaned, you get a bit itchy.

"Yes, sir, uh, I--"

"You will be reimbursed. File a report," he turns away, "I would give a company card but... let's keep it all on file."

He gets to his office door and you watch him in a silent simmer. You go to the empty desk and set down your bag. You dig out your wallet before tucking the rest underneath.

You find your way down to the cafe, nestled between a law office and marketing consultancy space. You join the line and peer up at the menu. What did he say? C... something. Cortado, that's it right there.

You step up for your turn. You pay for the drink and wait at the end of the counter. With your first task accomplished, you set off back to work.

You enter the office. It's deathly silent. You can't help but look over your shoulder. Your hand balls to a fist instinctively.

Before you can approach his door, it opens.

"Thought I heard you," he struts out. "You may shut the door. And sit."

You nod and offer him the cup. He points to the barren desk. You set it down and take your seat. He disappears. You frown. Was it some test?

He emerges again, this time pushing a green leather chair. It looks much comfier than your own. He rolls it next to you and sits. You fidget and tug at the cuffs of the blazer.

"Well, you can follow orders," he slithers. "Your attire is less... casual. The coffee is hot," he reaches for the cup and sips. "You will turn on the computer."

You look under the desk for the tower. He scoffs and taps the laptop beside the monitor. You don't know how you missed that.

"You will need to work outside the office at times. Now, I've a tracker installed and security, so there's no use in selling it," he warns.

You seal your lips and nod. You won't show your irritation. Let him treat you like a criminal, at least he's paying you.

You open the laptop and press the power button. It's very sleek and shiny. Brand new.

"And the monitor," he directs and sips again. It's somewhat agitating to hear.

You push the button along the bottom of the screen. He points to a post-it beside the touch pad. "Credentials."

You type them in and hit enter. At least he's helping. Most of the courses you took were online and had zero support. You can figure things out on your own but you don't think he trusts you to do that.

"I've had an employee ID set up. That is here," he points lower down on the post-it. "There is a folder here for you to review standard practices and expectations."

He gestures to the smaller screen as you quietly observe. He sighs.

"You have any questions?"

"No, sir," you say.

"And you understand?"

"Yes, sir," you answer. I can read, tickles your tongue but you refuse to unleash it.

"Wonderful, so let me take you through a few of our basic programs just so that you are set. There would be the email, then the task tracker, and finally, the most important, my calendar," he explains.

"Yes, sir," you repeat.

He wheels closer, his hand clasping onto the back of your chair. He keeps his cup in his other hand, extend one finger to motion to the screen. He helps you get into the inbox.

"I recommend you review previous responses as well the templates provided in the Procedures folder." He explains.

You bend and reach below the desk. You sift in your bag as he tuts, "whatever are you doing?"

You sit back up with your notebook and a bic pen. You show him, "taking notes."

He hums, "well, that is a good idea, isn't it?"

He looks back to the screen as you flip the cover around the spirals. He's expecting you to fail, just like Dina, just like everyone else. You won't if you can help it.

💼

You send another message to Mr. Laufeyson. For your first day, he insists on reviewing your emails. You let him know you have some waiting and go back to reviewing the folder of policy. It's not too difficult, only dry. You like that.

How long did you live on edge, waiting for something to go wrong. It still could but there's no one actively working against you. Only your own bad habits. You just need to resist. You need to keep moving forward.

'Send it'. His message is simple. No praise, no tips. Just approval. That's good enough for you.

When lunch comes, you eat at your desk. You packed a plain peanut butter sandwich, a bottle of sparkling water, and small container of trail mix. Enough to tide you over. What you can spare.

As you chew the crust, the door opens. Laufeyson sniffs and crosses his arms as he faces you. You swallow and wrap up the last bite.

"Peanuts?" He says.

"Oh, are you allergic?" You ask.

"I prefer almond," he snips. "You're eating?"

"Sir, you said twelve was my lunch."

He squints then untangles his wrist to look at his watch, "so I did."

You let out the heavy breath in your chest. You fold up the parchment around the sandwich and put it in your bag. Your stomach's doing those somersaults again.

"You may finish," he says.

"That's fine, sir, I was done," you assure him and grab a tissue to wipe your hands and mouth. You crumple it and put it in the bin. He looms close.

"Well, if you aren't busy, another coffee would be in order."

You look at him. You still have ten minutes. This isn't the yard, there's no guard counting down the minutes. You get up.

"Yes, sir," you answer.

"Oh, don't skip to the door," he says drolly.

You tilt your head. His attitude drips from his posture as he checks his nails. You have to keep from scowling. You've been polite but he can't seem to show an ounce of decency. Well, he doesn't need to, he is your boss.

"Just the coffee?" You ask.

"Yes, dear, simple as," he assures flatly, as if you can't understand a coffee order.

You bend down and grab your wallet. You put your hand on the desk to push yourself up and his shadow shifts. You glance over and his green eyes flick away from your skirt. You stand and tug it straight, worried it might have hitched up.

"Excuse me," you sidle past him.

"Do hurry," he bids.

You're thankful to be away. You feel less suffocated by the guards with their night sticks, following you around as if you might make a run for the fence.

It's busier at the cafe. You get to the counter and order. It's the same as before but even more crowded. Sweat speckles over your scalp as the walls seem to close in.

You gulp for air as you get back to the lobby. You go up to the second floor and nearly burst through the office door. Laufeyson is by your desk, waiting.

"Something the matter?" He muses. "I trust you didn't abscond with a coffee unpaid for?"

You steady yourself and cross to him, offering the cup, "no, sir, it was only busy and I didn't want to be late."

"Oh?" He arches a brow. "You seem rather worked up over it."

"I'm not," you go around the desk and sit.

"Ah yes, a different sort of cage now," he remarks, "no bars, just a wool blazer and a desk."

You look at him, "I... no, it's not bad."

"I suppose the comparison makes it tolerable," he snickers.

"I guess," you agree and sign back into the laptop.

"I've a client coming shortly. Please be sure to show them in with a smile."

"I will, sir," you open the inbox.

"You will?"

"Yes," you repeat.

"Let me see."

"What?" You jerk back and pivot the chair toward him.

"Smile for me."

You stare at him then furrow your brow. He's taunting you. You know it. You can't let him get to you.

You smile, or attempt to.

"I know you might be out of practice but do try a little harder." He goads.

You wipe your face and look down. You inhale. You smile again, this time resisting the tension tugging in your cheeks. He tilts his head.

"Mm, you look almost like a lady," he sneers over the brim of his cup.

You're starting to suspect he didn't hire you for good intentions. To be a helping hand. No, he's testing you. Trying to see how long it takes for you to break. Well, you won't.

"Thank you, sir," you face the computer again.

He sighs and struts away. The smile falls off your face and you open the newest email. You pluck away at it, falling back into a tempo between reading and typing.

A knock comes at the door and you nearly slide out of the chair as you push it back. You get up and tap around on your heels. You brace yourself and remember. Smile.

You turn the handle and pull the door open. "Hello, how are you today?"

You sound stupid, like that churlish woman at the clothes shop. The man double takes and his lips slant, "I... the door says..."

"Mr. Laufeyson is in his office," you explain.

The man nods and thoughtfully taps his chin, "ah, makes sense. He's hired a secretary."

"Sir," you step back to let him in.

"Aren't you polite?" He strolls in. "You might tell him Pine is here."

"Yes, I will."

You skirt around him and go to Laufeyson's door. You tap lightly. "Sir, your-- Mr. Pine is here."

You wait at the door, trying to hear through it. It swings open and you teeter back. Pine steps forward, his hand outstretched.

"Laufeyson," he shakes the others' hand. "Well, have you sorted it?"

"You always bring me a challenge," Laufeyson waves him through then looks at you, "Pine, you take tea?"

"As always." The man passes between you into the back office.

"English breakfast," he points at you. "Quickly."

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #on good behaviour #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers

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ephemeral-love-4 · 3 days ago

Text

Linger

── .✦ Lilia Calderu X Princess! Reader

╰┈➤Chapters : 1/3

Word count :27k

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

The marketplace was quiet at this hour, the last of the vendors long gone, leaving behind only a faint scent of spice and wax. My feet barely made a sound against the cobblestone as I walked, the night air curling around my skin. I should have been in my chambers, tangled in expensive silk sheets, feigning sleep beneath the heavy weight of my obligations. But the castle had felt more suffocating than usual tonight.

The talks of my engagement had begun.

I exhaled through my nose, rubbing at my temple as I let my feet guide me through the familiar streets, seeking solace in their emptiness. That was when I saw her.

She sat at the base of the fountain, her golden gown catching the soft glow of the lanterns. The moonlight bathed her in silver, accentuating the dark curls that cascaded past her shoulders. She was beautiful— breathtaking, really. But it was the way she sat, shoulders heavy, her brown eyes filled with something unreadable as she gazed into the water, that struck me the most.

She wasn’t from here.

I knew everyone in my kingdom, and I had never seen her before. So, I did what any reasonable princess would do. I walked up to her.

“You’re new,” I said, settling beside her on the fountain’s edge.

She looked up, an eyebrow arching at my intrusion. “Is that a problem?”

“Nope,” I mused, tilting my head. “Just an astute observation.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she studied me, her dark eyes scanning my face with something like quiet amusement. I liked that she didn’t lower her gaze.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She hesitated, as if weighing whether to answer. “Lilia. Lilia Calderu.”

“Calderu… You really aren’t from here, huh?” I said, surprised. Most people didn’t visit the kingdom unless they had business, and even then, they rarely lingered in the streets at this hour.

“So, where are you from?”

A pause— small, but noticeable. “Sicily.”

“Sicily?” I repeated, leaning forward with interest. “That’s… in Italy. And fairly far away.” I dipped my fingers into the cool fountain water, letting the ripples dance around my skin. “So, what brings you here, all the way from Sicily?”

She pressed her lips together. Her fingers trailed absentmindedly over the fabric of her gown. “Circumstances,” she said quietly.

“That’s vague.”

A soft breath left her nose— almost a scoff. Then, after a long moment, she spoke again. “A fever swept through my village,” she murmured. “And I was the only survivor.”

The words were quiet but heavy. The weight of them hung in the air, settling between us like an unspoken grief.

I reached out instinctively to take her hand but hesitated, retracting my fingers at the last second. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. And I truly meant it.

She glanced at me before turning back to the water. “It happened a long time ago.”

“It may have happened a long time ago,” I said softly, “but the feeling still lingers, does it not?”

She stiffened, her hands clenching around the folds of her gown. “I suppose it does.”

A quiet settled between us, broken only by the distant hum of the wind.

“Do you have anywhere to spend the night?” I asked, watching her face carefully.

She shook her head.

A brilliant idea struck me.

“Stay at the castle.”

She turned to me, confusion flickering across her features. “What castle?”

“My castle.”

Her expression shifted. Recognition. “Ah. So you’re the principessa.”

“Yep. Princess Y/N of the L/N household,” I said with a grin, finally introducing myself.

Lilia stood and curtseyed. “Ah, pardon me, I didn’t recognize you were royalty,” she said with a soft tone.

I waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, you didn’t know.” I stood beside her. “Right, so, are you staying at the castle?”

“I must decline your invitation,” she said, dusting off her dress.

“Why?”

She gave me a pointed look. “Pardon me, but it’s a foolish idea.”

“Why?” I repeated.

“Why?” she echoed, as if she couldn’t believe I was asking. “You don’t know me, principessa. I could be a thief. Or an assassin.”

I grinned. “Well, if I were to die, at least I’d be dying at the hands of a very beautiful woman.”

Lilia blinked, then scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told.” I clasped my hands together. “So? Are you going to stay?”

She slipped her hands out of mine. “No. I need to be out by dawn, anyway.”

I huffed, frustrated with her reluctance. “So? There’s no harm in spending the night.”

She exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face, as if she were struggling to keep her composure. Before she could protest further, I cut her off.

“You’re spending the night. And that’s an order.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re spending the night.”

She muttered something in Sicilian— probably cursing me— before sighing. “One night.”

I beamed, extending my hand. “Excellent! I can assure you, you won’t regret it.”

She eyed my hand before taking it and muttering, “We’ll see.”

The walk back to the castle was quiet. Lilia observed the surroundings, taking in the sight of the village, while my focus was entirely on her. There was something about her—something enticing, something I couldn’t quite place. She was like a flickering candle in a dark room, drawing me in with her quiet intensity.

I was so focused on her that I didn’t even notice the approaching guard.

“Princess!” a voice called out.

We both stopped in our tracks.

“The king is very displeased with your actions,” the guard continued, his tone clipped. “I suggest you return to the castle at once.”

I groaned, rubbing my temples. If my father was already upset, how was I supposed to convince him to let Lilia stay?

Lilia tensed beside me. I felt the shift immediately— the way her shoulders squared, her posture stiffening. She was preparing for rejection, for being turned away.

Not happening.

The grand hall was cold despite the flickering chandeliers overhead, the polished marble floors echoing every step I took. The moment I set foot inside, my father’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

"Y/N."

I froze, shoulders squaring instinctively as I turned to face him. King L/N stood at the foot of the grand staircase, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression set in a deep frown of disapproval. The heavy embroidered cloak draped over his shoulders made him look even more imposing, his piercing gaze cutting straight through me.

Behind me, Lilia remained silent, her posture unreadable, but I could feel her gaze flicking between us, assessing the situation.

My father’s expression hardened as he stepped forward. "Where have you been?"

I lifted my chin. “Out.”

His frown deepened. "Sneaking away in the middle of the night? Do you know what kind of example that sets?"

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Oh, forgive me, Father, for daring to leave the castle walls for fresh air.”

His eyes narrowed. “This is not a game, Y/N. You are a princess, not some reckless commoner who can disappear into the streets without consequence. What if something had happened to you? Do you think the kingdom would not notice if its heir went missing?”

I set my jaw. “I was fine.”

“You do not know that,” he countered, voice low with simmering anger. “The world outside these walls is dangerous. And you, Y/N, are far too naïve if you believe otherwise.”

Before I could snap back, his gaze flickered past me to Lilia, assessing her with an unreadable expression. His posture stiffened. “And who is this?”

I lifted my chin, stepping slightly in front of her. “Her name is Lilia Calderu. She’s my guest.”

His brows furrowed. “Guest?”

“Yes.” I crossed my arms. “She has nowhere to go. She’s staying the night.��

His expression darkened instantly. "Absolutely not."

My stomach twisted. “Why not?”

“Because I said so,” he replied, his tone final, as if that alone should be enough.

I took a step closer. “She is staying.”

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y/N, do not test me. You are to be engaged soon. You should not be bringing strange women into the castle.”

Anger flared in my chest. “She is not a ‘strange woman.’”

“She is a wanderer.” His voice was laced with disdain. “You know nothing about her. Who she is, where she has been, what she might want.” He gestured toward Lilia, his expression tight. “For all you know, she could be a thief, a spy, or worse.”

Lilia let out a low, unimpressed scoff behind me. I had no doubt she was already growing tired of this conversation.

My fingers curled into fists. “She saved my life tonight.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes flickered briefly with something unreadable before his expression turned skeptical. “Did she?”

“Yes,” I said, voice firm. “And I gave her my word that she would have a place to stay for the night.” I took another step closer, squaring my shoulders. “And a princess does not break her word.”

A tense silence fell between us.

My father’s eyes studied me, sharp and calculating. I could see the war waging in his mind— his need for control battling against the unshakable will I had inherited from him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a slow exhale. "Fine. One night."

A triumphant grin spread across my face before I could stop it.

Lilia, standing behind me, muttered something under her breath. I wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a prayer.

The king’s expression remained unreadable as he turned on his heel, already heading up the staircase. “Do not make me regret this, Y/N.”

I watched him disappear down the corridor before letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Then, turning back to Lilia, I smiled. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I glanced toward one of the maids lingering near the entrance. “Prepare a bath for my guest. And bring some fresh clothes.”

The maid gave me a quick bow before hurrying off to do as instructed.

Lilia arched a brow at me. “Saved your life?”

I grinned. “Yep! Saved me from eternal boredom”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

I pushed open the heavy wooden door to my chambers, leading Lilia inside with an air of triumph. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the silk curtains fluttering gently from the night breeze that slipped through the open window. The scent of lavender and honey lingered in the air, a comforting contrast to the crisp, spice-tinged scent of the marketplace.

Lilia stepped inside hesitantly, her sharp eyes sweeping over the luxurious surroundings. The grand four-poster bed sat at the center, its plush golden canopy draped elegantly, while a vanity table lined with ornate trinkets and glass bottles stood against the far wall. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the intricate tapestries hanging along the walls.

"You can take a bath," I announced, stepping toward a hidden door that led to my private bathing chamber. "There should be fresh water waiting. And when you're done, there'll be some clean clothes for you."

Lilia raised an eyebrow, arms crossing but didn't say anything, simply moving towards the bathing chamber, pausing only to glance back at me. “Don’t go stealing my things while I’m in there, principessa.”

I gasped, placing a hand over my heart in mock offense. “I would never! …Unless you have something particularly interesting.”

She let out a short laugh, shaking her head before disappearing inside.

By the time Lilia emerged, she was clad in a loose, white linen shirt and a pair of silk trousers I had laid out for her— simple, but far cleaner than what she had worn before. Her damp curls cascaded over her shoulders, her face softer now that the dirt and weariness of the road had been washed away.

I, already in my nightgown, flopped unceremoniously onto my bed, stretching out like a cat who got the cream. Lilia stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed again, as if debating her next move.

“Where will I be sleeping?” she finally asked.

I blinked at her before grinning mischievously. “Oh, there’s plenty of room in my bed!” I patted the empty space beside me.

Lilia’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, before she let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You have an entire castle with dozens of guest rooms… and yet, you insist I sleep here.”

"Of course," I said, beaming. "You don’t expect me to throw a guest into a lonely, cold room all by herself, do you?"

She exhaled sharply, as if she was suffering some great misfortune, before moving toward the bed. With clear reluctance, she perched at the very edge, sitting stiffly with her hands clasped in her lap.

I, on the other hand, was sprawled on my side, my head propped up by my hand as I stared at her unabashedly. “You look like you’re about to flee,” I commented.

“I’m considering it.”

I giggled, kicking my feet slightly. "You wound me, Lilia. Truly. Here I am, offering you warmth and comfort, and you act as if I’m the villain."

“You could be.”

I gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. "Me? A villain? And here I thought I was your noble rescuer!"

She shook her head, looking away with a barely contained smirk.

A few beats of silence passed. The room was quiet except for the gentle crackling of the fire and the occasional hoot of an owl outside. I studied her in the dim candlelight, the way her shoulders were tense, as if she was constantly ready to spring into action. There was a guardedness in her posture, in the way she held herself— like a woman who had spent too long expecting the worst from people.

I shifted, sitting up properly. “So,” I said, tilting my head, “what’s your story?”

Lilia’s fingers drummed idly against her knee. “That’s a dangerous question to ask, principessa.”

"Is it?"

She hummed, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “It is. People lie. People exaggerate. Some stories aren’t meant to be shared at all.”

I leaned in slightly. “And which of those applies to you?”

She hesitated. For a long moment, I thought she might refuse to answer, but then— perhaps as a way to humor me, or as some small form of repayment for my generosity— she sighed and leaned back on her hands.

“I’ve traveled a lot,” she began. “And when you travel, you see many things. You meet many strange people.”

I perked up, urging her on with an excited nod.

She exhaled through her nose, as if debating how much to tell me. Then, a glint of amusement sparked in her eyes. “There was a time,” she said slowly, “when I tried to swindle a nobleman out of his gold.”

My eyes widened. “Did you succeed?”

Lilia smirked. “I almost did. I had the whole act perfected— a lost traveler, helpless and alone, abandoned by fate itself.” She sighed dramatically, mimicking my earlier theatrics. “He fell for it, of course. But, just as I was about to make off with a very fine coin purse, his wife arrived.”

I gasped. “And then?”

Lilia grinned, the sharpness of it rivaling the edge of a dagger. “She turned out to be far more terrifying than he was. I barely made it out of there without a broken nose.”

I burst into laughter, throwing my head back. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“Tell me another,” I urged, shifting closer.

Lilia raised an eyebrow. “Are all princesses this demanding?”

“Only the best ones.”

She exhaled, but there was no real protest in it. And so, she told another.

And another.

She spoke of a tavern brawl in a coastal town, of a merchant who tried to sell her a “magic” gemstone that turned out to be nothing but colored glass. With each story, my laughter grew louder, my fascination deeper. And though Lilia acted as if she was merely humoring me, I could tell— there was a flicker of ease in her posture now. A softening of the walls she had built around herself.

I don’t know when I stopped lying on my side and ended up sitting cross-legged in front of her, leaning in, hanging onto every word. I don’t know when Lilia’s smirk turned into something more genuine, or when her voice lost its usual guarded edge.

But by the time we realized how late it had become, the sky outside was no longer dark.

Golden light trickled through the curtains, the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon. The night had slipped away from us, lost between laughter and whispered stories.

Lilia blinked, glancing toward the window. “...We talked all night.”

I grinned, stretching my arms above my head. “Looks like we did.”

She shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “That wasn’t my plan.”

I laughed. “Neither was bringing home a mysterious traveler from the fountain, yet here we are.”

Lilia sighed, rubbing at her temples. “I blame you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then exhaled in defeat. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still here,” I pointed out smugly.

A flicker of something passed through her gaze. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t deny it either.

“So, will you be staying for breakfast?” I smile, getting ready to insist that she stayed but to my surprised she didn't protest simply just agreed

I had a feeling she was going to be staying for much longer than just breakfast

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The autumn air was crisp, tinged with the scent of earth and fallen leaves. The gardens, usually vibrant with life, now stood bathed in gold and amber, the trees shedding their fiery coats with every passing breeze. The stone path beneath my feet was littered with leaves that crunched softly as Lilia and I walked side by side.

She held my hand— casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers were warm despite the chill in the air, her grip firm but not forceful. The way her thumb occasionally brushed over my knuckles was enough to send a quiet shiver down my spine.

She was telling a story, her voice rich with amusement, her words animated with subtle gestures.

“So then, the old woman— no taller than my shoulder, mind you— just picks up the frying pan, swings it around like she’s wielding a sword, and bam— drops the first man to the ground. I have never seen a grown man go down so fast in my life. And the other two? The moment she turned toward them, they just— ” Lilia made a dramatic, exaggerated motion of two men throwing their hands up in surrender, eyes wide with terror.

I let out a small, breathy laugh, but it lacked its usual spark.

Lilia didn’t miss it.

She trailed off mid-sentence, her sharp gaze flickering toward me.

“You’re quiet.”

I blinked, startled by her sudden shift in tone.

“You’re never this quiet,” she pressed. There was something softer in her voice now, something searching. She gave my hand a light squeeze, as if to pull me back into the present. “What’s wrong?”

I hesitated. I could brush it off, I could tell her I was just tired, I could turn the conversation back to her story. But this was Lilia. She would see through it instantly.

So instead, I sighed, my breath visible in the cool air.

“My father,” I murmured, “has successfully arranged my marriage.”

Lilia stopped walking.

Just like that, the world seemed to still.

I kept my eyes ahead, focusing on the shifting leaves in the distance. “It’s with the neighboring kingdom,” I continued, my voice steady despite the weight of my words. “A political alliance. It will benefit our people.”

Silence.

I could feel her staring at me, I could feel the tension radiating from her as she processed my words.

When I finally glanced at her, her expression was unreadable— but her grip on my hand had tightened.

“And you’re just… accepting this?” Her voice was quieter now, but there was a sharpness beneath it, like the edge of a blade.

I shrugged. “It’s my duty.”

Lilia scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Since when do you care about duty?”

I smiled wryly. “Since always.”

“That’s a lie,” she shot back. “You do what you want, when you want. You push against every rule, every expectation. You never just accept things.”

She pulled me to a stop, turning to face me fully. The autumn breeze swept through the garden, rustling her dark hair, making the crimson leaves dance around us.

“You could rule alone,” she said suddenly.

I blinked. “What?”

“You don’t need some self-important noble at your side,” she continued. “You could take the throne by yourself.”

I laughed, the sound light but hollow. “You say that as if female rulers aren’t rare.”

“You could be the first.”

“I’m not fit to be one of them.”

“That’s not true.”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “Lilia, I—”

“I mean it,” she interrupted. Her voice was steady, certain. “You’re more capable than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m not fit to be a royal at all.”

Lilia’s brows furrowed. “Why would you say that?”

I turned my gaze upward, watching as a golden leaf drifted lazily through the air. “Because I don’t belong here.”

She said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

“I envy you, you know,” I admitted after a moment.

Lilia frowned. “Why?”

I gestured vaguely around us, to the castle in the distance, to the sky stretching endlessly above. “Because you’re free. You can go wherever you want, live however you choose. You don’t have to answer to anyone.”

Lilia was silent.

Then, before I could react, she abruptly stopped walking and turned to me, her hands now gripping both of mine.

“Run away with me.”

I froze.

Her voice was steady, but there was something desperate in her gaze.

I let out a breathy laugh. “Lilia—”

“I’m serious.” She took a step closer, her fingers tightening around mine. “Come with me. Leave this place behind. No arranged marriages, no obligations— just us.”

My heart clenched painfully.

I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to.

To run, to escape, to be selfish just this once.

But I couldn’t.

And she knew that.

So I did what I always did— I smiled. I laughed. I brushed it off like it was nothing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I teased. “Where would we even go?”

Lilia didn’t laugh.

Her lips parted as if to argue, but then she stopped. Her expression shifted, like she had realized something.

Like she had realized I wasn’t saying no because I didn’t want to.

I was saying no because I couldn’t.

And for the first time since I had met her, Lilia had no clever retort.

She just held my hand a little tighter.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The grand hall was alight with warmth and music, chandeliers casting golden light over the polished marble floors. Laughter and conversation wove through the air, a soft hum beneath the string quartet playing in the corner. It was a private affair— no grand ball, no elaborate feast— just a quiet gathering to introduce Prince Edric to the inner court.

I stood near the farthest window, a goblet of wine in hand, watching as the guests spoke in hushed tones about my impending marriage.

“Your Highness.”

I turned, and there he was— Prince Edric.

His dark hair was neatly combed back, his attire pristine and refined. He had a composed, gentle smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Your Grace,” I greeted, forcing a polite smile.

“I was hoping we might speak.”

I nodded, gesturing toward the balcony. Away from the prying eyes and murmured gossip, the cool night air greeted us as we stepped outside. The autumn wind carried the scent of rain, crisp and clean.

Edric exhaled, resting his hands on the stone railing. “I won’t pretend this arrangement is one of love,” he began, voice steady. “But I hope, in time, we might at least be friends.”

I studied him. He was not cruel. Not unkind. He was not a tyrant, nor a fool. In a different life, perhaps I could have been content with this.

I offered a small smile. “I suppose that’s a good place to start.”

He glanced at me then, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “I will not ask if this is what you want,” he said carefully. “Because I suspect I already know the answer.”

I said nothing.

Edric turned back toward the night sky. “Duty is a heavy thing, isn’t it?”

I let out a quiet breath. “It is.”

And that was that.

We returned to the hall, where the murmurs and music swelled once more.

Lilia was waiting for me in my chambers when I returned.

She sat on the windowsill, one leg dangling, her arms crossed. The moonlight painted her in shades of silver and shadow, but even in the dim glow, I could see the tightness in her jaw.

“You’re late,” she muttered.

I sighed, kicking off my shoes. “I was with Edric.”

Something flickered in her expression. “And?”

I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “And… he’s not as bad as I thought.”

Silence.

Then, quietly—

“You like him.”

I turned my head toward her. “Does it matter?”

Lilia’s hands clenched at her sleeves. “It does to me.”

I sat up. “Why?”

She let out a sharp breath, standing abruptly. “Because—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

“No.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Say it.”

Lilia glared at me. “What do you want me to say, principessa? That I can’t stand to watch you fall into this gilded cage? That I hate the way you talk about him as if it’s already decided?” She let out a bitter laugh. “Because it is, isn’t it?”

I swallowed hard. “Lilia—”

She took a step forward, close enough that I could see the frustration burning behind her eyes.

“Tell me you don’t want more,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

Because I couldn’t.

Her breath hitched, and then, with a shake of her head, she turned away.

“I can’t do this.”

Something in my chest twisted. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled shakily. “I mean I can’t stay. I can’t sit here and watch you marry someone else.”

Panic flared in my heart. “You’re leaving?”

Lilia didn’t answer.

I grabbed her wrist. “Lilia.”

She turned back to me, and for the first time, I saw it— real heartbreak, plain on her face.

“I love you,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And I can’t stay and watch you be someone else’s.”

My breath caught.

But before I could say anything—

She pulled away.

And she was gone.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The castle was shrouded in silence. The kind of silence that felt heavy, suffocating, like the calm before a storm. The torches along the walls flickered weakly, their light barely pushing back against the thick darkness creeping through the halls.

I should have been asleep. Tomorrow was my wedding day. The day I fulfilled my duty. The day I sealed my kingdom’s future. The day I gave myself away to a man I barely knew.

But instead, I was here— standing at my window, watching the courtyard below, lost in thought.

And then, I saw her.

A shadow, moving swiftly along the stone path leading to the gates. Cloaked, hooded, carrying only a small satchel.

My stomach dropped.

I knew that silhouette. I would recognize her anywhere.

“Lilia…”

I barely realized I had whispered her name before I was moving. My feet carried me through the halls before I could think. Before I could hesitate. Before I could talk myself out of it.

I didn’t bother with shoes. Didn’t bother with a cloak to keep out the autumn chill.

I ran.

Through the halls. Down the stairs. Across the courtyard.

She was already at the gates when I called out.

“LILIA!”

She froze.

For a moment, she didn’t turn.

Then, with a sigh, she did.

Under the pale moonlight, her face was unreadable. A perfect mask of indifference. But I knew her too well. I could see it in the tightness of her jaw. In the way her fingers clenched at the strap of her satchel.

She wasn’t indifferent.

She was in pain.

“You’re leaving.”

Lilia froze mid-movement, fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel. Then she sighed, slow and measured, before turning slightly— just enough for me to see the tension in her face.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I stepped forward. “So, that’s it?” My voice was softer than I intended, laced with something close to hurt. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye?”

She let out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking her head as she turned away.

“Would you have even noticed?” she muttered. “You have a wedding to prepare for, after all.”

I flinched.

“That’s not fair.”

Her shoulders stiffened, something snapping in her as she turned fully to face me.

“What’s not fair,” she snapped, “is standing here, pretending this means nothing to you. Pretending I mean nothing to you.”

The air went still.

I swallowed hard, but I didn’t deny it.

Because I couldn’t.

Because we both knew the truth.

“Lilia,” I said softly, hesitant. “You know it’s not that simple.”

She laughed, but there was no joy in it. Only sharp edges and unspoken pain.

“No.” She shook her head. “It is that simple.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, something fierce and desperate burning in them.

“You don’t want this marriage, do you?”

I opened my mouth. Then hesitated.

And that was all she needed.

Lilia took a step closer, lowering her voice, but the urgency in it only grew.

“Then run.”

My breath hitched.

“Let’s go— tonight, right now. Just say the word, and we leave.”

Her hands found mine, fingers curling around them like a lifeline, as if willing me to take the leap she had already decided on.

For a moment, I almost did.

For a moment, I imagined it— us, slipping away into the night, leaving behind duty and titles and the weight of expectation.

For a moment, it felt real.

But it wasn’t.

It never could be.

I shook my head, barely able to get the words out.

“I can’t.”

Lilia stilled.

For a long, excruciating second, she just looked at me.

Her expression shifted.

The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something more fragile.

Something that shattered me.

“Do you love him?” she whispered.

I stayed silent for too long.

Then, barely above a breath, I forced out the truth neither of us wanted to hear.

“…It doesn’t matter.”

Lilia closed her eyes.

And I knew.

I knew I had lost her.

She exhaled sharply, jaw tight, and when she looked at me again, the softness in her expression was gone.

She stepped back.

Out of reach.

“Right.” A quiet, bitter chuckle. “Of course, it doesn’t.”

Something inside me screamed to stop her. To take it back. To say something— anything— that would make her stay.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

She shook her head, stepping further away, the distance between us stretching wider and wider.

“No.” Her voice was softer now, but no less final. “You made your choice.”

And just like that—

She turned.

And walked away.

And I let her.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning of my wedding arrived with a hush, as if the entire kingdom held its breath. The air was thick with the scent of roses, honeyed incense, and polished steel. Every hallway of the castle had been draped in silks of gold and ivory, servants scurrying to ensure that every candle was perfectly lit, every flower in place. The weight of it all settled on my shoulders long before I even opened my eyes.

I was getting married today.

To Edric.

To a man who was kind enough. A man who smiled when we met, who was polite, respectful. A man who would be a good king, a strong ruler, a responsible husband.

A man who was not her.

I sat before the mirror as the maids fastened the last ties of my gown, their hands careful, their voices hushed. My wedding dress was heavier than I expected, layers of embroidered silk wrapping around my body, golden threads woven into intricate patterns across the bodice—symbols of unity, prosperity, duty.

Duty.

The word rang in my mind like a funeral bell.

I barely noticed as they pinned my veil into place, as they twisted my hair into an elaborate style fit for a queen. I did not flinch when they placed the weight of the crown atop my head.

I looked the part. A bride. A future queen. A symbol of peace.

And yet, all I could think about was Lilia.

Had she made it far? Had she left the kingdom’s borders yet? Was she safe? Was she thinking of me?

Was she regretting it as much as I was?

A soft knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

“It’s time, Your Highness.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pressed my trembling hands together, and rose to my feet.

It was time.

The cathedral was grander than I had ever seen it, bathed in golden light, the high-arched stained-glass windows casting fractured colors onto the marble floors. Every inch of the hall was filled— nobles draped in their finest silks, foreign dignitaries, knights standing like statues along the pillars. My father sat upon his throne, watching from above.

A kingdom waited.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open.

I stepped forward.

Each step sent a dull echo through the silent hall, my gown trailing behind me like a ghost. The scent of incense and candle wax curled in my lungs, but I barely breathed.

I was numb.

At the altar, Edric stood waiting.

His posture was perfect, his expression composed. He was not unkind, not cruel— there was no malice in his eyes, only duty. We were both victims of it, in our own ways.

I forced myself to meet his gaze as I reached him.

Neither of us smiled.

The priest began the ceremony, his voice a distant hum, speaking of love and duty and sacrifice. Words that meant nothing to me. Words that bound me all the same.

I wanted to turn, to run, to flee down the aisle and out into the cold air, where I could still chase after her. I wanted to find Lilia, wherever she had gone, to take her by the hand and tell her I was sorry.

But that was a fantasy.

This was my reality.

“…Do you, Princess Y/N, take Prince Edric to be your husband and king?”

The silence stretched.

I could feel my father’s gaze, the expectant stares of the court, the breathless anticipation of my people.

I was their princess. Their future queen.

This was the moment.

This was my fate.

My lips parted.

“…I do.”

A cheer erupted through the hall, a roar of celebration, of relief.

The golden ring was slipped onto my finger, cold as iron. The weight of it settled, final and unshakable.

There was no going back.

And somewhere, far beyond the castle walls, Lilia was nothing more than a memory.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

#patti lupone #lilia calderu x reader #agatha all along #lilia calderu #idk man #im scared

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captainwriter · 3 days ago

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Chapter 5 - We're going to be okay

Summary: Who is Quinn Hughes? That’s all Iris wants to know. Will Quinn and Iris be able to overcome the accident that rips them apart. Will Iris ever remember who Quinn Hughes is?

Masterlist l Chapter 4 l Chapter 6

Warnings: Aussie spelling, hospital environment, occasional swear word.

Words: 900

Quinn’s POV:

She was nervous, I have no idea why. She fiddles with the ring I purchased her after she lost her last. The gold band lined with pale green and blue stones. I liked this ring as green is her favourite colour and mine is blue, also cannucks colours! I nudge her hand with mine to stop her from this downward spiral, next she will be nervously chewing her nails. I tried to ease the room with a joke in hopes to calm her nerves. It worked for a second as she bats at my chest and roles her gorgeous eyes.

Her rambling is cute, situations like this make me feel like nothing has happened. She still looks the same as the girl I fell in love with. Now a scar craved into her forehead. But still my girl. It’s been hard to reframe from all the things we use to do; the innocent touches, the not so innocent, I am sick of holding a pillow at night and not being able to smell her.

“Can I kiss you?”

I didn’t even hear the rest of her rambles as I too struck. I smile. I haven’t smiled quite like that on a while. “Sure thing sunshine.” It comes out naturally. I always called her sunshine or sunny because that’s what she is to me. My sunshine. She turns back to face the windscreen as I can see a smile grow on her face. How can I not like this girl? I’m so lucky to have her, to still have her. I almost lost her but I will do everything it takes to keep her here. She returns to singing however I don’t know if it was the lyrics or the person singing it but those words hit harder than normal. I felt three gentle squeezes to my hand. I. Love. You. Does she remember what that means? My mind is sent reeling.

———

My mind is so distracted the rest of the drive home, I’m surprised when we pull up. The music is playing faintly as my phone sits in the kitchen. I stack the cabinet in the bathroom with the purchased products from todays trip. I stop and look at myself in the mirror, a big sigh, followed by a smile as today begins to settle in. Today was good. We have had some rough days since the accident, disagreements, feelings left unsaid, stress and some nights early on I could hear her crying from our bedroom. For the first time no matter what I do no pain goes away.

I walk back down the hallway, the faint music becoming louder, in the golden light casting through the window, a goddess. My sunshine. Dancing around the kitchen carefree putting the groceries away. As she opens the pantry door and places the spices down o grab her waist and spin her around. All my worries disappear.

I hold her close, we sway back and forth. Our eyes interlocked, our bodies have a conversation. She tilts her head to rest her forehead on mine. We stay like this as the swaying slows. In comparison to the past 3 weeks this is extremely Intimate. I tilt my head the rest of the way, our lips interlock. Gentle but conveying the desperation, stress and anxiety we’ve had for the past three weeks. It’s only short. I’m sure only a few seconds. We pull apart and return to our foreheads resting on each other as we stand in the kitchen swaying to the faint beat. Her head slowly migrates to my chest, which is pounding quickly with my heart about to jump out and kiss her again.

——

My phone is pressed to my chest on speaker as I get comfortable in bed. I can’t wipe the grin off my face. I feel like a school boy, what is this? “Hi honey, how are you and Iris?” A sigh leaves my lips, different from the others, this time with a smile returning. “Good, we are gonna be okay mum.”

After I hang up, I sit there and stare at my sealing, the bed empty next to me as Iris is across the hallway. It settles in that this is my new reality. My mind wanders away from today and back to 3 weeks ago.

I pace around the room, my phone ringing on the couch next to me, I rush to it hoping it’s Iris. But as I raise it to my ear I see an unknown number flashing across the screen. I swipe with hesitation. What if she calls whilst I am speaking with whoever this is? “This is Vancouver General Hospital I’m calling to speak with Mr Quinn Hughes.” “Speaking.”

“I’m sorry to inform you Mr Hughes, you are listed as an emergency contact for a Miss Henderson she has been in an accident and it currently at our hospital.”

I have never ran or drove as fast as I did that day. I shake my head, in hopes it get the memories out of my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have kissed her. She doesn’t know what is going on at the moment. Shit! She doesn’t know anything or me. Damn it.

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eraserbread · 10 hours ago

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older married!satosugu never really tried to shove their relationship down your throat, but they didn’t try to hide it either.

a kiss here and there is the norm they placed upon you. sometimes, when gojo’s hand is around suguru’s thigh, it erupts your stomach in butterflies. you love how they love each other, but more so how they love you.

and, you weren't crazy... satoru said to be at their house by 8 -- it's well past that, now. and you were alone, standing in their entryway with his text conversation lighting your face in the darkness.

you reach to flick the lights on, tossing your shoes off and making yourself at home in the emptiness. their car was in the driveway, satoru’s location says he’s here. and, once you check, you see suguru’s here, too.

“hello? here i am…!”

you walk deeper into the house, trailing the tips of your fingers across the teal painted walls you move past.

“suguru? satoru?” you glance into the kitchen and see nothing. you can’t help but sigh. you really were excited to see them this time.

but, if they aren’t on the first floor. they had to be upstairs. this silence was almost uncanny.

“sugu?” just for good measure, you try again.

“sat-

your complexion turns two shades redder when you hear it. it.

satoru and suguru. breathless. moaning. curses of love and angst giving the atmosphere a much heavier feel. you can’t believe it’s finally happening. three months together and you haven’t seen them do more than kiss each other goodbye.

you were… excited. as taboo as that felt to admit.

so, you don’t bother them yet. you walk to their slightly cracked bedroom door, cracking it just a bit more to see if they’d notice. nothing.

of course they wouldn’t fucking notice — satoru has suguru splayed out under him, chest pressed to the mattress. with every single inch of his rubbered cock buried inside of his husband.

“when you look at me like that…” gojo whispers so tenderly, tucking hair away from the side of suguru’s face. “reminds me why i married you.”

“is this… all you t-think about?” suguru responds, pretty eyes rolling back into his skull. you can’t help but take him in — the sweat on his back, the strain of his legs and his hair everywhere. with his familiar body flushed red, he’s fisting the pillow, moaning strings of satoru’s first name into the cushion.

satoru’s strong hand cups under suguru’s right knee, keeping it at a right angle. it’s how they accommodate enough room for satoru to fit snugly against him. they’re both just so tall, with their combined length, they’d be hanging off the bed.

“about how beautiful you are? yeah.” satoru takes a fistful of satoru’s hair, yanking his neck bared and completely ready for his lips and teeth. they’re both so tender, tangled between the sheets. it’s hard to interrupt.

but, fuck it. they called you here, so they had to be in on this, too.

“thanks for the show.” you pose in the doorway, pointer finger hanging from your mouth. it’s cocky as hell, and you don’t think you’ll hear the end of it. “i mean, bravo.”

they don’t jump in horror like you expected them to. satoru just peeks over his shoulder, through his sexed hair and laughs.

“hi, honey bunny.”

the second geto heard your voice, he was pushing satoru away, but he wouldn’t budge. it’s hard enough just for him to sit up and turn around to greet you. but, of course when he does, it’s with an innocent smile on his flushed face.

god, help you.

“we definitely remember you saying you were stopping by…” suguru tries to fix his hair, but he’d need a shower and lots of time. satoru loved pulling hair. “he jumped my bones, baby. i’m so sorry.” he shakes his head, but you know he wants to laugh. can see it in his eyes when he looks at you.

“-didn’t jump your bones…” gojo mumbles callously, sliding out of bed and slipping his abandoned work pants back on. the loose belt still hangs from the loops, zipper open giving you just the perfect peek at his thin patch of ivory white hair — the dribble of sweat peeking through the waves of his muscles. you stare dumbly.

you’re whipped.

“depends on what look you gave him…”

satoru’s approaching you like a lion to its prey. pushing you back into the door, still you continue. “if it’s the one i think it is, i’m on gojo’s side.”

suguru drags his feet to you, smirking softly as he drinks in your words. satoru’s nodding you through it like you’re speaking to him — and you are, in a sort. until, you can’t speak anything else because he’s kissing you. he tastes like suguru — every piece of him. it’s so fucking hot, you close your eyes.

“mm, that’s okay.” geto mumbles out a little laugh, closing his hand across your jaw and steals you away from his husbands kisses.

then, the nights all about you. tangled between the two of them is always enough.

part 1, part 2

#idk if i need to be you gojo or geto in this helppp #i need them so bad it’s ovulation szn #jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto suguru x gojo satoru #jjk fanfic #goge #gojo x geto #jjk fanworks #satosugu x reader #satosugu x you #sugusato #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #getou suguru x reader #suguru geto smut #satoru gojo smut #for the bisexuals <3

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agirlsawalittlerose · 17 hours ago

Text

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 14: Walkway Blues

Wine, Pringles, the red sofa in the living room, and her best friend. Vic couldn’t think of a better evening.

She desperately needed it, after the chaos of the past few weeks and the looming threat of the Christmas party hanging over her like a dark cloud.

On the TV, a contestant on MasterChef was having an absolute meltdown over an undercooked lamb chop.

“This is embarrassing,” Sara said, shaking her head as she tucked her legs under her. “How do you get on MasterChef without knowing how to cook lamb?”

“I know, right? How difficult can it be?” Vic agreed, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “You season aggressively, sear it hard, baste it in butter. It’s not complicated.”

Sara turned to look at her. “Love, why do you sound like a non-Scottish Gordon Ramsay?” she asked, grinning proudly.

Vic barely knew how to fry an egg. And as for Sara, 99% of her diet consisted of Tesco meal deals and Taco Bell.

Vic ignored the question, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, here we go. He’s gonna cry.”

The contestant, a man far too confident for someone presenting a piece of meat that was still practically alive, was stammering his way through an explanation. The judges were unimpressed.

“I bet he blames the oven,” Sara muttered, taking a sip of wine.

And, as if on cue—

“It’s just… I think my oven wasn’t calibrated properly,” the contestant said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sara groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Vic scoffed. “That’s like blaming your guitar when you play a bad gig.”

Sara smirked. “Or the tap for a bad Guinness.”

“Oh my God, Sara. Depressing. That’s the best you could come up with?” Vic asked, half exasperated, half laughing, she noticed Sara laughing with her mouth open, before turning back to the screen. “Look at his face. He knows he’s done for.”

They watched in silence as the head judge cut into the meat, exposing a raw center that could’ve still been bleeding.

Sara exhaled dramatically. “Pack your knives and go.”

“That’s Top Chef,” Vic corrected.

“Same energy,” Sara said, taking another sip.

Vic grinned and reached for her own glass, only to find it empty. Without thinking, she stood up and stretched. “I’m getting another bottle.”

Sara glanced at the clock, then at Vic. “Don’t you have studio tomorrow?”

Vic waved a hand. “Not until the afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

Sara didn’t reply, but Vic felt the weight of her silence. She ignored it. Focused on getting the bottle.

When she returned, Sara was watching her with an expression Vic didn’t like. Careful. Attentive. Concerned. Or at least something close enough to make her skin prickle.

Vic poured the wine, taking a long sip before settling back on the couch.

“So,” Sara said, her voice quieter now. “How are you?”

Vic blinked, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” She forced a lightness into her voice, but she could already feel the tension creeping in.

Sara gave her a look. “I mean, really.”

Vic took another sip. “Still fine.”

Sara set her glass down, watching her carefully. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Vic frowned, playing dumb. “What does that mean?”

Sara sighed, shifting to face her fully. “I mean, you’ve been a little… off. Since, you know—”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Since St. Louis. Since her brother’s incident. Since Aegon, the red bricks, and an unfinished cigarette.

Vic’s stomach clenched.

She took another sip, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m fine, Sara.”

Sara didn’t look convinced. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

The words hit harder than Vic expected.

She should say yes. She should say of course. But the truth sat heavy in her chest, pressing down on her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

So she just smiled, small and tight. “Obviously.”

Sara didn’t push. Just studied her for a second longer, then let it go.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable, until Vic grabbed onto the first distraction she could find.

“Oh, shit, he’s eating his own raw lamb,” she said, nodding toward the screen, forcing her voice to sound easy, amused. “Man’s got balls.”

Sara exhaled, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “I hope he gets kicked off just for the oven excuse.”

Vic laughed, taking another sip of wine—only to realize Sara was still watching her.

“I talked to Aegon…” Sara started.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Vic cut her off, lifting a finger. “Sara, babe, love of my entire existence. What did I tell you about using that name outside of work hours?” she asked, comically serious, her head light from the wine.

Sara huffed, rolling her eyes. “I know, but I talked to him and—”

“And unless you’re in mortal danger because of him—and honestly, not entirely impossible—I don’t care,” Vic interrupted again, trying to sound firm but keeping it lighthearted.

Sara sighed, clearly unimpressed with that answer. There was definitely something she thought Vic should know. But Vic had shoved Aegon under the rug as much as possible—she could even look at him now without feeling like an earthquake was ripping through her stomach. She didn’t need revelations.

“What about Aemond, then?” Sara tried again.

Vic raised a brow, grabbing a handful of chips. “What about him?”

Sara gestured vaguely. “I mean… you two have been spending a lot of time together.”

Vic snapped her head toward her, looking somewhere between bewildered and horrified. “Oh my God, Sara, no. We’re friends.”

“Friends like you and Aegon?”

“No, babe. Actual friends. He’s not my type.”

Sara shrugged, finally—finally—looking convinced for the first time that night. “Just checking.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sara, our conversations would not pass the Bechdel test,” Vic muttered, shaking her head with a laugh as she picked up her wine.

Sara burst out laughing, lifting her own glass and turning to her.

“Fuck men.”

“Fuck men,” Vic echoed, clinking her glass against Sara’s.

The next day, Vic stepped into the studio, nursing a mild hangover and a Coke zero. She wasn’t wrecked, not really, just slightly off-kilter in the way she always was after a night of drinking—like her brain was moving half a second behind everything else.

The studio was mostly empty, save for one familiar figure sitting on the sofa, guitar in hand. Aegon.

She stopped in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”

He barely glanced up, fingers still idly plucking at the strings. “Aemond sent an email. Moved rehearsal with the band an hour later.”

Vic blinked. “Oh.”

Aegon finally looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t see it?”

“No.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her weight. “Didn’t check my emails.” Which was true. She hadn’t checked much of anything after she got home, too busy drinking and ignoring the part of her brain that sounded a lot like Sara.

Aegon didn’t comment, just nodded once before looking back down at his guitar. His fingers moved, coaxing out a quiet arpeggio.

Vic lingered by the door for a moment, fingers tapping against the side of her Coke. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Aegon was still fiddling with his guitar, picking out the melody to Oblivion, the designated single, almost ready for the Christmas party.

She hated awkward silences.

Without thinking too hard about it—because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging things she didn’t want to acknowledge—she wandered over to the bass resting against its stand.

Aegon’s eyes flicked to her, his fingers pausing for half a second before he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He started playing again, and Vic fell in easily, plucking out the root notes first before letting herself settle into the groove.

But then Aegon, like the little shit he was, changed the chord progression.

Vic’s fingers stuttered for a split second before she adjusted, following the shift smoothly. She shot him a sharp look.

Aegon grinned.

Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it?

Fine.

He changed the rhythm next, and Vic was right there with him, keeping up like it was second nature.

He sped up. She followed.

He threw in an unexpected pause. She anticipated it.

It became a game, a test of reflexes, a silent challenge wrapped in melody. Aegon kept throwing curveballs, expecting to trip her up, and she kept meeting them head-on, adapting so fast it was like she knew what he was going to do before he did it.

The grin Aegon was trying to fight off finally broke through. “Alright, show-off.”

Vic smirked, not even pretending to be modest. “You started it.”

He rolled his eyes and Vic did the same in reflex.

He settled back into the original progression, and Vic followed instinctively, their playing falling into sync like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely speaking to each other.

******

Aemond just didn’t know how to handle women—there was no other way to put it.

Sure, Aegon had occasionally caught him flirting with the harpist who dropped by the label every now and then. Maybe he’d even managed to sleep with her half a time, but it was painfully obvious that any woman worth her salt could eat him for breakfast without breaking a sweat.

But whatever, Aegon was in surprisingly high spirits that evening, thanks to that day’s rehearsals being particularly satisfying.

They were packing up their instruments when his brother showed up carrying a black coffee in a to-go cup and ceremoniously handed it to Vic, blushing like a schoolboy just because she’d said thank you.

Hazelnut syrup cappuccino—that was Vic’s favorite, Aegon thought as he plopped down onto one of the armchairs, momentarily marveling at his own memory. Maybe quitting drugs did have its perks after all.

But Vic had wasted no time and had already taken a sip.

“You were absolutely right, this stuff isn’t bad at all,” she commented, one hand resting on her hip as she shot Aemond one of her soul-destroying looks.

Aemond hunched his shoulders in response, his face holding something dangerously close to a smile—a sight rare enough to be noteworthy—and then launched into a ramble about aromatic qualities and how cigarettes supposedly tasted better after a black coffee. As if to prove his point, he pulled out the steel cigarette case he always kept in his pocket and offered her one.

She accepted. The two of them strolled out to the terrace, chatting away like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What a pathetic sight. What a complete disappointment.

Aegon forced himself to look away, muttering something under his breath as Cole and the rest of the session players packed up their gear. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Maybe it was time to tell Cole to start looking for another bassist. It was only a matter of time before Aemond’s terminal awkwardness rubbed off on Vic, and she started driving Aegon crazy with nonsense about flat-wound bass strings. There was no way he’d put up with that.

"What do you think? Are you ready?" Cole asked, placing a hand on Aegon’s shoulder and snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts as he stared at the two idiots out on the terrace.

"Why? Did I seem not ready to you?" Aegon replied, his posture stiffening. He suddenly felt insecure, caught off guard by the question.

The label’s Christmas party was set for that Friday, and no, he wasn’t ready—not even close. But Aegon knew he probably never would be ready to endure his father’s sharp-edged judgment.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Cole that. Especially not with the other musicians in earshot.

"I think the track’s a hit, and you guys sound tight," Cole said with a quick glance toward Dan, the other guitarist, "but Dan’s an asshole, and I don’t trust him." Cole whispered to his ear.

Aegon laughed, unable to disagree. Dan had tried more than once to sneak in flashy flourishes that, first of all, sounded awful, and second, reeked of desperation and a need for attention—exactly the kind of thing Aegon couldn’t afford to let slide.

"What if you played it acoustic?" Cole added after a moment.

Aegon considered him, his mind churning.

If he performed it acoustic, his father wouldn’t be able to attribute the success of the song to anyone but him. And it would mean no Vic and her new sycophantic fanboy getting in his way for at least a few days.

It was a win-win.

“Oh Cole, you wanker, don’t threaten me with a good time," Aegon replied with far too much confidence.

*****

"You haven’t played me anything new yet," Aemond said to Vic as she huddled into her jacket, bracing herself against the biting December wind.

He immediately regretted the way it came out. His tone had been too stern, almost authoritarian—the last thing he needed was to put Vic on the defensive, especially now that her attitude toward him was no longer one of outright rejection.

She was finally starting to warm up to him, even agreeing to come to the Christmas party and perform in front of his father. The idea of her signing with the label felt closer than ever, a tangible reality within reach.

Thankfully, Vic didn’t seem rattled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, taking a long drag from her cigarette, and smiled faintly.

"I don’t have anything good," she said, shrugging lightly.

"Bullshit," Aemond replied, his eyes glued to her in a way he couldn’t quite control. "Don’t make me show up at open mic night just to prove you wrong."

Vic smiled, shifting her gaze to the city sprawled out below them. “I thought you liked coming to open mic nights,” she said, throwing him a sly look.

“I only go to hear you,” Aemond replied impulsively, his carefully constructed filter—the one that had taken years to perfect—suddenly malfunctioning.

It wasn’t exactly how he would’ve phrased it if he’d given himself a second to think, but too late now. And, really, it didn’t matter; it was true. As she turned her eyes back to his, he thought he caught the faintest hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

Surely he was imagining it.

“Need a ride?” Aegon’s voice broke through, startling them both as he appeared in the doorway leading to the terrace.

Of course. Of course his brother had to show up at the worst possible moment, as if timed by some cosmic joke.

Aegon tossed out the question with his usual cocky, indifferent air, the same attitude that grated on Vic just as much as it did on Aemond.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp and skeptical, as if silently asking him to explain himself further.

“I have to drop something off with Sara,” Aegon added, his tone offhanded and deliberately vague.

Aemond smirked to himself at the flimsy excuse—probably the oldest one in the book. Why not just admit outright that something was going on between him and Sara? Aegon’s newfound sense of discretion was puzzling. Usually, he couldn’t help but brag about his latest fling.

And yet...it wasn’t like him to keep quiet.

Vic seemed to share Aemond’s suspicion, her confused expression lingering even now. “Isn’t she working?” she asked.

Aegon shook his head. “She worked the morning shift.”

Vic stubbed out her cigarette against the ashtray mounted near the doorframe, the motion so swift and feline that, for a split second, Aemond half-expected her to put it out on Aegon’s face instead.

Then, she turned back to him, handing him the lighter he’d loaned her just minutes ago.

“I’ll let you know if inspiration strikes,” she said lightly, her hand briefly brushing his as he took the lighter back.

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the night with Aegon following closely behind.

Aemond wanted to respond with something clever or even mildly charming, but all he managed was a useless, muted “mh.”

*****

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about in the kitchen.

It wasn’t her business. Aegon wasn’t her business, and besides, she trusted Sara.

And yet, this whole he had to return her t-shirt excuse seemed like complete bullshit.

For one, Aegon claimed he’d borrowed it on the night Charlie stayed over—the same night Sara had closed at work and Vic had gone home early with Charlie. But Vic knew Sara’s wardrobe like the back of her hand, and there was no way—absolutely no way—Sara would have shown up to work in that shirt.

Also, why would Sara have lent Aegon a shirt in the first place? It wasn’t like she kept a stash of spares for emergencies. And even if, for some bizarre reason, Aegon had needed one, why the hell would he have chosen a Paddington t-shirt at least two sizes too small for him?

And if he’d borrowed it for whatever dumbass reason—why hadn’t he just given it back the other night at the pub?

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about, and yet lying on her bed in silence, staring at the ceiling, was only driving her closer to insanity.

She sat up abruptly, brushing her bangs out of her face with a nervous swipe before slapping a hand over her face and glancing around for her tobacco. Her gaze caught on the guitar.

She felt a pang of guilt for lying to Aemond.

It wasn’t true that she had “nothing good.” She’d been writing nonstop ever since she and Aegon had stopped speaking.

“All You Wanted” had come out of her in one rush of emotion during a rare night when she hated him a little less. She’d been thinking about all the things she wished she’d said to him instead of...well, instead of what she had done.

Of course, maybe she hadn’t technically lied to Aemond. The song wasn’t ready. She was still tweaking it, still figuring out the last details.

But even if it was ready—even if it was perfect—she still wouldn’t play it. Not at open mic, not anywhere.

Too personal. Just a bit too revealing.

As she sat there, cigarette unlit, thoughts swirling, Vic found herself struck by the ridiculous dramatic irony of the moment. Here she was, about to pick up “All You Wanted,” while the man who’d inspired it sat just ten meters away, separated only by a wall.

Talking to her roommate. Sitting on her sofa. Probably drinking her tea.

Abandoning the tobacco, she reached for the guitar instead.

******

“You’re both pathetic,” Sara had said, without ceremony or even sparing him a glance. She sat at the kitchen table with her legs perfectly crossed, a cup of tea in her hand, shaking her head like a disappointed preschool teacher.

What annoyed Aegon even more was that every single attempt to steer the conversation away from Vic had failed miserably. Sara kept pressing him for updates—had they talked about what had happened? Had he grown a pair and told Vic how he felt?

If she weren’t the closest thing he had right now to the possibility of vulnerable sex, he would’ve told her to screw off.

No, actually.

If she weren’t the closest thing he had to a friend, he definitely would’ve told her to screw off.

“I don’t get what the hell you want from me!” he snapped, frustrated, slamming the tea mug down onto the table with more force than necessary.

“I’ve got nothing to say to her. I don’t want to talk to her, and even if I did, she’s practically glued to Aemond now!”

Sara snorted, the sound sharp enough to cut through his growing irritation.

“Unbelievable. You’re actually jealous of your brother.”

AS IF. Aegon didn’t even dignify the comment with a response. No, he wasn’t jealous—he just meant that even if he did want to figure out some way to smooth things over with Vic, maybe even talk her into ditching whatever girl code nonsense was stopping him from taking Sara to bed, he couldn’t exactly have that conversation in front of Aemond.

Or in front of the Uber driver who had ferried the two of them here together.

Damn Vic Dawson for putting him in this position. The entire ride over, he’d had to endure 20 minutes of painful small talk about Arsenal matches with the driver, all because of her.

“Why are you the one changing the subject every five minutes?” Aegon asked, finally fed up with circling around the real reason he’d come here.

Sara turned her face toward him suddenly, arching a single brow, though she radiated an air of total awareness. She knew where this was going, and maybe that was why she deliberately shifted her legs, angling them away from him.

“Because I’m not going out with you, Aegon,” Sara said firmly, her gaze steadfastly avoiding his.

Yeah, okay. Bullshit.

Aegon could smell bullshit a mile away—it was practically his second language.

“And why not?” he pressed, confidence rushing in to fill the space left behind by her discomfort. Her hesitation was like a soothing balm to his recently battered ego.

He had at least two solid counterarguments ready for whatever nonsense she might throw at him about not dating someone who’s been in your friend’s bed. For one thing, technically, he’d never been in Vic’s bed. Not practically.

And for another, it was obvious Sara was into him.

Painfully obvious from the way she turned toward him again, her chin resting on one hand, those green eyes of hers locking with his. Aegon could practically taste the victory teasing his tongue, sweet and just within reach.

“Because I don’t do placeholders or stand-ins,” she replied coolly. “Especially not for people who are clearly hung up on someone else.”

Aegon felt the blood in his veins freeze. He’d heard exactly what Sara had said, but his brain had processed her words in an entirely different way.

Sara had asked him not to use her—not to make her another one of his stupid coping mechanisms, just a temporary fix to make himself feel better.

His mind darted back to that damn night weeks ago, to how Vic had made him feel. Just a placeholder. Someone to fill the void because Charlie hadn’t wanted her back.

Suddenly, the blood in his body started flowing again—but now it was molten, boiling with shame.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to face what he had just suggested.

Sara didn’t say anything.

In the heavy silence of the kitchen, the only sound that broke through was the faint strum of a guitar.

The sound yanked Aegon’s head around almost instinctively.

“Does she always do this?” he asked, his irritation barely masked now that Vic had started to sing. Part of him was annoyed—Vic seemed to have a knack for getting under his skin without even trying—and part of him just wanted to dissipate the thick tension between him and Sara.

Sara shrugged, feigning exasperation. “Always,” she replied.

Suddenly, Aegon had no desire to stay in that house any longer.

He got to his feet, catching Sara’s glance as he moved. “Thanks for the shirt... and for the tea.”

“Anytime,” she said, her tone casual. But perhaps she noticed the guilt that clouded his expression, because she added, “We good?”

Aegon paused, studying her for a moment before giving her a genuine smile. “I hope so.”

Sara returned the faintest of smiles before standing to clear the empty cups off the table.

Aegon knew it was borderline psychopathic behavior to wander silently through someone else’s house, but he couldn’t stop himself. Curiosity had taken hold, steering his legs toward the partially open door of Vic’s room.

Vic was sitting on her bed, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over her ears, plugged into an amp. An old green notebook lay open in front of her, and from the way she was playing now—nodding furiously—Aegon could tell she’d just worked through something she hadn’t liked. She always nodded like that when she thought she’d nailed it.

She was turned three-quarters toward the window, and yet Aegon couldn’t look away from the curve of her cheekbone, the subtle line catching the glow from the room. It tilted upward as she smiled, the unmistakable signal that she was about to start singing.

It felt almost like cheating, but after everything that had happened, if there was a shortcut to Vic’s thoughts—even a morally questionable one—Aegon wanted to take it.

Maybe, despite the fear of stumbling into yet another irritating love letter to Charlie, he hoped he had been enough in her thoughts to force her to pour them out like this. After all, she hadn’t actually spoken to him about what had happened.

And while the first verse hadn’t offered him any real comfort, the moment Vic started singing about someone who seemed cold on the outside but needed someone to guide them, Aegon felt something stir in his chest.

And if that hadn’t been enough to convince him that Vic was singing about him—about the wave of insecurities they’d faced and how they could have ridden it together—when the chorus hit, the words shattered any lingering doubt.

Aegon felt like an idiot for ever doubting, even for a second, that everything Vic had done—her silence, the desperation with which she’d sought him out—hadn’t been anything less than a cry for help. One that she’d believed only he could hear.

He didn’t know what it meant entirely, not yet. He hadn’t figured out if this was the grand declaration of love he’d been waiting for that night outside his building. But for someone who’d spent weeks believing he was just a footnote, a scribbled thought lost in the endless sea of an old notebook, he now understood something else entirely:

He wasn’t just a passing idea.

He was an entire song.

In her mind.

In her chest.

In her voice.

Footsteps startled him, pulling him from the moment. Aegon instinctively stepped back, not wanting Vic to realize he’d been standing there, listening. His gaze snapped toward the source of the sound—and when he spotted Sara at the bottom of the stairs, her grin told him everything.

“I knew you’d like this one,” she said, her tone sly.

Hello, beauties! A quick message to thank you for all the love, you’re truly amazing 🥹 and to remind you that yes, I stole one of my all-time favorite songs and gave it to Vic. We declared Michelle Branch should be a bigger artist and she deserves THE WORLD, and that’s exactly why I wanted to pay tribute to her. Plus, I think it fits perfectly with the dynamic of our two idiots. Thanks for your understanding, I hope, as always, that I haven’t ruined your suspension of disbelief 🤍

#aegon #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon x oc #hotd #hotd fanfic #modern au #modern au aegon #modernauaegon

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tactical-jellyfish · 2 days ago

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The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Four <3 This is where shit will get GNARLY, lovelies, so mind the gap (between Reader and their three awful boyfriends [not counting Gary, obv])

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

You're comfortable there, in that bathroom.

Gary, even after he's wiped you down, treats you gentle. Sits you up in your own little corner and has you sip on some water as he showers in one of the stalls.

It felt nice, just letting yourself cool back off, but not really being on your own.

Gary was very kind with you.

Should bring him food, some part of your lizard brain supplies, he looked like he was struggling a little his last set.

With the new mission in mind (and a spare* hoodie that Gary keeps in his gym bag), you knock on the shower wall to alert him that you're leaving, and shove your phone from your own bag into your pocket without even taking a glance at it.

The calmer, almost content feeling abandons you as soon as you open the door and spot Gaz walking into the gym room.

Of course, his hazel eyes catch onto you, and of course (because you really can't catch a fucking break), he trots over.

He doesn't greet you as he typically does, not with a sweet endearment and a firm hug. Instead, you're met with an appraising, almost judgy glance–knowing Gaz, he probably is judging you–and a cocked brow.

"Didn't pick up your phone before you showered?"

The question rings out to you, but you know he's not all that in your answer. It's not a warning, but a reminder that Gaz has never been the most patient. He's never liked to wait.

"Haven't checked it in a couple days, actually."

You impart in kind, crossing your arms over your chest for your own sake. You really don't want to have any face-downs today. You'd been feeling so good before.

He looks you up and down once more. It feels like his eyes peel your skin back, taking in the appearance of the ugly, squishy bits inside you before he clicks his tongue and steps back a bit.

"Right then. Just so you know, Johnny's right miffed with you. Told me you were being a prick last night. You know why?"

You hate this. You hate this so much. You would have never signed up for this if you knew It would be so draining.

Soap who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to treat you like a partner, Gaz who seemed to want to cut your head off every time tension arose, and Ghost. The romantic equivalent of an absent father you only see on Christmas or birthdays.

Maybe you're letting the anxiety of the last few days talk. Maybe it's rash (no, it's definitely rash), but you can't handle a second more of this.

"Yeah, I was, sorry." You pause, before just coming out with the rest of it: "I'm thinking about cutting off this... thing. Thought you should know."

Ooh. Spoken with tact. Good job. Your own thoughts mock, but the very worst part of this is that Gaz seems to finally snap out of whatever haze he was caught in. His face twists, and your stomach twists with it as you watch his brows pinch and hear his voice quiet.

"...What? Love, you can't-"

You've pushed him to the back foot now, and it feels horrendous. So, you try to harness the grossness you always feel when he touches you, the aching emptiness of your room when you hear Soap on top of Gaz.

Or the knowledge that Soap and Ghost stay with him longer than they ever have you.

You were too green, too new to the team and too stupid to remember that of course the others wouldn't offer too much. But something between waking up from emergency surgery alone and making friends with the guy who dragged you away from death's door made you open your eyes to it.

"It's fine. Not your fault, just my mistake."

"Mistake, what do you even mean mistake? We were supposed to be partners. You're supposed to be my partner, luv, can you not see that-"

"You're not missing out on much, don't worry. I can't fuck anybody for at least another week anyway."

"What the bloody fuck are you talking about?"

The door to the bathroom opens behind you at maybe the worst moment in history, revealing Gary, still a little damp-haired from the shower. His boots squeak against the floor as he pauses in his step, watching the conversation confusedly.

Gaz's eyes widen, and before you can stop him, he's giving you the nastiest glare you've got in your life, spitting words like venom.

"Oh, so that's why you've been so distant, huh?"

Words choke and tangle in your throat as you look forward at him, watch the resentment in his eyes undoubtedly grow into a bruning hatred.

"It's not-" You try to start, but you never get to finish.

"No no, I get it. Must be real hard hiding how much of a slag you are from the team, yeah?"

You're not sure if you want to punch him or cry out of anger. You end up doing neither, clenching your hands into fists to avoid dishing out pain.

Gary looks confused, and you lack the control to hold any amount of civility anymore. He didn't need to be involved with this.

You didn't want Gary to think you were some sort of slut. Not him.

"I had an appendectomy, you stupid prick! Days ago, if you really wanna know"

You've never been one to raise your voice. It feels rude, but when Gaz quiets, there's nothing to be done but go in for the kill.

"You didn't pick up. I could have died in a bathroom stall because you were so busy that you couldn't check your phone and help me."

Gary puts his hand on your shoulder as you step forward, silently talking you back from wailing on Gaz in the middle of the gym.

When you look back, he signs to you.

There's time for that later.

You grit your teeth, but nod, offering a simple affirmative sign in return before turning back to Gaz with venom on your tongue.

"Fuck you. If I see your face before the end of my break, I'll make sure no one ever calls you pretty again, hear me?"

He could beat the shit out of you. But he doesn't. Gaz looks... upset. You can't muster sympathy right now.

"Break?"

Gaz questions, quiet-voiced and not quite looking you in the eyes.

"Yeah, the brass gives you breaks after fuckin' surgery, numb-nuts. Might as well take it if I've got it, right?"

You're verbally shoving his face into the curb, grinding your boots down on his throat. It feels better than you thought it would, finally just letting it all out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Gary packed an extra hoodie because you seemed to like them. He's a little sad you didn't get to enjoy it too much. He has a feeling he might have more work to do for you to feel that comfortable again. (P.s. really just need to get it out of my drafts at this point, looking at it makes me sick now. So, enjoy what you can. Take it, my children.)

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ofnuerogod · 2 days ago

Text

Derek definitely knew a pretty face, he had a dashingly handsome face himself. But he also knew as a surgeon, as the whys Webber asked him to come to Seattle, one the man was feeling desperate for his aid, for his skilled abilities as a head neuro Surgeon. But he was lining Derek up, to take over as chief someday. Was it necessarily a job he was interested in down the line? A desk job? No Derek was a guy who liked to get his hands dirty. He liked the rush of peering inside a brain, the x-rays that showed a bleed. He liked the appeal of giving orders, being the man in charge, but he also knows the destruction it could do to your personal life.

And seeing as he was newly single, Derek had no interest in settling down, or ruining the attention he’d receive from women. As for Meredith; he’d be partial. He’d look at her skill, and if she made a mistake he could be a hard ass when deemed necessary. But for the now; I could flirt, I could harmlessly tease her, and as we stood that safe distance from the other, I wore that charming grin of mine. “ I’d hate to get on your bad side Meredith Grey.” Pausing to purposely utter her full name. “ I’ll be hard on you, besides from what I hear your the intern to keep my eyes on.”

A playful wink now as I raised my cup to my lips to take a sip of my drink. As for Addison the redhead was a mystery to me, was she only hunting me now obsessive much? Or did Richard offer my ex a job as well? A shrug of my shoulders were pulled now, as I faced the dirty blonde. “ I don’t know if Addison is working here. If she is its news to me. But as for what kind of work she does, she’s pink scrubs, she works with the babies, she delivers, she aids to new mothers.” It was a job she loved, and I was careful on how I worded my words because I had no idea if Meredith had interest in OB-GYN and I didn’t want to offend her, how Meredith saw me was important to me. As strange as it was; considering we were strangers. Placing my empty cup down, the male had stepped dangerously closer to the female, as he extended his hand out. “ I will be taking notes, after all if you damage my surgeon hand, Webber may kick you out, so I can only save you if you have a good bed side manner..” I aired out with a tease, a flirt on my lips.

@ofnuerogod

{Life… Let’s just say it had a way of throwing curveballs in your direction. At times it seemed like my life was more curveballs than not, but I learned to deal with it. Well, I should say I learned to adapt. Sure, people tended to refer to me as dark and twisty, but I was okay with that. I mean, I was far from the sunshine and rainbows personality. I didn't have many friends. Well, more like no friends or people I really associated with, since I wasn't really a people person. I liked my space. No, dark and twisty suited me. It kept me guarded from even more disappointments in my life. Between the absentee father who abandoned me when I was a kid, and my mother who was more focused on her career than anything, I didn’t exactly have what anyone would call a normal home life or upbringing. Hell, I spent more of my time at the hospital, while my mother tended to patients and conducted surgeries, than I did in my own home… Once I became an adult, I followed the career path I knew would make my mom proud. Or at least that was my goal since I had worked my whole life to make my mother proud. In vain, of course, but still, I tried. Yes, I was going to be a surgeon. Mind you, my mom made sure to keep me grounded daily. You know, reminding me each day that I would never be the world renowned surgeon that she is, but as long as I didn’t embarrass her or tarnish “The Grey Legacy” that she set, then okay. Mother of the year, I’ll tell you. Even so, I pushed forward; eventually finishing college, then medical school, and now I was about to embark on my internship at Seattle Grace Hospital. Of course I wasn’t stupid. I knew my acceptance into that internship program had a lot to do with my last name and who my mother is. I was the daughter of the great Ellis Grey. That left people curious to see if I had what it takes to live up to the Grey name. Not that she pulled any strings to get me into the program since early onset Alzheimers set in for her, and most days, she didn’t even know who I was anymore. Oddly, she remembered her surgeries, some of her patients, the awards and accolades she received through her career, and some of the more memorable people she worked with, but nope, not me. Couldn’t remember her own daughter. Still, I made a point to visit her on a daily basis; sharing stories and memories that I thought might ring familiar to her, but she usually just cut me off to mention having to go into surgery, so she’d not so subtly tell me to leave the nursing home. It hurt, to say the least, but given my lifelong list of disappointments, I would adapt to this one too. I silently considered as I was in the midst of taking my daily visit to the nursing home where she resided. Figuring I better get my visit in now since tomorrow I would be beginning my internship at the hospital, and I knew I could be working some weeks up to a hundred hours; meaning my time will be limited on my visits to see my mom from tomorrow on. Even so, my car had been dropped off at the shop earlier for an oil change and tire rotation, so once I left the mechanic’s shop, I decided to walk to her nursing home. It wasn’t /that/ far, so even I could handle the walk. No, I wasn’t the most athletic individual, especially on days like today when it’s windy and rainy, but even I could handle walking several blocks to my destination… I mean, what could go wrong? I thought with a silent scoff as I pulled my hood up to cover the rain from hitting my head as much as possible; all the while keeping one hand in place at the side of my hood in an effort to keep the wind from blowing my hood down} Oh yeah… This was a great plan. {I murmured sarcastically under my breath as I approached an intersection; stopping with a few other people for the light to change, so we could ultimately cross the road and continue to my next destination}

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lavendersgirl · 17 days ago

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took an edible an hour ago and forgot

#i was like why does my head feel so empty

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intertexts · 5 months ago

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=___=

#was like huh. why do i feel bad and not good and head empty. i did not in fact eat anything today!!! except coffee!!!! at all!!#everything here is like far away & gross though & this studio gets out at 245. so i will probably just wait. but. bluh.#feeling. bad. annoyed that someones in my fucking spot. design prof is wanting like status updates on packaging work & i am #so Fucking behind because of!!! everything else!! that i'm already behind in!!!! & also i miss ny. i want an upstate ny autumn.#like so bad its unreal. does this ever stop pls write in and tell me (slash jay.)god. cant wait 2 get home & make indomie & take a miserabl #face down nap & accidentally wake up in the dark. not manifesting this actually but as previously stated. ghghbhbhghh.#txt

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lightnersdream · 2 years ago

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#WHY DOES IT ALL HAVE TO BE SO MUCH #i don't usually get like this. im usually a kind of person that just lets stuff happen around me and not care a lot in terms of like social #behavior and relationships #you meet people. sometimes they go #that's how it is #there's people that we just drifted away or they vanished and it wasn't hard feelings #and normally i get over it. i miss them alot but it doesnt hit me this hard #and the thing is i haven't even lost anyone #it's just ive been so angry and low energy and pissed off by everything all the time that ive been distancing myself #and even when im not like that.. im just tired. my brain is clouded i just don't have anything to say #i want to say something but there isnt anything #so i havent been talking to a lot of people #and im like really afraid by the time im done working over whatever this is. that people will have found more other people they #prefer to talk to more or are closer with or we just find out its been too long and we dont have anything in common anymore #because i know ive been away from my friends more and more of late of late ive barely talked to anyone at all beyond 1-2 message exchanges #sometimes not at all .this isn't abnormal #but i happen to the kind of person who crumples if i don't get some kind of interaction daily #so as much as im empty-headed and angry and bad at conversation i need to be around people constantly #at the end of the day i don't have anything going on outside of drawing and talking to friends. i have nowhere to be in real life #i cant go anywhere. i don't know anyone and i hate my family #i don't know. im scared and lonely and it feels like i can be kind of a nothing person to talk to #dib noise #some of this is problems with myself which i do work on and i work on them hard. i don't want to be like that #i'm bad at meeting people too. i don't like taking risks or new things its all so much #I SHOULD CLARIFY. i am happy for poeple i am close to when they meet new people. i love hearing about them #and meeting them. i just have a horrible fear of being replaced or forgotten

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blackwaxidol · 3 months ago

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I don't think I've been this violently upset and miserable at myself in years.

#I hate being transsexual I hate being transsexual I hate it I hate it I fucking hate it.#Either I die and stop living this way or I stop having whatever mental illness is preventing me from actually approaching that clinic.#Whichever comes first. I don't care I just need it to stop.#''This is your sign to start HRT'' CAN YOU PERHAPS HELP ME WITH IT THEN. CAN YOU DO THAT.#I'm trying to calm down but my evening is already sort of irrecoverably ruined so it does not matter.#I cannot even care for hobbies currently.#I am making new rooms and then completely deleting them without saving anything because I just do not care.#I am. Not able to get whatever I need because forcing myself like smashing my fucking head against the wall—#—trying to make myself look at that thing the clinic the whatever. Is not doing me any good.#I have no other option and this forcing myself is clearly making me worse.#I just don't get it why do I not have some kind of drive to do this.#Why is nothing able to motivate me.#These aren't serious questions. I just feel like I am doing something incorrectly.#Trying to ponder it just makes me genuinely angry.#I am not able to live up to anyone's expectations.#I don't think 'trying to pursue HRT' is the part that is supposed to make you want to kill yourself.#Isn't it supposed to not do that.#Not asking sincerely I'm just empty of emotion and being sardonic.#I don't really care... I want to lie down and stop moving.#Sorry I make a post like this and then delete it. I contain multitudes of equal insecurities.#I also just don't like talking about this kind of thing.

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dontmixpaintinyourcoffee · 1 month ago

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This one goes out to all the bitches who love some good Safehouse Era Horror. It's me, I'm bitches. I want Jon and Martin to be fucked up and eldritch but I want them to be fucked up and eldritch and loved

(Notes under the cut because I can't help myself. Heads up, I do go into some detail of how Jon gets injured so I can explain my thought process for how I designed his scars. All canon-typical and fairly clinical in tone.)

Here's how I picture Safehouse Jon!

He doesn't need glasses anymore by this point, so he should just be wearing empty frames, but I drew this before I settled on my glasses headcanons. This drawing looks better with the reflection anyways.

He hasn't gotten a haircut since before his promotion to Head Archivist. He doesn't love the weight of it on his neck, but he also uses it to fidget, and he really doesn't want to go through the whole process of cutting it. He's disliked haircuts since he was a kid (People: Bad. Small talk: Bad. Touching: Bad. Loud sounds: Bad. People talking all at once: Bad) and since his time with the Circus he's only grown more reluctant to go and get it done.

At this length his hair is naturally pretty curly but he is. Not taking care of it. I actually put a lot of effort into trying to make it look brittle and tangled (I have a lot of experience lol, my hair is quite thick and I've always hated taking care of it. Yes I am also projecting my feelings about going to a hairdressers onto him why do you ask.)

The various scars were a bit of a strange task, but anyone who has seen my takes on The Bad Kids knows I'm not averse to selective realism in my fiction. Easiest one was the neck, I always pictured Daisy making a vertical cut based on "through the voice box". The larynx is longer than it is wide, so I think Daisy would go for the method that dealt damage across the largest total surface area. Yes I am aware that I'm speaking the same way Martin does when he explains his corkscrew.

The worm scars were easy because I barely drew any. There are a few marks on his cheek, but they're just surface bites. I picture most of his encounter with Prentiss showing on his legs, particularly on the right side, with enough damage there that he starts using a cane after the incident to keep weight off his right leg. More research to be done on this particular detail.

Finally the burn on his hand from Jude. This was the weirdest one to figure out just because of the nature of the injury. How do you quantify the damage done to an epidermis by a living manifestation of sometimes-boiling wax that can heat and cool at will? I settled on it being a second-degree burn that healed supernaturally fast, containing the damage to the space Jude had direct contact with. He'd probably have some mobility issues there as well. I know there are ways to help with mobility and pain after a severe burn, but I don't know how much of it Jon would actually. Do. Like I said, definitely further research to be done on these last two.

Hey so I'm gonna ask you to stop and consider the horror of the watcher. The helplessness. The guilt. The inherent terror of being a spectator, a participant by proximity but not by action. The horror of not being able to look away, of being a bystander. Jon forgets to blink sometimes. But wouldn't it be so much worse if there were no eyelids at all? That's how I interpret the description of The Archivist being "All Eyes" :D

I love a good Many-Eyed Jon, so I whipped up my own interpretation here. I think the more he Becomes the more he starts to resemble the thing from the dreams. He has a lot more control of it in S5, but it still creeps up on him and he has to consciously go back to a human shape.

#coffeepaintart #jonathan sims #jon sims #tma #the magnus archives #scopophobia #scopophobia tw #tw scopophobia #the archivist #tma fanart #tma art #if i need to tag any other tws or cws lmk

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bi-writes · 3 months ago

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anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1

Tradition is not something you are fond of.

It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.

That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.

To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.

Tradition.

Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”

Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.

“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.

“That’s it.”

Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.

“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.

“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”

Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.

Fuck. Keep it together.

“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”

The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.

“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?

Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.

Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.

She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.

Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.

“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”

“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”

Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”

Patronizing shit.

“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.

Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.

You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.

Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.

But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–

“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”

Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.

In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.

You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.

Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–

“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.

“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”

“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.

I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.

“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.

“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.

“What do you mean?”

“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”

“He can do that?”

“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.

Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.

If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.

Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.

Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.

When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.

He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.

You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.

“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.

Get your shit together.

When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.

You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.

Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.

“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”

Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.

“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”

Oh, that totally makes you feel better.

Prick.

He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.

You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.

It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.

Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.

Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.

She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.

Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.

Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.

In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.

Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?

Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.

If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.

To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.

Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.

You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.

“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.

He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–

Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.

“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”

You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.

Gross.

“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”

You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.

“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.

They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.

“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”

You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.

When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.

“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”

Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.

The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.

It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.

“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”

“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”

“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.

“A tool.”

“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate…Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”

“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.

The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.

“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”

“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”

John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.

“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”

“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”

She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.

“Bravo-7, sitrep.”

“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.

“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.

Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.

I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.

“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”

“Certainly is y’r fault.”

“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”

Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.

“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”

“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”

“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”

Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”

Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”

“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”

Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.

Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.

“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”

“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”

“Just observation on target for now. Why?”

“Need 10 minutes.”

Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.

“What are you doing? Simon–”

“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”

There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.

“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”

“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.

“H-Heat? R-Right now?”

“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a…pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”

When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?

He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!

“W-What’s happening t-to me?”

“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.

She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.

You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.

“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.

If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.

“Simon, I need it–I need it–”

“I know, love.”

Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–

“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”

“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”

You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.

It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”

“You’ll make it take.”

He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.

He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.

Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.

It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.

He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.

Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.

The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.

“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,” he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”

You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.

He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.

“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.

“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”

Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.

“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.

“Smells like ye had fun.”

“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”

When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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mostly-imagines · 7 months ago

Text

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs.

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.”

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long.

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?”

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up.

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.”

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.”

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?”

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.”

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you.

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you.

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it.

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?”

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this.

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking.

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

You stare at him incredulously.

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer.

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment.

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck.

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you, “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official.

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