#named in chronological order of death of course

[cupidsncheerios]

i actually love the whole "naming your kids after your dead loved ones" trope for arcane because its wildly different between ships

like when jayce and viktor have a kid all they have to do is like. name it sky or heimerdinger or maybe cassandra if they feel like it

for caitlyn and vi it means every time they scold their kid they have to yell "POWDER CLAGGOR-MYLO-VANDER-CASSANDRA-ISHA-LORIS-VANDER-FOR-THE-SECOND-TIME-JAYCE-JINX KIRAMMAN YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW"

[novaursa]

The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Pairing: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her. 

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound. 

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced. 

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty. 

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought—Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind. 

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father. 

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat. 

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

[ysrjune]

౨: SAM MONROE ໒; TWILIGHT AU

[ inspired by something I saw on tumblr/bot on j.ai made by erosmutt. ]

[ I don’t think this is in chronological order of the saga but if it is then yippee!! ]

[ no cullens. rosalie, jasper, emmett, alice, esme, and carlisle exist but under different names. no y/n. 3rd person. doesn’t mention reader being a Swan, but you could imagine it that way. not proof-read. I think my math was lowkey off by a little bit LMFAO ]

໒: Sam Monroe became a vampire back in 2001. He would have been 42 if he was actually alive now, but he's stuck in his 16 year old body. The young boy was hospitalized after an overdose and was dying. What nobody knew was that one of the doctors at that hospital was immortal. He had created a “family” of vampires before even reaching Sam. The young boy grew on the Dr. Kevin in a short amount of time, leading to biting Sam and turning him into a vampire before he reached death.

໒: Another year in high school. Hes learned everything already (only 20 years after he died did he actually pay attention) and now he could actually not pay any attention to his teachers, but still know the answer to every question he was asked.

໒: Sam is a 40 year old man. He's matured since he was 16. Now he doesn't skip class, does his work on time, cooperates on group assignments without fussing—he does everything he didn't do all that time ago. He still prefers to keep to himself, though.

໒: What seemed like his millionth junior year, you switched to his highschool in Forks. You were in his biology class and of course the teacher had to sit you next to him. He kept his eyes to himself but he so desperately wanted to get a better look at you. Sam had only glanced at you when you walked in, but he knew you were beautiful. You smelled great, too. One thing bothered him, though. He couldn't read your thoughts.

໒: Everytime you tried to make small talk with him, he never answered with real words. A shrug, shaking or nodding of the head.. thats all. He didnt even bother to spare a glance. He kept his eyes on his notebook where he would doodle things, and after that first day.. he didn't go to school for 2 weeks. Was it your fault? did you annoy him? a bunch of questions flooded your head.

“Do you guys know that Sam kid? pale skin and black hair with a blue stripe..” you ask the group of kids you started sitting with 2 weeks ago. “Who doesn't know him,” Avery, a girl with black hair and green eyes, answers you. “hes gorgeous.” she continued and smiled. “got your eyes on him or somethin’ ?” Jeremy, a dirty blonde with dark brown eyes, asks. “No,” you shake your head, furrowing your eyebrows. “I just.. sit with him in bio. He hasn’t been here since my first day.” Jeremy shrugs. “He dissappears a lot. Him and his siblings. Their dad likes to take them out everywhere out of town randomly.” he explains. “how many siblings does he have?” you asked Jeremy while picking at the split ends in your hair. “four, but they're like.. dating. its really weird.” Avery rolls her eyes. “They arent actually related. They're all adopted, so you know.. they arent blood.” she lets you in on what was going on between that family. “All those kids have different last names. They have the dads name, yeah, but they dont really use it. Its just there.” she says. “okay well its still really frickin weird. I mean, they sleep under the same roof. like, thats gotta be freaky.” Jeremy shakes his head. “just mind your business, jer.” Joanna, another girl who sat at the table groans.

໒: Just a few days after that conversation at lunch, Sam came back. He was sitting at the lab you two were assigned seated in, and once you walked in, he looked up at you. “Hi..” he starts off a few seconds after you sit in your stool. “Im Sam.. Monroe.” He introduces himself officially. “sorry I didnt get to introduce myself the other day. Im not good with talking to new people.” He confesses, still looking at you. “Its fine,” you assure him and look his way and introduce yourself to him. He managed to make a little bit more small talk after that.

໒: At lunch that day, you saw him sitting with his siblings. A girl with blonde hair whose name is Meli. Her boyfriend.. and adoptive brother, (yikes) Benny. Another boy and girl who were also 'together', Ryan and Julissa. Julissa had copper hair while Ryans hair was plain black. Your group was talking, but you zoned out while sneaking looks at Sam. His outfit today told you a lot about who he is. black cargo shorts, a green shirt underneath a metallica band T.. jewlery covering his wrists, neck, ears and mouth. He was some sort of punk, maybe.

໒: Overtime, he somewhat became your friend after months of trying to get to know him. Month 6 was when you found out his secret. It freaked you out, and it angered him because he knew thats how you'd act, but you just had to snoop around at libraries to read about immortals with cold skin, a diet of blood and lots of other things.

“I'm not afraid,” you tell him, but he knew it was a lie. He heard you heart racing. “You lie a lot. Not a good habit to fall into. Could get you into some serious trouble.” He walks behind you, but once you turn around.. he isnt there. you turn back around and find him standing in front of you, making you flinch. “how did–” “don't be stupid. you found me out so you know how I did that.” He towers over you. “You need to leave me alone. Dont talk to me again. Dont even look my way.” Sam mumbled. “You weren't supposed to find out.” “Anyone who isnt an idiot would know,” you snap back. “Well, congratulations, you arent an idiot. Want a cookie?” He sarcastically asks and walks off. You scoff and run after him. He wasnt using his super fast ability, but he still walked fast. “Sam, I cant just forget about this!” “try your very best, you can do it.” He replies. “Sam-” “shut the fuck up already, God damn!” He looks back at you. But something was off. He was sparkling in the sunlight that casted over him through the trees of the forest you two were in. “you sparkle?” you ask, trying to hold back all those jokes that came into your mind. “yeah, I use my sisters makeup everyday so I can shine.” He throws a sarcastic comment and rolls his eyes. “leave me alone.” but you didn't.

໒: “I'm like 40, you know that.” Sam smirks as you kiss his neck. “I shouldn't be seeing such an old man.. its gross.” you laugh, looking up at him. “super gross, but atleast I look seventeen, right?” he smiles. “sixteen.” you correct. “whatever,” he rolls his eyes and kisses you. Sam felt guilty. He felt like he was taking advantage of you because of how much older he is.. but it quickly went away when you stuck your tongue in his mouth.

໒: Sam hates your friend, Josh. Hes a fucking wolf.. he smells, isnt nearly as good looking as himself, he just.. he isnt trustworthy. “you dont trust me?” you ask Sam when he told you not to go with Josh to ride his motorcycle. “I do,” he shakes his head and looks at Josh. “Its him I dont trust.” Josh was in love with you, Sam wasnt stupid. He knew that you wouldn't leave him for Josh, but.. it still irked him how you still hung out with Joshua, knowing how much Sam didnt like him.

໒: Sam was the one to get you high for the first time. You've used drugs before, but not properly so it never had an effect. Even when Sam is fucking dead hes ruining his body. (not really..)

໒: Sam prefers to talk problems out but sometimes he just gets so angry that he cant help but yell at you. He goes too far sometimes and he doesn't apologize right away either. He just leaves and doesnt return for a few hours.. even days. He tries his best to make it up to you afterwards though.

໒: Hes always blasting his music in his airpods, room, car.. literally everywhere hes at. When you hangout in his room, theres always his playlist in the background.. but not on full volume so you could hear each other.

“I wont do it. You're crazy.” Sam says while looking for something in his drawer. You wanted him to turn you into a vampire judt like him but he hated the idea. “You're not gonna want me when im all wrinkly and disgusting.” you argue. Sam looks back at you with an irritated look. “you dont get how I feel about you, huh? I dont fucking care. I'll always want you, it doesnt matter what you look like.” he rolls his eyes and starts digging again. “Sam,” “Say one more thing about it and im taking you home. I'd never fucking do that to you. You dont know what you want.”

໒: weeks after that conversation, Sam waited for you outside your house when you came back from school. He asked you to go on a walk with him, and he looked really upset.

“we're leaving Forks.” He says, leaning against a tree trunk. “Kevin is supposed to be 10 years older than he looks. People are starting to notice.” He says, crossing his arms. Your heart started beating fast. “okay.. so what do I tell my dad? how am I gonna leave with you?” You ask. Sam looks you dead in the eye. “you don't. you're staying, I cant take you with me.” you had been together almost a year and he was just leaving like that? “so you're breaking up with me?” tears swell in your eyes. Sam doesnt answer. “you're not.” you shake your head. “you cant leave me.” you sob and hug him. “I can and I am. Look, ive been meaning to break this off anyway. We dont make any sense, babe. You're gonna die one day and what am I gonna do? Its better if I leave and un-attach myself.” he shakes his head. “I promise it'll be like I never even existed. You'll forget about me. It wont hurt you.” He looks down at you.

It really was like he never existed after a month that he left. No one talked about him or his family, your texts weren't going through to him or his siblings, your dad didnt ask about him and neither did Josh. Sam was gone. He was beginning to become a figment of your imagination. But he wasnt truly gone. You didnt really forget about him.

The pain reminded you that he was real.

@anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @literally-izzy @valloos @alexlovesysrjune

get added to my taglist! let me know!

[m00nchildwrites]

Random headcanons I have of the LADS guys:

I hope you guys enjoy this little head cannon post that I have about the guys. I'm going to put it under a read more just because it's quite long. It is no triggering content or adult content. All fluff all feels.

Enjoy.

Sylus:

Keeps journals. He has bookcases upon bookcases, filled with journals. All of them are leatherbound, but none of them match. Varying sizes and thicknesses various dark colors from maroon to dark green to black to golden and everything in between. All handwritten, all cursive with expensive ink dipped pens.

He also writes poetry that tends to be more prosy. Each of the poems are about you in some way, whether it's a memory or something about you that he misses or fears about the memories of you fading.

When he meets you again, the poems become hopeful and longing and eventually evolve back into love poems

He also tends to write song lyrics and, unfortunately, has performed one or two for you.

Yes, it's the thought that counts, but the poor man can't carry a tune. Still, the words are so sweet that you end up tearing up anyways.

And no matter how poorly he sings, you will never turn down him singing one of the songs that he wrote for you.

Zayne:

I see Zayne also as someone who keeps journals. Although his are different than Sylus'.

All of Zane's journals are on a singular, large, wall-to-wall bookshelf in his Home Office. All are perfectly identical. Each is sleek, a leatherbound, and either black or dark gray. Think like a moleskin journal, and if you weren't him, you wouldn't know which one is which, but he knows exactly which one is which, for he keeps them in chronological order.

Each of the pages is handwritten by pen in his slightly slanted, messy but legible doctor's handwriting.

Each starting from the first one on the top shelf details, everything that he can remember about 1 of yours and his pass lives together.

And rather, morbidly an excruciating detail heed. He writes out exactly how you died in the events leading up to and afterwards.

You might wonder why in the world does he do this? It's because he is studying every instance that went wrong and trying to find a loophole in a way out of the the curse that Astra has places upon you both.

In these journals, your name is never mentioned, and they are written out like case notes from his patients. So whenever you do stumble upon them, write them off. As simply him keeping detailed case notes of patient's life and death, since all of the deaths have to do with something with the heart or heart trauma, our heart disease or our heart failure of some kind.

It is not until either you regain your memories or zayn. Finally tells you about your past lives and his that you also learn the true story about the journals. Until then, they are simply a collection of case studies in his home office.

Rafayel:

Rafael has no need for journals because his memories he brings to life through his paintings.

Let's be honest.He also doesn't have the patience to sit down and fill up a bunch of journals. Not because his hyperactive persona is true, but because if he allows himself to sit still long. Enough with his thoughts, he gets real dark, real quick. This man wears a mask for the world, but also for himself.

That said he does sing.

Shocker, right? He's a mermaid or a siren or both. However, I have the head cannon that he can switch the siren thing on and off. And so is fully capable of simply singing, however, for him, because he is Lemurian, his "simple singing" is etherealy gorgeous.

Because of this, he only does it in the privacy of his own home when no one is around, except for that short little stint, that he had as an opera singer. But of course, that was for darker purposes and not for enjoyment.

He sings songs that he has written about you. All of them are in ancient tongues, long since passed and faded away to time. And all of them from the different lifetimes that he met you in.

Some songs he sings when he's feeling especially heartbroken and caught up in memories of the past, or overwhelmed with his feelings for you, and those songs are sung in his native tongue- Lemurian.

At first, whenever he is painting or in the zone, doing something and drifting off into a daydream, he hums around you.

Eventually, however, as he allows himself to trust that you're not going anywhere this time and uh relaxes his guard. Enough to allow himself to fall for you again and let you in. Eventually, one night when it's just the 2 of you and the windows are open and the ocean breeze is billowing the sheer, white curtains of his livingroom, the tune He's humming to you, as you lean back against his chest slowly begins to have words.

You don't know the words that he sang, they feel ancient.

But you feel the emotion in the words and by the end of it, you have tears running down your face and the overwhelming urge to hold him tightly and never let him go

The second time he sings for you is less heartbreaking and more warmth and an overwhelming feeling of love.

On days when it's just the two of you, he will sing just for you.

Xavier:

Xavier does not keep journals. However, he did enjoy his captain logs on his ship. And so that is a habit that he has kept with him.

Every once in a while, he will go back to a ship and and enter a new captain's log. All of it has to do with information about you and him trying to find a way to save you from the eventual Fate that awaits in the future on planet Philos.

Periodically a poem will also make an appearance one that he read in a book that stood out to him and reminded him of you.

Sometimes, before you two get close, he'd go to the ship and listen to his pass logs. And remember the you he left behind on that dying planet.

Xavier also sings, and he actually sings quite well for a human. So well, in fact, that one time karaoke with the hunters association, an agency attempted to scout him. (I picture his voice like Keshi- soft spot. If you haven't heard it, listen to it.)

This hidden talent comes as surprise to you. The first time that you hear him, add that karaoke event.

Of course. You knew that he enjoyed music because you often caught him humming when he was doing things around the house or helping you chop vegetables whenever y'all cook together. There was also his record collection that was a dead giveaway. As well.

He doesn't write songs for you, but he will sing songs to you. That make him think of you at first, it's subtle and without him really letting you know, but that's what he's doing. Perhaps you think the 2 of you are just playing around and both of you are singing songs that come on the radio. But eventually, as you get closer, it becomes clear, but it's not by chance- the songs that he picks to sing.

Your favorite is when he sings to you softly. As you rock back-and-forth, slow dancing in your apartment or his or on the balcony, the location doesn't matter.

Somehow, some way swaying softly to the sound of his voice feels like coming home after a long, long journey.

He does also occasionally read to you a poem.

And sometimes you find out the poem, he said aloud to you was actually written by him, and eventually you learn that they were all about you.

[stele3]

A History of (Supposed) Violence

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

(Apologies for the brief hiatus, I needed some time to digest Countdown to Infinite Crisis. Conclusion: fuck Donna Troy and Kyle Rayner, they killed an entire planet and didn't have the good grace to feel bad about it afterwards.)

Foreword: Jason Todd kills people. But has he killed as many people as fandom thinks he has? I'm starting to think the answer is a resounding no. Therefore, I am starting this series to list every single one of Jason Todd's on-page, confirmed kills, and -- to be fair -- all of the heavily-implied and attempted ones, too.

Caveat: I have not read every single comic featuring Jason Todd. But by God, by the end of this series, I will have. Do not send me angry messages telling me I have forgotten this glaring example of his murderous ways. I am moving in deliberate, exhaustive, chronological order. I will get to it.

Part 8: Batman & Robin, Issues #3-6

Oh goody, we've hit the Grant Morrison part of our ride.

Jason enters this already bonkers-ass story by shooting two cops. This marks an interesting departure from his previous history: we've seen him kill rapists, assassins, and petty criminals, but now he's shooting the "good" guys. To be fair, the cops were about to shoot an incredibly traumatized young girl who's been tortured and had her face altered by this week's villain.

Also, what the FUCK is he wearing?

Wild. When the pill helmet comes off, Jason is a redhead. He mentions that Bruce made him dye his hair black to match Dick's, which is fun.

Jason decides to make the young girl his new sidekick, and introduces her to the practice of killing murderers.

(Side note: the Batman series has always dabbled in some really gross stereotypes about mentally-ill individuals, but Morrison's run cranks the dial up to 11 and breaks it off.)

They then throw the guy out of a window and he lands on the street below. His lightning-based weapon then explodes, blowing up two cop cars; it's unclear if there was anyone inside the cop cars at the time, and it wasn't a direct, intentional kill, so I'm not counting this towards the murder count. It's still interesting to see the emphasis on Jason's violence affecting cops in addition to criminals. Of course, in Gotham (and everywhere else) those two categories aren't exclusive, but I find it hard to overlook the fact that Jason is shown killing police officers just as Dick Grayson, former police officer, has stepped into the role of Batman. The writing even makes sure to mention it.

Jason and his new sidekick Scarlet break into a meeting of rogues, where Jason announces that he's killed one of their members already and then proceeds to kill at least another three.

A new baddie named Flamingo shows up and he's...I'm not giving you a picture of him, because it's cartoonishly homophobic. I knew to expect this from Morrison's run but damn, dude.

Anyway. The baddie is there to assassinate Jason, but takes the time to shoot Damian in the spine, paralyzing him.

Once again, fandom mass delusion strikes. I've heard it said that Jason was to blame for Damian's temporary paralysis, but the injury didn't come from Jason's hands, it came from the assassin sent to kill Jason.

Jason then borrows some construction equipment to kill Flamingo, though it's a little unclear if he succeeds, since Flamingo winds up buried under rubble.

Death count: 8 (I am counting Flamingo in the death count, mainly because I don't like to contemplate the idea of him reappearing in the comics)

[starsapphire]

What is the untitled talia-centric brutalia fic?

YAY ok so basically it's my sort-of-a-fix-it fic attempt to reconcile talia with damian's existence, as well as a continuation of talia's character trajectory from before the retcons, all mixed into a brutalia fake marriage trope. the unnecessary full plot explanation ended up being long so i'll put in under a cut

essentially, instead of talia taking damian back after son of the demon and keeping him in the league (as morrison wrote it), ra's learns that she had the baby and he is the one who takes damian back, names him, and raises him in the league — all without talia's knowledge. like in canon, damian meets talia for the first time on his eighth birthday, but unlike in canon, it's because talia has finally discovered damian is in the league. (as a note, i pulled the rapid aging plot point from new 52 to make the timeline actually make sense, so damian is physically 8 but chronologically 4.)

the events of death and the maidens happen somewhere around here (i haven't decided whether it works better before or after), but i'm not sure if i'm keeping talia's time with the society — fueled by nyssa's pit-induced mind break, as a way to explain how uncharacteristic that was — in the story yet. either way, because of the mental damage done by nyssa's torture, it takes talia another year or so to be both able and willing to get herself and damian out of the league.

talia goes to bruce, etc etc, and they decide to get married very publicly, in order to put talia and damian both firmly in the public eye. obviously this is a marriage of convenience, entirely for practical and pragmatic reasons of necessity. no other reason. with damian and talia all over the press and now well-known, ra's will be unable to take either of them back without difficulty and without causing a media storm. (talia is in the public eye already ofc but "billionaire's impressive socialite ex-ceo wife, who was recently revealed to have a child with him that they kept quiet about for years" is even more noticeable and tabloid-worthy than "impressive but mostly regular ceo".)

of course talia and bruce are coming into the fake marriage already in love with one another, so instead of the "falling in love due to fake marriage" trope it's more of a "getting over themselves and putting in the work to make the fake marriage real like they were pretending they didn't want it to be the whole time" plotline. the plot is (so far) intended to be largely or entirely from talia's pov and focused on her and her ✨ journey of healing ✨ post-datm, learning how to be a mother, and finally getting away from ra's for good. ultimately my goal is to build off of where her character development was going in the 2000s up until editorial decided to make her a villain and then morrison got their hands on her, while making damian make some semblance of sense to the story.

[suprababka]

Hey there!👋

Welcome to my scenarios list! What is it? Well, it's a list of prompts that I have for OPM smaus and headcanons. Feel free to go through them and request something.😌

Characters I write for:

Saitama Genos Speed-o'-Sound Sonic Garou Metal Bat Amai Mask Flashy Flash Zombieman King

Please remember that the order of my posts isn't chronological.

It means that the scenarios below I publish based on my preference. In addition, it's not a final list, so new scenarios will appear.

Can I request my own prompt? Of course, be welcome to write me! If I accept your suggestion, I will add it to the masterlist and publish it as an answer to your message (when it'll be done of course). Requested publications are my top priority!🙌 (hence, they'll be published in order they were sent) But please be patient since it takes time for me to make these posts! If I don't accept your idea, then I will let you know and name the reason (but please consider that I for sure won't take any requests regarding crimes, drug usage, cheating and other stuff like that).

Enjoy!

Scenarios for texts:

Gaslighting them

Ghosting them

Asking them ass or tits🔞

Abruptly canceling your date with them

When they’re missing you

When you’re feeling ugly

Asking them "Do you love me because I’m beautiful or I’m beautiful because you love me?"

They change their contact name in your phone

Asking them if they jerked off while thinking of you🔞

When you’re jealous

When he’s jealous

Random texts with them

Calling them different ridiculous pet names

When they try to prank you

When they change their contact name on your phone

When the Internet connection fails you

When they babysit your pets and send you pics of them

When you don't say back "I love you"

Sending them edited photos of them

Scenarios for headcanons:

General relationship headcanons

When they’re jealous

When they have a crush

How they confessed to their s/o

Arguments with them

Morning after with them

Fluff moments with them

How they comfort their s/o

How they kiss their s/o

When you get injured

When they get injured

What they look for in their s/o

When they’re sick

When you're sick

Their motto in your relationship

First date with them

Who fell first and who fell harder

How they call their s/o

Their insecurities in your relationship

What they usually say to their s/o in the relationship

What they usually say to their s/o in bed🔞

How they grieve over your death

Their last thoughts before their death

Pregnancy with them

*click to see first masterlist | second masterlist

[cherryredstars]

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: Some Fluff, Talk of Death/Afterlife, Suggested Depression, Suggested Self-Harm, Suggested Breakdown, Suggested Anxiety, Light Smut

Word Count: 3.7K

“I recognized you instantly. All of our lives flashed through my mind in a split second. I felt a pull so strongly towards you that I almost couldn't stop it.” ― J. Sterling

It was a hot and humid day. The type of days Miguel hates the most in September because the heat made him uncomfortable and the humidity made his hair frizzy and lose its shape. It was even worse while sitting in a stuffy classroom with ACs that never worked. The rooms were always filled with the strong smell of teenage bodies and dust from janitorial neglection over the summer months. In addition, the beginning weeks of school were a bore with nothing to actually do but sit there and listen to underpaid teachers repeat the same school rules they hear in the beginning of every school semester. 

He was sure he was about to fall asleep at that moment. The heat made him drowsy and the monotone voice of his teacher morphed into white noise. It was nearing the end of the day anyways, and too early into the school year for any teachers to give enough of a shit to write anyone up. He couldn’t take another second of school expectations and the disgusting mix of AXE body spray and floral perfume. But, now when he thinks back on that boring class, he can’t take it on himself to fully hate it. Because, in the same second that he looked toward the clock above the door to check the time, his life changed forever. 

It was instant. Maybe not instant instant, but it was just quick enough to call it instant. She had come in late. Very late with a chest that heaved and tried to keep her rapidly beating heart in her body. Sweat made the front pieces of her hair stick to her face, flushed from the way she had run down the hall to make it to class. Of course, in that moment Miguel found her less than ideal, but he knows now that even in that stuffy school uniform the academy mandated every student to wear, she was the most beautiful goddamn thing that walked the entire earth. And when she spoke to give her name for attendance, a voice and name that will haunt Miguel until he takes his last breath, he knew their lives would be forever intertwined. 

That thought was concrete the second you had walked down the same row of desks as him, stopping at the desk directly in front of him. The smell of sweetness and a bit of sweat, a smell that only comes to him in the early mornings when he isn’t really awake or asleep, instantly overpowered any other smell in the room. If he skips ahead, he can remember nearly every instance in which he leaned his stomach against the hard edge of the desk to get a stronger smell, everytime he held up a piece of your hair to his face, everytime he snuck out of your bedroom window smelling like you after spending the night making love. But, Miguel is a man who follows a strict timeline, who revels in the chronological order of things. 

Instead, he focuses on the first time he had the chance to talk to you. Despite you being only a desk away, it took a few months to hold an actual conversation that was more than, “Do you have an extra pencil?” or “Did you write down the last bullet of that slide?” Despite the lack of communication, the younger Miguel had developed a slight crush on you. He had seen you in the halls between classes and he focused more on you than on the board in class. In all honesty, the delay in conversation was purely your fault. You were an energetic girl, not popular but well known. Someone was always talking to you at your desk in the beginning and end of class. Always laughing with you about something stupid that happened early that day, always asking for help for an upcoming test or assignment, always taking up your time. He could never be mad about it, though. Even if it meant he had lost an extra few months with you. It was okay because even if those months weren’t with you, they were of you. Months filled with the sound of your voice, the addicting sound of your laugh, the glimpses of your smile and shiny eyes. Moments that fill his head when he sleeps at night and when he gets lost in a daydream. 

You had turned to him, asking him about some party one of his friends at the time was planning because he had turned 18. They’re simple, small questions: “What was the address again?”, “Anyone is invited, right?”, “What’s the dress code? Is there a theme?”, “Are you going?”. He had to bite his tongue to stop from scaring you off with manic answers. Yes, anyone is invited but don’t bring some random guy with you. Bring me with you instead. The dress code doesn’t matter because you’ll look stunning in anything you wear. I only want to go if you go. 

“You… only want to go if I go?” You had asked. Your voice was decorated with a confused giggle and your ears had glowed pink. 

Miguel blinked up at you with his own confusion. He had yet to realize his last words had bubbled out of his chest until you were giggling and eyeing him shyly. He was quick to cover his face as it grew warm, and he let out a groan while cursing himself. You had laughed harder then, eyes shining with a build-up of tears as you clutched your stomach. Miguel had spread his fingers slightly so he could peak through them. You were a sight to behold with that enchanting laughter and infatuating smile. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling against his palms. When you had finally reduced your amusement to a toothy smile, you had gently pried Miguel’s hands off his face just enough to see him. 

He was sure he looked stupid, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide over the fact you were touching him. Your hands were warm and small against his and he swore his heart was trying to rip open his chest so it could run to you. He almost went dizzy when your thumb stroked his hands in a comforting manner in hopes of easing his embarrassment. He had never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. Would you have minded? God he really hoped you wouldn’t.

“Miguel?” You sang, a teasing smile on your face as you looked at him, “Are you there?”

Say it again. Say my name again, please. You’re the only person ever allowed to say it ever again. God, he was losing his mind. He still is losing it over you. Every goddamn day. Miguel doesn’t think he’ll ever get it back. You took it from him. His mind, his body, his soul. You took everything from him. It’s yours. It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours.

Please, give it back to me.

When he had finally responded to you, your smile had shone brighter and you asked him a question that still leaves his mind dumbstruck when he thinks back on it: What time do you want to pick me up? He remembers the way his breath flew out of his lungs, how his heart had paused and then started running again. Remembers the way your throat bobbed slightly, probably because you had regretted asking the question or maybe, he hopes this is why because he never thought to ask you, maybe because you were nervous too. Just maybe you had wanted to talk to him before this life altering moment. Maybe, somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you were tied to this fool of a boy too. 

He had stuttered out a pathetic ‘what?’ and you had rolled your eyes playfully in response. You ditched repeating the question and had instead given him a time and your address before getting up as the bell rang. While you walked out the door with a small wave and big smile, Miguel sat there in an astonished daze blinking at the board. Time seemed to stop as everyone else around him started walking past him to their next classes. It wasn’t until his friend walked past, jolting him with a slap on the back and a whispered, ‘good work, dude’ before walking out the door that he came back to his senses. It was only then that the conversation finally registered in Miguel’s dazzled brain. He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands again as he closed his eyes and his mouth formed a large smile. 

He had a date. He had a date with you.

His shoulders shook with a silent, delirious laugh.

☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆

Miguel knew he was in love. Or, he knew he was going to be in love. It’s complicated to describe, that nagging feeling that wasn’t exactly scary but wasn’t completely comforting either. It’s even weirder feeling it. Having your mind constantly crying out go home, go home, go home but your body pulls you away from every building and straight towards another body like you’re tethered together. Like he’s tethered to you. Sometimes, when Miguel closes his eyes and really concentrates, he can still feel that sharp tug at the center of his chest that tries to bring him somewhere that he tries to get further and further away from. 

He can’t lie and say it wasn’t the big things that made him think, know, he was in love. Because it was. But it was also the small things. Like when you found out what his favorite color was, yellow despite popular belief, and how you had come into school the next week with your nails done in the exact shade you had made him show you on his phone. Or that time he had seen your phone light up in class and your display had revealed that you were listening to the same song he was mumbling under his breath the day before on repeat. It was the collection of those small details that made his heart beat a bit faster and for his smile to tick up behind his hand.

And it was that first kiss. That damned first kiss that Miguel can still feel ghosting against his lips. That he feels on his bad days like some sort of silent encouragement that he will get through it. Swears those phantom lips are what pulls him out of his night terrors as if to protect him as he pants and cries in those late hours. The same kiss that he wishes he could feel forever and ever and simultaneously burn from memory. Sometimes, he thinks about pulling some poor, unsuspecting stranger off the street and kissing them to see if it would feel the same. When he thinks like that, he instantly goes to the bathroom and dry heaves until his throat hurts. Of course it would never feel the same, what a silly idea. What a betrayal and discourtesy towards you to even entertain the idea. 

The kiss had happened weeks after the party. In between those two moments had been brushed hands, glances in the hallways, and not so subtle flirting whispered during lessons. Each moment had Miguel’s face flushing and heart racing. It left him with a craving for you. So, when you had invited him to study with you in the library, he had eagerly nodded despite knowing he would ace the test without looking over any of his notes. He would be too busy looking at you either way to focus on his chicken scratch. 

You hadn’t gotten much studying done that day either. Instead, Miguel had distracted you with whispered words in your ears that caused you to quietly giggle and smile up at him. He can remember every detail. From the way your cheeks grew to match the pink of your lips, how you had fiddled with the mechanical pencil in your hand, how your eyes had twinkled as you leaned towards him. He remembers how you had grabbed his hand, a soft and gentle touch, asking him to come with you to find a book you needed. Remembers how you had pulled him towards the back shelves filled with encyclopedias with bug-bitten pages. Can still remember the slight dizzy feeling he had when you pulled him around one of the old bookshelves and pressed him into it. Can still feel the hands pressed against his chest to hold him in place as you peaked around the corner in case anyone was coming over. He remembers the notes he chuckled as he asked you what you were doing. Can see the smile you gave him before you pulled him down for the only kiss that will ever matter in his entire life. 

Your lips were soft and tasted like the cherry lip gloss you wore. He had furrowed his brows as his hands came to squeeze your waist while he moved his mouth over yours. He memorized the trail your hands took as they traveled up his chest and tangled in his hair. He can replicate the way his vocal cords shifted as he let out that satisfied groan when you allowed him to slip his tongue into your mouth. If he were to look down at his hand right now, he could swear the creases of his palms still have your sticky gloss stuck in them from when he had turned you around to press you against the shelves, but his desperation caused books to fall and his hand went to cover your mouth as you pulled away and started laughing. He had smiled down at you and buried his head in the crook of your neck to muffle his own laughter. He never regretted getting detention for the next few days when the librarian had found the both of you. It just gave him more chances to kiss you when the detention instructor fell asleep. 

It was during one of those detention kisses that he had whispered against your lips to be his girlfriend. You had answered with another kiss and a delighted yes.

☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:..｡. .｡.:*☆

It had been a month or two after the one year anniversary that he finally made love to you. It was sometime in the later months of senior year. Another hot and humid day. But instead of being in a classroom, he had been in your room. Miguel remembers that your sheets had been white with a small flower print, throw pillows and blankets making up for the lack of color. They were soft under the material of his jeans as he held you while you cried. 

On that day, your usually clean room was in shatters. Things ripped from your walls, notebooks and papers shoved off your desk, clothes taken off hangers and thrown on the floor. The only things that had survived had been pictures of the two of you and your bed. He had gotten a call from your frantic mother, begging him to come calm you down. That he was the only one that can get through the fog in your mind. He had rushed over, your mother opening the door for him so he could run up the stairs to your room. When he had thrown open the door, his chest broke in a way that made it almost impossible to breathe. He rubs his chest whenever he thinks back to it, like the heartbreak is still there.  

You had thrown yourself in a corner, sobbing and rocking yourself back and forth in a way to seek comfort. The mess of your room had surrounded you, barricading you from everything else. When the door knocked into the wall, your face had left your arms and tear-beaded lashes blinked up at him. You had cried harder when you had seen him. He had strived towards you, picking you up easily off the ground and away from the chaos on your floor. He cradled you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his hips as you cried tears into his T-shirt. He had whispered soft, caring words into your ear, an arm wrapped around your waist and a hand in your hair. 

You had cried for another hour, hiccuping watery words about a scary future. A life of uncertainties and insecurities. A life where you ended up alone and scared and desperate to get by. A world where dreams don’t exist and your greatest fears consume you. Days where you don’t know how to get out of bed and shut up the nasty voices in your head. Minutes where you’re tempted to listen to them and then the hours that follow where you hate yourself for contemplating it. If Miguel were to go into his closet right now, he can find the same shirt he wore. A single shoulder lingering with black splotches of mascara that never fully washed away. Each splotch represents a worry you had trusted him with. 

He had pressed you closer to him, whispering ‘it’s not your fault’, over and over and over again until his throat ached and your cries had died down to soft trembling. Another hour was spent in silence as he had just held you. His hands playing mindlessly with your hair and your breath tickling his neck. The sun had begun to set and a golden glow had lit up your bed in a yellow color.

“It’s your favorite shade,” You had whispered in a broken voice. It was scratchy and rough. Miguel thought it sounded just as lovely as it always has. It reminds him of a pipe organ, beautiful but sad. 

He had to turn around to see what you were talking about. He turned his head slightly to see your hand outstretched, fingers playing as the light spilled from them. He can’t remember a time where you looked so peaceful. He had watched your hand, before nodding his head in agreement. “Yes, it is.”

He reached his hand out, taking a hold of yours gently and connecting his fingers with yours like a puzzle. He brought his hands back towards the both of you, bringing it up to his lips and kissing your knuckles. He watched your eyes, red and puffy from crying. He held your hand to his mouth for a while, his thumb stroking the skin. When he had finally dropped your hand, you leaned forward to rest your forehead against his, just staring into his eyes. Your scent instantly filled his nose. It is the same smell that he has stored in his bedside drawer in a glass bottle. He never sprays it in his room, just holds it to his nose with closed eyes and pretends you’re right next to him again.

“I love you.” The words were sweet and poured warmth onto his skin. He closed his eyes and sat there, letting your words echo in his head until he memorized how each letter and syllable sounded when it left your lips. 

Miguel remembers the strength he used to grab your waist as he connected your lips to his. Remembers that the kiss was different from any other kiss the two of you had shared before this. He still can’t describe why it was different, but he can still feel it in his bones. He remembers pushing his body into yours and you pushing back. Even though his eyes were closed in the moment, he can see everything clearly in his mind, as if he were a phantom watching it. Can see the exact placement of your hands on his shoulders, can see the way your lips parted and the soft noise you made when he had flipped the two of you over and laid you on your back. 

Those soft, soft noises that split his chest open so his heart can absorb them and keep them safe. He remembers every soft pant and plead you had whispered into the air of your room as he stripped you of your clothes, kissing trails down your body. The giggle you had let out when he almost tripped taking off his pants is still trapped between those plaster walls. The soft feeling of your skin under his was like a cloud, your body warmth the sun. He remembers the halo your hair made as the dying sunlight bathed your face and caused your eyes to shine and for your skin to glow. He remembers the light dimming from your face as he slid slowly into you. He had immediately apologized as you whimpered in temporary pain. 

He had slowly moved inside you, taking his time as you held him close to your body. The soft moans of his name traveled through shivers that rode down his spine, the sounds quiet to not alert your parents. His response was the repeated saying of I love you, over and over again. He repeated it, looking down at your face, into your eyes, so you could see the realness and vulnerability of the words. He made sure you felt it as he grabbed onto your skin and buried his head into your neck as he thrusted. He felt the love you had for him in every scratch down his back and tightening of your walls around him. 

He remembers trying to hold on to his pleasure before it exploded right after yours. He had panted as he looked down at you, your breaths mixing together. He had kissed you softly as he pulled his softening member out of you and you smiled against his lips. He had laid with you for a while before getting up, grabbing his discarded shirt and wiping you down before taking you into his arms again and falling asleep. He held you close to his chest, both of you naked under your blankets as the moonlight glowed against the two of you. 

The next morning, he drove you to the closest drug store. The both of you walked to the counter smelling like each other as he paid for a Plan B pill and snacks. It was a story you and him laughed about on the rooftop of your house the night you both graduated from Pym Academy.

CHAPTER 2- THEN: THE CANON

[gaarasfiance]

Cardigan

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem Reader (version of jason isn’t mentioned but i wrote it with his original storyline death from Batman: A Death In The Family, not a later, retconned version)

Warnings: angst but also fluff, reader is a famous singer, use of Y/N, pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, lmk if i missed any), swearing, makes references to other songs (Lover by Taylor Swift, Lucky People by Waterparks, and Favorite Record by Fall Out Boy), i reread this like 8 times but i couldve missed things so don't flame me if theres any fuck ups in there lmao

Word Count: 4,175

A/N: (yes i know cardigan is part of the teenage love triangle songs, yes i made it into somewhat fluff because i fucking wanted to, whats it to you? I was just listening to cardigan (by taylor swift if you were unaware) in the shower and had this beautiful idea of like what if rather than it being about getting cheated on, i make it about the reader experiencing Jason’s death (and resurrection)? also i color coded the dialogue which is something i normally don't do soooo fun little touch i guess.) (originally posted may 22, 2023 on an alternate account)

IMPORTANT NOTE: Italics mean it’s a flashback, bold and bigger means it's a song lyric, regular text means it's happening in real time. (with very obvious exceptions) Cool? Cool. also, real quick, THE FLASHBACKS ARE NOT IN PERFECT CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER!!!!

“HELLO GOTHAM CITY!” The crowd roared in excitement. Y/N was excited too, it was her first show in Gotham in a long time. This was her first tour in a long time. Of course, she let the public think that it was just because she was a teenager focusing on school, not because when she was 16 her first love the love of her life had been brutally murdered…

“It’s really nice to be playing a hometown show, and since this is my first one in forever, how about I play you something brand new?” Screams erupted in the audience, people pulling out their phones to get the first recording of a brand new song. 

“This one means a lot to me, it’s about someone very special to me, and how he came back to me when I needed him most. This is a quieter one so I'm gonna need you all to listen, and please don’t judge me if I cry during this. Alright, this one’s called ‘cardigan’ everybody!” 

Rows and rows of people buzzed with excitement as the music began to play.

~

Vintage tee, brand new phone

Y/N and Jason walked in, strutting about as if they were models in the new vintage tees Y/N had bought for them at the thrift store just days before. They strolled about the mall, eventually making the stop to get Jason a new phone, he had dropped his from a rooftop on patrol the night before. Oops. 

“Jay, baby, you can’t just use Bruce’s credit card without asking all the time” Y/N smiled, knowing Jason wasn’t going to listen to her 

“Says who? Besides, I told him I was taking it. If he didn’t want to pay for me to get a new phone, he should’ve given me a secure pocket in the suit for it like I asked.” Jason shrugged. He wasn’t atrociously rebellious at all times, but he knew Bruce had more than enough money for him to get a new phone, and to treat his girlfriend, and best friend, when he wanted to. “Plus, if I didn’t take his card, I wouldn’t be able to spoil you, would I?” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple as they walked out of the store.

High heels on cobblestone

Y/N’s heels clicked loudly against the cobblestone walkway as she made her way to the entrance of the Wayne gala, arm linked with Jason’s. 

“Are you sure I look alright? I’ve never worn a dress this fancy Jason. Should I even be at a Wayne gala I mean–” Jason cut her off.

“Sweetheart you look perfect. And if anyone tells you otherwise I will personally ask Bruce to kick them out.”

“Jay, you can’t do that.”

“According to who? I have adopted Wayne privilege and you’re the one who’s Bruce’s favorite”

“I am not Bruce’s favorite!”

“Yes you are, princess.”

He dragged her into the gala, excited to spend a night with her, and after that, her first Wayne gala was nothing but history, as she attended every single one at her lover’s side.

When you are young they assume you know nothing

“That boy is a delinquent Y/N! I doubt you even know anything about him, has he even told you how he came to meet Mr Wayne?” Y/N’s father shouted. He’d never liked Jason, despite him being Y/N’s best friend for years before things ever became romantic. She used to be able to avoid it, but when her mom moved out of state for work and Y/N wanted to stay in Gotham… well this was her only option.

“Yes dad, I know how he met Bruce! You realize I knew him long before he was adopted by Bruce Wayne right? That I didn’t just go for him because he was rich? You assume because I’m young that I know nothing!”

“Clearly you don’t know anything if you would choose to be with a boy who is a thief! He tried to steal Mr. Wayne’s tires!”

“He was trying to steal them because he was living on the streets and needed money to fucking eat, Dad! Clearly you’re the one who knows nothing here!”

She stormed out of the house, furiously texting Jason and trying to will away the angry tears. 

Sequined smile, black lipstick

Y/N grinned at Jason, her black lipstick fresh as they prepared to go to a party. Bruce had cleared Jason of Robin duty for the weekend and they’d decided to take time to enjoy being normal teenagers. 

“What do you think?” She asked, still smiling

“I think… I’m really tempted to kiss that lipstick right off of you”

“Come do it then.”

Sensual politics

“Do you ever think about sensual politics?” Y/N looked up at Jason, her head in his lap as he read a book.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘sensual politics’?”

“Like the politics of being flirtatious or like building a relationship with someone, but like also kind of a play on sexual politics and people’s perception of the difference’s between men and women and the politics of it, you know? Like they’re both very different things but you can name them the same thing”

“And you’re calling that sensual politics?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“I wish I could understand what’s going on in that brain of yours. You’re such a nerd, princess”

When you are young they assume you know nothing

“Jaybird, if you hurt her, I hope you know I’ll have to break your legs” Dick shrugged as if this was common knowledge.

“I won’t hurt her, Dickwad. She’s the best thing to happen to me.”

“Okay, but you’re young and stupid, anything could happen.”

“Just because you knew nothing when you were young doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

But I knew you

Years ago, Y/n was 11 and Jason was 10. Y/N was on her way home from the school when she saw someone she recognized. 

“Hey! You’re the boy from the library! You showed me my favorite book!”

Jason flushed, unaware that she’d remember him, or that she’d take the recommendation he’d once given her seriously

“Yeah uh, hi. My names Jason, Jason Todd.” He stuck his hand out to shake.

She placed her hand in his and shook. "Y/N."

Dancin' in your Levi's

Y/N and Jason slow danced in her room, her record player spinning some old collection she’d snagged from Wayne manor.

“I was unaware that Levi’s were ballroom attire, Monsieur.”

“And I was unaware your bedroom counted as a ballroom, Mademoiselle”

Drunk under a streetlight, I

“Jason you’re drunk.”

“No I’m notttt. Please Y/N pleeeeaaassseee be my girlfriend.”

“You’re drunk Jay, if you weren’t then you’d remember I already am.” She laughed, watching her lover shoot up in excitement

“Really? That’s so cool!”

I knew you

"Y/N what do you think? Do you think he'd like this for his birthday?"

"Why are you asking me? You're his brother!"

"Yeah but you know him better than anyone else"

Hand under my sweatshirt

"Jason Peter Todd get your cold ass hands out from under my sweatshirt!"

"What do you mean princess?" He dragged his freezing cold hands further up her back

"Eek!"

Baby, kiss it better, I

Y/N carefully finished wrapping the bandages around Jason's waist.

"I can't believe you got stabbed!"

"Kiss it better?"

"Dork." She pressed a kiss to his bandages, before making her way up to his lips.

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone's bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite

“What’s got you down princess?” Jason quirked an eyebrow, the moment Y/N entered the manor there was an unhappy energy on her, like she was faking her smile. He knew her all too well. “Come here”. He opened his arms to her, gesturing that she should come lay with him on the excessively large couch (rich people bro) and she happily obliged, latching onto his side like a koala with her head on his chest.

“It’s just… I don’t know, sometimes I feel like an old cardigan, under someone’s bed. Just… forgotten.”

“I could never forget you. Sometimes people lose things that are important to them. If you’re an old cardigan then I’m finding you and putting you on because the whole time you were my favorite.” He pressed a kiss to her hair.

“How poetic” She could feel his chest shake as he laughed.

“What can I say? I’m a man of literature. Speaking of which! Do you want to watch Pride and Prejudice?”

“Again?”

“Yes, AgAiN”

Y/N looked up at her boyfriend, beaming. “Always.”

A friend to all is a friend to none

“You can’t keep acting like nothing is going on Jason. You love her, so why are you friends with someone like the asshole who ruined her reputation?”

“Dammit Dick, I didn’t even know that he was the one who did that until a like week ago!”

“And you’ve hung out with him twice since then! A friend to all is a friend to none, Jaybird.”

Chase two girls, lose the one

Surely all of Gotham had heard them arguing from their favorite spot on the roof of the library.

“Jason I understand that you want to go meet your birth mother, but why does that mean you have to not be in touch for an undetermined amount of time? I don’t understand why finding her means leaving me!” Y/N hadn’t meant to shout. She wasn’t actually mad at him. She understood why he wanted to go, but that didn’t make him leaving hurt any less. Why should she have to lose contact with him, let him run off to another continent without any knowledge of if he was okay?

“Sweetheart I’m not leaving you, I’m just trying to find my mom…”

“Yeah, at the expense of me! Jay I will never prevent you from doing something this important to you but that will not change the fact that this hurts me. That I’ll be lying awake at night not knowing if you’re okay or if you’re even going to want me when you come home! Not even being able to ask Bruce if you’re okay because you plan on doing this without his knowledge! For fucks sake Jason do you realize how that would feel?”

“God dammit Y/N why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because you’re LEAVING ME. You know what, go ahead and go Jason. You’re choosing to chase two girls and you’ve lost this one.” She made her way down, trying not to let her hands shake from all the emotional turmoil, at least not until she was on the ground again. There was no way she would know how much she’d regret saying that to him.

When you are young, they assume you know nothing

“It’s your first heartbreak Y/N, you’ll get over it. It was teenage puppy love, something was bound to happen.” Her father had no clue. It had been days and she hadn’t heard from Jason. Last she checked with Alfred, Bruce had followed him out to the middle east somewhere. 

“This was, this is so much more than that. You’re doing it again, assuming that because I’m young I must know nothing.”

“Clearly you don’t know anything.”

But I knew you

“When were you gonna tell me that you being a literature nerd was knowledge Dick wasn’t supposed to get his hands on?” Y/N gave him a look. The look that says ‘i didn't know this was a secret so you can't be upset i spilled’

“Shit, princess, please don’t tell me you told him… he’ll never let me live it down!”

“Oops?” She shrugged. He started to say something else but she kissed him before the words could escape. “It’s alright Jay, it makes you a romantic. And it means I know you better than him.”

Jason smiled. “I guess you’re right…”

Playing hide-and-seek and

“Do you wanna play hide and seek?”

“Sweetheart, aren’t we too old for that?”

“Who said that? Come onnn"

“Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“You know I can’t say no to you.”

Giving me your weekends, I

“You know we don’t have to spend every weekend together right? You can hang out with your friends or your family if you want.”

“Why would I do that when I could give you all my weekends?”

I knew you

"How did you know to tell Bruce I wanted adjustments on the Robin bike?"

"Because I'm just cool like that. And i know you. Now come on, let's take it for a spin!"

Your heartbeat on the High Line

Y/N pressed the side of her head to Jason's chest as a stranger took their photo on the High Line. The trip to New York had been spontaneous, something they'd decided to do for spring break.

After taking her phone back from the kind stranger and thanking them, Y/N turned to her dear boyfriend.

"I could hear your heartbeat you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you'd think it was our first date or something." Y/n grinned.

"Because you make me feel... I don't know, like Pip if Estella was actually good for him?"

"Did you just reference Great Expectations at me as a way of expressing your feelings?"

"Maybe?"

"Kiss me."

Once in twenty lifetimes, I

Y/N often thought of how her mother had once told her that true teenage love like the one she had with Jason only came once in 20 lifetimes. Although, in retrospect maybe it's twice in two lifetimes, or once in one, for the partner who didn't die.

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone's bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite

"Would I still be your favorite person if I was a worm?"

"Well no cause you wouldn't be a person anymore, but you'd be my favorite worm-"

"You know what? I'll take it."

"You'll always be my favorite."

To kiss in cars

"Jason Todd, you are a menace to society."

"What? How?"

"You brought me out to Bruce's Rolls-Royce to make out."

"So?"

and downtown bars

"Who would've thought the boy wonder had a fake ID?"

"Maybe his girlfriend who's cousin made it for him"

"What? Which one?"

Jason smirked at her, knowing it was going to eat her alive not knowing yes im projecting how nosy i am onto the y/n "Sorry princess, that stays a secret"

Was all we needed

You drew stars around my scars

"Jason, it's just an old scar from scraping my knee a little too deep, it's no big deal!"

He continued drawing small stars around any scars he found on her, gently dragging the red marker along her skin. "I didn't say it was!"

But now I'm bleedin'

When Jason hadn’t come back, Y/N had done one of the only things she promised him she would never do: taking up vigilantism. She told Bruce it was only temporary. She told herself it was only temporary. But the longer she was in the game the more attached to it she became.

"FUCK!" Y/N yelped as she sat on her bathroom counter, pressing a damp rag to her wound, carefully wiping it off. "God dammit, I used to be patching up Jason's stab wounds, not getting stabbed..." She picked up her phone, dialing the only number she cared to call anymore.

"Yeah, Dick? Can you come over real quick? Need you to make sure this stab wound doesn't kill me..."

The audible "WHAT" echoed throughout the bathroom, despite the phone not being on speaker.

'Cause I knew you

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

Y/N found Jason at their spot on the roof of the library after Dick informed her that he'd had a particularly rough argument with Bruce.

"Because I know you better than anyone else."

Steppin' on the last train

Jason dragged Y/N towards the last train of the night, what they never knew would be their final date before everything went astray.

"Come on! The last train is the best one!"

Marked me like a bloodstain, I

The image of Jason, dead, being carried away by Bruce was forever marked in Y/N's head. He was dead. There was nothing else to say.

I knew you

Speaking at Jason's small memorial was never something Y/N saw herself doing.

"I uh- I really don't know what to say. You all always said I knew him better than anyone else, and I just wish I could've known the way to prevent this."

Tried to change the ending

Y/N tried so hard to change the ending of her story. Make it so she wasn't just the girl who lost herself in grief. But until unless she saw Jason again, nothing was going to happen.

Peter losing Wendy, I

As she sat there writing 'Cardigan' it occurred to her that Peter losing Wendy was a choice, and her losing Jason never was, but it fit. Their love was a magic only to be found in Neverland.

I knew you

"Hey Red, do I know you from somewhere in civilian life? You seem familiar..."

"No way, too new in town, sorry."

She knew she knew him. She just couldn't place why...

Leavin' like a father

Even though she'd told him just to go, Jason still stopped by Y/N's house before he left to find his mother.

"Please don't leave me, Jay." She cupped his cheeks, pressing his forehead to hers as tears streamed down her face

"Don't cry, baby, I'll be back before you know it."

Running like water, I

Of course, Y/N hadn't known the identity of the Red Hood the first time she'd spotted him. All she had time to think was wondering why such a large man, with guns nonetheless, ran from her like she was out to get him.

And when you are young, they assume you know nothing

"Why do people love to assume that because I'm young I must know nothing about love or heartbreak?" Y/N had asked one day. No one answered. No one knew. They only knew that they were all too aware of just how much she truly knew about both of those things.

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss

"I want a blue jay on my forearm. Full color. Can you do that?"

Y/N had walked into the tattoo parlor like she owned the place. She needed a way to let him permanently linger. The kiss of a needle in her skin the only way to physically represent him.

I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

"What if I had made him stay?!"

"Y/N there's nothing you could've done that would change things."

"But what if—"

"There was nothing any of us could do."

The smell of smoke would hang around this long

"Thought you told me that you quit smoking years ago Red."

"Yeah, well, old habits die hard."

"Rough day huh?"

"Yeah. Girlfriend from before all this almost saw me in the library today. She doesn't know about me."

"About you being a vigilante?"

"She thinks I'm dead."

"You know, maybe I'll do this and be totally mistaken and realize i'm delusional, but I swear to whatever fucking god is listening if i tear off that domino mask and Jason Todd is under there I will be pushing you off this rooftop."

"If I've been hanging out with Y/N this whole time I'm throwing myself off."

'Cause I knew everything when I was young

Y/N was playing a show in Los Angeles, touring at age 15 was insane, but then again, she never thought anyone would listen to her music.

"Alright everyone, I may be young, but I also consider myself to be quite versed in romance, who knows, maybe it's my lovely boyfriend, or the fact that I'm a hopeless romantic, but either way, this one's called Favorite Record!"

Even at a young age, she'd known everything she needed to about love, because it encased her every moment she spent with her favorite person.

I knew I'd curse you for the longest time

She sat at Jason's grave in the Wayne family plot for more hours than she could count, swearing at his headstone

"God dammit! Why didn't you come home? Why didn't you come back to me?" Sobs wracked her body. "I was waiting for you to come home."

Chasin' shadows in the grocery line

Every once in a while Y/N would see someone and think someone was him. Maybe it was her brain's sick way of coping. She reached towards the stranger in front of her.

"Excuse me-"

But when he turned around Jason was gone. It was just another high school boy who had vaguely reminiscent hair.

I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired

A knock came on Y/N's bedroom window. She opened it warily before the Red Hood came clinking in.

"Thrill of letting me think you were dead over?"

"Y/N please-"

"Did you sit and watch as I grieved? Stand by while I lost my mind because I thought I'd lost you?"

"Sweetheart, just let me explain–"

"Don't fucking 'sweetheart' me. Get out. Get out of my fucking room."

And you'd be standin' in my front porch light

"Get off my damn porch Jason." He was standing in civilian clothes, shuffling his feet nervously as if he was a little kid again.

"Not until you let me explain!"

"Fine. You get to come in for five minutes. See if you can explain to me how there is any way you can justify this."

And I knew you'd come back to me

Y/N sat with her jaw slack in shock after hearing Jason's story. How saying he died wasn't even a lie, how he'd been brought back, the madness he'd experienced, the resentment for nobody killing the Joker. (she flat out told him she would've if she thought she could do it without getting herself killed in the process)

"i'm such a fucking asshole."

"No you aren't"

"No you went through this whole traumatic experience and I've just been a dick to you!"

"And it's been totally justified! You should've been the first person to find out I was back. Honestly I'm surprised Dick or Bruce didn't tell you..."

"I'm going to ignore the urge to castrate both of them and just be happy you came back to me."

You'd come back to me

"I'll always come back to you."

And you'd come back to me

"Make sure you come back in one piece?" They were on the same mission, much to Jason's dismay, but they had to be split up.

"When have I ever not come back to you?"

"...."

"Don't answer that."

And you'd come back

They'd made it out of that atrocious mission. It all worked out in the end but it certainly had taken longer than they planned.

"hey, you came back in one piece, just like I asked."

"I always do, just for you."

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone's bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite

Y/N heard Jason coming in. His duffel bag clunked loudly against their closet floor, and she assumed he changed out of his gear at a safehouse before returning to their apartment. She flipped over the edge of the blanket, making room for him to crawl in bed with her. Once sufficiently comfortable behind her, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, Jason spoke.

"Hey Y/N?"

She turned around in his arms so she could face him. "Uh oh, you didn't call me any kind of pet name, just my name, whats up?"

"Nothing I just... I just wanted to let you know you're still my favorite."

~

The tears were flowing freely by then. The audience screamed, cheering at the sweet song. “My favorite person didn’t get to be around for a while, but… he came back to me, and that’s all that matters. Now that's enough crying, I’ve got some much more fun songs, ARE YOU READY GOTHAM CITY!?” And with that, the show went on.

Hours later, Y/N made her way backstage, where she was immediately enveloped by the arms of a mystery man. She wasn’t scared though, she knew who it was. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he spun her around. 

He sat her down gently, beaming. “You wrote a song about me?” “Jay… baby a lot of my songs are about you.” 

“What?”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you managed to not know that even though I’ve told you before.”

“I just assumed you weren’t serious!”

“... You really think that Lover or Lucky People or Favorite Record, could have possibly been about anyone else?”

“And if I just like hearing you say it?”

“Then I’ll tell you forever.” When their lips met, it was a promise, one that this, this feeling in this moment, was real, and that it wouldn’t ever go away, because they knew everything when they were young. 

[tsukimefuku]

Photo, motto!

Yuuji, Nobara and Megumi are shocked to learn you have no social media accounts, and decide to change that. However, things don't go as planned.

wc: 1.6K

tags: jujutsu kaisen, just crack honestly, slow-burn Nanami x OC/Reader, some fluff if you squint, the chaotic trio being chaotic (I love them).

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". A sequence of short stories and one-shots related to Nanami x Reader x Higuruma. To see the ever-growing list of one-shots and short stories, please visit my masterlist :) 

Disclaimer: these stories are NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this story fits in the timeline, please check the masterlist mentioned above.

You were lazily flipping your finger on your phone's screen while you read an article on hydrangea's colors. Every time you flicked your finger, the phone took quite a few seconds to respond, rendering it a nearly daunting task. The thing was ancient by this point, but since you weren't much tech-savvy at all, you never bothered to get a new phone in these last 6 years.

The class was finished, and the first years were blabbering on about something. More specifically, Yuuji and Nobara were having a pretty heated debate about the best 'filter' — whatever the hell that was — to use on a photo before posting it, and Megumi sighed, refusing to break the tie between the two of them.

"Sensei!" Nobara exclaimed, pulling your attention.

"Hm, what?" You asked, having your eyes still glued to the screen of your phone, annoyed at how slow it was.

"We want to know if you find that a feed with no-filter photos is better than a feed with heavily edited photos!" Yuuji chirped in. "No filter is clearly better, real and all!"

"Are you two really going to harass sensei with that nonsense?" Megumi asked, annoyed.

"Of course! And just so you know, I want my pictures to look pretty, not realistic, duh." Nobara answered, not realizing Megumi had used the word nonsense.

"Oh, I can definitely tell that from your feed!" Yuuji replied jokingly, prompting Nobara to pull him by his collar, ready to sucker punch his face.

"What are you guys on about?" You finally asked, looking up. "Filter? Feed? What?"

They stopped for a second and the trio looked at you, perplex.

"You don't have a Picgram* account?" To your surprise, the one to ask that was Megumi. Even with the nonchalant facade, he was still a teenager, after all.

*Yes, I'm avoiding saying other social network names in this, sorry about the cringe.

"The what now?" You asked, earnestly, having Yuuji and Nobara look shell shocked.

"What do you mean you don't know what it is?" Nobara inquired, incredulous. "It's just the most famous social network in all of Japan!"

"Oh, I don't care much about those. I just use my phone for texts, calls, taking pictures, read, listen to music, and that's about it."

"Ah, sensei, you must create an account, then!" Yuuji said, spirited, releasing himself from Nobara's death grip and frolicking towards you.

"Hm, okay, I guess. Good luck trying to do anything on that phone, though" you said, having him sit beside you. After Yuuji took your phone on his hands — cracked screen, unkempt as hell, and clearly in overtime duty, his face contorted in horror.

Nobara came and stepped towards you both, taking in the decrepit state of your smartphone with her eyes.

"Sensei, maybe you should get a new phone?" Yuuji inquired, gently.

"Not maybe. Surely. This is just about to crumble to pieces" Nobara noted.

Megumi crept up behind the other two students.

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad" you replied, scratching your head.

"It definitely is" Megumi stated, unprompted. "Jujutsu sorcerers are well paid, sensei. You can afford one."

"It's not that I can't afford one, Fushiguro, I just don't need a new phone" you replied, lifting an eyebrow in annoyance. "Just get on with it and do the thing."

"Eh, fine, fine!" Yuuji replied, opening your browser app. He basically set up your account, followed his own and Gojo's accounts, and then motioned himself by your side to show you how it worked.

"So, here are your messages" he pointed to the corner of the screen.

Obviously those were the text messages, that was a worldwide used icon since the nineties.

"I figured out that much, Itadori" you answered, asking yourself when did these teens begin thinking you were so technologically inept.

He cleared his throat and said, "sorry". 

You saw a message coming in from Gojo. Upon clicking, you and Yuuji waited for a few seconds until it opened. It was a greeting dog sticker. Of course.

"Well, and how does this work?"

"Down here, you can pick a photo to post, and you basically follow people on the app to see the photos they post, comment on them, give them a like and things like that!" Yuuji answered.

"Hey, Yuuji, did you have sensei follow me?" Nobara asked.

"Let me show her how to post a picture first" he lied, pressing on the plus icon.

When he pressed it, multiple images of flowers and plants appeared, having some landscapes sprinkled across your photo library.

"Oh, these are beautiful!" Yuuji said, delighted.

"Let me see!" Nobara exclaimed, butting her head beside Yuuji, and gasping. "Oh, the flowers, they're pretty!"

"Oh" you huffed out, smiling, slightly embarrassed. "Thank you, I guess."

Then, Yuuji and Nobara went silent for a moment, something very uncharacteristic for them.

"Hm?" You hummed.

They both seemed to be slightly blushing and said nothing.

"What is it?" Megumi asked, butting himself on Yuuji's other side and widening his eyes a little. "Oh. Uh..." He began, "I-I've been to that bakery, it's very good."

What the hell?

You got up and stood beside them, realizing that they had caught you red-handed. 

On the screen, was a picture you had taken of Nanami in one of your missions, clearly without him seeing it or noticing you did so. He just seemed so satisfied and happy munching on his ciabatta sandwich that you just had to take a picture of that.

"H-hey, just-" you stuttered, blushing violently. "Students, stop messing on my photo library!"

"I'm sorry!" Yuuji said, fumbling your phone back at you. It fell on the table, and when you got a hold of it again, your blood ran cold.

The photo had accidentally been posted.

"Uh?! Posted?! What?!" 

The trio paled in an instant.

"I- I'm so so so sorry, oh my-" Yuuji was stuttering, completely mortified, hands covering his mouth.

"God..." Megumi said, sighing deeply. "I'll be outside waiting for you guys to finish this."

"Itadori, stop. Stop talking" you stated, inhaling deeply. "Nobara, please delete this" you said, handing her the phone.

She tapped on the screen, first delicately, then stronger, following a sequence of angry, nervous taps.

"W-what? What is going on?" You inquired, also mortified.

"It's frozen" she answered. 

Oh, for fuck's sake.

***

Gojo was reveling on a matcha ice cream while he roamed the streets of Tokyo.

As the sorcerer walked, he got a notification on his phone. Upon checking, he realized you had followed him on Picgram, and promptly followed you back, sending his classic dog greeter on your DM's.

Given that he wasn't doing much, Gojo decided to doomscroll for a while, checking out the feed for some minutes, and realized there wasn't anything particularly interesting.

After refreshing, however, a photo of Nanami, that had clearly been taken without him noticing, appeared on his feed.

Checking the profile, Gojo realized you were the one to post the picture, and took a print-screen of it as he laughed mischievously to himself.

Oh, this is going to be fun, he thought as he opened his text messages with Nanami.

GS: Hey, Nanamin!

NK: Don't call me that. 

GS: I have something for you.

NK: ... What?

***

You and Nanami were at the usual bar for yet another drinking session after work. He had just told you about his mission for the day, and you were about to tell him about the students' debacle, just before stopping in your tracks. 

You were both silent for a few moments.

"So, do you remember that bakery? The one that has a great ciabatta with pesto that we went a few weeks ago?" He inquired, lifting his glass of whiskey to take a sip.

You looked at him suspiciously. "Yes, I remember."

"I think we should go there tomorrow. I wanted to try the newer options from the menu, their bread is exquisite" Nanami answered, still holding his glass up.

"Uh, sure, I guess." This is very sus.

"Maybe..." the ratio sorcerer said, gravely lowering his glass on the bar counter, "we should also take a picture, their food is very well presented, after all."

Oh, no.

"Nanami, I'm so so so sorry! I just thought you looked so happy with your sandwich, it was an accident, the first years are relentless, I didn't mean to-"

Nanami was clearly amused hearing your apologies as he nonchalantly took another sip from his drink, unwavering.

When you were done blabbering, Nanami held the urge to smile, as he resumed speaking.

“What was that you used to call me back at Odate?” The sorcerer asked, filled with satisfaction, ready to deal the killing blow with no mercy at all.

"Oh, come on, Nanami! Please don't." 

Your pleads fell on deaf ears.

"Oh, I think I remember” Nanami said, vindication from ten years of teasing stewing under the monotone of his voice. 

“Don’t you dare, Nanami...” you warned, vermilion face pulsing with embarrassment.

“You used to call me ‘stalker’" he stated, highlighting the last word, before he proceeded. "So, how does it feel to actually be one?”

“Nanami, come on, I'm not a stalker! Ugh” you sighed, covering your face in shame.

This time, he couldn't hold the amusement grin.

You grunted before proceeding. “Guess I’ve earned this one, but come on, that was ten years ago! How did you hold on to that grudge for so long?”

Except it wasn’t a grudge. Well, maybe just a little bit.

I need a new phone.

--

End notes:

This one was so fun to write. About the "stalker" thing, it's referring to my mid-long fic, Sand and Snow (you can check it out here), given that reader is based off of my OC from S&S :) Hope you had fun! xoxo

[empiredesimparte]

About the timeline

Hello everyone 👋🏻

I’m writing this message because some of you have been asking questions about the timeline of recent events (coronation, weddings...). So, this is part of worldbuilding.

First, all dates on this blog are recorded using the French Revolutionary calendar. In my story, which is an alternative history of modern France, the former Emperor Napoleon IV chose to preserve certain legacies and institutions from the French Revolution. In our world, that wouldn't make sense, of course, but it's fiction, isn't it?

Year 1 (An I) begins in 1792. To sum up, using information from Wikipedia:

In my fiction, we are in Year 230. This is equivalent to the year 2022 for us.

22 Germinal an 230 : Death of Emperor Napoleon IV 20 Prairial an 230 : Marriage of Emperor Napoleon V to Charlotte de Rochechouart de Mortemart 15 Thermidor an 230 : French Presidency of Europesim (for 6 months) 28 Thermidor an 230 : Coronation of the imperial couple at Notre-Dame de Paris

I date all my story posts. For example, for the last one :

But not necessarily collaborations with simblr friends.

The weddings of Hortense and Oliver, as well as Philippe and Eloise, take place after the coronation in my timeline. So, soon you will see Hortense still engaged in my story, just like Philippe. I will reblog each event in chronological order to show the true continuity. For now, Napoleon V has not yet traveled to Scotland or Iona.

Namely, @funkyllama, @officalroyalsofpierreland and myself (the incredible trio Europesim) aren't too particular about chronology really. We have a few dates in common, but not the whole of our stories.

I hope you find this aside useful, dear readers! If you have any other worldbuilding or timeline questions, don't hesitate to ask.

[bluejay-the-geek]

DC characters/moments as Tortured Poets Department songs/lyrics bc i have a light concussion and am very bored (in the album's chronological order)

(disclaimer before someone is triggered- some of the lyrics are taken out of context or interpreted differently than what they actually mean. this is just for fun don't come for me. also this gets pretty angsty towards the end so proceed with caution)

"I was supposed to be sent away, But they forgot to come and get me"- tim drake very obviously bc neglecting parents/boarding school

"I love you, it's ruining my life"- early harleen quinzel about joker

"My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys"- the whole song is just harley quinn idc (pre-harlivy of course)

"Now I'm down bad, cryin' at the gym"- nightwing def cried at the gym at some point

"I stopped tryna make him laugh, stopped tryna drill the safe"- dick grayson about bruce after moving out of wayne manor

"You swore that you loved me, but where were the clues? I died on the altar waitin' for the proof, You sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days"- remember the whole selena leaving bruce at the alter thing? yeah

"I'd rather burn my whole life down, Than listen to one more second of all this bitchin' and moanin', I'll tell you something 'bout my good name, It's mine alone to disgrace"- I'm just getting red hood vibes from this no specific reason

"Now, pretty baby, I'm runnin' back home to you, Fresh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to"- almost every gotham rouge to batman right after escaping arkham/prison. especially joker, catwoman and riddler lol

"At the park where we used to sit on children's swings, Wearing imaginary rings"- this one specific panel of tim and steph

"And this city reeks of driving myself crazy"- everyone who's ever been to gotham

"All my girls got their lace and their crimes, And your cheating husband disappeared, well, No one asks any questions here"- it's giving gotham city sirens

"Am I allowed to cry?"- maybe it's just me but i thought about clark kent discovering he had different biological parents and grieving about them even though the parents that actually raised him are alive and well

"So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream, "Who's afraid of little old me?", You should be" red hood's debut

"The scandal was contained, The bullet had just grazed, At all costs, keep your good name, You don't get to tell me you feel bad"- jason todd about the whole making batman choose between him and joker at the end of under the red hood

"You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me"- this is 100% Bane bc he was born and grew up in prison for a crime he didn't even do!! also cassandra cain and damian wayne

(^this is actually the lyric that inspired this entire post lol)

"You caged me and then you called me crazy, I am what I am 'cause you trained me, So who's afraid of me? Who's afraid of little old me?"- kind of a stretch but remember that time they put jason in arkham?

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)- again the whole song is harley about joker

"Your arson's match, your somber eyes, And I'll still see it until I die, You're the loss of my life"- bruce about jason. out of all the robins that died, jason's death hit him the hardest. even now when bruce sees red hood, he still sees that happy little kid that he lost

"I can read your mind, "She's having the time of her life", There in her glittering prime, The lights refract sequin stars off her silhouette every night, I can show you lies"- bc we all know Nightwing is always dying on the inside, and it was very true in the discowing era bc it was right after he left the manor

"'Cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit"- jason pre-bruce

"I'm so obsessed with him, but he avoids me like the plague"- ok so we got joker about batman, cupid about green arrow, hush about bruce wayne... and a bunch of others but it's too many to write lol

"And you deserve prison, but you won't get time"- fucking tarantula that bitch

"The smallest man who ever lived"- the atom! not any of the messages in the song tho ofc he's just very small

"What if I told you I'm back? The hospital was a drag, Worst sleep that I ever had, I circled you on a map ,I haven't come around in so long, But I'm coming back so strong"- joker to batman after escaping arkham again

"I haven't come around in so long, But I'm making a comeback to where I belong"- jason coming back to protect crime alley after being away from gotham for years after his resurrection

"Even if it's handcuffed, I'm leavin' here with you"- batman and catwoman<3

I Hate It Here- imagine the whole song as homeless jason todd taking shelter in the library💔

"I built a legacy that you can't undo, But when I count the scars, there's a moment of truth, That there wouldn't be this if there hadn't been you"- bruce built a legacy as batman, and created a huge family he loves, and it hurts to think about but he wouldn't have any of it if joe chill hadn't murdered his parents

"Please, I've been on my knees, Change the prophecy, Don't want money, Just someone who wants my company"- kid bruce grew up all alone in a huge mansion, but he'd give all his billions away in a heartbeat if he could change his parent's fate

"So, they killed Cassandra first 'cause she feared the worst"- ok so you might think i chose cassandra cain for this only bc of the name, BUT- cass notices things others don't (like cassandra the prophet...), bc of her skills and abilities she is feared the most (Ik the song said "she feared" not "she is feared" but idc lol). like if someone knew so much about you just by looking you'd think she's some kind of a witch too

Peter- picture this: jason had a childhood friend back at crime alley. he left to live in wayne manor and become robin, and said goodbye to his old friend, promising they'd reunite again in the future. 3 years pass and his friend reads an article about jason's death. now listen to the song and try not to cry (if someone writes that fic send me the link IMMEDIATELY this has been haunting me) here's the link to the song with lyrics bc ik you're too lazy to look it up. also jason's middle name is peter:)

"Splendidly selfish, charmingly helpless, Excellent fun 'til you get to know her"- brucie wayne vs batman

"Started with a kiss, "Oh, we must stop meeting like this" But it always ends up with a town car speeding, Out the drive one evening"- catwoman and batman of course<3 the town car is the batmobile speeding out the batcave to catch catwoman (to arrest her or make out with her? probs both)

Robin- ofc we have to go robins for robin! imo that's bruce to dick and jason's robins, and dick to damian when he was his robin. dick and jason- despite the hard times they went through that led to them becoming robins, they were still mostly happy curious kids that run around covered in mud while bruce tried (unsuccessfully) to maintain the innocence they had left. as for damian- it's more of a stretch than the other 2 bc he had no childlike innocence before robin, but dick tried his hardest to extract the child that was hidden inside the ruthless assassin the league created, finally allowing him to experience normal kid things. idk

"He said, "I'm not a donor but, I'd give you my heart if you needed it", She rolled her eyes and said, "You're a professional""-to me this is clark kent completely in love and lois with her sass

"And at last, She knew what the agony had been for"- almost every hero. they suffer, they sacrifice, they fight, and sometimes they want to give up- but at the end of the day, they save lives, so it's all worth it

and that's it folks! feel free to add more/share your insights!!

sorry for any spelling/grammer mistakes, English isn't my first language plus like the title said i had a minor head injury a few days ago and I'm tired soI'm not proofreading this bc I'm going to sleep rn goodnight to all✌️

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Isobel, Before

On something of a whim I decided to compile, in chronological order, the flashback segments from Isobel's POV that are woven throughout Moon-chosen, Moon-guided. I was curious how they'd read, and it turns out I quite like how they do - so here they are posted as a standalone little prequelish thing, a series of windows into a developing relationship and some family drama. This includes the segment I wrote for the upcoming third chapter, so consider it a sneak peek of an update that will take me a little while longer because it decided to develop a plot or some such nonsense, you know how it is. The years are my own very rough guesses, trying to somehow work around the Spellplague while keeping it all approximately a century before the main plot of the game, so don't take them too seriously.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm Length: ~8000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence (including temporary character death) and sexual content

---

1381 DR

-

It is an unusually warm and bright summer day for Reithwin, the relentless sun urging you to rush your errands around town and make your way home to the merciful shade. And it is upon your return there that you find the glorious Dame Aylin laying waste to an army of training dummies in the otherwise empty practice field beneath Moonrise Towers. 

You steal a moment to watch and appreciate the spectacle that is her entire being in perfectly orchestrated motion, uncharacteristically free of her ever-polished armour, sleeves rolled up - a vision of ferocity, even if it is against such laughably unworthy foes.

It calls to your mind, amusingly, the poor announcer in your father's audience chamber a little over a month ago, so very unusually formal and far too visibly nervous, struggling to rattle off one too many titles.

The Valiant Dame Aylin Silverblood, Undefeated Sword of the Moonmaiden, Paladin and Daughter of Selûne. Arriving as formal Emissary of Our Lady of Silver, speaking in Her name.

She turns when she hears you clearing your throat to announce your presence, an indulgent while after your arrival. Ever so slightly out of breath, with a subtle sheen of sweat on her radiant brow, she inclines her head with respect. "Ah! Lady Isobel. I was just thinking of sending to fetch you. A request, if you please."

"Of course, Dame Aylin." Anything for the resplendent emissary, you want to add, only half-teasingly. It is frustratingly difficult not to act a smitten fool around her, and sarcasm has proved a feeble defence from her charms.

Her request, however, is nowhere near anything you might have anticipated.

"I would have you meet me in the sparring ring, if you are willing."

You blink. "I-- pardon?"

"You are no mere lord's daughter, nor are you simply the demure local healer. I can tell by your bearing you have training. Not the typical mace of the clergy, no," she hums, as if in thought, looking you up and down quite brazenly, appraisingly. "The rapier, perhaps, along with a dagger for the offhand? No, rather, the quarterstaff--"

"The spear," you cut her off. And the lofty, approving tilt of her chin is so fetching as to be insufferable. "I can protect myself, you're right. My father is an accomplished general, after all," and stiflingly overprotective to boot, but that part you bite back and keep to yourself. "It is only fitting. Besides, any devotee of Our Lady knows how important it is to be able to fend for oneself."

"Show me, then, general's daughter," she gestures to the packed-dirt training ring with a grin. "I grow quite bored of this straw-filled wicker regiment I have been pitted against."

She's got a good head and a half of height on you. Her reach outclasses yours quite overwhelmingly. She is visibly broad and strong and unshakeable as a mighty fortress. And though you do indeed have training, the martial arts were hardly your main focus - very much unlike her.

A challenge, truly, but one you cannot help but suddenly crave.

"Fine, then, I accept." A giddiness washes over you as you speak, and your head feels oddly light. The heat and humidity of the day, surely. Treading dangerous ground, Isobel.

Aylin immediately goes over to the training weapon racks to put away the blunt sword she has been using, and you follow her.

"I have trained in arms of all sorts, but I find I most favour the greatsword," she muses as she rummages, retrieving two wooden staves with padded ends, testing their weight. "The spear I must confess I have neglected somewhat, in recent times."

You smirk as she hands you a staff that has evidently passed inspection. "There is no need for excuses, Dame Aylin. When I trounce you, I assure you it will have been fair and square and well deserved."

You expect the hearty bellow of her laugh, some lively banter in return, an exclamation, Ho! Instead, she inclines her head in a respectful gesture, and does so with a surprisingly soft smile and oddly inscrutable gaze in your direction. "I would expect no less of you, my lady." 

You look away hastily, wipe the sweat from your hands and put on the leather gloves from your belt. The day has been far too hot for them and the afternoon sun is still beating down fiercely, but you are not about to embarrass yourself and risk losing on the technicality of a splinter. 

Then, you face each other.

Her stance and the way she holds the wooden training weapon speak of years, decades… centuries of experience, perhaps. It is hard to truly imagine, and you find you do not really know. Immortal, yes, but… well, since when? Does she have a universe of deeds and escapades on you, a hundred lives lived to the fullest, or merely the knowledge that they lie ahead of her?

When could it possibly be polite to ask such a thing?

You shake away the distraction of your thoughts, just in time to block a quick, testing blow aimed at your own weapon. A tease, really, hoping for a reaction you know well enough not to provide.

She continues with the probing attacks, none of them with any real force behind them, and you think how under normal circumstances it might be a good strategy to let your opponent waste her strength and tire herself out like this - but you know better. You have discreetly observed enough of her training sessions to know that if she is anything at all she is tireless.

But she is leaving it up to you to attempt anything other than these light provocations. So you do - you would hate to disappoint, after all.

You strike out high at her head, once, twice, then at her front leg, swift as a viper, and when she moves her weapon down to parry, you jab at her shoulder and step back in time to avoid the afterblow. 

"Oh-ho! An excellent feint, perfectly executed!" The joy that lights her face even as she rolls the struck shoulder is so infectious, you can't help but laugh breathlessly, warmed by this small triumph. "I was indeed correct in my assumption - the most noble Lady Isobel is not to be underestimated. Her skills and merit extend far beyond even the lofty requirements of her duties - be they of the court or of the faith."

The next strike you attempt, flushed with both the heat of the day and the effusive praise, is met with far more resistance, and soon you are exchanging blows with vigour. She repays your shoulder blow with a tap to your hip, then tries to strike the staff from your hands in a disarm you just barely avoid with a well-timed tilt.

Your next attempt at a feint is parried at the very last moment, but you do not retreat, and so you end in a bind. She is much stronger than you, yes, but your angle is superior, and you can see her straining to stay in position, close to that ever-important centreline, and keep her balance. A bead of sweat trails down her neck to her collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realise you are following it, rapt. It takes you another moment to register she is staring at you just as raptly, even as you feel your hair sticking to your temples and realise the paint around your eyes is likely a smudged mess.

Distraction. An opening if you've ever seen one.

"Do you know, when I heard an emissary of Selûne was coming to our town, I did not expect her to have a bard's silver tongue on her." Instead of moving to disengage and putting distance between you, you draw even closer to her, until your mouth is almost at her ear. "In more ways than one, perhaps?"

Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed silver, shining. It is the oddest and most captivating blush you have ever seen, made only more so by the closeness of your study.

And of course, the moment of distraction proves sufficient for that slight shift you needed. The great oak topples with so little effort - leverage, always, the key. Her reaction is faster than you anticipated, however, and so with the force of her riposte you go down right after her. Foolish of you, really - the thought has time to rush through your mind as your sense of balance disappears - to underestimate an accomplished paladin so.

In any case, within moments, Aylin is on the ground, and you land atop her. You have enough presence of mind, somehow, despite the proximity and the warmth and the, well-- to reach for where your weapon started to roll away and press the end of it lightly against her neck. "Yield?"

She raises her hands, palms up in surrender, and nods, struck speechless for once.

You scramble rather gracelessly to your feet in all your triumph, and offer her a hand up. She accepts, then somewhat disappointingly lets go to dust herself off before you've had a chance to fully appreciate the feel of her hand in yours.

"Well!" Aylin turns the bright glint of her full attention on you, charmingly tousled still. "I see no point in struggling to prolong a losing battle. A challenge, skillfully won." She steps closer to you and inclines her head in a slight bow. "Besides, I can tell my yielding on the field of battle pleases you, and I am not one to deny a lady her pleasure."

All of it spoken with a smile, and a shockingly honest, unmasked, open, and entirely unabashed look in her eyes. Damn her.

You do your best, feebly, to catch your breath and return to something resembling calm propriety. And you fail to squash a niggling doubt. "Thank you for the bout, Dame Aylin. But… honestly now, were you holding back?"

"Only as much as is appropriate for the training ring, of course. One is never to exert one's full might in these circumstances, as you well know." She shakes her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, and you can't help but feel this is a recitation she has been made to repeat until it stuck, something she had to deliberately become aware of after getting carried away one too many times. A thought to file away for later, perhaps. "But not in the sense you doubtlessly meant, no. I would not pretend and deceive after asking a fair duel of you. Such things are beneath Dame Aylin."

The heat floods your cheeks again. Damn her phrasing. 

"Ah," she clears her throat. "The day has grown too hot for martial pursuits, I fear - let us retire."

She offers you her arm, ever gallant. You allow yourself the bold indiscretion of taking it only after you have peeled off your gloves and tucked them back in your belt. You've not known Dame Aylin for a very long time, but you are well aware she is possibly the least subtle creature in all of Faerûn. The ill-concealed catch in her breath and stiffening in her shoulders as your skin meets hers is a treasured token you stow away for further contemplation.

It is a regrettably short walk to the pleasantly shaded entrance hall of Moonrise.

-

1382 DR

-

Sharran forces dare attack even here, in the shadow of your father's moonlit fortress, in the very heart of a famously devoted Selûnite region. Perhaps they heard, or tortured out of some poor soul, that their hated Moonwitch had sent an emissary.

But the emissary does not seem to be quite what they expected or prepared for.

You've heard of Dame Aylin's exploits, of some of the many glorious deeds to her name - well, to be quite honest, you've deliberately asked around for them and chased down all the tales, however ridiculous they seemed, with somewhat concerning single-mindedness. But none of them, not even the most outrageous exaggerations with all the force of poetic licence behind them, can compare to actually seeing her in the heat of battle.

It is certainly dangerous to be so distracted in the midst of a clearly planned and organised assault on your home, and it is especially egregious to keep looking up, chasing a vision as it flies somewhere high above all of you, soaring over the head of your father's statue gracing the centre of the embattled town square. But she is so utterly glorious and radiant and filled with unquestionable purpose in all that she does, and you are utterly beyond help.

"Selûne, Moonmother, in Your name!" The clear voice suddenly rings out from somewhere close by, drowning out the din of battle in your ears. You turn just in time to see a flash of silver light engulf one of the masked attackers, burnished black disks brazenly displayed on their armour, and, well, you are not the only one smitten.

But then - disaster. Three of Moonrise's most recently recruited silver-bedecked guards find themselves stumbling into a group of enemies that close a circle around them. You see one of them fall, gripped by inky-purple strands, before you can even start to intone a spell; another one loses his footing and opens himself up for a deadly blow.

Quick as lightning, Aylin rushes down and forward, pushing the stumbling guard fully out of the way. Instead of him, the cultist's scimitar finds purchase in her gut, sliding through a gap between armour-plates like butter, and another's obsidian-black axe bites into her shoulder.

The sound it makes, that Aylin makes, draws a shout from you. A bolt of moonlight dispatches the first cultist, rage and terror somehow making your aim uncanny, and you step forward to bathe the rest of his nearby comrades in deadly, burning radiance before he has even hit the ground.

After this, the battle is over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers falls on her own blade rather than be captured and questioned, crying out some pitiful, ill-conceived mantra about secrets. 

You find you do not care: your world, for the moment, has sunk down to the breadth of one woman lying on the trampled ground in a distressingly rapidly growing pool of silver, the guards she saved hovering around her in a mix of awe and alarm.

They let you through without hesitation - you are a cleric, after all. A healer. But as you drop to your knees at her side and attempt to assess the damage, you can tell you are too late.

Your hands fly in well-practised movements all the same.

"Do not worry, fearsome, fair Isobel," Aylin manages, breathily, barely audible, around a mouthful of blood. Her hand makes a very weak attempt at a dismissive wave, or grabbing your wrist to stop your ministrations, you cannot quite tell. Her helmet and her wings are both already gone, and the silver burning in her gaze just moments ago is a weak flicker. "I--"

Her eyes flutter closed and she falls limp beneath your hands and you--

--do not have time to even begin to comprehend what has happened before she is gasping awake again, coughing and groaning, spitting up a clot, trying to sit up.

You gape for a moment, then help her in her efforts, lean her against your chest. The weight of the armour feels like it might crush you, but moving away feels unthinkable.

"No tears, no," she mumbles, half-coherently, as you strain to understand, as a gauntleted hand reaches up to brush against your cheek clumsily. "So mundane a blow cannot… truly fell… Dame Aylin."

It is one thing to be aware of it in theory. Another thing entirely to witness it. Immortal.

There is a crowd gathered around you by now, you register faintly. People crying out prayers of praise and thanks to the Moonmaiden, for Her infinite wisdom and Her endless gifts and the indomitable daughter-champion She has blessed you all with. You feel a tug in your chest, like you should be joining in; like you would be the one leading the prayer in ordinary circumstances. 

But you feel terribly far away from it all even as Aylin's breath grows more steady as she leans against you. You see her smile, still bloody, and understand only the most general sense of the reassuring platitudes she is whispering at you. 

You bring her to the House of Healing with the other wounded of the battle and insist rather possessively on treating her yourself. Only afterwards do you tear yourself away from her bedside to take full stock of damage and casualties while she sleeps it off. 

Your father rushes to embrace you tightly as soon as he catches sight of you from the House's grand entrance, and you let yourself cling to him for a moment. You do your best to assuage his worries, claim - lie - that you were in no real danger, insist on continuing to help here where you are most needed as he returns to his gubernatorial duties. And somehow, miraculously, he lets you go.

As you help the dutiful sisters with the worst of it, you finally manage to focus on murmuring your own prayer of thanks. It helps clear the long-clinging fog from your mind. And it helps, truly, that you count no deaths among Reithwin's faithful - the only fallen today are Shar's to claim if she deigns to do so.

Well - and then there's Aylin.

You go to check on her in the morning, after you've managed - been forced into, rather - a very brief nap. 

The glorious and apparently unconquerable Dame Aylin is awake, reclining against the headboard of the only occupied bed in that wing. You don't recall requesting she receive any special treatment, and she doesn't look too pleased with being singled out as if in a place of honour - in fact, she mostly looks bored. She is frowning down at herself, plucking at loose threads hanging off of the bandages that cover most of her shoulder, chest, and abdomen - your own handiwork.

You step into the room and set down the basin of fresh water and an assortment of healing supplies with a deliberately loud clatter, jarring her out of her reverie. The moment she sees you, an expression of blatant joy dawns on her face. You try very hard not to read too much into it.

Instead, you make very standard proper-bedside-manner-dictated small talk as you peel away the gauze. The wounds are mostly healed, as you would expect from your application of any and all magic you had remaining that night, but there is a small line of gold running down towards her left side, where the blade bit in and through, and another one cupping across her shoulder. Oddly beautiful for what is presumably a scar - and highlighting the marvellous build of a finely muscled torso, pipes up a segment of your mind that has no place around a sickbed.

You wrench yourself back into professionalism and lightly press down with your fingers, following the shining gold, the freshly knit-together skin, still reddened and bruised in places. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?"

"None at all," Aylin answers resolutely, entirely back to her old self. But then- "Ah," she winces as you find a particularly sore spot, expression wry, "it would appear I spoke too soon." 

You trace back up, murmuring incantations, letting the cool, healing relief flow from your fingertips.

The way she is unphased by all of this seems… uncanny. In fact, she shows more concern for you, completely untouched by the battle, than for herself. It is oddly and slightly frighteningly flattering, in retrospect, that she used her dying breath - well, this particular dying breath - to reassure you. 

And it all makes much more sense now, as things slot into place. The recklessness of her fighting style, of her whole manner. The way she shrugged off blows and rushed ever forward, where the battle was thickest and fiercest.

But now you've seen she is immortal, yes, but not invulnerable, however much she might like to act like she is both. And if she pulls herself out from literal death, no matter the scope of the wounds, she does not seem to magically heal much past that - the evidence is before you now. You can already picture her merely patching herself up with her own healing magic in the middle of the fray, as if in passing, just enough to enable her to storm on. All while her enemies gape and turn tail when they realise the futility of standing against her.

"I only hope you did not worry overmuch, Lady Isobel. It is in my nature, inextricable from my being. I cannot fall, not truly. But I keep the reminders, sometimes - wrought in gold."

Then she very cordially points out a few more, as if to indulge you. Some bigger, some smaller, some thin lines, barely there, some wide and jagged. But all of them bright gold seams, seamlessly integrated into her skin.

"Why not silver?" You blurt out, then feel your face burn with embarrassment. And then a mild but growing horror as you think back to the silver staining your hands and robes as you knelt on the damp cobblestones. This is in turn chased away by an odd warmth as you recall how she murmured your name and reached for your face. 

Aylin, however, guffaws joyfully, stopped short only by a sudden wince as she pulls something still tender.

"Would you believe - I do not know? It is simply how I am, how I have always been. Perhaps I shall ask my Mother to elucidate, when next we commune." Then she beams at you. "What a joy and pleasure you have proven to be, Lady Isobel. To make me consider things about myself I have never had cause nor inclination to before. A rare treasure."

You blame your lack of sleep on the ease with which she is managing to fluster you without even seeming to consciously try, so you do your best to keep your response polite and nothing more. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Dame Aylin. All of Reithwin treasures your presence and is grateful for it, especially after tonight."

She looks up at you and you meet her gaze, pausing in your ministrations. She looks disappointed, if anything, and the disappointment is shared - those are not the words you truly wish to say to her. And you cannot quite explain to yourself why you feel like a sudden distance has sprung up between you, after months of a beautifully built-up rapport, laid on the foundations of those first few shared star-struck gazes. Why this one out of all the many reminders of her divine nature has shaken you so.

As you continue reapplying bandages and keep distractedly checking in with her about the tightness, she catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "My wounds are a distant memory, for they are being tended by fair Isobel--"

There is a naked determination writ all over her face now. It brings to mind her battlefield bearing, more than anything else, but her eyes are wide and soft and almost pleading.

"Truly, I am in the best of hands." A kiss again, and she lets the hand go. It is a perfectly polite and courteous gesture. Nothing… scandalous. But there is a clear ardour to it you did not acknowledge before. Calling attention to a line you have not yet crossed, but that you have both, perhaps, been toeing for a while.

Then she moves to sit up fully, even through visible winces, and shrugs off the steadying hand you place on her shoulder.

"You are the worst patient I have ever had," you state dramatically, laughing. She merely cocks her head in response, so very winning and charming even when still covered in blood, dirt, and partially unravelled bandages. "I will go get some more fresh water so you can clean up - though we've already ruined these sheets, I fear."

But you do not move, despite your words. Your eyes have not left hers in what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a minute. There is a blatant yearning there that you know is reflected in your gaze, that you have both become utterly incapable of hiding.

"I would ask, greedily, another boon of my most gracious healer," she murmurs.

"Oh?" You lean closer, ostensibly to hear her quiet words better. "Why, Dame Aylin, after your valiant performance tonight, I might just grant it."

You are almost nose to nose when Aylin speaks up again, her throat visibly working, her entire impressive self working up the courage to leap the distance - and you find you very much want her to.

"A kiss, then. To drink but once from the lips of the incomparable Lady Isobel Thorm would soothe all that ails me, seal all my wounds."

You watched this woman take an axe to the shoulder and a sword through the belly, and only now does she sound hesitant. Nervous. Afraid, even. The smallest of trembles in that rich, regal voice.

"If… if I have misread, if I have misinterpreted your intentions, I beg your forgiveness with all possible contrition…"

Your reply is wordless as you surge forward, boon happily granted. The first of many to come.

-

1383 DR

-

The dinner is only slightly awkward, as far as these affairs have gone in the past. The most notable thing about it is that your father, it seems, has learned from last time.

First of all, Balthazar isn't here - wasn't invited, or had to beg off due to some undoubtedly important business. What your father sees in that man and why he holds his advice in such high esteem is quite beyond you. It is an amusing thought, however, that he, too, might have suffered from the horrible awkwardness and simply invented an excuse for this occasion.

Second - oh, Lady Arianella Bormul had been lovely, the very picture of elegance and rather breathtaking grace. With a crown of curls you felt a stab of envy over, and a perfectly cut gown that accentuated every curve of her and every dark blush shade of her skin. Carrying herself like a queen in the dining room, but perfectly polite and amicable in the conversations you two were inevitably forced into afterwards, with intriguing flashes of a cutting wit. But you shared so very little. And she was beautiful like a work of art whose objective qualities everyone agreed upon, you included, but that just were not to your personal taste.

Now you wonder just how obvious you'd made it.

As your father shoots you pointed glances from across the table and over a deliberately placed carafe of wine, you allow yourself, briefly, an entire slew of unkind thoughts. About how maybe things would be different if your mother were still here. About how much easier it would be if you had siblings, so that the entire future of Reithwin and the Thorm family and your father's heart didn't rest on your shoulders. About how selfish you truly would like to be. 

Then you shove it all back down and smile at the guests around the table, and offer your opinion about the most excellent skills of your local mason's guild and their potential for expansion.

The young Lady Jana Whitburn is strategically sat right across from you, as her father and yours conduct the important conversations on venison and marble and slate trade that this visit was ostensibly arranged for. She is tall and broad and clad in a marvellously fetching brocade suit of dark green. Her mother, rather obviously focused on you since their arrival in what is clearly a tactical division of duties agreed upon in advance, talks about Jana's successes in the tournament arenas across the Coast and her pending performance in Waterdeep's Field of Triumph. She herself, in a pleasantly deep yet melodic voice, mentions being interested in jousting, as a means of keeping her riding skills sharp while she is not out and about keeping her family's lands safe. Tilts her head at you with a winning smile at the conclusion of one adventurous story or other, the sharp cut of her chiselled jaw accentuated in perfect candlelight. You smile back, and poke half-heartedly at your tasteless dessert.

Later, you take her for a walk in Reithwin's small but well-kept gardens. She very gallantly offers you her arm, and you take it. Your father and her parents beam, and you contain your sigh. But when you look up at your companion, you are slightly surprised to notice that there is something brewing behind her eyes as well.

As soon as you are out of eyesight and earshot, you stop, take your hand off her arm and turn to face her.

"My apologies, Lady Whitburn…"

She almost winces when you address her, and shakes her head as if she is trying to physically shake off the formality and the trailing remnants of the dinner atmosphere. "Jana, please, Lady Thorm." 

"Jana, then," you smile your most agreeable smile, "and so I must be Isobel, no?"

"Of course, Isobel," she smiles back, but it is clearly strained, and you feel nothing so much as pity.

"Listen, Jana, I…" You hesitate, struggling to put your words into polite, inoffensive shape.

All this does is highlight the lack of Aylin, the lack of the connection and utterly natural understanding between the two of you. The ease. Even when there was supposed to be some fundamental and unbridgeable rift between you, according to your father.

"I'm afraid my father has misled you and your family - not out of any desire to harm, nor with ill intent. But, you see, I… I already have a lovely woman courting me. Well, rather further along than mere courting, I would say…"

To your surprise, Jana bursts into laughter, light and clear, and you are spared the embarrassment of elaborating further.

"Isobel, you cannot believe what a relief that is for me to hear."

You pause, a bit taken aback by the enthusiasm of her response. "Oh?"

"I'm afraid I count myself taken as well. Now, make no mistake, you are perfectly charming, and a delight in conversation. But," she waves a dismissive hand, "the heart wants what it wants and all that."

"That it does," you agree, and this time your smile is genuine. A tension you had gotten so used to seems to melt away from your shoulders, and the two of you resume your stroll among the gardener's latest offerings. "My father, well… he's a shrewd man. You and my Aylin would get along splendidly, I think. You seem very much alike in many ways."

"As would you and my Iona. She is training to be a cleric too, an acolyte of Ilmater. I swear, the realms have never seen a more patient and kind creature. Whenever I visit her at the temple I take a moment to observe her finishing her rounds - the way she all but glows with compassion is--" Jana halts both her words and her steps, slightly embarrassed, as if she has only now caught herself in her charmingly lovestruck enthusing. "Ah, but I've gone off on a tangent, haven't I?" 

You cannot help but smile at the sight of someone so utterly, beautifully enamoured. It is, after all, a feeling you happily know all too well.

"Please," you gesture at a bench behind some conveniently tall rose bushes - one of your favourite spots. "Don't stop on my account. Though, of course, now I can't help but wonder… what is your family's objection to the match? If you don't mind me asking," you add hastily.

Jana gives a wry smile as she takes a seat. "My parents would prefer someone of much higher birth for me." 

"I think mine would prefer I set my sights lower," you chuckle ruefully.

Jana's interest seems to be piqued. "Is that so? I've heard some… rumours, since our arrival. I've been wondering about, well, what kernel of truth spawned them."

"Have you, now?" You arch an eyebrow, allow a bit of bite into your tone. "You've barely been here a day - I wouldn't have taken you for a gossipmonger."

"You'll have to forgive my natural curiosity," her grin is as easily charming as it was during the dinner, but now, in the unexpectedly pleasant atmosphere of friendly understanding, you allow yourself to fully appreciate it, and to grin back. "But you must admit it's a bit unusual, Isobel. A celestial paramour… I suppose your father wants you to look lower than the very moon in the sky?" 

Her dramatic gesture in the general direction of said moon earns her a giggle, which she seems to take as encouragement.

"Is it true she single-handedly took on a score of Nightcloaks and won?"

You think back over the many rousing tales of victory Aylin has shared with you, and when nothing rings a bell you realise she must be talking about the raid last summer.

"You mean here, when the Sharrans dared to attack Reithwin?" It's hard to contain your amusement at her eager nod. "Well, it wasn't exactly single-handed and there were no Nightcloaks among the Sharran forces, but I can confirm she was certainly impressive."

You decide to leave out the part about Aylin dying and coming back right before your eyes. It is something you've yet to discuss with her, more than a full year later. Something you've no idea how to bring up, and something that inspires in you feelings you cannot quite define.

Something you know you will have to confront, one day.

For now, you sit on a secluded bench and shirk familial duties with a fellow highborn daughter. The two of you trade stories for the rest of the evening, and by the end of it you feel like you've known both Jana Whitburn and Iona Bluewater for years, and find yourself rather invested in the future of their relationship. In turn, you hope to have painted a picture of an Isobel who is more than just General Thorm's daughter, and of an Aylin who is something besides her divine silver bloodline.

You part amicably when the time comes, even promise to write to one another. Later on, the leave-takings complete, both of you having played your respective parts well enough to buy yourselves some very brief reprieve, you go to retreat to your room. Every stair you climb still seems to drop your heart that much deeper into a listless moroseness.

The air in your room is heavy and stale after the garden's freshness, so you decide to take your brooding out to your balcony. You may have won a friend today, but your father will be in a dour mood when he finds out his attempt has once again fallen through. And then how long until he plans another? Or turns to something else? No, this was simply untenable--

A gleaming Aylin alights on the balcony and pulls you into an embrace in a single, elegant movement, and it is like the Moon rising to dispel the dark of a cloudy night.

The first thing you notice as you are subjected to one kiss after another is that your beloved seems to be of a rather amorous disposition. You still wear your jewels and your finest silver-blue gown, the picture-perfect lady. But with the way Aylin's hands are wandering you sense this might not be the case for very long.

You place a hand on her chest, the metal pleasantly cool against your palm, and she stops, looking at you both questioningly and with blatant yearning.

Which should be ridiculous. You were barely apart for a day! You've gone longer without seeing each other when Aylin flew away on some divinely ordained quest or mission or another. But the feelings you read on her face are a perfect reflection of your own, and you are sick of the very thought of denying them. Instead, you throw your arms around her and draw her close once more.

"I missed you," you murmur the truth into her neck, just above the edge of her gorget, into that bit of unearthly pale skin that is always so conveniently available for you to kiss.

"I have dutifully stayed away, exactly as you bade me to," Aylin doesn't sound too disgruntled, and for that you find yourself both grateful and relieved. "But your guests are gone at long last, and so I consider my duty done."

You suppress a scowl at the bitterness that rises in you - because yes, you did pull Aylin aside and request, against the palpable wishes of every fibre of your being, that she not show herself around Moonrise today. All in the ultimately futile pursuit of appeasing your father, in a way so shallow and childish and stupidly obviously temporary that you feel a flare of anger - disgust, even - at yourself for not standing your ground. For going along with it all in the first place. But the slight yet audible disdain Aylin puts on the word guests is too conspicuous, too intriguing, and so your curiosity trumps your rising guilt.

"Do you have something against the Whitburn family?" Surely, if there was something objectionable about them, your father wouldn't have invited them the way he did. Aylin would have warned you of anything sinister. But then, suddenly, a different, more darkly amusing flavour of thought arises. "Or do you merely not like Lady Jana Whitburn?"

Aylin huffs, tilts her head with an unconvincing nonchalance. "She seems a fine woman. A knight with several deeds to her name - in particular some courageous outings against a local Cyricist offshoot, very recently. I hear she conducted herself with utmost skill and bravery."

"You've looked into her, I see?" You ask teasingly. Aylin's frown alone is an entire hundred-page novel. "Aylin. Are you jealous?"

The tinge of possessiveness in the way she holds you against her chest is clear to you now. You also find you have no complaint to give.

"I cannot help but feel this latest attempted match is… rather shrewdly targeted. Do you not find it so? Why, I would near take it as a slight."

With some reluctance, you pull away the slightest bit in order to face her properly.

"Aylin, look at me," you tilt her chin up, make her meet your eyes, reaching over to smooth the thundercloud away from her brow. "Forget about it, about them. I would have none but you - you know this by now, I hope. Only you."

Forever, you dearly wish you could say, sometimes. Your fingers trace down her cheek and to her lips as you watch her ire pour back into fervour. 

"Isobel, I swear, from the moment our eyes met, I--"

You interrupt her with a kiss - she is too striking and too beautiful and too achingly, passionately devoted not to.

The entire situation is a problem to solve, and a mounting one. You can tell by your own rising annoyance and resentment each time the subject comes up that you cannot entertain your father's attempts at denying your relationship for much longer. But you can sense in both your and Aylin's current moods that any discussion will be anything but productive.

You break apart, but stay close enough for you to whisper against her mouth. "Why don't we stop wasting time, and instead of wallowing in misery, you take me to bed."

A different frown creases her brow now as she inclines her head towards the door you left ajar behind you. "Your bed? Here?"

You glance back as well, almost drawn in and through the imposing towers of Moonrise and all it represents.

"Yes," you reply with little hesitation. You decide then and there to be done with this farce. No more flying away to stay at Last Light, or utterly unsubtle attempts at sneaking off, slinking back before dawn only to present yourself downstairs come morning, unacknowledged but fooling nobody. There are other methods in your arsenal besides pointless subterfuge. "And tomorrow - if you wish to join us, of course - I would like to invite you to breakfast. Where you will sit at my side."

Where you belong, you swallow back, keeping your mock-proclamation formal. Where the world should and will acknowledge you belong.

Aylin's smirk reassures you she understands fully how you intend to play this. "How could I decline my lady's invitation?"

You tilt your chin up, the picture of a lady issuing a decree, even as your lips curl into a smile. "Despite any slights, intended or not, and protests from my family, it is an honour to have you here. I will see that it is better demonstrated, as it should have been from the start."

Or perhaps it would be better to say how it was at the start, before Ketheric Thorm's welcome for Selûne's emissary cooled down to an icy, formal tolerance - of course, exactly as your and Aylin's relationship blossomed, decidedly informal, regardless.

Aylin's mouth is hot on your neck as she effortlessly lifts you up and carries you inside. You feel her grin through her kisses. "I think, Isobel, you'll find the honour is all mine. And so is having you. Here or anywhere else."

You cannot help but laugh, taking her face between both your hands and peppering it with kisses in return, always delighted by her utter lack of both subtlety and hesitation.

Once Aylin plants you on the bed and herself between your thighs, your dress lost to some darkened corner and her gauntlets lost to the aether, she leaves little room for thought or speech. Relentless and utterly driven, she refuses to stop until your legs are jelly, your head is void of all concerns, and your heels have all but left dents in her backplate. 

Her face both glows and glistens when she rests her cheek against your stomach at long last, alight with some private amusement and sheer pride. You thread your hands through her hair and catch your breath, and for a little while simply bask in her presence.

She stretches out a bit, unfolds her wings just enough to let fluffed-up, ruffled feathers settle back into place, and you sigh at the sight. So magnificent in her devotion, your angel.

Aylin next makes a show of licking at her fingers with a pleased smirk, then her lips for good measure. "I may not have been invited to the evening's festivities, but my darling, ever caring, ever thoughtful, provides bountiful nourishment nonetheless. It is the height of honour, to have such a delight saved for me alone."

You flush and squirm, and would like to state something rather precise and factual about moon cycles and the workings of your mortal body. "Aylin!" You throw an arm over your burning face instead. "Gods, you say such things…"

"But you take such delight in it when I do," she replies, tilting her head faux-innocently.

"I adore it. I adore you. Come here and I'll show you just how much."

This is what prompts her to finally take a moment to dismiss her armour, bringing her next to you in a heartbeat. You take another precious few seconds to marvel at how perfectly she fits into your arms, like she was made to be there, instead of for any divine mission.

You spend the night curled around each other in a too-small bed, both of you choosing to be utterly brazen.

-

1385 DR

-

You were very young when your mother died. The searing, half-understood pain of her departure had time to dull into an ache, then into a sense of absence you have grown up with, that will always be yet another part of you. You keep her final letter, and reread it less and less as the years and then decades go by. You can hear and feel her words just as well in the soft, warm moonlight that blankets Reithwin on blessed nights. It makes you feel like you can firmly grasp and hold and understand all that she tried to leave you with.

There is a distinct sense that she is proud of you. That she will see you again one day and tell you so herself. So you smile up at the Moon, the ever-changing treasured constant in your life, and bask in the pale, gentle love you receive in return. 

When you lost a mother, Reithwin lost its head cleric. In the years since, it has had only interim duty-bearers. And you understood, years ago, even as you settled into a promising role in the House of Healing, that you were being looked to as the replacement.

And true - this has ever been your calling. You feel you were born for this service, sometimes, so easily does it come to you - the deeply felt devotion, the lightness of moonlight always ready at your fingertips, the sheer awareness of Her presence, of all She gives and provides and strives for. A cause so good and just and right you would barely deign to call it a choice - though a choice it is, always, freely made by you, again and again and again.

So when you reject the notion of taking up office at Reithwin - at least for the foreseeable future - and announce your plan for undertaking several pilgrimages of increasing length and complexity, it causes a stir among the clergy and a dark thundercloud to settle upon your father's brow.

The further away the locations you list as you stand before him in his study, oddly formal, the deeper his frown becomes. By the time you mention leaving Waterdeep and the House of the Moon and the settlements on the way to Neverwinter, he raises a hand to cut you off.

"I do not think this is wise, Isobel. There is need of you here. The roads are perilous--"

"I can take care of myself. You know I can, papa - you've seen to that. I have trained and prepared for this all my life." Then you smile, hopeful, and make your biggest misstep. "Besides, Aylin will be there to protect me, should the need arise--"

"Of course she will," you catch the mutter under his breath and your mouth slams shut.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and reach across the desk to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on your father's, meeting and holding his heavy gaze. "Reithwin is my home. No matter where the road takes me, no matter how far, I'll always come back. And to you as well, papa."

Reithwin, ancestral seat of your family, safe and idyllic, surely does not need you as much as the wide world; the vast, colourful, challenging variety of the realms. There is so much you can do, and offer. What good are gifts if you are not going to use them? Hoarding them, hiding away, sheltered - no, you refuse to be a waste.

"I need you here, Isobel."

There is an edge of desperation to your father's voice that makes your breath catch and your eyes burn. A pain that calls to mind, oddly, the sting of the black ink being slowly applied around your lids, a needle shaping the curl of the holy symbol down towards your cheekbones. 

And there it is, perhaps - the real root of the struggle at hand.

"I can't be your little girl forever," you exhale, frustration mounting, somewhat undercut when you see the naked hurt on his face. "I can't be just that," you amend. "I have an entire life to live. My own life."

"With Aylin," he suggests darkly. Disapprovingly. "And when she carelessly discards you, a mayfly in her eyes--"

"Is that what this is truly about, again? Father," not quite papa at the moment, no, as you try so very hard to keep your calm in the face of your own rising irritation, "must we?"

"How can I not, Isobel? When she has clearly been feeding you this - this drivel."

"It has nothing to do with her!"

The doubt is writ plainly all over his face, and you bristle. Fine. If he is not ready to relinquish his chokehold over Isobel Thorm, cherished daughter, then he will have to reckon with Isobel, accomplished cleric of Selûne, and prospective Silver Lady initiate. You let go of his hand and step back, square your shoulders demonstratively, stand up ramrod straight.

"Our Lady champions and rewards self-sufficiency, agency, travel, and discovery - of ourselves, the world around us, and all in it who might need guidance or help in any way. It is mine to freely give, and I intend to do so, wherever I am needed. In Her name."

You turn and leave without waiting for your father to scrounge up a response.

It is the last conversation you have with him for a century.

-

It happens so very quickly, for something that would rewrite the fate of your home and all you ever loved for the next hundred years. Like a carelessly tossed pebble turning into a rockslide.

An ominous chill that barely has the time to register fully; a bark-whine from Squire, cut short; a searing pain in-- through-- your side and your chest, fading into numbness within moments, so fast that you barely choke out a desperate blood-drowned breath as blackness swarms the edges of your vision; a frantic cry of Isobel! ringing out from somewhere above or below; and then--

nothing

and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 49.5

➻ characters: mingi, hongjoong, seonghwa, san, minho, yunho ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst ➻ word count: 11.4k ➻ rating: m/18+ ➻ chapter specific warnings: talks of addiction & death ➻ pre a/n: as always, interims are completely optional and made in a way to where you won’t miss out on significant plot if you choose not to read! however, i highly recommend that you read them to better understand the full context of the story ^-^

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

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very important pre-chapter note: at the end of mingi’s pov there is a break. at this point, the story is not happening in chronological order. everything that occurs after that break happens prior to recovering mc/minho from rathmos. then it switches back to after recovering them from rathmos. i think i made it very clear in the narrative but i wanna cover all my bases too so please note that happy reading ^-^

──────────── act seven ➻ part 1.5

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It’s as the soft wrap over his knuckles sinks into the flesh of the punching bag before him that the door slides open and brings a visitor into the training room with Mingi. It does nothing to stop the pace of his swings, nor does it deter him from his course of action — that being to beat the shit out of an inanimate object, that is — but it does serve to make his senses hone in on the body that just stepped into the room.

Alone.

Laying his hand flat against the bag, Mingi steadies the weight of it before it swings back to him wildly and turns to face the newcomer head-on.

“Do you truly wish to be here, Doctor?” he asks before he even gets a good look at the person. He doesn’t need his eyes to know who it is anyway; the aura of the man is foreign and unnatural to him so there’s no one else it could be besides the new doctor.

“I was in search of the captain, but this’ll do just fine.” His voice lilts a bit, but the sound is grating on Mingi’s ears. “We have not spoken yet. How do you feel about my joining the crew?”

“You’re not Yunho.”

“No, I’m not.” His expression seems to twist in a way that implies he wants Mingi to believe he’s being tentative and careful about this conversation, but the tone of his voice is so directly opposite that that the Berserker sees straight through the ruse. “Is that an issue to you?”

He wants to pick apart your brain.

“You’re not Yunho,” Mingi repeats with more force to each word, “so you don’t know what questions to ask.”

He wants to cause trouble.

“Does that make you feel uncomfortable in my presence?”

Minho, he thinks his name was when Jongho mentioned bringing him onboard and showing him around. He isn’t all too interested in learning the man’s name or anything personal about him, however, when it’s so highly unlikely that he will be around for long.

“I don’t feel things the way you do, nor do I process tonal or visual implications the way you do.” Mingi is at the very least careful in the way he lets the doctor know that he’s not as sneaky as he hopes to be. “That’s your first mistake.”

“First?” There’s a level of amusement to the way Minho speaks, and it grates against Mingi’s mood terribly.

Plaything. Fool. Blood.

“Your second was entering this room alone.”

Blood, blood, blood.

The doctor licks his lips, eyes flitting to the panel beside the door that will let him out quickly, and Mingi feels the first delicious hit of fear radiate off the man a split second later.

“But I won’t hurt you.”

You could. You could kill him so easily. Wrap your fingers around his neck and feel the tendons snap under your weight, feel the bones shift under your fingertips. Think about the blood that would spill if you split him open.

“How gracious of you. I suppose I should thank you for your kindness and mercy?”

“I want to kill you. You’d best keep from acting facetious in my presence because that only makes me want to snap your neck. It wouldn’t be too difficult. I’m certainly stronger than you so I can align your neck to whatever angle I want without issue and violently twist your head so quickly that your neck snaps and crushes your windpipe. It wouldn’t be instant or painless, you’d probably feel quite a bit of pain in that scenario. You wouldn’t be able to breathe at all though, and given how much pain you would be suffering, you would very desperately want to breathe. It would take minutes for you to die, and I would feel none too torn up over it. All that to say, I do not want you as my doctor. I will remain with Yunho.”

“I understand that changing something on such a personal and sometimes intimate level can be daunting. Not everyone is open or willing to change such monumental things. However, as a doctor seeking the best interest of those around him above all else, it is my personal recommendation that you give my services a try. Your personal relationship with Yunho outside of him being your doctor is cause for concern, not because it’s wrong but because it puts a conflict of interest on Yunho’s shoulders.” Minho finds some confidence again as he speaks, and now that the veil has fallen, there is far more honesty to both his tone and expression. It matches exactly what Mingi feels rolling off of him in waves now, every facet matching and in harmony with fear ebbing away by the second.

It makes the voices quieter and quieter, too, until it’s easier to ignore them and push them down.

“If you are honest with me on all fronts, then that’s best for your safety too,” he relays to the doctor quickly. Sharp, cat-like eyes hone in on Mingi’s face. His gaze is similar to San’s in that regard, though San’s holds far more darkness and many more secrets. “Trying to deceive me will only put you in danger.”

“Ah. I think I understand then. My tone, my expression, my emotions — if all three are in line, then… that makes things easier for you?” Mingi nearly laughs out loud for no discernible reason other than sheer disbelief. It took this man all of a minute to understand what took Yunho several years to dissect, with little more than vague threats to guide him to the right answer. “Is that why you do so well in the presence of children?”

Mingi hums his approval, settling with the fact that he likely won’t be returning to the punching bag again today. As he begins to strip the soft wraps off his hands and arms, he takes a step in the doctor’s direction.

“Children have a much harder time lying than adults do. They don’t understand how to deceive or manipulate others’ thoughts and feelings as well either. If they do lie, their tone and expression both match what they’re feeling inside, which would be the conscious knowledge that they’re lying. It all matches. But an adult, an adult can do what you just did upon walking into this room. Feel overwhelming confidence in what they’re about to do, express with their face and gestures that they’re timid instead, and speak in a tone that implies cautiousness and lack of knowledge. You’ve already my file. You know a great deal about me. You did not need to ask my feelings about you joining this crew or my comfort level around you. You already knew, and I felt that.”

“Incredible,” Minho mutters to himself, and the wonder shines through in his gaze too. “Your file did fail to mention the astounding levels of intelligence you possess, although I sense that you do not weaponize it often in front of others unless it’s to warn the way you just did to me.”

“You would be correct.” He sidesteps the doctor to dispose of the leftover wrap in the waste bin near the wall. The man is still a bit in the way, almost blocking the door but not enough for Mingi to be unable to leave, and even as Mingi puts his palm on the touchpad, Minho steps further out of his path. Not out of fear, Mingi notes, but rather some minute level of consideration.

“How truly fortuitous it is that you live amongst such liars and deceivers then.”

The whoosh of the door opening fills his ears with white noise, and it’s joined by a clamor in his brain that spreads distance cheers and clanging metal.

“I expect we will speak again in the future, Doctor. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“The same to you, Mingi. Take care.”

“Oh, and for future reference, you’ll never find the captain down in here.”

“So it seems.” The lilt pushes its way back into Minho’s tone, but the door is already sliding back shut and putting a wall between them. Nails bite into Mingi’s palm as he curls them into a tight fist and refrains from slinging a punch at the wall. Of course he was never after Hongjoong; the man has enough sense to realize that that would have been the last place to look, and yet Mingi fell for that excuse hook, line, and sinker. He almost wants to call the doctor a genius simply on account of how well he pulled Mingi like putty in his hands.

“Everyone in life is after something, Mingi. They will all seek to use you, to lie to you, to deceive you. But I will you the power to fight back. My son, I will give you the power to kill. To fight. To win.”

“How amusing,” he mutters to himself. He won’t lay hands on the doctor as of yet — wouldn’t dare do so without permission from the captain — but should the time come, he imagines it wouldn’t be too difficult a task to snap his neck. A gun to the back of the head would cause too much of a mess, of course, and Spectre would likely not be pleased with having to clean up after him when he could be spending said time with his lover. A knife in the ribs would work too, perhaps, if he wants something more drawn out. The man is a doctor at the end of the day, however, so it would be best to end his life quickly so as to avoid the possibility of him trying to help himself.

Mingi winds up standing at his captain’s door shortly after, and he doesn’t bother knocking at the metal before making his way into the room. The lights are dimmed but not enough to keep the captain from view. It’s hardly a glorious sight either: slumped over his desk with papers strewn about as usual, but also accompanied by an open bottle of liquor near his left hand. There’s no glass in sight, but Mingi finds one soon enough as he pushes closer to the scene. Seemingly, it had rolled off the desk or out of Hongjoong’s hand at some point to find a new home on the carpet in front of the desk. It’s still in one piece, at the very least, though it lays atop a dark splotch on the carpet that makes the room reek of alcohol. Though he could wake Hongjoong now with no trouble, he opts not to for the time being. It’s easier to leave him asleep, easier to see him sleeping and not feel the full weight of everything the captain feels like the worst crashes of a tidal wave against him. So silently, Mingi collects the cork and presses it into the bottle, then picks up the glass tumbler that fell to the ground to add it to the mess on the desk.

“Lieutenant to Captain’s quarters.” The words are quiet enough to not disturb Hongjoong from his spot at the desk. Dragging the lieutenant into this mess isn’t ideal either but Mingi knows his limits. He isn’t suited to look after the captain while he’s in this state, not in the slightest, and he would rather not risk making matters worse by trying. Content to stay until Seonghwa arrives, Mingi drops into one of the armchairs set across from Hongjoong’s desk.

“I’m entirely sober, you know.”

Mingi laughs through his nose.

“You’ve gotten better at playing dead.”

“You didn’t have to call Seonghwa up.” Despite insisting upon his sober state, Hongjoong still seems to struggle quite a bit in peeling himself off the desk. Even when he does get himself somewhat upright, he relies on resting his head against the heel of his hand to keep from falling right back down. “I was just looking through leads and fell asleep.”

“And did you find anything new?”

Hongjoong opens his mouth then closes it just as quickly, gaze turning to the side before he mutters out a half-hearted response, “Let’s wait for Seonghwa to arrive.”

The following knocks on the door are so passionate that it makes Hongjoong sit up straighter if not in shock then perhaps in mild fear because of how enraged the person behind said knocks seems.

“A minute and thirteen seconds,” Mingi quips just before the door opens.

“Are you fucking wasted again, Kim Hongjoong?!”

“He’s gotten quicker,” Hongjoong retorts to the Berserker across from him before moving his focus to the back of the room. “Would you like to come sit, Seonghwa?”

“You… are not drunk.” The tension in the room deflates like air being let out of a balloon, making the pressure on Mingi’s shoulders pull away into something more manageable.

“It’s barely nighttime, of course I’m not.”

The spike in frustration behind Mingi tells him that Seonghwa wishes to say much more in response to that but he holds his tongue instead. Likely out of consideration for none other than the Berserker, and he feels that in full when Seonghwa squeezes Mingi’s shoulder on his way to the other empty chair across from Hongjoong.

“Any idea where San’s at?” The captain’s focus remains honed on his lieutenant like a magnet being pulled in one direction. The question, however, has Seonghwa huffing air through his teeth and leaning further back in his seat.

“Probably fucking—occupied, if I had to guess. It’s late, after all.”

Hongjoong barely reacts to the comments as he busies himself with cleaning a fraction of the mess across his desk. “And? Call him up so he can get back to fucking Miss Occupied quickly.” Seonghwa scoffs. Mingi eyes each paper lifted carefully — each one bearing similar red streaks and scribbled words in ink around words and pictures but that’s the only constant amongst the papers.

“San to Captain’s quarters,” Seonghwa says against his wristband, eyes not leaving his captain even though the favor is not returned.

“Here—” Hongjoong finds a book hidden beneath the rubble of paper and leans across the desk to hand it to Seonghwa. When the lieutenant doesn’t react fast enough, Mingi meets them halfway and takes the book from his captain’s hand to pass it off to his lieutenant in a fluid motion. “Read over that when you get the chance. There are some interesting notes on Fortuna and what’s contained in it. Might be good to have some clue about what we’re looking for when the time comes.”

Some part of Seonghwa reaches out to Mingi and it stabs Mingi right in the chest like a knife. Firm and sharp and like a small needle digging into his heart. But Seonghwa’s face reads no clear emotion, and Mingi hasn't felt such a thing before, so he's lost in a vast sea of unknowns. He isn’t left time to debate it internally either, since San makes a loud and hasty arrival seconds later. Something to ask Yunho about later, he notes to himself.

“Sorry for being late,” the Spectre exhales, and based on his breathing and the amount of time it took him to arrive, he ran to the bridge thinking it to be an emergency. He comes to stand between the chairs where Mingi and Seonghwa sit, one hand coming to rest on the back of each one as he leans towards the captain’s desk. Though the gesture seems casual enough, Mingi can see the quick scan of San’s eyes across the papers and the man behind the desk himself. “Did something happen?”

Hongjoong turns a larger slab of paper — a map of what appears to be the Vida system — towards them with a red pen in hand. He brings it down to circle one of the planets.

“Gorgon. That’s our next stop.”

Silence answers the man for several dragging seconds before San offers a response.

“…Gorgon.”

“There has been talk recently of a witch there,” Hongjoong continues. He pulls back briefly, shuffling through one of his drawers before returning with a tablet. After a few taps, he has another map displayed, though this one is far more detailed and intricate than a simple galactic orientation map. “Sehteno is the most common name brought up regarding the rumors. Small city, rather out of the way compared to other more populated ones. The witch supposedly lives down in the gorge beneath the city, and there’s no direct way to get to her unless it’s through under-the-table dealings. Those won’t be an issue at all. Military is lax in the area and not connected to the Aurum military network, so it will be a sufficient enough place to lay low for a time. Have the crew rest and recuperate on land.”

“What kind of witch are we talking about?” San inquires next. Though Hongjoong opens his mouth to respond, the answer comes from the man on San’s left instead.

“One that is rumored to communicate with the dead. Emphasis on rumored. We’ve looked into her in the past but nothing was concrete enough to warrant a search.” It isn’t as glaringly apparent, but Seonghwa’s tone holds some confusion too, indirect questions for Hongjoong to answer seconds later.

“I have a planet and the name of a city now. That ought to make things easier. A city is better than a planet, and a planet is better than a system. We have all those things and more. Black market dealings are nothing if not a specialty of ours.” The captain’s gaze shifts to the right to settle on Mingi. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but are you certain… you truly want to relive the past in this manner?”

“Is that what this is about?” His heart jumps a bit in his chest, a sudden burst of excitement that he isn’t used to, but this has been a mere pipedream for him for so long now that he never imagined it coming to fruition. “Is she capable of such things?” A true chance laid out before him now, one to settle the score and face the voices head-on. His fingers curl into his palms to curb the trembling anticipation now rushing through his body.

“I have high hopes that the rumors are true, but we do need to be prepared for the possibility of it not working out,” Hongjoong says under his breath.

“There’s always medication,” the lieutenant adds half a second later, keeping the quiet from lingering to any degree, “like those that Jongho takes.” But Mingi denies it with a shake of his head before the man can even finish speaking.

“Those are to dull the effects of what he feels a residual from his ability. There’s no medicine to quiet the voices.”

Hongjoong looks him in the eye, and Mingi stares back.

In that moment, he feels heat on the back of his neck, like that of the sun shining down on him, and there’s a heat clinging to his skin that makes him itch and burn. How long ago was it that they faced each other in a similar manner to this one? When the arena was very real and very present all around them both, when they stood face to face on the bloodstained sands and Hongjoong called for him to survive.

Kill, kill, kill!

Bring us his head, crush his bones, rip his throat out.

Past Hongjoong’s shoulder, residing as a phantom in the shadows, stands a man hunched over so far that he is at eye level with Mingi in the same way Hongjoong is. Dark brown hair greying to the point of obscurity, beady black eyes that reflect scenes of blood and corpses. It’s been so many years since Mingi set his hands around that man’s throat and forced the life out of him. The last witness to his crime of patricide is none other than the Healer, yet even after all these years, not once have they addressed it. He imagined coming to terms with such a loss was clean cut — finished as soon as it started and wiped clean once Mingi buried that body six feet in the ground behind Yunho’s clinic. His father is the last ghost trailing behind him, however, always moving with him and lingering in places where Mingi wants nothing more than to be alone. He’s settled whatever ghosts were left in that arena, and they’ve been quiet for some time now. All that remains is one bloody thumb pointed toward the ground and the raucous crowd that answers the call.

“Captain…”

“She is rumored to be capable of a lot of things if nothing else. I will see to it that she can do something for you.” His captain’s voice sounds muffled, like Hongjoong is speaking through a tank of water and Mingi’s ears are filled to the brim with liquid. Red seeps into the corners of his vision, then his eyes sting.

“I want them silenced for good,” he says through the metallic scent that brushes against his nose now. His mouth moves but nothing comes out. Hongjoong drops his gaze to the desk, and San’s hand moves from the chair to grasp Mingi’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure if that’s something she can do but we will do everything in our power to try. If nothing else, we can try.” His captain sounds certain and confident in ways that Mingi isn’t. “She may have information on where or how to find more Sirens too. The dead sometimes leave a trail that spreads far beyond that of the living.”

Hongjoong continues to speak, focus now redirected and shifted over to his lieutenant, but San is urging Mingi to his feet and ushering him around the chair. He barely has the right of mind to process what is going on, but the Spectre’s touch is so soft and gentle, something barely there in a feather-like sense, and it feels good on Mingi’s burning skin. He squeezes Mingi’s bicep as they reach the door. His palm spreads across Mingi’s shoulder blades when San turns and dismisses himself from the captain’s quarters.

The Berserker isn’t sure where he is or where they’re going, but San remains firmly by his side as they walk through long corridors and empty hallways. He blinks, and he’s returned to his room, sitting on the foot of his bed in a trance and a daze. The bathroom light is on. San emerges, cradled by the fluorescent light. He passes a damp rag into Mingi’s hands, then brings both of his up to cradle Mingi’s face.

“We will find a way to help you, Min,” the Spectre whispers. Mingi is confused as his face is brought against San’s chest, an awkward cradle meant to comfort him, though Mingi still isn’t wholly sure why he needs to be comforted, to begin with.

When San leaves and the door shuts to finally seal him away in solitude, Mingi looks down at the rag laid across his palms. Beneath it, four crescents dug deep into the skin and stained red with blood on each hand. The trail of crimson drips to the floor.

In the corner of the room, that phantom figure makes itself known again.

────────────

“We’re nearing Sombre, Captain.” Hongjoong glances up from his desk to find his lead strategist standing in the doorway, prim and proper as ever with hands folded behind his back in a way that makes his chest puff out. “You’ll be needed at the helm in roughly ten minutes.”

“Understood. Dismissed, Yeosang.” The room falls so quiet that Hongjoong nearly forgets that he is not alone; it’s only the slight stirring from the chair dragged up against the wood of his desk that clues him into the present again.

“I presume your decision is made then?” Seonghwa’s voice grates on his ears with a sharpness that Hongjoong is quickly growing used to from the man. He clenches his fingers hard around the pen in his hand.

“No.”

A sigh pushes past Seonghwa’s lips. The noise would humor Hongjoong if not for how irritated he is because Seonghwa sounds like he’s having to deal with a petulant child and the rather immature parts of the captain wish to cause some sort of distress in his right-hand man.

“We have one Siren. One, if she is not present on this crew. Please do not tell me you are so bothered by a woman that you would set our goals back so far.”

“We need Sirens,” Hongjoong prepares his counterargument internally as he speaks, and Seonghwa preemptively shakes his head. “And we need useful Sirens. What does she have to offer us beyond her status as a Siren? Good with a gun? A fair shot? Hot-headed, brash, arrogant, disobedient, messy, and walking cesspool of volatility, authority issues, and a savior complex. Did I cover all the bases?”

“If we didn’t so actively attempt to deceive and manipulate her, then perhaps—”

“Perhaps she would already be long gone! San alone was not enough to keep her on this crew and you know it!” Hongjoong jabs a finger at the man, pointed and accusatory in every manner. “You were the one to suggest your first tryst in bed with her, you wanted to offer that to her so that she would more readily stay, and more importantly trust you. I’m not at all surprised that you fell for her after fucking her once, and I warned you before you went through with it that your heart would hurt you in the long run.”

Seonghwa’s jaw snaps shut, making the scowl across his face appear all the more putrid.

“I knew you needed her!” In a shocking twist, their roles seem to flip — now Seonghwa’s tone carries a particular whine to it, the kind he uses when he begins to feel the weight of guilt bearing down on his shoulders. Hongjoong debates leaving him to be crushed under it. It’s a thought that has crossed his mind time and time again, each time they found themselves in similar places in the past, but as always, he comes up short of carrying through with it. His duty, his purpose, and the whole reason he keeps pushing forward with this self-assigned task lie within Seonghwa and everything he encompasses. The first lamb brought to slaughter saved by the very hand that sought to kill him.

Reaching across the desk to plant his palm down on the wood near where Seonghwa sits, Hongjoong fights to meet the man’s gaze.

“I am not going to give her what she wants, Seonghwa. You know what happens when I go get her? She will say that she was right, that I need her, that I can’t complete my mission without her.”

“Heaven forbid you actually do, Hongjoong!” Seonghwa gets like this when he’s denied what he wants, and perhaps that fault lies on Hongjoong’s shoulders for always being so accommodating to him and rarely ever denying him those wants in their years together. He’s spoiled the Siren more than he deserves, surely.

“I need Sirens, not Y/n. I need what she is and nothing else.”

“Then lie to her. Tell her it’s for me, for San, for the sake of the crew — lie like you always do, Hongjoong. You’re damn good at it!”

The captain hisses through his teeth. The flare of anger in his gut is too hot to ignore, and his hand snaps up from its position to clasp around Seonghwa’s face. His fingers bite into the soft flesh of his cheeks, palm smothering soft pink lips and pinching them with the brutish metal of his rings. Seonghwa’s eyes are wide and round, carrying far more innocence than is truly accurate to what Hongjoong knows the man to be.

“I am very much of the mind to let her lie in the grave she dug for herself, Seonghwa. What is it we say whenever one of the crew makes a stupid decision on their own? We’ve long since agreed to let them deal with the consequences on their own.”

“Only if it isn’t a matter of life or death! That man will kill her the first chance he gets, the second he’s done with her, the moment whatever purpose she’s fulfilling for him runs dry! But I suppose it’s not any different than how we’re forcing her to live here, seeing as you’re so ready to throw her away the first chance you get.”

“You keep her close because it better keeps her in line. Do not let guilt in now, not at this point after all the trouble we’ve gone through to keep her right where she is! You have been twisting her arm this long. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you have done nothing to properly teach her how to use her Siren abilities. Are you insecure all of a sudden, dear? Think you’ll be replaced? Do you need to be the only Siren useful to me now? How selfish.”

Seonghwa wrenches himself free of Hongjoong’s grasp but it leaves a pretty red swell to the corner of his lips where Hongjoong’s ring caught on skin. The captain wishes to ruin him more, to see the scowl settle in and make his cheeks blot red with fury.

“Captain?” This time, it isn’t Yeosang who interrupts but rather San. Still bound to that cursed wheelchair, Hongjoong can’t look at him straight quite yet. The memory of just how close that bullet came to paralyzing him springs to the forefront of his mind each time he sets his sights on the man. Three seconds too slow, three seconds of horrible planning, three seconds of absolute failure in his position as their leader. Him, the one who is supposed to guide them safely and protect them from harm. One quick glance at the sorry state of his crew as of late makes him laugh at his own reflection. The perfect picture of failure he is.

“Can you fly the ship?” Hongjoong inquires of the man. San surely came in to ask something else seeing as no one called him to the captain’s quarters, but Hongjoong pays that no mind for now.

“I mean — yeah, I think I can?”

“Then…?” Seonghwa is pushing his luck to the limits today. Maybe Hongjoong is feeling some kind of graciousness for once because one glance at San makes the decision right then and there for him.

“If you want to get to Rathmos to save her, you can go fly the damn ship yourself. Get Yunho to help if you have to, but I will not be doing so myself.”

“Hongjoong, this is truly pathetic, are you serious right now?” Of course Seonghwa would take the order at face value with no care for the nuances behind it or what Hongjoong is truly offering for San. When she left, San was incapable of protecting her to any degree because of his injury, and while Hongjoong isn't keen on it, he does know how desperately San adores and loves that woman — as pathetic of a notion as that is in his eyes.

“Is it not you who is being cruel right now? Let him have this, Hwa, he needs this. He can tell her he was the one to convince me and that he was the one to fly us to her rescue even in his current physical state.”

“All because you can’t admit needing someone to be part of your crew?”

“As long as she knows how valuable she is, she will use that to her advantage to act out of line and against me, just as she has been since she got comfortable on the crew. The second she got comfortable, those feelings of gratitude that she held turned in an instant. If I am to break her of that nasty little habit, then she needs to think she is completely and utterly useless in my eyes.”

“No more. Please, Hongjoong. Don’t make me do anything more,” San whispers, eyes stuck to his lap. Seonghwa exhales a quiet sigh and turns his face away. “I-I will do anything you ask of me. You know that. I’ve always done that, but I just…”

The captain finds himself at a loss for words. His most loyal dog reduced to this level of disarray because of one woman? Incredulous.

“Your hand in things is finished,” he says in return, watching the way San’s expression lifts to something akin to relief in the blink of an eye. All that hope placed in the palm of Hongjoong’s hand — it’s intoxicating to see how heavily these men rely on his word. If he desired, he could snuff out that hope for good. “Go fly the ship. I said no more than a week, we need to pick up the pace if we’re to stay on schedule.”

“Thank you,” San says under his breath. He sees himself out quickly after, wheeling himself to the door and slipping out onto the bridge to leave Seonghwa and Hongjoong alone in the room together. Still, it takes quite some time for either of them to speak, and even when Hongjoong does decide to break the silence, the air feels thick with tension.

“I want you to tell her that San has had a greater hand in things than anyone realizes. If she knows how closely he truly works with us both, it will plant the seeds of doubt.”

Seonghwa licks over the front of his teeth.

“Could you consider letting San have this one thing?”

“This one thing?” The rage he felt earlier comes bubbling up again and threatens to spill over the edges. “He can have her as freely as he wishes once we’ve broken her down into obedience.”

“So you’re lying to him now too then? His hand in things isn’t finished — you’re using what he did against him.”

“And what did he do, pray tell?”

Seonghwa is silent.

“I have not asked him to do anything cruel or unusual. I know San. He will do everything in his power to keep her close to him, and it will work. So I have zero concerns about the relationship between them failing. I did not lie. He has nothing more to do for me in regard to her destruction. Anything that happens next will be of his own volition.”

“Are you gonna turn her into the last one, is that it? Because he still has blood on his hands from that incident, don’t think I’ve fucking forgotten. I didn't ask him to try to kill the last one even though Jin was plotting a fucking mutiny against us! The only reason he got away with his bullshit is because you called San off before he could take care of the fucking problem.”

“You'd like it though, wouldn’t you?” Hongjoong tilts his chin upwards a hair to stare down the bridge of his nose in Seonghwa’s direction. “Love being the only one of value to me, the only one special to me, I bet you would kill her in her sleep if I told you enough pretty words.”

“Don’t. Don’t do it.”

“Anyway, if that becomes an inescapable need, I won't have him do it. I'll do it myself if I have to. Speak again when you’ve come back to your senses.” Seonghwa turns docile without much effort on his part but seeing him slump back in the chair in such a childlike manner makes the gears in his brain turn a little bit faster. He leans forward, moving his elbow up to the table in the same motion, and rests the side of his face against his knuckles. “Do you propose another idea, Seonghwa?”

Wordlessly, the man blinks at the side of Hongjoong’s desk several times before deigning to look the man behind it in the eye.

“You’re becoming obsessed again, to the point of derangement. You’ve been spiraling bit by bit for a while now, but San’s… the mission to retrieve San and the subsequent visit to my mother were like simultaneous breaking points. I need Y/n here, on this crew, on this ship, to prevent what happened when Jin left from happening again. I am still your lieutenant, Hongjoong, and I am still on your side as always. Please, trust that I will not allow her to have any thoughts of mutiny, and should those thoughts arise, I will take whatever steps necessary to squash them.”

The captain grins.

“It’s an honor to have you, Lieutenant Park.”

“And you, Captain.”

────────────

He hasn’t been down this far in the depths of the ship in some time. It’s rare for the captain to go further than the mess hall, though he does so today. It makes his mind wander back to times when the crew was far different and not full of the faces he’s grown used to seeing in the past few years, times when he (according to some) was a better captain to his crew. As time went on, so did the need for him to wander from door to door asking things of those who pledged their loyalty to him. He walks with purpose now to one door in particular that has not been used for months on end. It opens before he can even bring his knuckles up to the metal.

“Captain. I thought I heard your brooding coming down the hall.”

“Two days and you’ve made yourself at home already, I take it?”

The doctor, with his fading lilac hair and upturned lips, gives a few sideways nods.

“Something like that. Come in?”

Hongjoong hasn’t made himself accustomed to the interior designs of his crew either, though Minho’s room still holds memorabilia from people long passed that he does recognize. From the knick-knacks on the shelves to the cheap carpet sitting at the foot of the dresser, even the table and set of chairs placed near the wall are old relics of past memories Hongjoong can never let go of. The lines of scars at his hip seem to sting from the shot of nostalgia placed before his eyes. The chessboard laid out on the table is new, though; the doctor must have pulled that out of the depths of storage.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Either out of respect or an attempt to test the waters, Minho remains standing close to the door as Hongjoong moves towards the table. He sits on the side where the black chess pieces reside, already halfway to knowing that Minho intends to make him play this game, and if that truly is the case, then Hongjoong will make him take the first move. Minho, it seems, is one step ahead of him though. He joins Hongjoong at the table moments later, and upon sitting down and setting his mug down, he immediately turns the board around to have the white pieces now in front of Hongjoong’s hands instead of the black. The captain can’t contain the laugh that breaks through his lips.

“Why give me the illusion of choice at all then?”

“You did make a choice, a telling one at that. Thus, I’ll invite you to ask whatever it is you wish of me before I do the same in return.”

“The point of this game?” Hongjoong wastes no time in moving his first piece forward.

“To learn more about the man whose… delicate care I now find myself under.” Minho pushes a pawn further toward Hongjoong with the tip of his finger.

“What do you hope to learn?”

“I would like to see into your mind a bit, understand your decision-making process, see firsthand how you plot things out for both yourself and your crew.”

“This—” the captain passes his hand through the air in a rather dismissive manner “—game will show you all of that? How can you be so certain now that you’ve told me your intentions? I could easily skew the game in whatever way I like now.”

“Hiding our true nature is a near-impossible task,” Minho says under his breath. As his hand moves down to the board once again, Hongjoong slaps the side of the table with enough force to make the pieces quake under the impact.

“I’ve gone my whole life perfectly that craft. It would do you well to not underestimate me.”

The doctor matches Hongjoong’s stare with a lopsided grin, arms folded over his chest as he leans over his knees.

“Humor me then, Captain.”

It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of the game. Though it’s been some time since he engaged in any sort of activities outside of missions with his crew, this game is one he used to readily play with Yeosang. The Elitist was, of course, the only one who could match his level of play, and still claims the honor of being the sole member of the crew to beat Hongjoong at the game. It was only one time, but one time was more than enough for him to lose a good deal of credits on the bet they placed. Most of the crew did the same themselves — lost thousands of credits to Wooyoung, who was the sole person banking on Yeosang’s victory that night. The memory almost places a smile on his lips, and it likely would if he were not so conscious of the person sitting across from him at present.

“What is your professional opinion of Ghost?” he asks instead to keep the fonder emotions from slipping through. Minho doesn’t startle at the question, nor does he seem surprised in the slightest at the sudden shift in topic. His initial response is through a close-lipped hum. Words don’t come until the doctor peels his eyes off the chessboard and finishes his turn.

“She is very ready to oppose any sort of authority in her path.”

“Do you know why?”

“Hm.” He sits back enough to pull one leg over the other and clasps his hands around his knee. “Because she is used to doing so?”

Hongjoong moves his bishop behind a pawn.

“How do I fix that issue?”

“I speak to her. Often and with the intent to resolve whatever disconnect is present. These cases are very prominent in my field, and many times fellow doctors struggle with the same arrogance. It starts in pride, of course, but in her case, there is much trauma centered around those who have had power over her.”

“Let me rephrase — how do I resolve that quickly?”

Minho shrugs as he takes his turn at the chess pieces, eyes scanning the board for several seconds before he settles on his next move. Hongjoong watches the pawn sitting beside his bishop fall, then he takes Minho’s attacker in quick succession as retaliation.

“There is no ethical way to do so.”

“Then list the unethical options for me. Quickly.”

Minho stares.

“I’m certain you have already implemented many unethical methods of keeping her under your thumb of control. There is no need for me to add to the list, is there?” The doctor lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I have physical proof of the measures taken to ensure my loyalty. If I did a little digging into that brain of hers, would I find proof of your cruelty too?”

“No. There are no scars there of my own doing. What others have done and will do — how could I have any control over that?” Hongjoong thinks back to Dorado, a fleeting memory that pushes its way in against his will. In his mind, he sees Seonghwa seated at his mother’s bedside with hands clasped over his head as though in some form of desperate prayer from where he had perched in the doorway. How could he have control over that? Before him, his queen lies exposed. He moves a knight into her line of defense without thinking.

“Check.”

He neglected to notice that in moving that knight, he exposed his king to a worse fate. He moves it in front of his queen to escape the check without saying anything, then watches the doctor knock that knight on its side a second later. Hongjoong almost laughs but manages to refrain long enough to move his bishop into its next position before glancing up and across the board.

“Checkmate.”

Minho inhales sharply, and his gaze darts all around the board as though desperate to find a way out of the corner he’s been backed into but Hongjoong already made sure there would be no escape several moves ago. “It seems that you’ve won, Captain.” He sits back as the defeat settles in, leaving the captain to swing his bishop against its final target. The clatter of the ivory on the wooden board is harsh on the ears.

“Did you learn all you wished to with that?” Rather than a straight answer, Hongjoong receives a rather unexpected question from the man.

“What position would you like Seonghwa to be in?”

A litany of filthy thoughts arises and threatens to leave the sanctity of his mouth.

“He’s right where I want him to be.”

“And is that where you consider him to be safest?”

“The closer he is to me, the safer he is.”

“Is he aware of that? Have you told him as much?” Hongjoong stares at the doctor in the hopes it will force him to drop the subject but Minho stares down at the now-defunct chessboard instead. “You hardly made any use of your queen except to protect her when threatened despite having many opportunities to use her offensively. You did not let her leave the king’s side for more than one move, even if it risked other players on your side of the game. Yet — you used your bishop to sabotage and sacrifice some of your own pieces if it meant moving that bishop ahead in the game. That is your telling cue, Captain. It speaks volumes to how you perceive your closest confidants.”

Hongjoong’s hand curls into a fist against his thigh.

“Is it the devotion of man or that which begs worship, I wonder? What compels you of all men to give so much to someone you don’t seem to feel deserves it? Unless… it’s the only thing that keeps that person where you want him? What’s the cost of your religion, captain? Of your faith? What must someone do to be counted amongst your devotees? Your eagerness to bend Y/n to your desires, to have her fall in line with whatever holy crusade you have in your mind… I cannot help but wonder what trials you would have her suffer to earn her place amongst the faithful. You leave me with much to ponder, Scourge. I suppose I ought to thank you for giving me a good game, but — and I hate to be the one to say this, trust that — I do not think you will be the best player I face.”

“He will never agree to play you in this game. I merely did so to entertain you, but Seonghwa has no interest in humoring a fool’s errand.”

“You thought I meant your lieutenant? No, no no, I’m afraid I meant someone else entirely.” Minho laughs to himself, head shaking as he redirects his focus to the floor. “To answer your earlier question, yes, I’ve learned much from this. But I’m left to wonder what exactly it is you want. You are a man who could have anything and everything he wants and yet you are still unsatisfied. What is so unattainable that it drives you to the brink of insanity? Don’t tell me yet — I… wish… to find that answer on my own.”

Hongjoong finds that his initial suspicions upon meeting this man were correct. Beyond the obvious quirks surrounding him, there were more minute details to pick up on from the near-constant swaying of his head from side to side to the slight slur in his tone. He huffs out a nearly inaudible laugh.

“How about we detail my expectations of you?”

“I imagine I don’t have much of a say in the matter,” the doctor says with a kind smile.

“Don’t let her try to play her games with you.”

Minho stops with his hand halfway to the mug on the table and shifts to stare at Hongjoong. He doesn’t try to hide the look of bewilderment painting his features this time.

“Do you fear her being successful for once?”

Hongjoong actually laughs at that, and based on the way Minho’s confusion continues to be apparent, the doctor wasn’t expecting such a reaction.

“She doesn’t need the confidence of success. The only way I am going to get her to stop fighting me is if she continues to fail. Hence—” Hongjoong leans across the table where the remnants of their earlier game linger untouched. Something rattles as he stretches over the board. The doctor reacts like a dog being handed a bone, expression turning suddenly alert as Hongjoong places an orange pill bottle on Minho’s side. “I’ll take every fucking pill off this ship if I have to. Don’t fuck her and don’t fuck around with her. Those are my rules.”

“You are…” the doctor wets his lips. His gaze loses its focus on Hongjoong as something else becomes much more enticing — the little bottle that looks so deceptively innocent in comparison to what it provides. “Quite greedy, Captain,” he whispers. He sits up straight and lunges forward like he’s going to snatch the bottle from the table, but the man opposite him is just as quick to steal it away once again. Minho winces. “I’d like to ask why those are your terms. Something tells me you won’t be wholly honest about it.”

“Desire drives her. Robbing her of what she wants makes her desperate. And when she’s desperate… she obeys. If I manufacture who has her and in what way they have her, then I can orchestrate her destruction, no? The perfect picture of obedience, the way to stop her from fighting me so heavily, to end her attempts to save those who do not need saving. All it takes are a few sweet words and fond glances to have her caving a bit. Imagine what I could do with her full devotion. I hope that is the sort of unethical option you predicted.”

“We have a term for that sort of behavior, Captain.”

“And I don’t need you to diagnose me with anything I don’t know already about myself.” Hongjoong tosses the bottle in his hand across the gap between the two men. It rattles dramatically as it passes through the air, and Minho jerks upwards to grab it before it can slip through his grasp a second time.

“Is this meant to be a reward for my hard work?” he inquires, teeth grinding hard against each other as he speaks.

“You can view it as such.” One corner of the captain’s lips twitches upwards. “But if Yunho starts asking questions, I cannot defend your addiction. He is the one keeping stock of our medications here on this ship after all.”

“You have issues with control. Probably a fear of not having control, which is amplifying pre-existing issues and mental instabilities.”

“Do you want your pills or not, doctor? I for one am not opposed to seeing how you fall apart without them. In fact, I would revel in it. So, tread carefully.” Minho clutches the orange bottle a little tighter. “You are free to do as you wish, but if I find you face down in a pool of your own vomit then my kindness will not last. If you’re alive, that is.”

“I have no qualms with those terms, Captain.”

“Good. Then, I’ll formally welcome you to the crew, doctor. Try not to disappoint me.”

Minho barely spares him a second glance when he gets up, and Hongjoong is all but invisible as he makes his way out of the room. The face that greets him in the hallway is a pleasant surprise.

“Yunho,” he exhales in a saccharine tone.

“Cap—Hongjoong. I was just checking in on San and Y/n.” Yunho’s gaze keeps flitting to the door at Hongjoong’s back now. That simply won’t do.

“Were you?” Hongjoong presses as he moves toward the taller man. “And how are our nesting lovebirds?”

“Y/n is healing well, physically at least. San’s been keeping up with the physical therapy well enough, but you already know that. Were you in—”

That simply won’t do.

“Come up with me, would you?”

“Huh?” Yunho’s brown eyes go a bit wide at the request. It wasn’t Hongjoong’s initial plan, but it was a good diversion tactic and part of him doesn’t want to sleep in an empty and cold bed alone tonight. “We haven’t — since we… with Seonghwa… huh?”

“And? I didn’t tell you to leave me forever. Let’s just go to bed, nothing else.”

“Have you spoken to Yunho at all since the other night?”

Seonghwa's resulting scowl is nothing pretty to behold but he wants to see it deepen further to the point of hatred.

“Of course not. You think he wants to speak to me at all?”

“Okay, um, yeah. I’ll meet you up there? In a little bit? I need to upload my notes and put them in files before I forget.”

“Mind if I stick around?”

“No…” Yunho drags his gaze all over Hongjoong, examining head to toe as though expecting to find something out of place about the smaller man. When his eyes rest on Hongjoong’s face once again, the captain offers a half-smile. “No, come on.”

He waits until they’re within the walls of the medical bay to speak his mind and broach the subject at hand, the metaphorical elephant in the room forcing space between them.

“Have you spoken to Seonghwa at all since the other night?”

Yunho lets out a sigh as he sits down at his makeshift desk.

“No, not even once. I doubt he wants to talk though.” Hongjoong nearly laughs at how horrifically similar the two men are. Instead, he watches Yunho plug his tablet into his computer and get to work on uploading those aforementioned notes. San’s name flickers across the screen.

“I'll talk to him tonight.”

Seonghwa stops where he is, midway to the only exit out of the chambers, and when he turns, Hongjoong sees his expression blossom into something venomous.

“So the two of you are still...?”

“Did I say that? I will speak with him tonight after dinner.”

“Has San’s resolve weakened since Y/n joined the crew?”

“Since he came face to face with her for the first time, more like,” Yunho answers without missing a beat or looking away from his screen. Hongjoong’s scowl reflects back at him on the screen, but the doctor doesn’t pay him any mind. “He’s always been a bit soft around the edges though. I think you set him up for failure in asking him—” Yunho cuts his thought short out of the blue, and Hongjoong’s gaze turns to sharp daggers on the back of his head.

“In asking him what? Who was gracious enough to tell you as much?”

When the younger turns, Hongjoong gets an eyeful of knitted brows and pursed lips.

“You did. You told me, Hongjoong. Because you felt guilty for giving him those orders, or at least you used to.”

“Seonghwa, I told you before that it's not your fault.”

“Then why is it that you're asking me whether I've talked to Yunho yet? Why are you asking as though that’s my responsibility? If you don’t consider me to be at fault then why am I being tasked with fixing this mess?”

Suddenly, Hongjoong wants to lie down. There’s a throbbing in the side of his head that keeps turning into something more piercing every few seconds, and Yunho’s stare feels more invasive by the second.

“I’m done here. Still wanna go up?”

“Let’s go.”

It’s as they leave the med bay side by side that Hongjoong recalls exactly why he hates coming down here so much. There are too many ghosts living in the walls and lining the corridors. Even in the brief darkness that comes when he blinks, he can see their faces at the corners of his vision. Stood still, alert, watching and waiting for the command from their captain who failed to do the one duty asked of him. He looks up to the side of Yunho’s face. Thinks of Seonghwa’s endless frustrations these days, of San being shot, of the kidnappings, of losing his newest crew member to a petty criminal who couldn’t hope to hold a candle to him and all he can taste at the back of his throat is failure.

He pushes further into Yunho’s space, enough to bump his shoulder against the other man’s arm as they make their trek in utter silence. The rhythm of their bodies is familiar as they cross the bridge, when Yunho brushes his knuckles over Hongjoong’s hip, and the captain smiles to himself. But once they reach the door and Hongjoong plasters himself between it and Yunho’s larger form, his wrists are caught mid-air on their path to reaching around Yunho’s shoulders.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

Hongjoong had thought he would have more success with Yunho than he has with Seonghwa thus far — an easier time at least patching a bandage over the open wound still carved into his chest. And perhaps he thought he was already victorious on the walk up to his quarters, but Yunho stops that thought right where it is.

“Yeah,” he exhales back and moves his arms down to his sides once more.

The silence continues to permeate every inch of the room as Hongjoong gets ready for bed. Yunho makes himself at home as usual, but it’s evident that his thoughts are elsewhere based on how he looks around the bedroom like something is going to sprout up from the darkest corner. Hongjoong is no fool. He knows Yunho’s thoughts are on the mess of a situation that occurred not too long ago when both he and Seonghwa were present here for something Hongjoong should have had the foresight to stop far in advance. He finally says something about it midway through brushing his teeth.

“The two of you have got to talk eventually.” He nearly winces at the words coming from his own mouth because of how harsh they sound.

“What’s there to say, Hongjoong? Hey, sorry our fucking threesome didn’t work out because you’re too possessive over a man that’s not even yours. Sure, that’d over great.” Hongjoong glances in the mirror to see Yunho in the reflection, perched on the side of the bed but it’s not his usual spot. He always goes for the other side — has for all this time that they’ve been doing this — yet last time he was on that side, Hongjoong was under him and there were tears. Lots of them, in fact. His stomach turns in disgust at the memory alone.

He spits the leftover toothpaste into the sink.

“It’s unfortunate, Yunho, how everything played out. If I had been… had more common sense, I would have refused it right away.”

“Have your cake and eat it too, huh?”

Hongjoong sighs as he exits the bathroom, hands already moving to his hips in a way that echoes the chastisement he’s ready to hurl Yunho’s way. Either the exhaustion or the shreds of guilt he does feel win over though, because he can’t bring himself to lay into Yunho much.

“Stop arguing with me over it then,” he says instead, climbing into bed on a side that’s foreign and uncomfortable to him. They have their backs to each other even now.

“I’m not even the one who fucked up, Joong! It was Seonghwa’s brilliant fucking idea, why am I being punished for it? Hell, even you fucked up more than I did by insisting that you were okay with it!”

“I get it, Yunho. I know whose fault it is. You aren’t being punished.”

The younger man exhales a pathetic excuse for a laugh. More than anything, Hongjoong wishes he had the courage to turn over and face him, to see how badly he fucked up written on Yunho’s expression, and try to mend the cracks as best he can. At the end of the day, however, he knows what he is — a coward running from his demons, even when they’re at his back begging to be seen. If there’s a grave to be dug, Hongjoong stands at the edge with a shovel and plunges it deeper into the dirt.

“I wanted it. That’s why I pushed for it, and I’m sorry—”

“Now you’re fucking sorry!” Yunho huffs out a scoff. “For fuck’s sake, Joong, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to salvage whatever was left of my relationship with Seonghwa.”

“And I’m sorry, what more can I say? You should have said no from the start—”

“I can’t say no to you, Hongjoong! That’s the fucking problem here! It didn’t matter to me what my feelings about it were because I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I said over and over that I didn’t want you to base your decision on what you thought would please me. It wasn’t about my happiness, it was about comforting — comforting him! He asked to sleep with us, I asked you if it was alright and you said it was, so—”

“What does he have, Hongjoong? What is it that he has that I do not? Why is he enough for you and yet I’m not?”

The rawness in Yunho’s voice is what stops him, at least that’s what Hongjoong will tell himself in the days to come because it is easier to swallow such a pill. Seonghwa has his jealousy, and Yunho has his fear of inadequacy. Hongjoong knows what both sides of their respective coins look like well enough after all these years together, and he knows how they flip. Yunho is teetering on an edge with no knowledge of what side he wants to land on.

“Is this how it’s going to be between us now? Arguing back and forth before bed?” Yunho’s tone is still strong, for all that’s worth.

“You tell me, Yun, you’re the one who turned this into a fight.”

“The issue isn’t that you love him, Hongjoong. You know that.”

“What’s the issue then?” Hongjoong sounds as defeated as he feels when those words get pushed out into the side of his pillow. He doesn’t have the heart to admit his true feelings even now, though it should be easy to deny something so heinous. Behind him, Yunho shifts under the sheets as though trying to increase the already obscene amount of distance between their bodies. Maybe Hongjoong should be grateful enough that Yunho is even here to warm the bed with him, despite not touching him or giving in to his captain’s advances earlier. What he says next snipes those hopeful feelings right out of Hongjoong’s chest.

“It’s that you don’t love me.”

Ice crawls its way through his body in a split second, and suddenly it’s almost as though his lungs have been dunked in frozen water.

“You always say that Seonghwa and I don’t get along, that we can’t possibly be suited for each other, that the two of us are the problem because we can’t see eye to eye. But really, if your love was fair and kind, Hongjoong, that wouldn’t be an issue. Don’t worry. I know my place at your side. And I will never try to take Seonghwa’s because I know where I belong. If it’s at your feet, then again I tell you I shall grovel. But, my captain, you cannot ask me to accept an unfair bargain of love. I’m selfish and greedy, but I too just want to be loved fairly. At this point, I don’t think I will ever receive such a thing from you and for that reason, I will take steps back where necessary. I simply request that you allow me to mend myself on my own terms.”

“Yunho—” His voice sounds choked and broken even with just one word uttered. Yunho continues like he hasn’t said a thing.

“It’s nothing personal, Captain.”

The ice pick in Hongjoong’s chest sinks deeper.

“I simply fear that your use for me has run dry.”

“That’s… hardly true at all, Yun.” But speaking those words out loud is harder than imagined, and Hongjoong chokes on them, around the tongue that feels like lead in his mouth. The bed creaks again, but this time Yunho is rolling over to face Hongjoong’s back. Tentatively, the captain shifts to match the movements. “That’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

“Let me salvage what I have left, Captain. Otherwise, you may end up with another notch on your hip.”

Staring each other in the eye like this, however, Yunho hardly looks like a man who has deigned to pull away, especially as he reaches out to touch Hongjoong’s cheek and laughs under his breath.

“Can I even dare to call you mine if this is how things must be?”

“You do this, Hongjoong. You! You take the things you claim to love and care about and you — you break them, you tear them apart! Leave Yunho out of whatever fucked up problems are still left between us, for the love of god.”

Hongjoong reaches up to clasp his fingers around the ones Yunho lays against his face. The line of morality has always been a muddled one for him, yet now with a soul so pure and innocent in the palm of his hand, he feels the full weight of right versus wrong upon his shoulders. The words staining the back of his tongue black with bile are nothing pretty — no encouragement or reassurance meant to bring Yunho down from his hysteria — and so Hongjoong swallows them down in favor of giving him something beautiful.

“Or you… force them into a mold and pretend they’re yours. And every fucking time, they fall for it just to break from the pressure of you trying to pin them there.”

“My Yunho.” In the hierarchy of things that Hongjoong considers to be his, he does not need to think long about where Yunho falls. It’s so very clear in his mind’s eye: fourth from the top on a good day, somewhere lower when other needs arise. The shame is that Yunho has decided to be so greedy as to crave a higher place. He peels Yunho’s hand away from his face and brings those long fingers to press against the soft curve of his lips. The gleam in Yunho’s eyes softens with each kiss Hongjoong lays against him until he’s putty in Hongjoong’s hands. “You’re mine.”

The words are spoken so softly that Yunho doesn’t dare disrupt the fragile peace between them. He doesn’t bother to ask if the same is true of Hongjoong, if Hongjoong is his too, but that thought seems far and away already as the captain guides him to lay flat on his back, leg swinging across Yunho’s hips seconds later. From his new perch, he sees the reverence in Yunho’s eyes. It’s as beautiful as it is delicate. Hongjoong seals the cracks with a feather-like kiss.

──────────── a/n: hi hi long time no moc! ngl the wc got away from me i really expected 6k max on this but then it kept going and going and we don’t stop the writing gods when they want the narrative to keep going thus.. she is a bit long! i’ve been sitting on this for a wee bit just bc i wanted to get a bit of 50 fleshed out and in a good place before posting this so we’re working hard here at caly’s writing station 😎 as always plspls let me know what you think! 

as always the questionnaire is available and open (https://forms.gle/rMvFD1TDz52nRJMN9), don’t be shy to fill it out honestly! i genuinely use it to improve my writing and storytelling so it’s very helpful to me to see feedback and work off of it as best i can 💪

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[bisnes-socks]

The Big Finnish Music Project for International Kääryleet, part 1.

When I was writing this analysis about Menestynyt yksilö, I started thinking a lot about Finnish music, about the influences in Käärijä's music, and about the music he would have grown up hearing and being aware of. He references music and artists a lot, and Finnish music has its own peculiarities that I think influence and affect us all, whether we realise it or not. 

So, I made a list of noteworthy Finnish artists and songs. And I put it under a read more because it's long as fuck and I don't want to force people to scroll through it lol.

NOTE: Because of the Tumblr limit on the amount of videos in one post, this project has 6 parts + a bonus part, so 7 parts in total. I will always put the part number in every post title.

I know there's a list somewhere, Finnish fans recommending other Finnish artists to international kääryleet, but I tried my best to make this not so much based on my own taste and recommendations, and more based on which artists and songs have had a significant impact in the world of music in Finland, and have thus had a lot of influence on Finnish music and people in general. With that being said, not all of these artists are like generally agreed upon as "significant" beyond a hit or two, but I do think all of these artists are great reflections of what was going on in the world of Finnish music at any specific time, and that’s what I also wanted to highlight.

Some of these artists or songs have a direct connection to Käärijä, I've marked them with red, if you want to focus on finding them. With some of the others, I’ve deliberately tried to find connections to things I've talked about in previous Käärijä analysis posts as being something culturally very Finnish, to further highlight what I mean by that and how Käärijä relates to the broader scene of Finnish music.

DISCLAIMER: This list is quite heavy on the early 2000's compared to other eras. The reasons for that are: personally I think that the early 2000's are the most relevant time for a kääryle, as his music has the most influence from that time in my opinion. Which makes sense, he (and the other guys involved in making Käärijä music) would have been at that age where you begin to discover your personal favourites etc. The late 90's and early 2000's were also just a significant time in Finnish music - you'll find multiple artists from that era on this list referred to as "one of the most successful of all time", both domestically and internationally.

Also I'm sorry I know very little about popular Finnish music right now, like 2020's Finnish music, but guys… I get the feeling he doesn't know much either, so does it matter too much lmao.

Also the list is by no means exhaustive, so any other Finns feel free to add stuff in notes or reblogs!

Okay, let’s get to the list! In (mostly) chronological order, going all the way back to the late 60’s.

--

Kirka 

Started his career in music in the late 1960's. Passed away in 2007. One of the most significant names in Finnish iskelmä and rock music, did a metal phase in the late 1980’s as one of the first in Finland to do so. Definitely a household name and still active in the 2000’s before his death as well, so someone any millennial grew up being aware of for sure. Represented Finland in Eurovision in 1984 with the song Hengaillaan. 

This is his first huge hit, Hetki lyö, originally from 1967. This live performance is from 2001.

Hector

A huge name in Finnish rock music, Hector is also known for a folk music vibe. Started his career in the 60’s and is just one of those household names and he is still active. I’ve linked the song Lumi teki enkelin eteiseen, which is an all time classic that I know at least millennials and every generation before them of course knows and can sing. A melancholic song about very depressing subjects, like depression (both mental and economical), suicide, family issues etc. Life in Finland was not rosy in the 70’s, there was still a big wave of Finnish people leaving for Sweden and America in search of jobs and a better life, and this song touches on a lot of the reasons why.

The song is originally from 1973, but here’s a video of Hector performing the song to 36 000 people at the Olympic Stadium as part of the Mestarit tour in 1999. Mestarit was made up of Hector, Kirka, Pave Maijanen and Pepe Willberg, all huge names in Finnish music and their tour and album together were huge cultural moments in Finland.

Danny

Mentioned in Sex = Money. Danny also started in the 60's and was a massive, massive star all through the 70's. He is still active. He was considered as the "Finnish Elvis", not because of similarities in music necessarily but the popularity. He also started wearing a very Elvis looking jumpsuit at some point in the 70's. Danny has also been in the spotlight for his personal relationships a lot. This is his hit, Kesäkatu, also referenced in Sex = Money.

Katri Helena

Queen of iskelmä. Started her career in the 70's, still going strong. She's about the least controversial artist you can find, just so loved all across the country. She's also considered to be a very "Finnish voice". This is one of her biggest hits, Katson sineen taivaan, and this is her representing Finland in Eurovision in 1979.

Vesa-Matti Loiri

Jere's idol. A legendary stage and film actor, comedy performer and a singer. Passed away in 2022. Started his career in the 70's. He is one of those names everyone knows, and almost every generation has something nostalgic they connect to him. This song, Naurava kulkuri, is loosely referenced in Menestynyt yksilö. It's a comedy song that he performs as a character, Jean-Pierre Kusela.

Hyvää puuta is by Vesa-Matti Loiri that became a meme for whatever reason. Referenced by Joost Klein and Jere at Ruisrock.

Juice Leskinen

Considered the father of suomirock. Started his career in music in the 70's, but his influence carries on to this day. I can't think of a more influential name in the world of Finnish pop and rock music. He is considered one of the best lyricists in Finnish music. He wrote both quite dark and quite humourous songs - something I’ve mentioned before as being quite a Finnish thing. One of his most famous songs is Sika, a Christmas song about a pig being slaughtered for Christmas dinner.

I decided to link what I think is probably his most famous song, Syksyn sävel, from 1976.

Quite the example of melancholic Finnish music, as the second line in the song goes “elämä on kuolemista” meaning “(living) life is (about) dying”.

Maarit Hurmerinta

Before we had Käärijä, King of Vantaa, we had Maarit, the Queen of Vantaa. She's an iconic singer some of you might also recognise from the Finnish Beatles Tribute t-shirt Bojan keeps wearing lmao. Her daughter Janna is also a well known and popular singer, you might have seen her in the photos posted when Mikke and Jere went to see Adele. Anyway, this is Maarit’s massive hit Jäätelökesä, originally from 1978, but this live performance must be sometime in the 90's, I think.

Eppu Normaali

Eppu Normaali started out as a punk band in the 70's but mellowed out into a more poprock type direction as time went on. They are also considered part of the Manserock scene of Tampere. They are quite an influential, popular and significant band in the world of Finnish rock, one of those bands everyone knows. This song, Murheellisten laulujen maa, is basically about the generational trauma of being raised a man in a country as emotionally constipated as Finland, and how it drives people to alcohol and violence. This song is originally from 1982, the live performance is from 2010.

Kikka

The foremother of the soft porn vibe later mastered by the likes of Käärijä, Antti Tuisku and Erika Vikman. Her songs were quite naughty and her career in music revolved around entertainment and playfully sexual vibes. She was a huge star in the 1980's but badly mistreated by the media, and unfortunately had a very difficult personal life. She passed away in 2005.

End of part one! We've only reached the 80's, but as you can see, there are already several artists on the list that have a direct connection or are a direct influence on Käärijä/Jere. Everyone on this list so far is a household name, and honestly artists that could be referenced in a Käärijä song any given day.

Part 2 introduces lots of 80's rock from Finland.

[stele3]

A History of (Supposed) Violence: Every Jason Todd Kill, part 6

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Foreword: Jason Todd kills people. But has he killed as many people as fandom thinks he has? I'm starting to think the answer is a resounding no. Therefore, I am starting this series to list every single one of Jason Todd's on-page, confirmed kills, and -- to be fair -- all of the heavily-implied and attemped ones, too.

Caveat: I have not read every single comic featuring Jason Todd. But by God, by the end of this series, I will have. Do not send me angry messages telling me I have forgotten this glaring example of his murderous ways. I am moving in deliberate, exhaustive, chronological order. I will get to it.

Part 6: Countdown to Infinite Crisis

Look. I am but a humble weirdo. I don't know jack shit about the wider DC universe and I don't especially want to. There are a lot of people running around in this series that I simply don't know anything about. If I refer to them by such codenames as "the guy who kinda looks like a green raisin wearing a cape," you're just going to have to deal with that.

ANYWAY. There are some kinda...I dunno, aliens with reversed corn rows, and they're miffed about people being alive when they shouldn't be, like Jason and I think Donna Troy? She's the one in the galaxy-print jump suit, right? Anyway, a whole ton of shit happens that I Do Not Care About, Jason and Donna run around through realities with one of the corn row aliens that Jason decides to name --

-- Bob.

Donna, Jason, the guy in the blue and red suit, and Bob keep running into all sorts of weird creatures on their galavant through dimensions or whatever, including different versions of themselves. (Including a version of Jason who's Batman, which probably gave him an idea for the future.)

And yet still, somehow, people manage to be shocked by Jason killing a sentient giant fish creature that's trying to kill him.

Like, they're out here fighting armies of sentient magical ants and chimpanzees riding robots, Donna can punch people into the moon, but somehow a single non-powered guy using a knife causes a record scratch by stabbing someone?? He has no powers. He doesn't even have a gun.

Well, now he has a gun. Jason "switches sides" by shooting Donna in the head.

Of course it's a ruse to help them escape; I'm not counting this towards the attempted murder count.

Then Jason winds up meeting an alternate-universe Batman who kills people, suits up as his version of Robin -- Red Robin, of course, complete with the condom hood -- sees that Batman get killed, and promptly kills that universe's Joker, who kinda just happened to be nearby at the time.

Jason is having a really weird day.

At some point some guy named "Karate Kid" has a disease that will wipe out all of Earth if he's brought there, and there's discussion of killing him. Jason is immediately like, "My hour has come, lemme do it. I'll do it. Literally just turn around for two seconds, guys." For some reason not everyone is a fan of that and instead they...bring Karate Kid back to Earth. The exact thing that -- you know what, never mind. To the shock of absolutely no one, the disease in his body immediately starts to wipe out all life on Earth.

But yeah, Jason is the dumb, evil one for trying to kill patient 0 before you guys could unleash the end of the world. Fucking idiots.

Jason very reasonably tells them all to go fuck themselves and wanders off to hang out with Harley and some redhead, obviously deciding to make the most of life before the world ends.

I tuned out after that. Apparently somehow things get fixed after massive loss of life but really, who cares? That was the dumbest shit they could possibly have done.

Death count: 2 (1 attempted, but no one let him kill Karate Kid in order to, y'know, save the world from a horrific disease that they then inflicted on everyone because they did they exact thing they were warned not to do)