#these thoughts have to go somewhere though you know

[luveline]

oh my god Jade I love coworker James!!! can we please see Remus and Sirius actually catching them !:)))

thank you for requesting! fem, 1.3k

James Potter is eating his lunch in peace when you find him in the staff kitchen. It was nice to eat in silence —he won’t get any of that now. 

“Hi, lovely,” he says. 

“Stop,” you say instantly, pulling the fridge door open to extract your lunch. James watches the curve of your shoulder, your arm, even your leg as you bend to grab your Tupperware before straightening out. 

“What are you having?” 

“Can’t we eat in mutual, agreeable silence?” you ask. 

James thinks about it, but when you’re around he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “No, maybe tomorrow, though.” 

“Brilliant.” 

You sit down —in the chair next to his, he’d like to point out, and not the one opposite— and open your Tupperware. You have a salad with what looks like diced tofu, grilled and honeyed, salt and pepper cracked over dressed leaves of kale and lettuce. 

“That looks good.” 

“You’re so healthy, I thought I’d outdo you,” you say, popping your foldable fork from the Tupperware lid. 

“You’ve managed it.” James is eating chicken katsu in wraps with a chilli sauce, lettuce, and finely sliced tomato. For his afters, he has three bags of crisps and a tangerine he’s going to share with you, two slices to one.

For a little bit, you both chew and say nothing. After a few minutes he reaches under the table to hold your thigh. A few minutes more and you’re letting your leg fall against him, smiling around bites of salad. 

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” he asks. 

“Maybe you should come to mine?” you ask, a shade of timid. “I know you’ve never been, it’s not nice as yours is, but at least Sirius won’t walk in on us.” 

James wonders if that means what he thinks it does, or if you’re just sick of being kissed and then shot away from. If it means the first thing, he really needs to ask if you want to be his girlfriend. Like, today. He’s worried you’re gonna say no, but he doesn’t want you thinking that intimacy from him is casual, because it really won’t be. 

“We can get dinner first?” he suggests, feeling along your knee gently. 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“Where do you want to, pretty girl?” 

You shift ever so slightly in your chair. “I don’t know. Where’s somewhere nice? Or do you want casual, like, the Chinese buffet by the cinema? It’s quite nice in there.” 

“I wanna go wherever you fancy,” he says. He’s flirting, or not flirting but affectionate, his voice velveteen as he ducks his head. He wants to find your hand and kiss it. He loves kissing the tips of your fingers, but it’s a sure fire way to get you to lean away from him. He knows you like it, evidenced by your smile, and by your willingness to give him your hand again the next time. “Do you think we can just–” he shouldn’t ask here, should he? He does it anyhow. “I want it to be a date. Like, a proper, actual date we own up to.” 

“Like we tell everyone we went?” 

“Not right now, not if you don’t want to. Just between us then. It’s a real date.” 

Something moves in your neck. You bite your lip but let it fall back into place as you say, “Yeah, okay. A real date.” 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah, okay,” you repeat. “I’d really like to.” 

“You would?” he asks softly. 

You turn in your seat to check the door, before leaning into his lap, and pressing a quick, careful kiss to lips, just a little to the side and up, your mouth aligned to the corner of his and the skin beneath his nose. 

“So, somewhere nice, then,” you say as you sit in your seat properly. 

James hooks his ankle behind the leg of your chair and drags you as close as he can possibly get you without yanking you into his lap. “I genuinely don’t care where we go, I just wanna go with you.” He gestures for you to come back, his hand rising to your shoulder. “I could kiss you stupid right here, I hope you know.” 

“That’s not funny,” you say, laughing despite yourself. 

He wasn’t making a joke, but he supposes he’s coming on strong. “I could, but I won’t. I’m too nice and you probably taste like kale anyways, which would be a punishment for me I don’t deserve.”

“Not the most flavourful vegetable, is it?” 

He laughs softly against your lips. One second he’s not going to kiss you here, and the next it’s as though his body decided all on its own. He smiles too much to kiss you properly, but a kiss is a kiss. Kissing you is like electric and fireworks, and honey and sugar, and all manner of cliche things. It’s like a long day ending. It’s like your heart and his are the same, for just those few seconds together. 

“You don’t taste so bad,” he murmurs. 

“You could’ve let me have a drink first.” 

“Where’s the fun in that? Come on, kiss me again.” 

“No, no, ‘cos I don’t like that spicy sauce you put on your wraps and–”

He laughs again, you’re laughing just as loudly, tipping your head to the side as he wades in from the other. 

The kitchen door opens with a whack. You spring apart from one another guiltily, too little too late as the man in the door makes his shock known. 

“Where you just–” Sirius grins like a Cheshire Cat. “You were kissing! I knew it! I can’t–”

“Well you didn’t know it, did you?” Remus asks, giving Sirius a dirty look. “I’ve only tried to tell you ten times that I think there’s something going on with them, they’ve been holding hands. But no, Sirius Black knows everything about James Potter, like I didn’t grow up with you both too.” Remus gives his boyfriend a good glower and makes his way to the fridge.

You immediately fluster, bringing a hand to your eyes as though that might undo what’s been done. 

“We weren’t kissing,” James says. 

“No, then what were you doing, James?” Sirius asks. 

“She was checking my teeth for sesame seeds?” 

“With her tongue,” Sirius says smugly. 

“Sirius, don’t.” Remus pulls his vitamin water from the fridge and remembers himself. “Sorry, Y/N. I’m not trying to embarrass you, and neither is Sirius.” 

“Well, she has nothing to be embarrassed about,” James says, laying his hand on your arm. 

“We really weren’t kissing,” you insist. Then, sighing in defeat. “If anything, James was kissing me and I was letting him.” 

“Yes, because you so often just let me do things to you,” he says, stroking the crook of your elbow with his thumb.

“I knew it,” Sirius says happily, smirking like a fiend as Remus forces the vitamin water into his arms. 

“You did not.” 

“I was just trying to throw you off of the scent, Moony.” 

James meets your eyes, still wide with surprise. “I’m sorry. Uh… They won’t tell?” 

You tip your head. “Someone would’ve found out eventually, right?” 

Right? As in, we would’ve kept going, we’re going to keep dating, and eventually more than that? James will have to buy you a very big bouquet of flowers tonight, lest you not believe him. 

“I’m afraid so. At least that’s out of the way,” he says. 

You bring his hand to your chin. You don’t kiss it, but the action alone has butterflies like hornets bouncing around his stomach. Massive bouquet, he thinks. 

—

more coworker James

[suguann]

✎. you aren’t happy about your roommate’s party until you meet the attractive guy down the hall.

tags. fem!reader, future installments will contain smut, age difference, original characters, college student reader, one-night stands, angst, dirty talk, hurt/comfort, size kink, unplanned pregnancy

featuring. simon

It’s your first semester living off-campus, and Finn is boundlessly enthusiastic about all things that involve cheap liquor and crowded spaces, even more so now that she roped you into being her roommate after promising to split the cost of furnishing an apartment that’s probably too expensive for two undergrads working part-time, low-pay jobs.

You don’t like parties, really. 

Movies and the social connotations surrounding parties have always made them seem like some monumental proverbial chip in your college experience; the real thing, once the bright-eyed shine of trying something new wears off, is more or less a bunch of random people packed into a room like sardines who abate their social awkwardness with alcohol and loud music.

So, no, you can’t exactly say that you enjoy the thought of Finn’s friends (and everyone she hardly smiles at) cramping up your already tiny apartment—especially when one of them is Miller from one of your business classes, who gives you the creeps. 

And leave it to Finn to invite him, anyway.

"Now he knows where I live," you grumble into your bowl of cereal—something probably too sweet and (definitely) full of sugar for breakfast.

Finn shrugs, not at all worried for you, as she pours more sticky orange batter into the hot pan on the stove. "The guy has a crush on you. I think it's cute. And he seems harmless."

“Harmless until I end up in a ditch somewhere.”

You don’t have to see her face to know she’s doing that thing with her mouth whenever you say something she thinks is ridiculous. “If you’d agree to split the Netflix bill, you wouldn’t be stuck watching horror movies. Why do you only own horror movies, again?”

"That's easy for you to say.” You roll your eyes, ignoring her question. “You don’t have to sit by him every week.”

(As if that would ever convince her to change her mind.)

"Ow! Shit!"

You look up right before Finn drops a steaming pancake onto her hand and rushes to the sink to run it under cold water. The mutilated pancake lay forgotten with the others that didn't survive her last several attempts.

"Finn, I think this is unnecessary," you tell her after swallowing a mouthful of cereal. "Can't you do something more practical? Like sticking a note to their door?"

Finn looks up from the sink, her wild, red curls bouncing from the movement. "Oh, come on! Don't chicken out now. I've already made fifteen of these things." She points her pink spatula at the tower of not-quite pumpkin-shaped pancakes on the counter. "Plus, who's going to turn down free food? Now, go put on your costume and hand these out."

You shovel another spoonful of cereal into your mouth, scowling. "I'm not wearing the costume you picked out. It's so...inappropriate."

You’re pretty sure Finn picked out your costume from the dicey sex shop down the street rather than an actual Halloween store—the amount of mesh compared to solid fabric only solidifies the theory.

Finn finally turns the water off and gives you a stern look, amused eyes set under a furrowed brow. "I can find the one you own in the children's section at Costco."

You roll your eyes. "I really don’t feel like flashing my tits to the neighbors while offering them breakfast.”

She grins, wide and teasing. "You have nice tits, though.”

"Yeah, I'm sure the old woman down the hall would love to see her neighbor in the equivalent of a thong and nipple coverings at the start of her day." You don’t think you’d ever be able to look her in the eye again.

"Miss Yado is cool,” Finn says, returning to the stove to continue cooking. “She'll probably just tell you to wear a jacket or something."

You pick up your empty bowl and lean over the counter to put it in the sink. "I didn't know you talked to our neighbors."

Finn shrugs, flipping the pancake in the skillet. "She normally walks her dog while I'm heading to class. I stop to talk to her sometimes when I'm not running late." 

“Oh?”

She shoots you a wry grin over her shoulder. "You'd know the neighbors too if you didn't scowl all the time."

In response, the corners of your mouth tip down. "I don’t scowl."

"Now, would you go change? These are getting cold." 

Several minutes later, you come out of your room wearing the same costume you'd worn the past two years. Finn pouts when she sees you forwent the one she had picked out. However, she doesn’t do more than shake her head and shove a handful of food containers full of pancakes into your hands.

“You’ll be fine. Just remember to smile,” she tells you before the front door closes behind you.

You start on your end of the hall, going door to door and handing out the small containers. The whole time, you’re wondering why Finn couldn’t do this herself, considering you’re hardly a people person as is. Thankfully, nobody seemed too annoyed about being bothered on a Saturday morning—only one neighbor shut the door in your face before you could say anything.

But it’s fine. You’re not going to let it ruin your day. Plus, you only have one person left.

There’s a small pit of nerves in your stomach when you knock this time—half expecting another door to the face. What you don’t expect, however, is the tall and imposing guy who answers.

Who also doesn’t appear to be any less annoyed.

Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, all words stuck to the back of your tongue, watching as stray water droplets drip down from his wet hair and travel down the side of his face before dispersing into the dark stubble lining his jaw.

You stare. And stare. Eyes, most likely, bugging unattractively out of your head.

How did Finn never mention the super hot neighbor who lived six doors down the hall?

He gives you a once-over, and part of you suddenly wishes you’d gone with Finn's costume instead. Only because here, at that moment, you’re willing to admit that maybe the one you have on looks like a six-year-old picked it out—especially when this guy, who is way out of your league, scrutinizes it for a second longer, mostly your frilly crew socks. 

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice low as if he hasn’t been awake for long.

You blink, mild embarrassment rushing through you from the sudden realization that you’ve been standing there and saying absolutely nothing.

"Hi, um, I'm your neighbor from down the hall. My roommate and I are throwing a Halloween party, and we're inviting people in the building." Annoyance slowly melts off his face.

"Thank you,” heavily tattooed arms cross over his broad chest, and he leans against the door frame (and you definitely don’t stare at how his biceps seem to strain against his black t-shirt). “But I think I'm getting a little old for parties."

The corners of your mouth tip up in what’s the beginning of a smile.

"Okay, sure. You're, what, twenty-five?"

It’s a stupid joke, and for a moment, you panic, afraid he’d been unimpressed, but then his lips quirked slightly. "Not quite. Nice costume. Let me guess, fairy?"

"Witch, actually. I’ve always gone with something more original," you babble and bite your lip before you can say something else.

"It’s cute." 

Cute?

You’re unsure if you should feel elated that he thinks so or self-conscious—that he might be making fun of you—so you settle with a mumbled “thanks.”

"So, what's with the container?" he asks, nodding toward your hands.

"Oh, um, my roommate thought she could bribe people with food to come to the party." Truthfully, it’s to prevent potential complaints from the neighbors, but you decide not to mention that part, although you think he knows by the way the corner of his mouth subtly lifts.

You give him the plastic container and watch as he stares into it with a furrowed brow. "It's a... pancake?"

"Er, yeah. My roommate likes to go above and beyond for everything."

"What's it supposed to be?" he asks, glancing up at you.

"Um, a pumpkin..."

You look between him and the container and find Finn had accidentally mixed up her presentable pancakes with the throwaways. And the pumpkin shape is...well, it isn't.

"Ah, I see," he nods, his slowly drying hair falling onto his forehead. "That makes more sense."

You can’t stop the giggle that bubbles to the surface. "You think you can do better?"

"Yes, actually," he grins back, all cocksure, with a flash of white teeth. "Maybe I’ll bring some over some time."

"I won't tell her you said that." However, you can't wait to rib Finn later.

"Right, it probably wouldn't make a very good first impression." Then he sticks out his free hand, "Simon."

You shyly shake it—ignoring the little skip in your chest at how big his hand is compared to yours—and tell him your name, too.

His eyes flicker down to his watch, and he curses under his breath. "Well, it was nice meeting you. But I have to finish getting ready for work."

Only then do you take note of the tactical pants and heavy boots he’s wearing.

When you meet his gaze again, you find amusement there, and you consider, with a new rush of mortification, that it probably seemed like you’d been openly eyeing his crotch. 

You clear your throat, the back of your neck feeling hot, and you pointedly pretend your voice doesn’t hitch when you breathe a soft, tremulous, "Okay, sure.”

"Tell your roommate I said thanks for breakfast."

"Yeah, I'll tell her. Um, I guess I'll see you around." No longer able to make eye contact with him, you turn away and begin walking (though it’s probably closer to running) toward your door.

And you definitely don’t look over your shoulder to see if he’s still standing there.

You spend most of the party hanging out near the front door, quietly hoping Simon might show up—even though it seems unlikely. After all, he did mention that he’s too old for parties, and a small, insecure part of you wonders if it was his polite way of turning you down.

"The guy was running late,” Finn had tried to reassure you. “I'm sure he was thinking about how to beat expressway traffic before the lunch hour rush hit. Not about the crazy lady in a witch costume running away from his door."

That was the initial deciding factor between your witch costume and the one Finn’s been trying to force you into—only so you don’t have to hear another person call you cute just to seem nice.

And leave it to Finn to jump at the opportunity to help you get ready, though she nearly freaked out when you popped into your joint bathroom with an old tube of mascara that you rummaged out of your nightstand.

"Do you know how many germs are probably on that thing?" Finn’s nose scrunched up as she threw it away in the waste bin near the toilet. "Please tell me you haven't used it since you bought it?"

You had rolled your eyes. "Probably not."

Finn sighed, then smiled. "Luckily for you, I own more than a crusty mascara tube." 

You were about to argue, but when Finn told you to sit on the toilet lid with a dangerously sharp liner pen, you’d clenched your jaw instead, unsure what you were more scared of when Finn brought the pen close to your face: that your friend might potentially stab you in the eye or that you’d come out of the bathroom with raccoon eyes.

Thankfully, when Finn finally finished, neither was the case, except the number of looks you’ve been receiving anytime someone stops in the kitchen to get more drinks is something you hadn’t anticipated—especially when one of them happens to be Miller.

You’ve been avoiding him and his overly bare chest from the moment he walked through your front door. It grew more challenging after Finn left your side (the traitor) to talk to a guy you’ve seen her hanging around with on campus a few times. 

And with the apartment feeling smaller than it already is, you’re only option is to blend in with the group hanging around your kitchen island.

You’ll be fine, Finn said.

Right, you think as you adjust the scanty tube top under your mesh shirt, trying to cover more of yourself with what little fabric you have at your disposal, and you wonder if it’s too late to change—

A knock at the door makes you perk up, regardless of how noisy the room is, with eardrum-shattering music and loud college students. You pull it open, expecting to see Simon on the other side, only to be disappointed when it’s one of Finn’s friends and her girlfriend instead.

"Hey, Roma." You realize you probably sound rude and attempt to give them your best smile—which is more or less a grimace.

Roma smooths out her extremely short referee-style dress. "Sorry, we're late! I couldn't remember where you lived. There are way too many blue apartment buildings around here..."

Everything she’s saying goes in one ear and out the other when you spot Simon stepping out of the door to the stairway across the hall. You hold your breath, waiting for him to look up from his phone.

But he keeps walking.

"Uh, yeah," you say distractedly before speeding up the conversation. "Hey, Finn is in the living room, but I'll see you guys inside, okay? I need to do something."

You step around them to catch up to Simon, which you learn isn’t easy in heels. So you call his name, hoping he hears you and smiling when he turns toward you. And you don’t miss how his gaze trails down your body slowly.

It makes something inside you quiver as you nervously play with the short hem of your skirt.

“Hey,” he says, sounding every bit as tired as he looks—his shirt from that morning now wrinkled with bluish hollows under his eyes—though he tries to hide it with what you think is an attempt at a smile.

And your cheeks burn because you feel guilty. 

"Hey," you repeat dumbly. 

Your eyes lower as his smile melts into one of faint amusement at your lack of tact. You fidget, shifting from one foot to the other. Maybe, you think, you should have let him walk into his apartment before you could embarrass yourself further today.  

After a moment, you meet his gaze again. 

"Uh, I just wanted to see if you still wanted to come over…But I imagine you're probably not up for it, so I’ll leave—"

Simon surprises you when he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Sure."

Your mouth gapes, unsure if you heard him correctly. "Wh-what?"

"I just need to shower and change, and then I'll be over. Okay?"

"I... yeah, okay," your nod is shy, trying not to betray eagerness.

A lazy grin stretches across his mouth. "Nice costume, by the way," he disappears into his apartment before he can witness how his words make you flush.

And you walk back to your apartment feeling a little more floaty than when you left.

masterlist

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 9: The One Where You Choose Your Own Brazilian Adventure

My planned post – the “In Dedication of JVN” one where I fangirl over Jonathan Van Ness and what a fun and interesting piece of the Lukola puzzle he is – was derailed today because I was once again asked about Brazil. Well, more specifically, I was asked about whether I thought we were ever going to get those steamy, hopefully X-rated pictures, from Brazil. There’s pictures?!

In truth, I thought we’d collectively squeezed that grapefruit dry and left the rind somewhere between Italy and the Glamour Awards.

Alas, here I am writing about Brazil.

It’s funny because I’ve never thought much about Brazil. I know, I know! How could I possibly type those words without my nose growing six inches in front of my face? Well, it’s because it was always Australia that intrigued me. More on that later…

So why exactly do we believe there are pictures from Brazil? And, why do we think they are going to prove some kind of hot affair between Luke and Nicola? This theory is likely fueled by rumor; rumor born from how Luke and Nicola behaved towards each other while they were in Brazil.

I thought it would be fun to play a little game of “Choose Your Own Adventure” to determine if we’re ever going to see these alleged pictures. And, yes, I will be a very sarcastic bitch when doing this.

Before I start, though, I want to give a quick shout out to my dear friend, whom I shall call The-One-Who-Drops-Random-Pics-Into-Our-Group-Chat-and-Lets-Us-Sweat-Over-Them-for-Atleast-Three-Minutes-Before-Finally-Explaining-Them. She was a wealth of information about Brazil and even had a nice mother-daughter chat with me about the significance of a clean-shaven face (pardon me for never having dated a bearded man, which is odd because I find facial hair quite attractive).

Now, gather ‘round and I shall give you a little prologue to our adventure!

I’m sure most of you already know all about Brazil. In fact, many of you are probably self-described experts at this point. But, for those who are new here, let me go ahead and light the candles and set the ambiance for you. 

On May 19, Luke and Nicola were shuttled off to do their beach photoshoot in Brazil. You know, the one where Nicola was walking the dogs; Luke was strumming the guitar; Nicola was being all girlfriend-like fixing Luke’s jacket; Luke was gazing up at Nicola at the pub while she was touching his neck; and then there was that moment when we all thought they might kiss. Yeah, all that plus Luke’s scruffy face from the week prior suddenly appeared clean-shaven. Apparently, you can never be too “Casual” when you’re headed down south (pun intended – as was that Chappell Roan reference). And, about now is where I’ll “insert disclaimer that this is speculation only.”

The following day, we had the actual premiere. I’m not sure what those two were up to before the premiere but both were un-fucking-hinged by the time they made it to the red carpet. We had angel-face Nicola looking up at Luke like he had created the universe and Luke answering Nicola’s Little Red Riding Hood vibe with one sexy ass Big Bad Wolf persona. I mean, the bits and bobs that came out of Luke’s mouth that day! “There’s a carriage downstairs.” “I mean, in this heat, all I’m thinking about is when we didn’t have to wear clothes ‘cos that would be quite nice right now.” “I mean the show is proof that it is [okay to kiss your friends].” With Nicola whispering back, “This is true.” Then there was Luke taking that mic without taking his eyes off Nicola. We had Luke helping Nicola put on her bracelets because – God forbid! – she let go of him for 30 seconds to do it her fucking self. And, let’s not forget about the two of them holding on to each other behind that woman’s back (I’m sorry, I don’t recall her name and I’m too lazy to look it up – mainly, because I’m certain most of you don’t really care about that other woman).

We were also given snippets of Luke and Nicola at the premiere afterparty, looking like two people who, at a minimum, enjoyed each other’s company. They greeted fans outside the venue and, as they walked away together, Nicola seemingly put her hand on Luke’s lower back as if to guide him in the right direction (go ahead – let your imagination run wild – it’s a great opening for a FanFic).

Then, throw in the beach walk with the giant security guard; the interview where Nicola was wearing the fluffy pink skirt and the two of them talked about Chappell Roan’s “Kaleidoscope” (seriously, those two were listening to that song together?); Nicola couldn’t stop giggling about the “meat” of the Carriage Scene; and Luke appeared perhaps a smidge too interested in Nicola’s answer about what she looks for in a man (which fit perfectly into Luke’s “Like, how nice is it when someone notices, like, your kindness or your sense of humor?”). And, we can’t ignore them seemingly sharing a tea cup and Luke reaching for Nicola’s spoon after she’d sampled a dish. Don’t even get me started on over-analyzing Luke’s “manspread” that day.

Let’s also not forget about the rumor portion of this Brazilian escapade – because that is what fuels the sexy hot pictures theory and the central plot of our storied adventure.

Rumor has it Luke and Nicola spent a lot of time with each other in Brazil.

By themselves.

In one or the other’s room.

On the beach.

By the pool.

There were also rumors of them making out in the hotel hallway.

The only evidence we have of any “alone time” are some pictures that were dumped on X of them dining together alone, without any other members of their team.

Now that the backdrop has been set, let’s go on my little adventure.

During the summer between my 7th and 8th grade years, I was bored out of my mind. I grew up in the countryside. No neighbors. No sidewalks. No cable! Just fields, wooded areas, and my two sisters, both of whom had no interest in entertaining me that summer. My mother suggested I read. After boredom had dug itself so far into my being that I was left with no choice but to read, I finally ventured over to the bookshelf and grabbed the thinnest book I could find. It was a “Choose Your Own Adventure.”

If you don’t know what a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book is, then you (and your children) are missing out. Basically, you play the role of the protagonist and make choices to determine the outcome of your story. Sometimes you make the right choice and survive; other times you make the wrong choice and get turned into a little mouse that may or may not be eaten by a cat.

Here we go.

As the protagonist of our story, you are:

THE EMPLOYEE

You’re an employee of the hotel Nicola and Luke stayed at while in Brazil. You have sworn to maintain the privacy of hotel guests; you’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement of sorts to protect the privacy of guests, especially since you have access to VIP areas. You can be a housekeeper, a watchman, a concierge, a seven-foot-tall security guard, whatever tickles your fancy. Doesn’t matter – you’re all bound by the same provisions to protect the privacy of the hotel’s guests. But, in this story, let’s say you’re the housekeeper because – what’s that old saying – the only person who knows everything going on in the house is the maid?

You’re cleaning Nicola’s room and you find lots of signs of a man being in the room. In fact, you find a coat that looks exactly like the one Luke was wearing the night of the premiere. Oh my. As you’re leaving, you see two people making out in the hallway – headed straight towards the room you’re just leaving!  It looks like Nicola and Luke. What do you do?

Choice A: Well, you’re a pervy housekeeper so you pull your phone out and start taking pictures. I mean, those two are so into each other, they don’t even notice. You then run and play show-and-tell with your friends because you can’t keep a damn secret. Unfortunately for you, that gossip spreads faster than lice in a preschool, and hotel management tracks your ass down because, guess what, your friends can’t keep a secret either. So, congratulations on being fired. You’re meeting with the lawyers is first thing in the morning. Oh, we also need your phone and the names of all your friends.

Choice B: You respect the privacy of Nicola and Luke and simply turn and walk the opposite direction. Taking photos of them never even crossed your mind! But, damn, what a good story to tell your bestie when you get home, even if you don’t have “receipts.”

THE VIP GUEST

You’re a random guest staying at the hotel. In fact, you’re a random VIP guest staying on the same floor as Nicola and Luke. When you checked in, you signed a non-disclosure agreement. I mean, you want your privacy protected, too! And, heck, NDAs are thrown out like candy these days. You’ve seen so many at this point, you don’t even bother to read them.

You take the elevator up to your floor and, as you step into the hallway, you’re confronted with – goddammit, there’s two motherfuckers all over each other! The guy is trying to slide his key into the door, but the woman’s dress is so awkwardly large, he can’t seem to find the right slot! You realize the people look a lot like those two stars from Bridgerton, and your best friend, Effie, is a huge fan! What do you do?

Choice A: You can’t believe Effie is missing out on this excitement so, of course, you pull your phone out and start taking pictures!! I mean, that NDA you signed didn’t even cross your mind three minutes later when you were forwarding the pictures to Effie! And, because you can’t control what Effie does, she forwards the pictures to all her Bridgie buddies. The next morning you awaken to find the pictures all over X. Oopsie. You feel slightly guilty, and a bit peeved at Effie – but only until you’ve had your morning coffee.

Choice B: You take people’s privacy very seriously. Well, maybe you don’t take it that seriously, but it would be too difficult to dig your phone out of your handbag to take pictures. And, to be honest, Effie is the huge fan, not you. Plus, it seems the guy finally got that door open and damn, based on the sounds of it, he's unlocked something magical. Oh well. You’ll call Effie in the morning to tell her your story, if you remember it.

THE RANDOM STRANGER

You’re a random stranger taking an evening stroll along the beach. You love the sound of the ocean. It’s so peaceful…the sound of the waves… Ugh, what is that noise?! It sounds like – shit, it is! – two people snogging in a cabana about 10 yards away from you. Wait a minute – is that? Yeah, you think it could be! I mean, you were just at the Bridgerton premiere last night! What do you do? Without hesitation, you pull out your phone!

Choice A: You creep behind an umbrella and zoom in as close as possible with your camera! I mean, shite! You can’t believe this! How long have you been filming?  Probably longer than necessary but who cares? Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you, perhaps a seven-foot-tall presence, and you slowly turn around. Fuck! Who’s this guy?! He takes your phone, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, shattering its insides.  Asshole.  You bend down to pick up the phone, but the man taps your shoulder and shakes his head, “No.” Well, umm, yeah, I guess you best be leaving.

Choice B: You use your camera to zoom in on the couple. Snap! Snap! Snap! Then you get the FUCK OUT OF THERE! You tell yourself you don’t look suspicious at all, even though you’re practically running and your heart is about to pound its way out of your chest! Oh, thank God, you’ve made it to your car. You start it up and, like I said, YOU GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE! You get home and take a look at the photos! Goldmine! So, should you drop them on X? Maybe be a little see-you-next-Tuesday and try to sell them to Nicola or Luke’s teams? But, hell, you don’t even know where to start with that! Or, should you just pocket them for your own pleasure? You tell me….

The End.

Yes, I am absolutely being a facetious little ass! The above scenarios were for (the most part) my own entertainment. I mean, there are so many situations where these alleged pictures could exist (these playful ones don’t even scratch the surface). But, do the pictures exist?

If we’re being logical here, you would think that, if anyone in the general public were in possession of these alleged sexy-time pictures of Luke and Nicola, or had seen them, it would be all over social media at this point. I mean, ALL OVER. So, what can we deduce from the fact that they aren’t?

That the pictures probably don’t exist. Don’t shoot the messenger! Seriously, watch where you point that thing!

But, let’s say pictures did exist. Who is the most likely person to dump them on, say, X? The hotel employee, the VIP guest, or the random stranger? I would place money on the random stranger, followed by the VIP guest. The hotel employee, who probably has the most access to VIP guests but the strongest legal barriers, would be the least likely to photo dump. What is the likelihood that someone from one of these three groups – for example, a random stranger – (a) had pictures of Luke and Nicola, (b) didn’t drop them on social media, and/or (c) didn’t share them with someone who dropped them on social media?

I’m all for a good conspiracy theory but I find this one to be a hard pill to swallow.

Maybe one person can act as a lockbox for this kind of secret, but when you start including more people, the ability to keep something (like illicit photographs of two celebrities) out of the public eye diminishes rapidly.

Remember what Benjamin Franklin said, “Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

Unfortunately, this quote is incredibly accurate. The general public cannot keep secrets.

If the pictures exist, they are most likely in the possession of Luke and/or Nicola’s team (of lawyers). So, unless they’re going to sneak them on to X for giggles (I mean, it’s been known to happen), you’re probably never going to see them – and that’s assuming they even exist.

However, if you’re the housekeeper from our first adventure and you happen to have some candid photographs you’re just dying to share, just find yourself a printer – one that cannot easily be linked back to you – and print them out. Then, “accidently” drop them at the feet of someone who knows exactly what they are, and then give them enough time to take their own photos of them and send them to their best friend’s brother’s sister-in-law’s third cousin’s wife’s neighbor, who could drop them on X for us. I mean, you should be golden with seven degrees of separation.

[ihrthoney]

no grave can hold my body down

pairings: arkham knight!jason todd x f!reader

warnings: fluff, angst, a lil bit of suicidal thoughts but nothing too major

word count: 1.8k

an: this is a more detailed version of this post! please request jason todd fic ideas pls pls pls. sorry if theres any mistakes it’s almost midnight lol

Almost two years had passed since Bruce Wayne came to your door and revealed who he was. Nearly 730 days since your boyfriend "died". Gotham was a city full of awful crimes and even worse people but you've never hated anyone like you hated Batman.

You can understand that he tried, the guilt he must feel probably consumes him and a sick part of you is glad. Not only was your boyfriend killed, with video evidence might you add, but his body was never recovered.

Jason would hate it if you saw the video of the Joker killing him but you needed to know. It was all for naught though, you never buried a body so your brain fully believes he isn't dead.

Whether or not it was the grief of having the love of your life ripped away from you or the feeling in your gut, you know Jason isn't dead. Until there is a body in front of you, you will do anything that you can to find him.

-

It started with swallowing your pride and asking the person you loathed for help.

Bruce obviously refused, he wanted to avoid another young person's death. You caught him by surprise with how you begged for his help, he fully expected you to be mad at him, to threaten him for answers. But no, instead you got on your hands and knees and begged him for help, which somehow made it worse.

For weeks you kept reaching out to him, asking him for any clues or hints, anything at all! He has all the resources a person could ever need, he's known as the greatest detective in the world but he can't find his son?

"I've told you, Jason is... Jason is dead. You saw the video. Get out of Gotham and move on, there is nothing more I can do for you." You didn’t stop there though.

You knew of Nightwing, that he was the robin before Jason. So you reached out to him when he was on patrol. Unlike Bruce, you actually felt bad for asking for help, especially since he was working and was grieving himself.

Even through the domino mask, his face scrunched in sympathy, and as gently as he could he told you he couldn't consciously help you. He couldn't let a civilian rope themself into business they wouldn't be able to walk out of.

Understanding of his reasoning, you started going against the law. You started to sneak into offices at different police stations in Gotham (they were sloppier than you could've ever thought, no wonder people love Batman).

Given Jason's at the time profession, he taught you how to defend yourself. There was never a time you didn't carry a knife on you, but you always left your gun at home. Living in Gotham, it was best to take all and every necessary safety precautions.

Using the very low-level skills you had, you searched places that were abandoned and discarded, anywhere that Joker was ever near in the past few years. A part of you knew that what you were doing was dangerous, that if Batman had found anything he would've done so already.

But you couldn't just go to work and pretend your boyfriend wasn't out there somewhere, alive or not you had to be absolutely sure. If you died trying then so be it, it's better than living in the reality of Jason not coming home.

-

A year went by, 365 days of feeling your sanity drain out of your body. You've been caught a few times by the police for trespassing and once by Batman himself who scolded and lectured you about your activities. He was livid, upset at you willingly putting yourself in danger. You were at a higher risk of dying than he was and yet you go out in nothing but black clothes and a few weapons. He's genuinely shocked you're still alive.

After Bruce catches you, he makes sure to keep tabs on you which prevents you from going out. Even if he's busy, if he sees your tag too far out he will drag you back to your place.

There's a part of you that wants to give up, to actually take his advice and move away. But you know deep down inside nothing will put out the fire of finding Jason. Even if you moved to a different country, you know you would still look for his hair, to listen for his voice in the crowd.

Months of gaslighting yourself that he'll knock on your door and say it's just one big prank, that he was on a big mission far away and couldn't tell you to keep you safe.

Millions of excuses rolled around in your head day and night, work was a blur. Bruce even tried to compensate by offering to pay for your rent, to help you seek medical help like a therapist. You know it would do you good to rest but the guilt of leaving Jason behind was too strong. He's been through so much in his life, you wouldn't dare abandon him.

You still stayed in the apartment you were looking at with Jason, "a safehouse" he called it, you weren't even 18 at the time but you both allowed yourselves to think ahead.

Every piece of furniture you bought it with him in mind, "This would be convenient for him to hide his gear," "He likes this color, plus the blanket is soft so it'll help him sleep." Jason consumed you, call it unhealthy but he was your night in this dark city.

There was a spare bedroom, you were going to originally use it as an office/workspace but instead, it's covered in all the papers you've stolen to find him. The floor, walls and even the door were covered, overlapped, and written on with any possible clue you could've stumbled upon. It's been months since you've been able to add something that wasn't already on there. So instead, you sat in the room and just stared at it, cried, ripped things down, and put them back up with tears streaming down your face. It didn’t help that you would hear Jason’s voice soothing you whenever you cried, reassuring you whenever you were down. You knew it was your subconscious trying to console you but you liked to believe he was really there.

Then there were the hallucinations, they started back when you stumbled upon a hostage situation in an old arcade at the end of Gotham, you swear it was Jason but when the guy looked up at you all you saw was a stranger. You were stuck in the police station for hours, yelled at for stupidly interfering in a dangerous situation. The cops looked at you with annoyance now, you were nothing more than a crazy love-sick girl.

-

Lately, work has been exhausting, learning there was a new robin made your stomach swirl. It was like Batman just moved on, how is that fair? How could he move on while you were stuck chasing dead ends? Why couldn't you just accept his death?

Instead of eating dinner, you let yourself boil in whatever hot water Gotham could provide and scrubbed layers of guilt off of your skin. You put on an old shirt of his, which was horribly faded by how much you wore and washed it then curled up in bed; The bed was too big but you didn't want a smaller one in case he came back.

Usually, you triple check that your windows and doors are bolted shut but for tonight you just trusted your brain. Sometimes, it felt like it would be easier if you didn't wake up anymore, at least when you closed your eyes you could see the Jason you knew and loved.

Tonight was one of those nights where sleep was in and out, so when you felt a hand push back some hair behind your ear, you grabbed the knife under your pillow and lunged forward though there were no sounds of anyone in pain, in fact you heard the knife hit the floor.

"You have to be faster than that, sweetheart."

That voice. You would know that voice anywhere.

You blink your eyes open, slowly revealing the man you love in front of you. Except, he wasn't in front of you. This wasn't the first time he's appeared in front of you, it broke your heart all the same.

The exhaustion creeped up your throat and tears started to slip down your face, "No don't cry baby, it's okay." 'Jason' attempted to reach his hand toward you but you shook your head, backing into the corner of the bed,

"This isn't real. Go away, please. Not tonight."

The ache Jason felt in his chest at the sound of your distress hurt him in a way he's never yet experienced. His poor girl crying, thinking he wasn't real.

"I'm real baby, I promise." He calmly approaches you, kneeling on the bed, a hand reaches out towards you again,

Your head was buried on your knees as you hugged yourself into a ball, "You're not! I haven't found you! This can't be real!"

"Please look at me sweetheart."

You noticed his voice sounded different, deeper, more matured. It caused you to slowly look up, "There you are."

That's when you see him. The scars, the tired look in his eyes, the rage he's hiding behind it; There’s a difference in color in his eyes but they're beautiful all the same. They still look at you with love.

None of your hallucinations were this detailed, to be honest you couldn't imagine what he would look like after the years have passed. So to see this, you knew it was real. (Or some villain was damn good at illusions.)

He was caught off guard as you hugged him tight, he had to swallow down the feeling to pull you off. You were the exception to everything, so for now he could stomach the feeling of being held in place because he (is trying to convince himself) knows it's out of love.

You sobbed in his chest, apologizing over and over and over again, "It's okay baby, take deep breaths please."

Again, you started to shake your head, "It's not okay, I should have found you. I tried to find you, I'm so sorry!"

"I saw the room baby, I know you tried but that wasn't your responsibility." He tried to reason with you, doing what he could to calm you down. It's been years since he's seen you, years since he's dealt with anything normal, his mind is all over the place.

"Don't say that, I love you Jace. I would rather die than stop looking."

Jason tensed at the phrase, after everything it's hard to believe you, to believe any of this but he wanted to see you. He had to.

A hand found its way in your hair, holding you close to his chest, "You did good honey, thank you for trying."

Lifting your head from his chest, you looked into his eyes, "I would do anything for you, I need you to know that."

He can only offer a small smile, he knows you did and there's a small piece of his heart that can rest knowing you didn't forget him, that you still loved him.

He hopes he can learn to love you again, too.

part 2? lmk down below :)

© ihrthoney. reblogs & feedback are greatly appreciated𑁤

[timmydraker]

Tim doesn’t drink coffee, but he drinks tea.

So, so much tea.

He’s not a casual tea drinker, he doesn’t just have a stash of sugar and earl grey at his desk with a few mugs at the ready.

No, Timothy Drake has over sixteen seperate kettles and tea sets in his room. Some are china, some are vintage, some are shaped like flowers or frogs or painted with a Vincent Van Gogh style over it. Some only have one cup and saucer, some have enough for a tea party. Some are so old they’re are chipped and faded. Some are so new they haven’t been used and are still set up nicely in a display case.

That’s just the carrier of the tea, but the flavours he has on hand…

He has English breakfast, he has Merlot, he had Green Tea, Herbal, Black Current, Lemon, Chamomile, Honey, Mint, Butterfly Pea, African Solstice, Cherry, Chocolate, everything! If you can think of it or have heard of it somewhere before, he has it.

Every knows that he drinks the, they see him with a cup near constantly and he even has a keep cup for when he’s patrolling.

But not even knows exactly how deep his obsession goes.

Alfred does, because he once had to listen to Tim talk about how you can’t rank read through taste alone but also process and how it works with sugar and milk and sweetener after the older man made the mistake of saying he thought English Breakfast was best.

Bruce knows because he once threatened to confiscate Tim’s tar strainers if he didn’t get some rest and witnessed how hard Tim Drake can tweak firsthand.

Barbara knows because she once accidently broke a cup when she backed into a table with her chair and, while Tim was understanding it was an accident, she had to watch him go through the stages of grief in real time. The kid had openly mourned the cup that had been shaped like an apple as if it was a loved one and she swore not to touch them again lest she cause another funeral.

Yet, even though not even has seen the dozens of cases and cabinets he has to organise his tea leaves and dishes, there is one thing that everyone has a deep understanding of.

If Tim lets you use a cup, he sees you as someone to trust. He thinks you’re reliable and trustworthy enough to touch something fragile and valuable to him.

But if he serves you tea himself, from his own personal collection?

You aren’t just loved by him, you aren’t just his family, but you have single handedly gained one of the biggest allies you will ever have.

[zyhkoo]

🎸 lovers rock

jason x f!reader, 18+, situationship, smut, afab!reader, angst

( he’s so sick of this, yet he cannot get enough )

Jason Todd has known you for a long time. The two of you were friends, or so he thought. Though, he tried his hardest to make something happen— but it just didn’t work and he gave up.

Sometimes, you would get his hopes up a bit and then back to the friend status it is. Jason didn’t know why he would give so much just for you. Sometimes, you would be the person he loved or hated the most in the world. Though he does not understand why he cannot let you go.

There was a family party in the Wayne manor, and since you were close to the family you were of course; invited. Board games were scattered on the floor, Stephanie and Cass were sleeping on the couch, Dick and Tim were somewhere else while you and Jason were in his bedroom.

He didn’t let just anyone in his old childhood bedroom, this room had many memories he’d like to forget or have trouble remembering. And now he was here, with you. You were a bit drunk, just for safe measures— Jason didn’t let you come home.

You were flipping through photo albums while Jason played soft music through his speakers. Jason sat across the bed with a slight frown on his face as he watched you carefully flip through the pages of his photo albums. He felt a mix of nostalgia and discomfort, but your presence provided a strange comfort in the midst of it all.

He took a sip of his drink, swirling the amber liquid within. He could hear a chuckle escaping your lips, “If you drink more, you’re gonna get a bad hangover.” Jason rolled his eyes at your comment.

"You know me well enough to know that a hangover wouldn't stop me from doing anything." He replied, tipping his glass back and taking another swig.

He leaned back against the headboard, his gaze drifting back towards you. "I can handle my alcohol just fine," he added defiantly. "Besides, it's not like I plan on doing much tomorrow anyway."

Jason leaned back further into the headboard, his gaze still fixed on you as he observed your expressions as you browsed through the memories captured in those photos. He wasn’t sure himself what he was feeling. A mix of nostalgia, confusion, and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was the effect of the alcohol.

Jason's mind was a turmoil of emotions. He knew he should feel angry, frustrated with your constant hot-and-cold behavior. But there was also a conflicting sense of happiness at having you here, being in the same room as him.

He clenched his jaw, trying to sort out his thoughts, but the alcohol wasn't helping. He let out a sigh, looking at you once more, watching as you chuckled at one of the photos.

“Hey, scoot over. Look at this.” you said. Jason rolled his eyes but moved over, making room for you on the bed. He settled back against the headboard, he watched you excitedly find a particular photo in the album. You sat down beside him, holding the photo out for him to see.

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as he peered down at the image. “You’re so cute here.” you pointed out.

It was a picture from many years ago, back when he was a scrawny kid in his early teens. In the photo, he was wearing a Batman onesie, a wide grin on his face as he posed awkwardly next to a younger Bruce.

"Right," he grumbled, taking another swig of his drink, trying to hide his embarrassment. You frowned, “Hey, don’t drink too much.” Jason rolled his eyes, although secretly appreciating your concern.

"Relax, I'm just enjoying myself a bit," he assured you,there was an edge of defensiveness in his voice, as if he was trying to prove something.

You scoffed, “I’m serious.” Jason let out a huff of frustration, his defense crumbling under your concerned gaze. "And I'm serious about being able to handle myself," he retorted, his voice growing a bit heated. "I don’t need you mothering me."

You mirrored his annoyance, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm not trying to mother you. I'm just trying to look out for you." You replied, your own voice rising slightly. "You don't always have to pretend like you're invincible."

Jason's jaw tightened at your words, the familiar feeling of frustration towards you growing within him again. He knew you were right, but he hated how you always seemed to know what was best for him, even when he didn't want to admit it.

"I'm not an idiot," he replied tightly, his eyes flickering away from yours. You sighed, “Sorry for snapping.” Jason looked over at you, his expression softening a bit at your apology. He knew you meant well, even if sometimes you drove him crazy.

"It's alright," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I do get a bit carried away sometimes."

A moment of silence passed between you two, the air still filled with a hint of tension. Jason couldn't help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye, taking in your features, the way your hair fell over your shoulders. For a moment, he felt the urge to reach out and touch you, but he stopped himself, reminded of the complicated situation between you two.

As the first light of sunrise began to peek through the curtains, Jason couldn't help but notice the time had passed.

"Looks like sunrise is here," he mused, his voice low. “Everyone is probably passed out downstairs by now." Jason glanced over at you, he knew what you meant. This moment between you two, sharing a bed, talking in low, soft voices while the early morning light filtered through the curtains. It was a surreal moment, one he didn't want to end, but he knew it was temporary.

“This doesn’t look real.” you muttered. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, his eyes fixated on your face, trying to memorize every feature. You sighed as you leaned your head on the pillows, “Are you sick of me?”

The question surprised him. It was one he had asked himself many times, but hearing it from you made everything feel even more complicated.

"No," he said, his voice firm. "I could never be sick of you." He wasn't sure why exactly, but it was the truth. No matter how mad you drove him, how much you toyed with his emotions, he couldn't get enough of you.

You looked back, “Truth?”

"Truth," he confirmed.

"No matter how frustrated you make me, or how confusing things between us are, I can't get enough of you. I... I care about you too much, even when I know I probably shouldn't."

“Would I be an ass if i asked for a kiss?” you said, looking at his gaze. Jason's heart skipped a beat at your question. He wasn't sure if he had heard you correctly. But there you were, looking at him seriously, awaiting an answer. He tried to keep his cool, not wanting to let on how affected he was by your words.

"That depends," he replied, his voice slightly hoarse, "Are you gonna break my heart tomorrow like you always do?"

“I hope not.” you responded. Jason searched your eyes for any hint of deception, any sign that you were just toying with his emotions again. But all he could see was a mixture of honesty and vulnerability in your gaze.

He swallowed, his throat feeling dry, before responding.

"Okay," he whispered, "Just one kiss."

Jason closed his eyes as your hand caressed his cheek, he leaned in closer, his lips just inches away from yours, his heart pounding in his chest.

His body was practically pressed against yours now, the heat between you two almost tangible. You then leaned in and pressed a slow kiss on his lips.

Jason's heart raced further as your lips met his. The kiss was gentle, slow, and it took all his restraint not to deepen it, to pull you closer and never let you go. He melted into the kiss, his hand rising to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

Your head hit the headboard with a *thump*. Jason winced at the sound and pulled back slightly, his eyes snapping open to see if you were hurt. "Are you okay?" he asked, his hand still gently cupping your face. You chuckled, “Yeah, keep going if you wanna.”

"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered. He leaned in again, his lips finding yours in another slow, searing kiss. Your hands slowly trailed up to the hand covering your cheek.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue lightly tracing the seam of your lips, silently asking for entry. You gladly parting your lips, slowly kissing him with your tongue.

Jason drew back, his chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. His eyes roamed over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips.

"You're so beautiful," he leaned back in, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still woven through your hair, keeping you close. “You okay?” you asked. Jason couldn't help but chuckle softly at your question.

"Yeah, I'm more than okay," he assured you, his breath still slightly ragged from the kiss. "Just trying to catch my breath. You tend to make it a bit difficult to do that, you know."

“Alcohol makes you do crazy things I guess.” you chuckled. Jason nodded, his hand unconsciously caressing your hair, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck.

"Yeah, alcohol and you are a dangerous combination,"

The next few minutes seemed to blur together. Clothes were shed, skin meeting skin, lips trailing over every inch of exposed flesh, leaving kisses, bites, and marks in their wake.

Even in the heat of passion, your concern for him always shone through. You'd pause between kisses, your breath ragged, to ask if he was okay, if he wanted to stop.

Jason would reassure you that he was more than okay, that he wanted this just as much as you did. He'd pull you closer, his hands roaming over your body with need and desire, silently begging for more.

As the last piece of clothing fell away, exposing the two of you fully to one another, Jason couldn’t help but marvel at the sight in front of him. You were beautiful, every curve and freckle seemed to call out to him.

He gently pushed you back against the bed, his body hovering over yours. Jason's hands roamed over your body, touching, caressing, savoring the feel of your skin against his. His breath ghosted over your neck, planting kisses and nips along your skin.

Jason's body moved over yours, aligning perfectly with yours as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and uncertainty. "Are you sure?" he asked huskily, his voice barely above a whisper, his body already quaking with the effort to hold back.

“Yes, just go.” you softly smiled as you touched his cheek. Jason nodded, his mouth going dry at your touch. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, before slowly, gently, he began to move.

His body moved against yours in a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust bringing them closer and closer together. He watched your face intently, his eyes drinking in every flicker of expression, every gasp and moan that escaped your lips.

“Ah… fuck.” you hissed in pleasure. Jason swallowed hard at the sound of your hiss. He couldn’t believe how good this felt, how good you felt beneath him. Every gasp and sigh from you sent shivers down his spine, his body responding instinctively, moving a little harder, a little faster.

“Fuck you feel so good,” he groaned. His lips found your neck, kissing and biting softly. All that mattered was you, the sound of your gasps and moans, the feel of your body moving against his. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips moving erratically as he neared his breaking point.

He tried to hold on, to draw out this moment as much as he could, but it was impossible. Waves of pleasure washed over him, his body trembling with the force of his release.

As he came apart, he pulled you closer, his hands tangled in your hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin. He held onto you tightly, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. For a few moments, everything faded away, and the only thing in his world was you.

You huffed, “Are you okay?” you asked again. Jason was still trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving as he looked down at you. "Yeah," he nodded, "Yeah, I'm okay." A small, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"More than okay, actually." You took his face in your hands as you softly kissed his nose. Jason’s heart swelled as you kissed his nose, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he just basked in the moment, enjoying the feeling of your fingers gently caressing his cheeks.

The early morning light was starting to stream in through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. Jason found himself just staring at you, watching the way your eyes were shining, your messy hair framing your face, your expression relaxed and at ease.

He hoped things wouldn't go back to the way it was before.

[aniseandspearmint]

Oh, no PROBLEM, life happens, and I'm just glad you're doing better!

And it's never too late to pick fun things back up. I had to dig around for the notes i made for the next bit of this, and then re-read it over, because it HAS been a year! XD

SO, okay, a part 7!

YES, I am SO GLAD the way Frodo is NOT having a great or easy time came across! I’d hoped that would work! It can be hard, when your body changes and suddenly you’re not capable of the same stuff you were. I was trying to convey that kind of dysphoria.

Maedhros! Maedhros is HAVING A DAY. A good day! A MIRACULOUSLY GOOD DAY.

The kind of good day he can barely trust is REAL bc, lbr, he hasn’t really had a good day innnn. Um. Lets just say a long time. So this is the kind of day that has him covertly running mental checks just to make sure this is still reality. He keeps counting Maglor’s freckles and running his finger tips over his horse and her tack, and the tooling on his belt and faulds just to check that the things he’s seeing, and sensations he feels match up right.

He can at least throw himself into logistics a bit here, first in chivying all the escaped thralls our Intrepid (and exhausted) Heroes have been herding to safety in Himring.

Then he corrals Celegorm and Curufin. (This ended up mostly dialogue!)

Maedhros: *stares pointedly*

C&C: Err.

Maedhros: *calm and measured* I have heard what you’ve been up to in Nargothrond, brothers. Rest assured, I WILL be taking that out of your hides later. For now though *points at the crowd of people filling the hall behind them* Exactly WHAT happened to do THAT?

Curufin: Honestly we don’t KNOW, Nelyo!

Celegorm: When we caught up to them, Finrod, Beren, Luthien, Huan, Tyelpe and that Annatar ner were already gone off to Angband, leaving Finrod’s steward and Frodo to hold the camp.

Maedhros: *blinks* Frodo? Who? And what kind of a name is that? (Note: Frodo is WESTRON it’s gotta sound SO WEIRD to the elves tbh. He’s definitely gonna get slapped with a proper elven name at some point here. Elves gotta give people extra names after all especially in the first age)

C&C: *baffled kind of shrugs*

Curufin: *glowers* The boy is SOMEWHERE in the crowd. He’s remarkably cagey for a boy who can’t be more than 80, and I haven’t been able to corner Tyelpe about him yet, but he rather looks REMARKABLY like that Annatar. And Mother. And Grandfather. (Note: Frodo probably doesn’t look quite like a teenager really, but he’s so coltish in his new body, that’s coming across as youth to the elves that see him)

Maedhros blinks at that. Well. He never thought Tyelpe the sort, but, well, Curufin had been a bit smothering since they’d come to Beleriand. He’s thought Tyelpe was weathering it with more grace and patience than was usually found in their line, but maybe he’d just decided to go around his father? He wouldn’t be the first in the family for that. (Note: yesss Mae, make some logical conclusions with the info you have! Compare him to you and Finno a bit! You’re VERY wrong but it’s still a good guess!)

Celegorm: He’s got one of Tyelpe’s hairclips. One of the ones father made.

Maedhros: *eyebrows* Interesting. But, at this moment, irrelevant. We can sort that out later. What else can you tell me?

Celegorm: A few hours after we got there, the whole ground heaved like a shaken table cloth. Then some hours after that, Tyelpe and everyone came out of the night leading that lot *waves a hand a the hall* Tyelpe had the silmarils.

Curufin: There wasn’t really TIME to stop and ask questions. We regrouped and lit out for Himring. Luthien is TERRIFYING by the way. She provided the bulk of the power, her and that Annatar. We pitched in too but them, us, Finrod, and Tyelpe have been cycling songs of power for- *blinks* How long has it been since Angband shook, Nelyo?

Maedhros: thirteen days and nights.

Curufin: *sputters*

Celegorm: Huh. No wonder I want to sleep for a week. I haven’t done a march like that since I was with The Hunt. *waves* Anyway, we talked to a few of the thralls, and from what few who were in the throne room said, Luthien walked in all lovely and enchanting, and sang with three voices. It put Morgoth out like a fussy toddler. And then the wolves and the orcs, and even the balrogs, everything evil, dropped where they stood as well. The orcs were dead. No one checked the balrogs. Then Luthien’s man climbed the throne and took the crown and passed it down to Tyelpe. Then he and Annatar left and came back with BLASTING powder and lined the place while Morgoth slept.

Maedhros: *wheezing incredulous laugh*

Curufin: Annatar said the dragons were UNDER the throne room Nelyo. All the eggs, all the breeding stock.

Maedhros: *squints* *head tilt* wait. *slow blink* How would he KNOW that? I didn’t know that, and I know Angband as well as any former thrall.

C&C: *exchanged uneasy glances*

Curufin: We’re not sure. Finrod and Tyelpe trust him though. And, there’s Frodo. *vague hand wave* We heard some snatches of conversation, but nothing that makes much sense.

Maedhros: Right. Where’s Maglor? Nevermind, I saw him with Luthien, I’ll get them, and find Finrod. You round up Tyelpe and this Annatar fellow, and bring them up to my study. See if you can find the Frodo lad you mentioned.

Maedhros needs to corral all the important people ASAP and GET SOME ANSWERS.

He’s able to locate Maglor being charming at Luthien and Beren fairly quickly. Whereas Celegorm and Curufin look as if they’ve been on a hard march for days, Luthien, apart from the general grime of travel in the wilds, looks fresh as a daisy in may. Exactly how much power does she HAVE?? Never mind, one thing at a time. She and Beren graciously accept an invitation to a more private area. They’ve eaten and washed a bit, same as the throng of ex-thralls, but it’s VERY crowded. And They want to talk to Tyelpe, Finrod, Frodo, and Annatar too. They know more than Maedhros! But there wasn’t a LOT of time for other questions after establishing that there was some kind of time travel going on!

Tyelpe and Annatar aren’t hard to locate either. They knew this was coming. A quick wash up and food, and maybe a change of clothes, and it’s on to the Next Thing.

Note: oh. Huh. I didn’t think of it before, but I wonder what Annatar and Frodo are WEARING??? Some casual Valinorin clothes? I bet they were NOT dressed for getting dropped in the past! If it was just like, vibes based, maybe some clothes Annatar thinks of as ‘comfy’ rather than anything either of them might have been wearing before they were dropped into the past, since their bodies were created for this unlike Tyelpe or Finrod!

Annatar reluctantly taps on Frodo’s mind, and tells him Maedhros is collecting them.

Frodo, by this point, is not crying anymore, but is the kind of wrung out EXHAUSTED, that only days and days of rough travel and then a fierce crying jag will make you. Finrod almost offers to carry him, but Frodo just sets his mouth and gets up off the stone floor, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other and plodding along next to Finrod, who directs him around the crowd and into the keep proper.

Maedhros was somehow NOT expecting this Frodo child to look as much like family as Curufin and Celegorm insisted, but oh dear, if anything they understated it. He looks VERY much like the elf called Annatar. The hair, the skin, the eyes, but the other features. They were right, and Maedhros can see little echoes of his kin all over him.

He’s also swaying where he stands next to Finrod, with red eyes and tear tracks through the wilderness grime on his face. (Remember, Frodo skipped the wash up and clothes change area. Finrod too. I’m sure once they get through the first awkward conversation, someone will get them each a basin and some clean clothes!)

Maedhros makes eye contact with Finrod and jerks his chin at the soft couch set before the fireplace. Finrod takes the hint, and leads the young ner that is, in all likelihood Maedhros’s grand-nephew over and gently pushes him down on it.

Maedhros turns his attention to Tyelpe, and also Annatar. Tyelpe steps around Maedhros, and slings the crown off his torso and sets it down on Maedhros’s desk where it thuds down with a surprisingly light thump for a thing wrought of iron and misery.

Maedhros: So. Explain. Lady? This seems to have started with you?

Luthien shrugs gracefully, and sets herself down in Maedhros’s towering armchair before the fire and tells her part of the story. It is, thankfully, lacking the canon bits of C&C capturing her and being creepy assholes! Because Tyelpe stole Huan and met up with her before that could happen here!

When she’s finished with her part, with input from Beren, and Finrod, Maedhros turns and raises his eyebrows at his nephew.

Some very speaking looks are exchanged rapidly between Finrod and Tyelpe and Annatar and Frodo.

Finally Tyelpe just shrugs helplessly.

Tyelpe: Uncle, we have NO IDEA. One minute we’re in Fourth Age Tirion, the next I’m in Nargothrond and Finrod is in Sauron’s Tower, and Annatar and Frodo are there too. And Frodo is an elf.

Maedhros. Blinks. And replays that. Nope. Still makes absolutely NO sense.

Maglor: … I’m sorry, what?

Tyelpe: We’ve done this before. It all went SO much worse. Annatar wasn’t there before, though, or Frodo.

Finrod: Well. Annatar sort of was. Why are there two of you now, by the way? That’s. Kind of alarming.

Annatar: When I spoke to the One, and was changed, I was FUNDAMENTALLY changed. To hazard a guess, when this… Event happened, I was too different to integrate with my former self. He is maiar, I am elven. I came to my senses, he’s still following his shining plan.

Frodo: And me?

Annatar: We share something of our spirits on a deep level. And since hobbits have not woken yet, and will not for many many years yet, I imagine this was the only way for you to have a form here and now.

Frodo: *watery chuckle* Oh. Yes I suppose that makes sense.

Please imagine Maedhros and Maglor and C&C ping-ponging back and forth here, COMPLETELY CONFUSED by this conversation. But desperately trying to add up the bits they’re hearing into some kind of coherent narrative. Maedhros is squinting at Annatar with sudden DEEP suspicion.

Maglor: I’m sorry, can we back up a bit here? Fourth Age VALINOR????

Tyelpe: *sighs* *sits down next to Frodo* We all might as well sit down, this is going to take a while.

^__^

HEY.

I had the most interesting dream after falling asleep switching between the latest chapter of The Horrowing and a time travel fix it in another fandom. I thought you might enjoy a brief summary?

Post fic canon Annatar, Finrod, Celebrimbor, and Frodo getting the most hilarious do over of the First Age.

Finrod and Celebrimbor got dropped in their past bodies, bc same souls. Which has Finrod JUST captured by Sauron, before any of his 10 have been munched.

Celebrimbor is of course having a surreal not quite panic attack in Nargothrond.

Annatar, well. Annatar is CHANGED. He is quite literally too different from what he once was for them to qualify as the same soul anymore. Which is gratifying. If inconvenient bc there are now TWO of him, Annatar and full on Sauron. But they're similar enough that Annatar was dropped very close to Sauron.

Frodo is an elf. Dream logic was that hobbits do not exist yet, and his soul has touches of Annatar and Aman. He looks disconcertingly like a mix of Annatar and Celebrimbor, and they are NOT thinking about that right now. Hopefully ever.

Most of the dream centered around all of them doing their best to set aside freak outs, while getting Finrod and his merry band (plus Beren) OUT of Sauron's grasp.

There was a FANTASTIC moment where on the way out, Sauron comes face to face and soul to soul with Annatar and he's just like;

Sauron: *jaw dropped fully horrified face* WHAT are YOU?!?!?

Annatar: *shoving elves behind him, nose in the air* Wouldn't YOU like to know, weather boy. *uses Song to blast him through a wall while he's distracted*

The whole thing featured 10 other elves and Beren as a baffled peanut gallery.

Meanwhile Celebrimbor is weighing the pros and cons of just- drugging his uncles and shoving them in a back room somewhere where he can bolt the door. He thinks he can maybe get Huan to help if he explains?

It was SO much fun.

(hope you have a good day!)

Oh my god. This may be the best ask I've ever gotten, for so many reasons.

The fact that your subconscious was like "Yeah if Frodo's getting a new body it looks like Annatar For Some Reason"

The image of future!Annatar getting into a fight with Sauron in front of Finrod (probably happy about this development) and Beren and the other 10 (INCREDIBLY CONFUSED)

The fact that the dream was partially centered on everybody trying not to panic, which is in fact what the Harrowing is all about for a while

Absolutely incredible.

...I feel so bad for poor Celebrimbor dealing with Nargothrond all by himself while the others are off having adventures. I hope their next stop after the rescue is to swing by and pick him up. Also, I dearly want to know what Annatar has to say to Beren on the subject of his current Luthien-and-Thingol-and-Silmarils situation.

[luciathcv]

christmas list - sjy

summary: your boyfriend just wants to know what you want for christmas but you're difficult as always (in honor of christmas season coming up) || warnings: none || genre: fluff, established relationship || word count: approximately 600

I sat on the couch, cuddled with a soft blanket, a Christmas movie on the TV, and some hot tea in a mug on the coffee table. The movie I had on in the background was seldom given attention as I played a game on my phone.

Jake walked into the room, his eyes glued on his phone as he called out my name, “Y/n.”

I looked up at my boyfriend who gave me a small smile, “Yeah?” I asked, wondering what he needed.

“What are you playing?” He simply asked, not saying what he had come over for just yet as he plopped down on the couch next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder.

I showed him my phone screen and immediately, he knew what I was playing without me even having to say anything. “I’m trying to beat my high score.” I tell him.

“You’ll get there.” Jake sweetly says. I nod as I play the game some more. “So, I was wondering…” He then started, making me look over at him curiously.

“What?” I ask.

“What are you thinking you want for Christmas?” Jake asked, his hand that’s over my shoulder mindlessly playing with the fabric of my shirt.

“Oh, you don’t need to get me anything.” I responded . I really didn’t feel like I needed anything right now anyway.

Jake sighs, “Come on. Of course I’m going to get you something. I need to know what you’ve been wanting though.” He says.

“I don’t want anything.” I insist.

Jake thinks for a moment, “How about those Uggs you wanted. Want me to get you those?” He perks up.

“Isn’t it supposed to be a surprise?” I ask.

Jake dramatically groans out, “Baby, come on. Give me something, anything.”

I can’t help but smile a little, “I have been wanting those Uggs…” I then smile wider, “But I already have Uggs so I don’t think I need them.”

Just as he thought he was getting somewhere, Jake sighed, “So difficult.” He commented. “It doesn’t matter if you need it, I want to get you stuff.”

“Well, what about you? What do you want for Christmas?” I counter. 

“You don’t have to get me anything. I have everything I want right here.” Jake says before leaning in to give me a chaste kiss.

“Babe! You’re doing the same.” I point out with a laugh at his irony.

“It’s just different.” Jake says. “Just tell me what you like.” He then tells me.

“You’re my boyfriend, you know what I like.” I say.

“I do know what you like but I already got you a bunch of stuff you like so I wanted to know if there was anything else you wanted.” Jake complains, the two of you playfully bickering.

“I’ll be happy with anything.” I vaguely say once again.

“My god, princess. Fine.” Jake gives up making me giggle.

Later that night, while I was in the bathroom, about to get in the shower, I sent Jake a list I’ve had for a bit. Honestly, I just didn’t tell him about it earlier because it was mostly stupid shit that I didn’t actually need but if he wanted ideas so bad, fine.

A few moments later, I hear Jake calling out my name from outside the door, “You had a list?”

“Yeah…” I respond, holding back the giggle.

“So difficult.” He says but he’s also smiling on the other side of the door as he gets on the bed and starts to go through the stuff, planning to buy me everything on the list, whether it be stupid and unnecessary or not.

ᥫ᭡ link to my masterlist

[faithshouseofchaos]

Leaving it all Behind (LIAB)

It the simple things that keep me going— Max verstappen x reader

Word count —

Fluff— 798

In the years following their escape from the shadows of Max’s past, Max and Y/N’s life settled into a steady rhythm. Each day was filled with little routines that, to anyone else, might seem ordinary but, for them, felt extraordinary—a hard-won peace that neither of them took for granted.

After dropping the kids off at school one crisp autumn morning, Max walked back to the house, where Y/N was waiting on the porch, cradling a warm mug of coffee. She smiled as he approached, and he felt his heart warm, just as it always did when he saw her, as if the months together hadn’t dulled the spark between them but deepened it.

He joined her on the porch, accepting the cup she handed him. They sat in companionable silence, watching the leaves fall around them, the trees lining their quiet street painted in vibrant reds and yellows. Max looked at her, taking in the way the sunlight caught in her hair, her peaceful expression. After so many years spent guarding his heart and soul, loving her felt like breathing—effortless, grounding.

After a while, Y/N broke the silence. “Do you ever miss it?” she asked, glancing at him with a knowing smile. She didn’t mean the violence, of course. It was the thrill, the edge that had once been his life.

Max chuckled softly, setting his cup down and turning toward her. “Not a bit,” he replied, and it was the truth. “There was a time I thought that life was all I had. But now?” He reached over, lacing his fingers with hers. “I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than this.”

The days stretched into a gentle routine, and as Max grew his small garage business, he found a different kind of pride in his work. He no longer fixed cars out of necessity or as a front; he did it because he loved it. The regulars knew him by name, the locals treated him like a friend, and he felt—finally—like he belonged somewhere.

One night, after the kids were tucked into bed, Max and Y/N found themselves alone in the quiet warmth of their living room. The house was filled with the smell of apple-scented candles, and soft music played from an old radio in the corner. They danced slowly, swaying together in the dim light, moving in sync with an ease born from years of understanding.

Max rested his chin on the top of Y/N’s head, his arms wrapped around her waist, their movements unhurried. “Thank you for sticking by me,” he murmured, his voice soft. “For believing I could be more than what I was.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with warmth. “Max, you were always more. You just had to see it for yourself.”

They stayed like that for a long while, simply holding each other, their breaths in harmony. Max knew they’d faced battles, they’d both endured scars, and though life would have its difficulties, they would face them together, hand in hand.

Sunday afternoons became family days—a tradition they’d started soon after settling down. They’d pack a picnic, drive out to the countryside, and spend the day outdoors. Max would chase the kids through fields of wildflowers, their laughter echoing across the open landscape, while Y/N watched with a smile that was equal parts amusement and love.

One sunny afternoon, as Max helped their youngest, a toddler with Max’s own dark hair and Y/N’s bright eyes, try to climb up a small hill, he heard Y/N call from the blanket where she was laying out lunch.

“Max! You’re supposed to help him, not hold him back!” she laughed, teasing him.

Max grinned, his gaze flickering between his wife and their son. “Hey, he’s gotta earn it, just like his dad did,” he said, giving her a wink before lifting their son up and twirling him in the air, the boy’s laughter filling the air.

They’d sit down to eat together, Max leaning back on his hands, watching his family with a contentment he couldn’t have imagined in his old life. Every laugh, every small moment they shared, felt like a promise kept.

Y/N reached over, touching his hand gently. “Look at us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We made it, Max.”

Max nodded, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Yeah. And we’re not looking back.”

As the sun began to set, casting golden light over the fields, Max took one last look at his family, grateful beyond words. They had fought hard for this life, and he would protect it with everything he had. For the first time, he felt he could truly leave the past behind, ready to embrace the future they’d built together.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 6

It's Silco's turn to give you an invitation, and you're not quite sure what answer to give him. Then something chases you through the dark corners of the Undercity—and you end up somewhere unexpected...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst || SFW | TW: Stalking | WC: 4.1k

beta reader: @silcoitus <333

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

Even though you told Silco you’re not painting today, you still have to check on the mural. When you arrive at your worksite, you lift the plastic sheeting and rest your palm gingerly against the wall; the rough stone is cool but dry to the touch. The colors seem a bit dim in the overcast weather, but the paint is still intact. It looks like your protective measures were successful.

The desire to linger persists, though. You extend the scissor lift higher to reach the rooftop, climbing up onto the ledge. You lean forward, kicking your feet against the wall. Staring out into nothing and shivering at the cold air that blows through your clothes.

Silco’s sleepover was already a significant disruption to your usual routine, but that’s not the only reason you feel disoriented. It’s been a while since you’ve made a new friend, and the buzzing excitement is enhanced by how much you have in common with him. 

Unfortunately, it’s tainted by anxiety about the heist. According to the papers, the shipment will be arriving in two weeks. It seems unlikely that you’ll see Silco before then.

Still, you can’t help but wonder. Should you go looking for him? It would be a change of pace if you were the one to initiate contact for once. Would he find that refreshing? Or would he think you’re coming on too strong? 

Something tells you he wouldn’t want to be disturbed during the planning phase of the raid. It’s an important mission, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare for it. Maybe it’s better to leave him alone for now; he knows where to find you if he can make time for a visit.

These thoughts and more circle your mind like Poros chasing each other. You probably would have sat there for even longer, but a light raindrop taps your cheek. When you look up to the sky, the clouds are blotting out the sky, heavy trails of dark blue and gray ink swirling above your head.

As you wipe your face, the back of your neck tingles, goosebumps rising as your hair stands on end. The chill at the base of your skull isn’t caused by the weather.

Someone is standing behind you.

“Silco?” you call out, turning around in surprise.

You almost don’t hear it over your own voice and the rumble of thunder: a mechanical click and whirring, low like a buzzing insect. Simultaneously, a blinding, white flash bursts in your face, burning into your retinas. 

As you squeeze your eyes shut, footsteps patter away; metal clanking echoes in the distance as something jumps onto rooftops. When your eyes readjust, you carefully jump off the ledge onto the roof.

“Who’s there?” you say in a small, quivering voice.

But you’re all alone. Whoever that person was, they’re long gone by now. You pull your jacket tighter around you. You’re just about to leave when you spot something small floating to the ground.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you walk over to the thing and pick it up. It’s thin, glossy, and square, artificially smooth and warm to the touch. There are undefined shapes on it, blurred edges slowly sharpening into focus as the dull gray smears become stained with color.

The shock of what you’re looking at almost makes you drop it.

It’s a picture of you, your face blurred as you’re turning to look over your shoulder. But it has your clothes and your hair color, framed by a cloudy sky.

On instinct, you crumple the picture and stuff it into your pocket. Your body moves on its own, climbing onto the scissor lift and running away.

Stalkers aren’t unusual in Zaun, but their presence is still unnerving. No one’s ever followed you this closely before, and the picture proves that their issue with you is personal. 

Instead of heading home, you make your way Topside. You had meant to go shopping for new art supplies, and now seems as good a time as any. Hopefully you’ll be able to lose them in the streets of Piltover, where there’ll be more scrutinizing eyes. 

This one time, you’re grateful that Pilties are so judgmental of people from the Undercity; if you’re being watched like a hawk, they’ll be able to spot whoever’s stalking you. So you take your time browsing in an art store, not bothering to step away from the shop attendants that shadow your every footstep. It's late and raining hard by the time you finally leave. When you step out and take several careful, cautious steps, the tingling sensation doesn’t come back. You start walking faster to take advantage of your pursuer’s absence. 

On the second full day without rain, you return to the mural. But just as you pry open a can of paint, the feeling strikes you again. This time, your scalp tingles and stings painfully, as the stalker seemingly observes you from the rooftops. You jam the can’s lid back in place and run away again.

For days after, they don’t come back. But those close calls are enough to make you dread going to work. You keep your sessions short just in case you need to flee. The shorter workdays aren’t a problem for now, as you’re still laying down the base coat for the mural. However, longer sessions can’t be avoided when painting the finer details, as they’ll require focus and precision.

The fear of being stalked embeds itself into the very air around you, making you hyperaware of your surroundings. It doesn’t help that your nights have become restless, disturbed by nightmares of faceless figures towering over you and footsteps growing louder and louder as they approach you. 

Still, you’re determined to not let your newfound paranoia get the best of you, especially on the day after the raid. Silco had promised that he would find you, after all, so you steel yourself and head out to the mural.

To your immense relief, Silco is already there waiting for you, a triumphant grin on his face blazing like the sun. All your worries fall away as you rush to the scissor lift, impatiently slamming the button that extends it to the roof. During the ascent, you take a deep breath to calm your hammering heartbeat, hoping to regain some semblance of dignity.

As you pull yourself up and over the ledge, Silco extends a hand out to you. You take it, savoring the feel of his calluses and scars, solid and rough as you find your footing. He lets go of you all too soon to rummage in his backpack. You shove your own hand in your pocket, squeezing reflexively.

“We were right about the shipment,” he says excitedly, pulling a bottle of wine out of his backpack. “Noxian goods were just some of the many illegal imports we found last night. The councilor’s in trouble.”

“Hello to you too, Silco,” you say, laughing with relief. “Are you okay?”

The fire in his eyes diminishes to something softer, a warm hearth as he looks at you properly now with appreciation. But his smile widens as he holds out the wine to you.

“We prevailed thanks to you,” he says proudly. “It isn’t much, but we wanted you to enjoy your share of the spoils.”

“Oh—” you say, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Is this not enough? We have much more stashed away—” he asks.

“No, no,” you shake your head, hesitating. “I—I just need to hear you say that you’re okay.”

He doesn’t tell you those exact words, but instead launches into a grand retelling of last night’s events: staking out the warehouse for hours, bribing some of the less disciplined guards, knocking the rest of them out, hurrying away with as much cargo as they could carry, and dumping the rest of it in the harbor. He puts down the wine bottle and pulls a flask out from his pockets, toasting to the Children’s victory.

His tale is probably a very thrilling one, and you’ll have to ask Silco to tell it again someday. 

But right now, your attention is focused on his sleeves; despite the warm weather, he has them pulled almost all the way down to his wrist, bandaging peeking out like a dog sneaking into a dining room for table scraps.

When he holds the flask out for you to take, you instead seize his left wrist, shoving the sleeve up as high as you can. His entire forearm is bandaged past his elbow; it’s not unusual for him to accessorize with unnecessary bindings, but he hisses in pain from your manhandling.

You handle him more carefully now, fingers lightly grazing over the makeshift wrapping. The cloth is gray and dirty, smeared with dirt and coal dust. A tight, stubborn knot in the crook of his elbow refuses to untangle despite your best attempts to press your thumbs into its crevices.

“Dummy,” you say, exasperated. When you let go of him, he pulls his forearm close, rubbing it gingerly. “You broke your promise.”

“What do you mean?” he asks defiantly.

You climb over to your scissor lift and grab your bag, placing it carefully on the ledge. After pulling out a first-aid kit, you wave at him to come closer, scolding him gently, “You promised you’d stay safe.”

“There are always mishaps in battle,” he fires back, but there’s no malice in his voice. “And I’m here in one piece, aren’t I?”

“I’ll be more specific next time.” You roll your eyes and gesture again. “Besides, if you die of infection then that will count as you breaking your promise.”

“My own well-being is of no importance—” he protests.

“Silco…” You glare at him. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

His eyes widen in surprise at the anger in your voice. He’s almost meek when he finally steps forward, extending his forearm out to you. You take the flask from him and put it on the ledge next to your kit.

“What happened?” you ask, pulling out a pair of scissors to cut off the knot. You unwrap the dressing slowly, peeling it away layer by layer. On his arm is a long, jagged cut, almost spanning the entire length of his forearm. Another shorter cut closer to his wrist runs parallel to the first one. Neither are very deep, with dried flecks of blood already crusting at the edges of the wounds. His fingers are cut up as well, with tiny nicks at the joints that have already scabbed over.

“Climbed out of a broken window,” he says dismissively. When you narrow your eyes at him, he says defensively. “Time was of the essence—”

You sigh. “I know.”

Your first-aid kit is an expensive, deluxe product from a Topside pharmacy, stocked for almost every kind of emergency. First, you use a sanitizer on your own hands, making sure to meticulously scrub underneath your fingernails. Then, you carefully pour clean water onto a sterile cloth, just enough to dampen it but not soak it. 

You look up at Silco apologetically. “Sorry, this might hurt a little.”

Carefully, carefully, you dab away at the caked dirt and blood on Silco’s arm and fingers. To his credit, he’s a good patient, enduring your administrations without complaint. He winces when a particularly stubborn scab refuses to chip away, his tendons flexing involuntarily. When it finally does, a tiny droplet of blood oozes out.

“It’s a good thing you don’t need stitches,” you remark as you finish wiping up. You pull out a fresh roll of bandaging and start wrapping his forearm securely, but not too tightly. The cuts on his fingers have healed enough that they don’t need to be covered.

“That’s quite a shame; I would have welcomed the scars,” he jokes.

When you secure the wrapping at his elbow, you slide your hand down his arm, assessing your handiwork. The dressing’s grainy bumpiness gives way to Silco’s rough skin as your hand reaches his palm. 

Reluctantly, you start to pull away, but he squeezes your hand appreciatively, his thumb sweeping across the back of your hand. 

You can’t help but squeeze him back. His palm feels warm against yours, your own skin molding against his calluses.

“I missed you,” he says lightly. But when you look up, his eyes are sincere, turquoise waters as clear as a fountain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you before the raid. But I would like to ask: did you make any effort to find me?”

You look away, mouth suddenly dry. His intense and earnest gaze has your legs feeling unsteady. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

(Also, you weren’t sure how closely your stalker was following you. You would never forgive yourself if they followed you straight to his doorstep.) 

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he chuckles.

You purse your lips at him, annoyed; he didn’t deny that a visit from you would be bothersome. You open your mouth to tease him, trying too late to stave off your rising embarrassment. 

But before you can speak, he reaches out with his free hand to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger on the shell, tracing the shape of it all the way down to your lobe. His touch is gentle, a soft and tender caress. 

Wild heat blooms under your skin at his touch, no doubt spreading across the rest of your face and neck.

You yank your hand out of his grasp and jerk back, hitting your first-aid kid with your elbow. It falls sideways off the ledge and you catch it just before it hits the ground. Some of the supplies within tumble out, rolling across the roof.

“You’ll—uh—you’ll probably need painkillers for those cuts—I’ll get you some—uh—some pills and stuff later,” you stammer out. You seize the opportunity to look away from him, leaning over the ground to pick up the fallen items. “What about your friends? Are they okay?”

“They’re alright, thank you for asking.” He crouches down to help you pick up a roll of gauze. When he holds it out to you, you swipe it from him, careful to avoid touching him directly. He frowns, a little notch sinking between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t remark on your sudden skittishness. “In fact, they’ve expressed interest in making your acquaintance.”

“Huh?” You were about to grab a container of sterile water when you stop, hand still outstretched in midair.

Silco picks it up for you and puts it away in your kit. “They wish to express their gratitude, as I have mine. Your aid was a monumental factor in the raid’s success.”

After craning his neck around you to look for more medical supplies, he stands up. With the kit fully reassembled, he zips it shut, putting it back inside your bag. You get to your own feet as he turns to face you, leaning casually against the ledge.

“Our preparations were more than adequate due to your intelligence,” he says solemnly, looking straight at you. “I do not mean it lightly when I say you helped save many lives that night.”

“Oh…” You fold your arms, hugging yourself against a sudden breeze. It ruffles Silco’s hair, and he pushes his bangs out of his face. “I just took some pictures, that’s all.”

“All it takes to set off an avalanche is a pebble,” he says. “We struck a single blow against Topside last night. And we’re going to do it again and again until they finally fall at our feet.”

“Don’t call me a pebble just because I’m shorter than you,” you joke.

“We’re all ‘dirty little animals’ living in Topside’s shadow,” he smiles ironically at you. “We ought to stand united because of that. If you ever find yourself at our doors, they will always be open to you.”

“Hmm… The Last Drop is in the Lanes, right?” you ask. The name of the Children’s headquarters is common knowledge, but you’ve never been there yourself.

He nods. “I could lead you there, if you like.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say quickly. “I’ll think about it.”

Silco grins at your answer. You bite your tongue, unwilling to dampen his mood by voicing your reservations. 

So far, you have no regrets in helping Silco, but opening yourself up to an organization of strangers is a different story. If they learn about your connections to the Council, the other Children might want to exploit them.

What would Silco do in that instance? Would he stand by your choice to remain uninvolved? Or would he also pressure you to officially join their cause? He seemed respectful enough of your decision during the sleepover, but you wonder if his friends would change his mind.

Silco picks up his flask again and unscrews it open. When he offers it to you, you take it automatically, still lost in your own thoughts as you take a sip. Instead of water, the tart taste of the Noxian wine floods your mouth. Caught off-guard by the alcohol, you cough and choke. He laughs and thumps you on the back.

You don’t get any painting done at all today. Instead, you both relax, talking about everything and nothing. Silco shows you some knife tricks, his own smile as sharp and shiny as the blade dancing through the air. You make up more stories about the dark-haired woman you’re painting.

He visits you at least once a week after that. Each time he does, the fear of being stalked fades away. Maybe it’s because the harasser is scared off by his presence, or you just feel safe around Silco. Either way, his visits never fail to cheer you up. You enjoy his company, and you pay polite attention every time he launches into a monologue about the Undercity’s future. His seemingly endless well of ambition means that he always has some new insights to share. At least these conversations distract you from darker thoughts about your stalker.

One day, you tell him that you have errands to run in the Undercity. You try to ask him as casually as possible if he wants to accompany you; you’re just interested in hanging out again later, nothing more and nothing less. When he declines, you let some lighthearted disappointment show, but hide the sinking dread that sinks through your chest and into your stomach. 

But maybe you’ll get lucky. After all, the underground never sleeps, its children traversing the alleys at all hours of the night. They might provide enough cover for you to slip undetected to your destination.

________________________________________

You should have known better than to be optimistic. 

It might be easier to lose your stalker in the crowded streets, but that also means it’s harder to pinpoint what direction they’re coming from.

Every conversation you overhear seems to be about you.

When you sidestep a pair of men wearing long capes and pointy Ionian hats, their sideways glance at you seems to linger unnervingly.

A weapons vendor catches your eye and he smirks at you, licking one of his knives before he stabs his table with it.

Silhouettes in windows point at you before disappearing from view.

As much as you dodge and sneak through the lanes, you can’t outrun the sense of impending doom that chases you.

Your palms are sweaty. 

Your breath is loud and fast in your ears. 

Blood drains from your veins to be replaced by a howling anxiety. 

Your heart beats a rapid and running pace that the whole of the Lanes can hear. 

Colors and noises swirl together in a dizzying and incomprehensible spiral.

When you sidestep into an alleyway around the corner from a fruit stall to catch your breath, you review your options. You could head straight to the elevators, but that still runs the risk of the stalker following you home. If you wait it out at Babette’s, they might charge you a premium for a room, especially if you have no intention of spending time with any of her employees.

You’re forced back onto the streets when the stall’s vendor yells at you to get away from his merchandise unless you’re buying. You swiftly step around him, keeping your gaze locked forward. Even in your compromised state, you can’t afford to look weak.

An unmarked, large, multi-story building at the end of the street seems safe enough. It lies at the junction of three different avenues, and you speedwalk through the open courtyard as fast as you can. The edifice is painted over in flaking shades of orange and brown, revealing rusted gray and turquoise steel underneath. Curlicues of metal pipes encircle the front door artistically, iron vines crawling up the walls reaching up towards the sky.

The establishment seems to be a pub of some kind. Most of the chairs are filled, patrons drinking or lounging at tables and booths. You sidestep a tall woman dragging a babbling man out by the collar. From the muted smack of flesh on steel and squeals of pain, the woman used the man’s face to push open the door. You can’t help but chuckle under your breath as you make a beeline for her recently vacated booth, enticing worn red fabric welcoming you as you scoot in to observe the other customers.

Low music leaks out of a brightly lit jukebox by the entrance. The furniture looks handmade, all made of sturdy wood with metal trimmings at the joints. Tables of mismatched sizes and shapes are spread unevenly throughout the room, seemingly moved around at the patrons’ whims. Exposed lightbulbs cast warm, yellow light, illuminating assorted portraits and posters on the walls. Worn brick peeks out from underneath peeling wallpaper. Wooden barrels sit in quiet corners.

A tall, burly man stands behind a counter, wiping it down. A wide selection of various alcoholic drinks occupies a glass shelf above him.

In a more peaceful world, this place could be… cozy. Some patrons allow themselves to slouch in their chairs, even though their hands never stray too far from belted knives. One man has fallen asleep in his cups, but nobody bothers him or his pockets. A group of rowdy friends laugh and encourage each other at one of the pool tables.

“Hey.” The tall woman you walked past steps in front of you, blocking your view of the bar. She’s muscular and tough, a bright red poncho draped proudly around her shoulders. Her short dark hair is tied neatly back in a half up-do, almost girlish except for the dark scowl carved into her face. “You’re in my seat.”

You finally glance down at the table, only just now noticing an almost-empty glass of orange alcohol and a half-full ashtray in front of you, still warm from recent use.

“Sorry,” you say hastily.

You slide out of the booth as quickly as you can, scanning for an empty table. The woman’s energy tells you that she could have just as easily picked you up and thrown you to the floor, and you’re thankful that she opted to evict you more politely.

She raises an appraising eyebrow at you. You draw your hood lower over your eyes, avoiding her gaze.

 “If you grab me a drink, I’ll let you sit here.” She takes a seat in the booth, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, still staring at you. “You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, relieved.

“Tell him Sevika wants her usual,” the woman says, jerking her head at the barman.

You make your way to the counter, leaning against it. When you place your hands on its edge, it’s cool to the touch, polished to a brilliant shine. You crane your neck to look for the bartender; he’s at the far end of the counter, finishing up with another customer. 

Just as you raise your hand to catch his attention, he spots you. He slaps a towel over his shoulder and saunters over to you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before, miss,” he says, curious. The glass he picks up looks tiny in his massive, boulder-like hands. He holds it out to you flirtatiously, his wink as shiny as the spotless glassware.  

“It’s my first time here,” you say politely, taking the glass from him. You put it down carefully in front of you. “Can I get Sevika’s usual, please?”

He nods, a slow grin spreading across his wide cheeks. He pushes his short brown hair out of his face before he grabs a second cup. When as he grabs a bottle of orange liquor from a shelf, you belatedly realize that you have no idea how much drinks cost here.

“Does she have a tab?” You pat down your pockets, groaning internally at your carelessness.

The bartender ignores your question, instead pouring both glasses half-full with a flourish.

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” you protest.

“It’s on the house, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully. “Welcome to The Last Drop.” 

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

[vickythefamiliar]

The (chaos) Coven

This is me, a tarantula on the "Witches Road"

At first I wanna say I did not understand why the hell Rio played along with Agatha... It was soooo exhausting omg.

But nvm, I spend way too much time with these witches so here is my opinion on each one of them:

Jennifer

Jennifer? Oh, she’s something else. The ‘all-business, no-nonsense’ vibe is impressive, I’ll give her that.

She’s sharp, like she’s always three steps ahead of everyone, and her wardrobe? Immaculate. I’m convinced she could outdress the apocalypse. She’s got this energy that either makes you want to follow her into battle or stay ten feet away at all times.

I don’t dislike her, but let’s just say she’s not the first person I’d share my cookies with.

Lilia

When I first met Lilia, I thought: Finally, a grandma! She probably bakes nonstop and has a secret stash of cookies somewhere. Wrong. So wrong.

She’s feisty, unpredictable, and somehow always ten steps ahead. Honestly, it’s unsettling.

That said, I’ve gotta admit, her vibe is kind of iconic. The hair? A masterpiece. The whole ‘hippie meets mystical grandma meets chaotic freak’ aesthetic? Approved.

But seriously, Lilia, if you do have cookies, stop holding out on me. Sharing is caring.

Alice

Alice... Where do I start? She’s got this whole ‘the world is against me’ thing going on. Honestly, it’s a little exhausting.

Like, girl, maybe your mom wrote that ballad for a reason other than just to mess with you. Ever think of that? No? Didn’t think so.

But underneath all the eye rolls and melodrama, there’s something real there. She just hasn’t figured herself out yet. She’s a work in progress, I guess.

Cookies for her? Maybe once she chills out. Maybe.

Billy/ Teen/ Wiccan (whatever)

Ah, the prodigy with an attitude. Kid’s got power, no doubt about it, but he’s also got that ‘I know better than everyone else’ vibe. Which, honestly, is kind of funny coming from someone who can barely handle his own magic.

But I’ll give him this—he’s determined. He’s like a little storm in the making, and you can’t help but want to see where it’ll go.

Would I share my cookies with him? Maybe, if he asks nicely.

Agatha... (I call her "the ex-wife I didn’t sign up for")

Agatha? Don’t even get me started. She’s powerful, no doubt, but it’s like she’s always trying to out-drama everyone in the room. She’s got this weird mix of arrogance and insecurity, and honestly, it’s exhausting.

Like, she’ll act like she’s got everything under control, but then, boom, she's throwing a tantrum because Rio didn’t call her back.

But hey, gotta admit, she’s got style—witchy, eccentric, a little unhinged. Honestly though, I'm just here for the chaos.

On the other hand she broke my mistresses heart more than once so I said it before and I say it again: If you're Agatha Harkness - LEAVE.

No cookies for her.

That's it. That's the post!

-🕷💚

[sophrosynesworld]

The Night Shift (Pt. 8)

Life has never been fair. You know that better than most. It’s a truth that clung to you like a second skin, suffocating and inescapable. You used to think about it a lot as a child, lying awake in bed, staring at a cracked ceiling that never seemed to get fixed. It wasn’t fair when you got third place in the science fair, despite the sleepless nights spent perfecting your baking soda volcano. You can still feel the heat of frustration rising to your cheeks when the judges smiled that polite, disinterested smile, their eyes skimming over your work like it wasn’t worth a second glance. They didn’t even wait for the "eruption."

And then there were the birthdays. The other kids got balloons and cake, their homes filled with laughter and the warm glow of candles. You got cold training rooms and grueling exercises. You can still feel the ache in your muscles, the sting of bruises on your skin as you stumbled through yet another drill.

“It’s for your future,” they’d say, though no one ever explained what that future would look like. At some point, you stopped asking. Stopped hoping.

Fairness, you realized, was a privilege reserved for other people. The ones who didn’t live under the weight of unspoken expectations. The ones who weren’t told to endure and obey, to carry the weight of a destiny they didn’t choose. You learned early that no one was going to fight for you, so you had to fight for yourself—or at least survive long enough to figure out how.

Maybe, somewhere in another life, another version of you is blowing out candles on a birthday cake, her biggest worry whether she’ll get a bicycle or a dollhouse.

But the first time you realized how unfair life could be—really, truly unfair—you were only eight. Mrs. Carter was at the front of the room, talking about metaphors, or maybe similes. You weren’t paying much attention, staring out the window like usual.

Then she collapsed.

You can still hear the sound of her body hitting the floor, the awful thud of it. At first, you thought she’d tripped. But then you saw her face—twisted, pale, her hand clutching her chest like she was trying to keep something inside from breaking free.

The room exploded into chaos. Desks screeched as kids shoved their chairs back. Someone screamed. A few bolted for the door. You just sat there, frozen, watching. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and all we could hear was her gasping—sharp, shallow, desperate.

You remember thinking, someone has to help her. But no one moved. Not really. They were too scared, too shocked. And then the thought came again, louder this time. I have to help her.

Before you knew what you were doing, you were at her side. Knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise, but no pain erupted. Or at least, you didn’t feel it. You couldn't feel anything except the pounding of your heart. You remember touching her arm, hands shaking so badly you weren’t sure you could keep them still. Her lips were moving, but you couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Then it happened.

As your skin touched hers, a sudden warmth surged through your chest, spreading like fire down your arms. A golden light began to spiral around you, vivid and alive, wrapping the two of you in its glow. Then, just like that, the panic and pain vanished. She went still, her breathing steadying as if a switch had been flipped.

What am I doing? Is this me?

Your eyes widen in awe and disbelief as her veins shimmered beneath her skin, glowing like threads of molten gold. The luminous trails weaving their way from the arm you were holding, disappearing under her sleeves and tracing an unseen path beneath her shirt to somewhere deeper within her body.

The rest is a blur. The door slammed open, teachers rushed in with everyone talking at once. Eventually, someone touches your arm, their grip firm but not unkind. You barely register the murmurs of reassurance as they guide you to your feet. Your legs move mechanically, as your head turns, eyes fixed on Mrs. Carter as they lift her onto a stretcher.

“Little lady,” a man with grey hair says, leaning down towards you. “I think you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

"Are you listening?"

The voice jolts you, snapping your attention back to the sterile room. Your eyes locking onto the source of the voice—a man in a white coat standing at the foot of your bed. Your abrupt movement causes him jump as well, nearly dropping his clipboard, which in turn knocks against a nurse's tray of IV medication. She scowls, steadying it with a sharp glare.

"I-" you croak, your voice raw as if you’ve swallowed shards of glass. You reach out instinctively, your trembling fingers brushing against the nurse's forearm. She pauses, then gently clasps your hand in hers.

"I need…" you rasp, the words catching in your throat.

“What is it?” the nurse asks, her tone softening despite the irritation that had lined her features a moment ago.

Your body lurches forward suddenly, a violent gag ripping through you. The nurse reacts swiftly, sliding a plastic tray under your chin just in time, but nothing comes up. Dry heaves rack your body, each one making your head throb harder, the pounding in your skull relentless.

“I need some Zofran,” you manage to plead between gasps, your body sagging back against the bed. Another dry retch claws its way up, leaving your stomach aching and hollow.

Dr. Kento Mori’s calm voice cuts through. “I already ordered it,” he says, stepping closer before turning to the nurse with a nod. “Go ahead and administer it.”

The nurse—Kumiko, if you remember correctly—gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before releasing it, busying herself with the IV line. Meanwhile, Dr. Mori pulls up a chair on the other side of the bed, his expression unreadable. Dozens of monitors surround you, their soft beeps counting out your pulse, your breathing, the rhythm of your existence.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently, his large, callused hand resting on your arm. Your brow furrows. How are you feeling? Everything aches—your head, your throat, your stomach—but it’s the stabbing pain in your chest that feels the worst.

“What happened?” you whisper. The question hangs in the air, as your mind races to fill in the gaps. Was I hurt?

Kento leans forward, clasping his hands together. "You collapsed during your shift," he begins, his eyes meeting yours. "Another visitor in the hospital found you unresponsive in the south hallway."

“I…” You try to form a coherent thought, but your mind spirals. How could I let this happen?

"You’ve been pushing yourself too hard," Dr. Mori continues, as if he could read your mind. “Your body couldn’t take it anymore. It’s not just exhaustion—it’s dehydration, malnutrition, and stress. You’re burning out.”

His words feel like accusations, even though you know they aren’t. You stare at the ceiling, your chest tightening. I’m supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this.

But lying here, tethered to machines and monitors, you can’t ignore the truth. Your body betrayed you, or maybe you betrayed it.

“When can I get back to work?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They feel hollow, wrong somehow, but they’re all you can think to say. Kento's face tightens.

“Honestly,” he starts, then hesitates, clearing his throat like the words are hard to get out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

His eyes flick to the monitors beside you, the steady beeping growing louder, faster, like it’s keeping time with the unease building in your chest. His eyes return to yours, sharp but not unkind, and for a moment, you see the exhaustion behind it.

“Your heart is deteriorating,” he says bluntly. “And we don’t know yet if it’s connected to your quirk use or something else entirely.”

“So… what does that mean?” you manage, your voice small, even to your own ears.

“It means,” he says, folding his arms and leaning back into the chair, “that you’re on borrowed time until we figure this out. You need to stop using your quirk—at least until we can stabilize you. If you don’t…” He pauses, his jaw tightening as if forcing himself to say it aloud. “If you don’t, the damage could become irreversible.”

"But what if—what if someone needs me? What if—”

“No.” His voice is firm, cutting through your protest. “You’re not a hero. Your job is to survive.”

His words hit like a slap, and you look down at your hands, twisting the thin blanket on your lap. “I’m fine. I just—I just overdid it. I need some rest, I’ll be fine.” you whisper.

“You’ve been out for a bit,” he says gently, “longer than typical for causes of exhaustion.” He pauses, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, maybe, or a hint that you’re taking this seriously. Leaning forward slightly, his tone steadies, quieter but insistent. “I’m going to do everything I can to figure this out. I promise.”

There’s a flicker of something in his copper iris—determination or maybe worry; you can't decide which. “But I need you to help me, okay? That means no overexertion. No stress. No—”

His words falter mid-sentence as the door bursts open, slamming against the wall. Before you can process what’s happening, two familiar figures rush in like a whirlwind.

“You’re awake!” Rina cries, her voice cracking with a mix of relief and excitement. Airi’s right behind her, her eyes glistening, but she says nothing as she dives forward.

The next second, they’re both on you, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders in a bear hug that nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“Careful!” the man protests, his voice sharp with concern as he jumps to his feet.

But Rina and Airi don’t seem to hear him—or, more likely, they don’t care. “Three weeks” Rina exclaims, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “Three weeks! Do you know how worried we were?!”

Airi sniffles, pulling back just enough to glare at you through watery eyes. “You’re never allowed to scare us like that again, got it?”

Your throat tightens, and the weight of their presence—of their relief, their worry, their sheer being here—makes your own eyes sting.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice breaking.

Rina pulls back just enough to look at you, her brow furrowed in mock anger. “Damn right, you are.” Then she softens, a small, wobbly smile breaking through. “But I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Airi nods furiously, gripping your hand like she’ll never let go. “We thought…” Her voice wavers, and she doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to. The man clears his throat pointedly, and all three of you glance at him.

“As heartwarming as this is,” he says, his tone a mix of exasperation and understanding, “she’s still fragile. You can hug her later. For now, I need to finish up with this patient.”

Rina raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “We are helping. Emotional support is part of healing.”

Airi nods, shooting him a defiant look. “Yeah. Don't act like we don't work here.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about patience, but doesn’t argue further. “Fine. But only if you let her rest after this.”

Rina and Airi exchange a glance, then reluctantly step back, though they don’t let go entirely. Their hands remain on the bed near you.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” Airi asks, her voice trembling as her wide eyes dart between you and the doctor. "They wouldn’t tell us anything about what happened. No one would."

“I’m fine,” you interject quickly, forcing a smile to steady her. “Turns out I just overdid it. Nothing serious, right, Kento?” You glance at him, searching for backup.

“That’s right.” Kento offers a polite smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And, as you know, we’re not allowed to access employee medical records unless it's an assigned case.”

Rina crosses her arms, standing protectively beside Airi. “Doesn’t stop you from being all secretive, though,” she mutters, her tone carrying just enough edge to convey her frustration.

You shake your head gently. “It’s normal hospital procedure, Rina. He’s just following the rules. But thank you—really—for being here.” Your voice softens, gratitude seeping through. “It means a lot.”

Rina huffs but softens at your words. Before she can reply, Kento clears his throat. “Did you know your best friend here has months of vacation time saved up?” His casual tone carries a teasing edge, but his glance at you feels pointed. He's saying checkmate.

Your eyes snap to him, narrowing. If looks could kill, the room would be painted in red. “Oh, for the love of—”

“We have to take a girls’ trip!” Airi exclaims, the tension in her face finally breaking as a smile spreads across her lips. She practically bounces up and down, the previous look in her eyes replaced with excitement.

Vacation? You’ve never been one to take time off—not because you don’t need it, but because work has always been your anchor, your identity. The thought of being away feels like losing a part of yourself.

“Are you seriously taking time off?” Rina’s voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts.

You hesitate, caught between their hopeful expressions and the reality of your new schedule.

“Well…” You let your eyes wander around the room, grasping for a distraction, but even the nurse who had administered your medication earlier has slipped away unnoticed. “Maybe? I’m not sure yet.”

“You should,” Rina says firmly, her usual teasing tone gone. “If anyone deserves a break, it’s you.”

Airi nods, “You better actually rest this time, though. No sneaking out to answer emails or check on patients. I’ll hunt you down if I have to.”

You laugh again, but the sound feels thin, like glass stretched too far. “I promise,” you lie, knowing full well you’ll try to stay involved in any way you can.

As your friend's chatter on, their excitement filling the room, your doctor sighs in defeat and quietly excuses himself, promising to return later when they’re finished. You keep smiling, nodding along as if their energy is infectious, but inside, the fear twists like a knife. What if I can’t come back? What if this is the beginning of the end for me?

“Hey.” Rina shoves you softly, her tone lighter, almost teasing again. “You’ll be back before we know it. The place is already falling apart without you.”

You muster a grin, forcing it to feel natural. “Of course,” you reply, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “I’ll be back in no time.”

Author's Note: DON'T BE MAD AT ME. I promise you I am single handedly creating the most beautiful storyline of my career, but you need to let me cook!

Tags: @simplyraeblue @moonfloweronmars @kalulakunundrum @froggy-crystal @msjaeger @crystalssncw @dragonscribble @gina239 @abcdefbeom @bakugonnathrowitback @your-mum3000 @elarakive @piluhns @deadhands69 @rienin @pikachuzhc @vanillabeama @cheshairacat

[kurishiri]

Jude chapter 3 silly but kinda detailed summary

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ any pretty translation you may see in here may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. this is a sort of summary as well. if you enjoy, though, please consider reblogging, but please don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

kate successfully completes sortin out letters so she heads to the port where jude is talking with the foreman. its there she sort of thinks back on her time at raven co and the long and short of it is that jude, as the ceo, is actually really outstanding, and he acknowledges the efforts of those who work hard, produce results and whatnot, and rewards them in turn.

(that said he could work on his wording ,,)

time skip to night after judes done and they all walkin back tgt where kates like “i think i’ll be able to have a good dinner today” and jude scoffs at her callin her a twit. and shes all defensive like hey whats wrong with wanting to eat good food and judes like when did i say that was wrong?

all of a sudden they stop in their tracks and jude tells kate “on the count o’ three, crouch” and kates all panicked like tf is going on but jude already starts counting down so she crouches anw (in a panic!)

some guy in a suits out to kill jude. god knows who too bc apparently jude don’t know him either 💀

Jude: Who are ya? Can’t say ya look familiar.

[ insert some lines im lazy to tl ]

Jude kicked up at the man’s chin, causing the man’s body to do one smooth flip before collapsing onto the ground.

Man in a suit: Jude… Jazza——!

Jude: N’ like I was sayin’, who the hell are ya?

ok turns out jude does remember him in the end, its just another dude who broke his contract with jude and was selling up some illegal drugs and whatnot.

Jude: I told ya, didn’t I? That if ya breach your contract I’d show ya so much o’ hell you’d wish you kicked the bucket?

J: I fulfilled that promise for ya. Havin’ a grand old time in hell, aren’t’cha?

omg he pried open the wound on the mans face and he let out a cry to the night sky that could shake anyone’s soul silly.

kate then thinks or foreshadows (yk how like ikevil stories r kinda told like kate is recalling the past? like “i didn’t realize it then, but xyz” kinda like one of those moments) that what she witnessed that night was but a prologue of what’s to come bc they get attacked over and over again.

kate and jude get into another argument like “i feel im gonna die every time! im at my limit!” and judes like “well ur in the way loiterin round like that” then jude just yeets off w/o listenin to another word.

she does feel something bothering her tho

(For someone like Jude, he should be able to avoid these grudges…)

When I thought this, I came up with a theory that relieved me of this unsettling feeling.

(…Could it be he’s making himself an enemy of many on purpose?)

‘Yeah, right,’ was what I thought, but also, somewhere in my heart, I felt such a theory may also be true.

shes like there’s not enough info rn but if i do know anything its that

Kate: At this rate, if I stay with Jude any longer…a hundred lives would not be enough!

and so shes like i gotta learn self defense! so she goes knocking on a certain someone’s door like pls teach me le jutsu of self defense!

Ellis: Okay. （╹◡╹）♡

turns out ellis was also thinking of teaching her some stuff abt self defense soon.

so ellis takes kate to the lobby and kates like why the lobby and ellis goes to a bookshelf to take out a book which actually reveals vics weapon collection and takes out a gun, telling kate to try and hold it.

idk if this is a real gun or not (as in it exists irl), apparently its made of silver with a wooden grip.

ellis thinks its well suited for kate. like its lightweight yk. hes like you may need to use it jic. and then hes like

Ellis: But, it’s kind of refreshing.

E: Other than me, Jude seems pretty adverse to putting people by his side.

E: So, maybe he wants to get along with you?

kates like mmm doubt but at the same time she has this question in her mind w/o an answer of why he went and wrote a whole contract and let her stay by his side then? shes abt to cook up a theory in her head when…

just then jude comes in.

Ellis: Ah——Jude.

Jude: We got a job to do.

so they head off to some noble mansion.

Jude: How do ya do, we’ll be here a while.

Nobleman: Ah, Mister Jude?

apparently this nobleman is connected with the guy in the suit jude beat up in the beginning of the chptr. he made him spit out info.

Jude: If ya just were sellin’ somethin’ shady I’d let that off the hook. Illegal drug’s some child’s play.

J: However.

Jude raised one leg and rested it atop the long table.

Jude: I seem to recall the contract prohibitin’ the sellin’ and buyin’ of humans, or am I wrong?

ko-fi☕️ ┊ comms🤍

[m4iya]

⋆⑅˚₊ Order up! - Strawberry Muffins with cookie dough to eat in for @ailurophile

Club Manager ft. Tetsurou Kuroo (fluff)

w.c 2k

Spoilers for the Battle at the Garbage Dump movie!!

“It’s already our second year, are you sure you aren’t going to join a club at all?” The girl spoke while glancing over at her friend, whose head was slumped on the table.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want to at all, but the thought of asking would be too embarrassing. It was already the fourth week of school, and everyone seemed to have joined a club already. She hadn’t joined one in her first year, so how would she gain the confidence to join one now?

“It’d stand out on your resume” She grinned convincingly.

“I know..” The girl groaned. “It’s hard for me to just waltz up to an already established club and ask to join.”

“You can be so awkward.”

“I know.”

Though, it seemed someone had overheard her from across the classroom, as when she was packing her bag for the day, she was approached by a timid boy.

“Um.. I overheard you and your friend from across the class..” He spoke with a soft tone, avoiding her gaze. She titled her head in confusion.

“About?”

“Joining a club.”

“Right..” She chuckled.

The boy stuck his hand into his pocket, taking a phone out. “We have a spot at the volleyball club. The team is looking for a manager.. I can call our captain if you want to join” He offered.

“Oh! Um… I don’t really know much about volleyball. I’ve never even seen a game, I don’t think I’d be much help.” A nervous laugh escaped her lips.

“It’s fine. I had to start somewhere too.”

Nodding in agreement, she zipped her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She weighed her options; she could join a club now, and continue with it until her third year. Or she’d reach her third year, having not joined any clubs or made any friends outside her small circle.

And after three whole years, she’d leave school with so many things she could’ve partook in. She’d be the one person who always stood off to the side while everybody else took the opportunity to grow.

“I guess I’ll join.” She smiled warmly.

“I’ll call him then..” The boy’s voice trailed off as he pulled out his phone, dialling somebody. Suddenly, the sound of a ringing phone from outside the classroom inched closer alongside a set of footsteps.

“Is he outside?” She questioned

“Give it a few seconds,” he replied “He’ll probably let it ring out.”

Sure enough, a few moments later, a tall student slid the door to the classroom open. The first thing that stood out to her was his very messy bedhead.

She stifled a laugh.

“Kuroo, this girl said she’ll be our manager.” He said, stepping aside.

“Hello..” She waved.

Kuroo let out a hearty laugh as he walked towards the pair. “Kenma, you actually spoke to someone you didn’t know? Without anyone else?”

“It was for the club.”

As he stood in front of her, she was reminded how tall the third year students were in comparison to her.

“Our new manager?”

“I don’t have any experience, so..” She replied, shy.

“We’ll teach you the ropes!” He grinned, slinging an arm over the boy who looked as though he wanted to leave immediately.

After introducing themselves, the three of them, headed for the gymnasium with Kenma lagging behind. It seemed he was distracted by a game on his phone.

She felt nervous, walking next to this boy who she’d never seen before today. Not to mention how tall he was; if she’d turn her head to the side, his shoulder would block her view.

“Say..” She began, aware of his gaze turning towards her. “Is there a reason why you waited until now to recruit a manager?”

“Well, we usually do all the manager work ourselves.” He admitted. “But for us to grow as a team, we need every member - even the substitutes - focused on enhancing their skills.”

She had never involved herself in something like this before, having no idea that it required this level of perseverance. She wondered if this new role of hers would inspire her to pursue a goal of her own.

“..And why did you wait until now to join a club?” He teased, almost scoldingly.

Warmth crept into her cheeks as she raised a hand to rub her neck, eyes locked onto the hallway in front of her. She didn’t even think about turning to face him – not from this close.

“I don’t know.” She replied with a nervous chuckle. “I guess I’m a bit lazy.”

Through a sideways glance, she caught a glimpse of a smile forming on his lips. “To be honest with you, some guys on our team want a female manager” He blurted out casually.

Eyes wide with surprise, she giggled “What?”

Listening as Kuroo explained the situation with Karasuno’s manager – forming an unspoken rivalry between two boys on each team.

As the minutes passed, her speech began to flow more than usual. She hadn’t expected to be this at ease when talking to somebody new – especially someone who seemed as intense as he did. She found herself sneaking glances at him as he spoke, her gaze lingering longer each time.

He continued, answering her basic questions about volleyball theatrically. The corners of her lips curved upwards as she was unable to stop the constant laughs escaping her as he spoke.

Their walk to the gymnasium seemed to last way longer than any usual circumstance. Their initial brisk pace gradually slowed down.

As he spoke, it was as though he singlehandedly untied the knot in her chest. It was then when she began noticing the smallest things. The way his genuine laughter would sound in her ears, the brightness in his eyes despite their oak hue, the softness in his expression when he spoke of his friends on the team. The way he’d lean over to hear her when she wasn’t clear enough.

Amongst dozens of students passing by, each engrossed in their own conversations, and through all the lingering shouts and laughter, her attention remained focused on him.

And just like that, he introduced her to the rest of the team. Met with a warm welcome, she didn’t feel any of the pressure she had imagined.

She watched as they trained, playing practice matches on a weekly basis with multiple other schools, each team member striving to work on their weaknesses.

Alongside her new friendships with the team members, something separate happened to be blooming on the side.

Whether during class time or practice – it became a joke amongst the team members that if you saw Kuroo, you’d probaby see her, and vice versa.

“Kuroo, eyes on the ball!” Yaku shouted from behind the defence line.

He was usually hyper-focused when on the court. Though, something had uncharacteristically been weighing down his thoughts lately.

The libero’s shout broke Kuroo’s distraction, and with a forward glance, the flying spike rushed into his face and sent him to the ground.

“You okay?” Taketora yelled from the opposite side of the net.

“I’m fine..” He replied, standing back up despite feeling a little dizzy.

“Someone’s been pretty distracted lately.” Yaku teased, walking up to Kuroo and slapping his back.

“Excuse me?” He defensively responds, crossing his arms. “Kenma, you tell them.”

“He’s always talking about our manager.”

“Hey!”               

The rest of the team bursts out in laughter as not even Kenma could disagree that he’d definitely been distracted by something lately.

As if right on cue, she walked into the gym holding water bottles for the team, handing one to each of them as they regrouped for a break. His eyes softened upon seeing her face again, something that he’d been doing subconsciously as of late. Upon handing him a bottle, she noticed his face was visibly wounded.

“Did you hurt yourself?!” She gasped, leaning forward for a closer look.

Kuroo’s eyes widened, darting to the side “I’m good..!” He nervously chuckled, taking a gulp of water. He knew he was distracted and was well aware of how he was acting – especially around her.

Bright lights, roaring crowds and dozens of teams, each representing their prefecture. 52 whole teams. It was one of the first times she’d been somewhere so intense, and although she wasn’t playing, she felt extremely nervous.

Nekoma had made it to the quarterfinals – facing their long awaited opponents. She heard about the rivalry from Coach Nekomata; she could only imagine the stress weighing down on the shoulders of both teams.

Though, she herself had been thinking of something for a while. After clarifying with one of the team members, he confirmed that this would be the last match for the third years unless they make it through.

That also meant her last match as Kuroo’s manager.

She had a feeling that he’d been thinking of the same thing as well. Though, she’d avoided mentioning it. If she was the captain of a team playing a national match that generations had been waiting to see, she’d probably try to drown out distractions.

All she could do was sit on the bench, record details, and  keep things organised for their time-outs.

She watched as each team fought tooth and nail for every point, treating each play like it was their last. The tension weighed heavy, Nekomas persistent defence paired with Karasuno’s intense offence. Every point scored, every set passed inched closer to the conclusion of the match.

Then it came – Karasuno’s match point of the last set. Gripping her book and pen tightly in her hands, her eyes darted across the court, following the course of the ball. Both teams’ exhaustion was reaching its limit.  

She watched as Kenma briskly stepped back, raising his arms for a set as Taketora ran outwards for a quick start to his jump. It all happened so quickly – the next thing she knew, the ball had hit the floor on their side of the net.

Everyone seemed to pause for a moment, taking time to process everything that had just happened in the span of a few seconds.

The whistle sounded, marking the end of the match. She watched as the boys shook hands with the opposing team, not a single one bearing a semblance of anger at the other.

Remaining seated on the bench, her lips began to quiver. She kept her gaze downwards at her feet, her vision becoming clouded by the layer of tears glossing her eyes.

The team then regrouped in front of the coach to hear a few words from him. She stood beside them, unable to look anyone in the eye; she flicked through her book, making annotations here and there to keep herself distracted.

He had noticed her uncharacteristic silence - usually, she’d be all over the place, making jokes and whatnot. Though, he couldn’t say he didn’t understand why she had been so quiet.

As she stood behind the bench, stuffing her notebook and pen into her backpack, she noticed a familiar pair of black shoes in her peripheral.

Looking up at him, she felt tears intensely well up in her eyes, once again distorting her sight.

“Kuroo, I-“

“Not here.” He said gently “Let’s go.”

She followed him as he guided her into the hallway, voices and cheers from the court muffling, and the crowds decreasing. In front of him, she crumbled, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to communicate her feelings.

“Come on, why the tears?” He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and gently rocking back and forth. “Aren’t you supposed to be the calm and collected manager?”

She sniffed, managing a stifled giggle. Loosening his hold around her, he pulled back momentarily.

She wiped her tears before finally looking up at him. He met her eyes with an expression that read ‘I know’.

“I’ll still be around. After I graduate..” Pausing, his voice softened “..And even after you graduate.”

“It won’t be the same..”

“But it doesn’t mean it’s over.”

Mya's Bakery Event 𝜗𝜚 other works

[stellarbit]

Accepting Change

Word Count: 1.4k

Pairing: Crosshair x gn!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety

Summary: You've haven't had peace in a while. Too much change has you ready to flee Pabu without a word. Crosshair isn't letting you get away without a word

a/n: been gone a minute again, this is a little exercise to get back into it!

Well past the glow of Pabu’s golden hour, two hours beyond sunset to be exact, you typically found peace. Lately, though, your faithful routine of that peace became off kilter. Easier and easier it became for it to slip from your grasp all together until suddenly, no matter the day or how hard you tried, there was no piecing together that nightly relief.

Like so many others in the Galaxy, you'd tasted loss and the threat of the Empire constantly loomed. Despite it all, you’d carved a fragile, bittersweet existence out for yourself and tucked yourself away on an isolated planet. Its serenity was enough for a while but, as you knew so well, change was inevitable.

Some of it was good. Befriending an unlikely family of clones proved to be a welcome change and a delicious one at that. The loss of Tech shook you and before you could fully adjust the Empire terrorized your home.

Change was not your friend and yet you continuously navigated its uncertain currents. Knowing that vital part of you existed and not feeling the accompanying reassurance it brought sewed nausea into you. A nausea rooted in something couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something that brought you to Pabu in the first place.

Brought wasn’t the word to use. It insinuated a gentle carrying. Nothing within you nor the Galaxy itself brought you. You’d run.

You thought moving somewhere quiet and keeping busy would fix the discontent inside of you

Perched on a shadowed ledge overseeing the calm ocean, you sat in the discomfort of the anxiety and made your plan. The serenity of Pabu no longer looked the same as the day you’d stepped foot on her rocky foundation. All you saw, all that seeped into your quiet moments, were reminders.

In the distance you assessed your half finished starship. Parts were hard to come by, but you’d sweet talked Phee into expediting that process. While Phee never grew to be as fond of you as she was the Batch she’d brought to Pabu, she was your only option at the moment. 

That thought naturally nudged your eyes to the distant and still lit home of Omega and her brothers. Her remaining brothers. Nausea swelled in you and prickling dread drove your attention back over the ocean. The calm waters did nothing to subside the choking feeling rising in your throat.

Even this quiet corner of the world failed to shield to fix.

Curling in on yourself, you clasped your hands as if to beg the Force itself to intervene. “I have to get out of here.”

“And go where?” An icy voice cut through the night air behind you.

The jolt it sent through you nearly pushed the nausea into your lap. As you turned, you faced the slender silhouette of Crosshair. He’d been exactly as Tech described. Another thought that twisted knots into your stomach.

The man remained where he stood. He wasn’t pushing further, but in the same breath he also wasn’t leaving. You wondered why he was out here at all.

Crosshair hadn’t taken your attempts at friendship well. He all but bit your head off at every turn for the first few weeks. He did soften into some version of a gentleman somewhere along the lines. There were no vulnerabilities in the man though and whatever pseudo friendship you’d established certainly didn’t call for late night rendezvouses.

Blinking a pleasant mask into place you gave a light wave to the stars above. “It’s been so long since I took a trip anywhere.” You turned a wide grin on Crosshair. Your cheeks ached against forced pleasantry, but nonetheless wrinkled your eyes into a show of genuinity. “A little trip sounds nice.”

His eyes narrowed on your smile, scanning you skeptically as his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re lying,” he stated flatly. 

Your smile flinched. “Why would I lie?”

“So no one stops you.” Crosshair countered.

“Stops me from what exactly?” As the balance between maintaining appearances and feigning ignorance tipped towards the latter, your smile faded.

Crosshair nodded in the direction of town. “Phee said you’ve been incessant about getting parts for your ship.”

Unable to swallow the expression souring your face, you turned back to the waters. So much for discretion. In a lackadaisy fashion you shrugged, “Everyone is rebuilding. I don’t see what’s so weird about my doing so.”

“Why are you asking Omega if there is a backup of the Marauder’s navicomputer?”

His prodding put an edge in your tone as you glossed over his question, “Can’t go on a trip without knowing where I want to go.”

“And all the cargo you’ve been sneaking onto your ship these past few nights?”

“I’m-”

“You’re running away.” Crosshair cut off your next attempt to deflect.

Annoyance flared within you, propelling you up from the rocky outcropping. Averting your gaze from his piercing eyes, you tried to brush past him. “This is ridiculous,” you mumbled, your shoulder bumping against his.

He caught you by the elbow before you were out of reach. You snapped your focus to him, aggravation crimping your lips. The two of you stared each other down for a few tense beats.

The hold on your arm softened slightly along with Crosshair’s features. “No matter where you go, it will catch up to you.” You could’ve sworn his voice cracked when he added, “Trust me.”

“What will?”

Crosshair released you and stepped back, allowing you space to breathe. Being intimately familiar with overreactions and the falling outs so often born in them he was trying to avoid pushing one out of you. Memories of so many avoidable fights with his brothers came to mind.

Sighing, he answered, “Whatever you’re running from.” 

Your gaze darted between his eyes as you realized you didn’t have the gall to accuse him of not knowing what he was talking about. What little insight you had into the sniper was enough proof that he had his own demons.

Shoring up your resolve you held Crosshair’s unwavering gaze. “Then I’ll deal with it elsewhere.” You shook your head, swallowed, and shifted your attention to the twinkling lights of town. “Not here.”

Crosshair grunted, “And what makes you think it will be easier anywhere else?” You didn’t return your attention, only furrowing your brows. Walking around to block your view of Pabu, Crosshair crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one leg. “You think you’d be better off somewhere alone.” It wasn’t a question.

As he’d done to you earlier, you looked him over. Whether or not his stance was founded in arrogance you couldn’t tell and yet it felt arrogant. When you offered no response, you hoped he’d give up.

Annoyingly - he didn’t.

Recoiling a step, you challenged, “Why are you here, Crosshair?” 

He stood firm, but his eyes rolled almost out of his skull. Shutting his eyes, he took a patient breath, stilling himself before saying, “Omega sent me.” He was clearly resistant to admitting the fact. “She’s worried you’re planning to go off on your own and that…”

Crosshair paused, eyes opening but downcast. His stance relaxed, arms dropping to his sides and he conceded, “She thinks I might be able to convince you to stay.”

Suspicion clouded your features. “Why?” You asked hesitantly. Omega wasn’t the worrisome factor, she always had a way of seeing through others, it was Crosshair’s willingness to intervene.

His eyes, usually so hard and unyielding, held a flicker of something less severe. “I stayed with the Empire when I should’ve left. I didn’t want to accept a hard choice.”

You paused, processing his words. “What was it?”

“Choosing to accept change and change myself.”

You were constantly having to change with things you couldn’t control. How could he say that? Biting the inside of your cheek you defended your stance, “I do change. Maybe I just want a change of scenery.”

He scoffed lightly, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his face. “Maybe you do. Running might seem like the only option, but it’s not the only one.”

"You don't have to decide now," he concluded, his tone returning to its usual sternness as he prepared to walk away. "But think about it. I’m not good at this, but I’m here. We all are.”

Crosshair began to leave, hoping to give you whatever peace you needed in the moment.

You quickly called out to him. He stopped, his back to you for a moment before he turned back.

With a heavy tongue you gathered up some courage to ask. “Will you stay a bit longer?”

He hummed out a little amusement. “I can do that."

tags: @bruh-myguy-what @baddest-batchers @jetii @hshfsjzjsgj @zahmaddog @heidnspeak

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

And YOU will feel healed of the last 15

... when you read this fic. That is, as long as you suffered from an abandonement wound like i did.

Ello lovelies, i have another wonderful fanfic-rec for you! 🤓

But you are an ocean by @ineffably-good

Coverart by @ineffableclassics

What it is about:

After Aziraphale's defection, Crowley tries to figure out how to live life for himself.

Notes:

Ok so, the end of season two broke me. Figured I was maybe done writing stories about these two after that. And yet, several hours later, a sentence appeared in my head, and then this happened. Guessing at chapter totals… I'm finding I like the idea of Crowley going off in a different direction than what I'd initially expect. Not just raging, not sleeping for a century, but actually trying to move on. And why the hell shouldn't he just move to the South Downs by himself? So here we are.

What i like about it:

🩷This fic doesn´t jump in on pushing the story - their story - forward. Instead it goes a totally different path. A quite big part of it is dedicated to Crowley mending the pieces of his broken heart. It´s endearing, it´s breathtaking and it will have you cry. Not only for Crowley but for every single person who ever had to endure heartbreak.

🩷Fun fact no.1: in real life I am a relationship-coach specialised in toxic relationships and heartbreak. And the way Crowley´s heartbreak is described couldn´t be any more accurate. Every thought, every pain, every action he takes, the strength it costs him, the weight of it all - its written absolutely to the point. I could have copied several pages for the "most beloved quote".

🩷So Crowley tries to build a life for himself. Not just living without the angel and rotting in a pit, but really trying to carve out a nice little existence for himself. He is doing his work, he is healing and you can follow along with him, as he learns to build at least new "friendships" - though he would never call it that himself, thanks a lot.

🩷This healing-journey takes quite some time and somewhere in the middle of it i started to think - he could do it. He COULD heal his hurt, mourn the loss and still somehow at least live a life on his own. Maybe feeling the missing part of himself for the rest of his existence, but not being miserable about it the whole time. And that is a thought - a wish - i would have for my dark angel.

I could see him living that life and at one point i almost thought - i would love to see how that would´ve played out for him. A life without Aziraphale. What connections would Crowley have made? How would he have coped with the loss of those humanly connections lifespan after lifespan? Would he have relocated each century? Would he have moved to Australia and learned surfing at one time? Would he have become a timelord and travelled - i mean seriously, Crowley could do that probably?

But you, my dear, are an ocean.

And oceans are ancient

And can survive everything,

Even the wrath of weather and planets.

-- Nikita Gill

SPOILERS AHEAD - if you don´t want to know the plot, stop reading here.

Stop reading if you dont want spoilers!

Ok - you´ve been warned! Here we go: 🤗

🩷Fun fact no.2: I actually downloaded this fic some time ago but had another fic in mind i wanted to start next. So after i finished the last one (also really brilliant, i wrote a rec on it too), i started my e-reader the next day, THIS fic was already open instead on page 1. Huh?

I have absolutely no idea how this is possible, but i DO believe in hints-of-the-universe. Or little demonic miracles on their own. Because i needed this fic.

🩷Because of course - this is a Good Omens fanfic and eventually the other angel arrives. And without giving away to much: Aziraphale has to fight for Crowley. A long long time. He has to be steadfast and consistent and earn the trust of his has-been-companion-for-millenia. Nothing is a given any more.

And i am NOT saying that this is what Aziraphale needs to do or that he was wrong in any way. (The fic doesnt say that either by the way.) But what cracked ME personally about the last 15 was my own abandonement-wound which got triggered massively. I felt retraumatised even.

So reading and feeling that Crowley does not jump on the next best possibility to be back with the angel was a big thing. Having the Angel slowly earning his trust and simply showing up again and again - I needed that. I needed Crowley to take his time, not be the sick lovefool he is often proclaimed to be. For him to have doubts, to feel conflicted, to feel love and the need to self-preserve at the same time.

All these ambiguities we all have. And to take the steps with him. Watch the turning point, when the fear of losing Aziraphale again becomes less and less and the fear of wasting time gets stronger. Taking one step at a time, sometimes even backwards. All those things, typical for a healing process, which is never straight forward but most of the time a rollercoaster instead. I loved this. I needed this. I could sit back, breathe and watch my own heart grow. Just. Wow.

Most beloved quote:

So if you feel like maybe you need a fic in which Aziraphale really shows up and cares while Crowley really takes his time to learn to trust again... And not because one of them has been an idiot, but to experience them both learning and growing together ... and that might be something for your own healing journey, this might be just THE fic for you. I absolutely loved it and so will you.

Reading is therapy! 🤗