#verse: Perfect Defense

[whambambatfam]

Webs of a Wing

Chapter 1

I am not well versed in DC knowledge. I've read a bunch of the older comics but, honestly, these timelines are too confusing to say I have a firm grasp on what the fuck is happening at any given point.

Anyways, this is my story, I made a tumbler for it. I'll definitely upload again..

When the fly on the wall starts to spin webs of their own, can the bats catch on? Or will they be left to dangle in the web they've tangled?

───── ⋆⋅ 🕸 ⋅⋆ ─────

You're hardly school aged when you wake in a strange place, vague memories of someone patting your head as you fall asleep. Then it was all blurry and you went from cold hard ground, suddenly, to a warm bed worth more than you've ever seen.

Laying still, staring up at the ceiling, you lay dazed until you hear the door starting to creak open. Quickly shutting your eyes you wait for the suspect to peak inside.

When his voice sounds, back on the other side of the door, you perk up, "Who's this? They're kinda cute." A boy, most likely a few years older than you.

When that deep, fear inducing voice reaches for you, you jump out of bed after it. "Apparently, my child." He couldn't possibly be talking about you, right?

You make your way silently to the creaked door. Peeping through to watch them. "Huh? What?? Like seriously???" Hands resting on his hips, a boy of black hair and lean physique gapes.

A tall man with a build as intimidating as his voice, "Yes, I've run a DNA test and everything." His large arms cross over his broad chest.

Mirroring the older man's stance, the boy questions, "So, who's the mom?"

"I'm still working on that.."

"Have you.. asked them?"

There's a heaviness lingering in the hall around them. "We don't know if they'll talk yet, not till they wake up." He doesn't like not having answers, clearly.

"Can they?"

Swinging the door open, you bark out at your own defense, "I knew how'd to talk!"

His shoulder shot up, face blossoming in embarrassment, "Oh, sorry." Sighing, he tries to appear nonchalant. "Well, heyyy.. kid.. My name's Dick.” Placing a hand on your shoulder, he smiles, “Guess I'll be like, your, uh, big brother?"

Eyes widening, you step away from his grasp. Being in a strange place with strange people claiming to be your family was concerning. Even in your young mind, alarm bells rang loud and clear.

Like a light shining through your darkest times, his voice cut through the tension. “This may be all too much for,” A man, much older than either, rests his hand on your back, “the newly young master Wayne.” He ushers you gently back into the room. All gentle pats and kind smiles as he insists on you resting.

You never spoke about who or where you came from. It hurts to try, to think of the cold, the dark, the pain, the fear. Push out all the bad. Make it just go away. You just wanted it to go away. Wanted to take every memory of before and lock it up, never to be found. So, that's what you did, burying every painful memory. After some time, your young mind turned repression into suppression. Now, left with only bits and pieces, you couldn't remember even if you wanted to.

So, you’ll need to fill in the emptiness with this fresh start.

Life in the Wayne house started off joyfully. You found serenity in the solitude of the manor, disconnected from the rest of Gotham. When Alfred wasn't pushing tedious homeschooling work, you explored the massive house you'd be calling home. The quietude of empty ballrooms, winding halls and stodgy gardens was your respite. While it wasn't a place made for children, you felt at peace for the first time. The perfect home for a ghost with plenty of walls for flies and flowers alike.

Coming from unknown origins with no paperwork to speak of left you in a peculiar predicament. As a child was low grasp on the passage of time, you couldn't exactly say how old you were. Let alone when your birth date was. No one has ever bothered to tell you and if they have you certainly weren't going to remember. Infact, at Alfreds insists on a celebration, he comes to find you've never truly experienced a birthday of any kind. He had to correct this at once, give you a proper one with cake, singing and presents. It makes him wonder what sort of childhood you've been plucked from.

“Well, young master.” Alfred takes your hands as you climb the step stool next to him, “It's been a year now since you've joined us at the manor.”

Your hands slap onto the counter when you finally reach it. “Yeah, I like it.” Smiling wide up at the old butler, you babble on, “everything is so big and warm and it smells nice and I like when you cook and I wanna cook too and-” Alfred hushes your ramblings with a hand on your head.

“Yes, that's lovely, my child.” The other hand opens a draw nearby. “And that's what we'll be doing today.”

You tilt your head as the hand on it brushes over it and falls away, “Cooking?” Craning your neck, you try to peek at the cards he flips through.

“Well, baking, but yes.” He confirms, offering you a smile that's warm and sweet like his cookies, “Today was the day you joined the family, it's as good a day as any for a party.”

Your eyes light up, “A party for what?”

“Your birthday, my dear.” He chuckles softly at your look of awe,“Today will be your birthday, and every year I shall make you a cake.”

“Woah, every year?” You gasp as he hafs you the small stack of cards, each a handwritten cake recipe. While you can't read them yet, there are pictures of each cake pasted alongside the words. “That's a lot of cakes.. Can I help?”

“Whichever you like most we'll bake.” You're quick to pick one, waving the card around frantically, “I would be honored to have your help as well, young master.”

Alfred got to work with measurements, letting you pour everything into the bowls. He shows you how to mix, guiding you hand over hand when you struggle. You can't help spilling half of you what you're given, covering the counters. Sliding the pan batter into the oven, Alfred has you assist by wiping away your mess.

As he begins readying ingredients for frosting you ask, “Are those guys gonna join us?”

You're too busy scrubbing batter from your stool to see the way he deflates. “Unfortunately, your father and brother are tied up in something.” He sighs, taking the rag and finishing your job. With a sullen smile he hands you a measuring cup of sugar, “Perhaps next year.”

The night is spent merrily celebrating. When it cools Alfred frosts and decorates your cake. He places a number of candles, It's the first of many birthdays spent with just you and Alfred.

The next years were your first time in true schooling, a prestigious boarding school to boot. You couldn't remember seeing so many other children before. The eyes you received from strangers when given your new last name made your skin crawl. Deciding to forgo it in most encounters. Yet, for some reason to a great number of your fellow classmates, that fact seemed to matter greatly. If you met someone who insisted or withheld their friendship without, then you'd simply roll your eyes, never speaking to them.

You decided friends weren't important, instead making it your goal to not just succeed but to exceed. If this was your shot of a real family, you wanted to show them you were something capable. Worthy. You were hopeful, determined in getting close.

Only to be pushed aside at every opportunity.

“I got’ perfect score!” The words burst from you with such excitement you're bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Bruce doesn't even bother to look at the paper you're frantically waving at him. Simply mumbling as he places his mug in the sink, “Very nice.” Before turning to Dick, “Come on, son. It's time to go.” You thought maybe this was how a father was supposed to be. Cold, distant and hardly ever around for someone so small.

Alfred steps up from behind your slumped form. Plucking the paper from your dejected gaze. He hums softly before you hear a rap on the fridge beside you. “Wonderful job young master.” You smile for him as he pats your head. Happy to have at least someone’s acknowledgement.

From what your classmates say, a big brother will either pick on you or support you. Soon you came to find that living with Dick Grayson didn't guarantee you any of his time. Good or bad.

So, despite the terror that being center stage fills you with, you entered your school's spelling bee. The thought that maybe you could possibly impress them gave you just enough nerve.

“Hey, um, Dickie...” When you catch his sleeve, your teeth skin into your cheeks. He peeks over his shoulder at you, “Here, it's a competition.”

His nose wrinkles slightly before he smiles. “Spelling bee?” Not a real smile, you don't get those. It's a empty, meaningless thing that hardly lifts his lips.

“If you're not busy.” You clasp your fingers together, steeling your nerves.

“Uh, yeah. Maybe.” It’s thinly masked disgust if anything.

Time came to discuss bringing you into the public eye, an official declaration of your relationship with the Wayne's. Just the thought of it was unsettling, like placing a target on your back. The last place you want to be is the spot light.

“I don't wanna go. I won't go.” It was then in that moment, when the words left your lips, you could see it in his eyes.

A wave of relief Dick couldn't quite stifle, lip touching at the corner before turning to Bruce, “Maybe they're just scared of all those new people. With everyone looking at them, seeing them as your..” That uptick in his features falters slightly, “first child, technically.” Back then, you thought he cared. That this was actually for your protection. “It's a lot of pressure, maybe it would be better. For them, to stay safe.”

Bruce crosses his arms, examining his older child before looking back to the younger. “You have a point there, Dick.” You've twisted your fingers into Alfreds pant leg, half hidden behind him. “Fine. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to. It might even be for the better.” Neither of them wanted you there, thinly veiled behind words of care, never quit saying it.

Not once then did you realize. There was nothing you could do, nothing you could say, nothing you could show for. Nothing to make them see you, the real you. You couldn't provide them with anything, that made you useless.

“Very well, Master Bruce.” With a sigh, Alfred guides you away as the two leave. He was always the one in your corner. Before you even know this life would be a battle.

This give on the topic began your gradual slope into obscurity. In the hectic years of adolescence, you'd come to the conclusion that private schools are for snobs. You manage to convince the old butler, with baked goods, to allow a change of schools. Not wanting to slow your studies yet overwhelmed by your known family reputation. Public school seemed viable, no one had to know who you really were. There seemed to be no object, or real acknowledgment of this decision.

You used to believe, despite how they act, this was it, this would be your family and you could be happy. Surely, you thought, it's because you're new to them. It must be hard to connect, you found it quite difficult yourself.

So, you decided, you'll just need to put in more effort. Show them that there is something that you and they can do together. You took up everything you Alfred offered to teach you when he was around. You learned to cook, sew and clean the whole manor faster than the master butler himself.

Of course, he had other priorities, not just as your caretaker. Try as he might to keep you at the top of that list, he still has duties to attend. So, you would take your days, even weeks, alone with stride. A good time to build your skills on your own, finding new ways to utilize them. Hoping for something, anything, to bridge the gap with your new family.

“I'll be home late today, Al.” While you had gotten away from uptight private schooling, Alfred still set into a well funded school.

He gives a light chuckle of disbelief over the phone, “You have plans, young master?” Pinching the device between your shoulder and ear, you fumble through your first ever locker.

“It's just a club, I'll still need you to pick me up after.” With all your free time, you thought you'd use more of your growing skills.

“At your service my dear.”

You took time to catch on, years of peeling away from the background. Picking and pulling apart from the inside out, finding something that could peak their interest. Hoping to think twice, even once to turn their heads back to the lone manner.

That's how you found them, their secrets; and the life that pulled them as taunt in one direction as the other did. Digging for a way that you could connect from beyond the twice eye catching lives they live day and night. You were piled with reasoning when you found that special place in the library they all seemed to love. The idea of passing the security felt out of reach at the time.

Walking along the dark water line, looking out to the misty sky. You don't wish for misfortune, but you wait. When that light flickers on and that familiar symbol reflects on the dark Gotham clouds, your breath catches. Ducking alonge the rocky cliff wall by the large alcove, you listen to the rumble. You brace yourself as something in the shallow cave opens, the rumble growing.

Then you have your answer. The Batmobile comes billowing out of the cave, in its wake you hide. Long after its departure from the property, you emerge from your hiding spot. Slipping through the closing doors and wandering down into the bat cave.

Despite how they see through you most times, you're sure Alfred knows when you sneak in. So, appreciating this to be Alfred throwing his hand up and hiding his eyes for your sake.

It's awe inspiring to say the least, especially knowing you live above it every day. It felt like peeking through the lives of strangers and you couldn't look away. You don't know why he kept it from you but you didn't want to be shut out for knowing. Yet, you couldn't satiate your curiosity with just this visit.

You had told Alfred you had a meeting after a club and that you would be home late. For some strange reason he promised Dick would pick you up.

Water splashes up from a speeding tire as you walk along the misty Gotham streets, “Aw man, come on!” Of course Dick didn't show! Why would he? When has he ever?

Now, in this situation, Alfred would wish for you to call him for assistance.

“Over there! Look, look!” Across the intersection a pair gasps and squeals, fingers pointed up at the Boy Wonder. The last thing on his mind as he leapt through the night sky, was an unwanted sister.

If only Alfead could get everything he's ever wished for, but you're not a fairy.

Following gunshot and bangs you skirt around chaos, nearly avoiding an obvious outbreak of costumed thugs. You watch in ired fascination as they beat down each threat thoroughly. As the moon starts to sit lower again and the bad guys are carted away, you realize how long you've been gone.

You arrive at the gates in tune to be blown past by the Batmobile. Inside, Alfred gives you a look as if he knows every secret you've even kept. Thankfully he doesn't say a word, You're out of your damp clothes by the time the dynamic duo ascend to the manor.

For people of the shadows, they never could seem to see you creeping through them.

It's through this that you managed to learn about Barbra Gordon. The commissioner's daughter was someone you could only catch glimpses of from time to time. It was rare for you to catch her attention. Much too preoccupied with her work for the Bat, your father.

The batgirl's skill inspired your own delve into tech. Hacking, coding and even trying your hand at tinkering with new devices. Creations that you've jerry-rigged and hoped against hope that she would even glance at.

She's coming over today, you overheard dick say so. You've poked your head over the banister as you wait to spot the red head. Yet, once she's there, you freeze. Dick and Barbara push through the front doors together. Light rain chasing them inside from the sturing storm. Their foot falls followed by light laughter and easy chitchat. If only it was so easy for you.

You watch as your brother scurries off, promising to grab a towel. This is your shot. “Oh, um!” Words are coming from you before you even know what to say. Stumbling over yourself, you bumble over, haltung in front of her. “B-Barbra?”

“Huh, who?” At the ruckus you've made, she whips around. Head on a swivel 'till green eyes locking on you. “Oh! It's you.. uh..” looking you up and down she stumbles as well.

You have to give her your name, again.

“Right, right. Sorry.” Barbra looks off sheepishly, carting a hand through her hair. Hand flicking droplets from the ginger ringlets.

“It's okay..” that's alright, that's normal Even. You don't see each other all that often.. even though you remembered her name just fine. “I just want to ask you about some-” Unfortunately, yet unsurprisingly, she cuts you off before you can pull out what you want to share with her.

“I've actually got to-” Her mouth snaps shut before she thinks better of words, “Well, um, talk with Bruce.” She finishes with an awkward chuckle and mumbled “Y'know how it is. Always something with the Wayne's.”

No, “Yeah..” You didn't know.

You've never shared more than a last name with the Wayne's.

Patting your head she smiles, “Sorry again, hun. Maybe later?” turning away down the hall Dick had disappeared to. Even to the all seeing eye you were nothing but a mere fly on the wall.

Gothams streets were dark, dangerous, and the only place you could see them for more than a minute. You loved nights like this, when you could slip from the manor. Undetected by the inattentive gazes that should have kept a preteen like you home.

With this habit of bird watching, you found yourself looking more into your subpar self defense. Living in Gotham has given you a natural caution but all too often you've wound up in tight situations. All because you couldn't keep your eyes off them. Maybe if you show them you could do that, fight back, they might see you.

You put yourself out there over and over, “Uh, d-dad?” Alfred insisted you call him that, but it never felt right, “I've been doing, um, I have this..” taking a breath you force it out, “It's martial arts, could you come see me?”

Another paper half glance at before the typical, “I'll see what I can do.”

Apparently, there are some things even Batman can't do.

“H-hey.. I, uh, am doing..” You pull out the flier for your competition. inspecting it over before looking to see him. Half-heartedly glancing up from his comic, Dick gives you a once over before continuing to read, “Gymnastics.”

Finally his eyes hold yours when the word shoots from your mouth. For a second you think this is it. This is when you’ll finally have his attention. Finally make that long awaited connection with your big brother. “I'll see, why don't you ask Bruce?” Dick lays the paper on the living room table in front of him.

“I did... he said the same thing.”

The paper is still there when you come back later.

[sqgeism]

haii!! Can I ask the reaction of amphoreus men to the reader don’t feel like they deserve them and feeling guilty about it? 🙏

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 if i'm turning in your stomach | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; am i making you feel sick ? he's so.. happy with you, and you don't seem to understand. they're in the glory and light as a chrysos heir, what could have possibly be seen in you for them to ever want to share that light?

love mail — haiii anonnie ! thank you for requesting :D in this fic, i mention the very likely theory of phainon being kevin from hi3 ! it isn't a major plot point but it is mentioned so if ure confused dont worry so am i ヽ(´Ａ`)ﾉ love u guys mwah ! 2/5.

now.. anaxa isn't a fan of gossip, accepting words at face value is foolish. especially since he is a man from a field of alchemy, trying and testing until he sees results. in this case, the truth.

but when a mutual companion, that babbling blue haired student of his, tells him that you've been feeling rather.. sad recently, he was determined to find out why.

in your defense, you were never meant to have him figure out, but this concoction you were working on was really starting to get on your nerves. you figured anaxa was still at the academy, so you were free to yell at the vial of glowing liquid like you could peer pressure it into getting it to cooperate. "stupid, stupid." you grumbled, your fists curling into a ball on the table. "i hate this, why can't i just... be like anaxa? he must feel ashamed with me. i can't do something as simple as a healing potion, after all."

you know these words aren't true, but you can't completely erase the fact you still feel them. your boyfriend was praised for his expertise in his field, couldn't you at least have learned something?—

it was then that you felt someone press up against your back, head leaning over your shoulder as anaxa sighs. his hands wrap around your waist, looking at your face like you're the moon. "your ingredients are perfect, dove. down to the measurements, but i'm sure your error comes from your order of mixing. listen to me, start with.."

you listen to his guide, trying to perfectly replicate the sequence as he speaks, but it's distracting. he hasn't.. stopped looking away from you while you work. not to mention, his hands trace the curves of your waist, as if keeping your body to memory. his sultry voice in your ear is NOT helping either.

"i heard you, you know." he mumbles, shifting his head to press kisses to your shoulder blades, somewhat relishing the way you shiver.

"do you really think i'd ever focus my time on someone who self proclaims their inadequacy?" you don't answer. "your intelligence is unmatched, dove. i couldn't think of anyone with a brain like yours, while also having a heart kind enough to open a man like me."

his advances move up to your neck, and at this point, the potion is long forgotten. your hands are too shaky to focus anyway. "please.. never think you're not good enough for me. i couldn't handle you leaving me for false truths."

your husband is a literal king, warrior, and an unmovable force.. you wonder why he settled down with an ordinary mortal. you're not quite in the spotlight, and instead, a humble historian. which means you're well versed in mydei's tales, especially ones pertaining to his past. according to rumor; mydei is fated to fall for someone for all of eternity, they were originally a warrior sworn to him, but had died tragically for mydei in the middle of a battle, in fear that the enemy had possibly been able to reach his weakest spot. after a desperate plea from the gods, they had been kind enough to have his lovers soul reborn every time they've come face to face with death. you.. were apparently the first one he's met ever since 'your death'.

and while you're.. comforted by that idea, the fact that you're fated to find mydei in every life you'll live, you also feel.. unsure. had the chrysos heir fallen for you, or for someone you used to be. and you could never really live up to be who you were.

that person was a warrior, one mydei cherished like his other half, and the myths of the two of them are romantic. how he spent hundreds of years mourning them, how they haunted his narrative. could he ever truly love who you are now?

"sweetheart?"

mydei's voice breaks through your thoughts, and you come back to reality—surrounded by your ancient maps and history. you're in your study, staring down at one of the many books written on the chrysos heirs. "are you staring at that old thing again? i told you, i don't like the way they drew me in that book." his laugh makes you feel guilty, you aren't even sure why. something about his love feels undeserving.

when you don't reply, he realizes you're not quite on a page about him.. but about you. your past life.

mydei knows how you feel about it, you've talked about it under the moon with him in hopes that its light will keep your secret safe. but he knows reassurance won't fix your insecurity easily, he needs time, and he'll give you all of it. he's waited to find you for all these years, what kind of man would he be to make you think you're anything less than precious?

carefully turning your body to him, his hand trailing up your cheek as he feels his heart ache. "sweetheart, my darling.." before he can even finish, you lean your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat in silence. "mydei, do you promise.. that this heart is mine? you.. you aren't after someone who i once was, and rather who i am now?"

he knows he'll have time to give you proper reassurance, but he knows you just need a few words now. "i promise, with all i am, that i have fallen in love with you all over again. and that i am yours, body and soul."

with all the mystery that surrounds your boyfriends identity, you can't help but think about it as well. do you.. really know him? does he not trust you to know him? you aren't sure. maybe you aren't as special as you thought you had been, that phainon's sweet words of how much he loves you are.. false prayers.

but you have no reason to doubt him, he's never stayed out too late or hung around people that made you question his motives, he's a good man. and you're starting to think that you don't deserve him for doubting that.

the idea clouds your mind the whole day, and for aeon's sake.. you and him are having a date night at his place. he notices it quickly, how your mind just can't seem to focus. how you move away from his touches and hesitate with every kiss, was there something troubling you? was he troubling you? that's when he's had enough of the lack of communication, he turns off the tv, pulls the blankets down, and gives you a confused but also rather upset look. "honey, what's going on in that gorgeous head of yours?

he holds his hand out to you, but you move away, the cold shoulder has never been so sweet. "phai.." you hesitate to finish your sentence, but phainon waits.

he's been known for his patience, he always has been. he was a composed man, a gentleman, he could surely hold himself togethe—

"am.. am i really anything special to you?"

he feels his heart sink to his stomach.

there's an sting that he's never quite felt before, overwhelming his body greatly. he's sure he can hear his heartbeat, or perhaps lack thereof, it's as if his world has stopped at those words.

you've begun to tear up now. "i don't know i just.. the people have been telling me things— and i'm realizing now that i don't.. i don't really know anything about you and.. i.. i'd want to get to know you better, but i understand if you don't want to, and don't trust me but—"

seeing you cry makes him remember something distant, a life he once lived in a different world. making someone he also loved so dearly cry because of what he's done.

phainon crumbles, moving closer to you to wipe your tears. you two are face to face now, his lips only a breath away as he's reminded why he loves you so much.

you're you, so human, so selfless. how could he be blind to your struggle, when he claims to watch you so carefully? "oh, angel. i'm so.. so sorry. there are things i cannot tell you yet, but i can tell you that i could never let my heart be taken by anyone else."

feather light kisses press against your eyelids, and you shudder at the contact. "sweet, sweet angel. please don't cry. i promise i'll make it up to you one day."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[0omillo0]

angst to comfort

The fluorescent lights of the practice room buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished floor. Han Jisung sat hunched over his laptop, headphones clamped tightly over his ears, his fingers furiously tapping against the keyboard as he tried to squeeze out the perfect verse. But the words weren’t coming.

They hadn’t been coming for hours.

Frustration built in his chest like a balloon about to burst. His mind replayed the same beat on a torturous loop, but no matter how many times he rewrote the lyrics, they sounded wrong. Offbeat. Flat. The pressure of deadlines, expectations from fans, and his own perfectionism felt like a vice around his heart.

The door creaked open softly behind him, but he barely registered it through the fog of his irritation.

You stepped into the room quietly, hoping not to disturb him. You’d noticed the signs—missed calls, one-word texts, and the dark circles deepening under his eyes. So you decided to surprise him with his favorite meal from the little street vendor he loved near your apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much, but you thought a little comfort could go a long way.

“Jisung?” you called out softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

That one word snapped the last thread of his patience.

“Wtf are you doing here?” he snapped, whipping around in his chair. His voice echoed sharply off the walls, harsher than he intended, but he was too wound up to pull it back.

You blinked, startled by his sudden outburst. “I—I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry,” you said quietly, lifting the bag as if the sight of his favorite food would soften him.

But it didn’t.

“I don’t need food right now! And I don’t need you up my ass everytime!” he shouted, standing up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I need to focus! Why can’t you just leave me alone for once?”

Your heart dropped. The warmth and excitement you’d felt on the way here evaporated, replaced by a cold ache in your chest. You stood frozen for a moment, then nodded silently, setting the bag down on the nearest table.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. Without another word, you turned and walked out, your eyes stinging as you fought back tears. You didn’t want him to see you cry. Not after that.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Jisung alone in the suffocating silence.

For a moment, he felt justified. He needed to concentrate, and you had interrupted him. But as the echo of his own words settled in the room, guilt began to gnaw at his chest. His eyes drifted to the bag of food sitting untouched on the table. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—you had just been trying to help. To care for him.

A quiet cough from the doorway snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Chan standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“What the hell was that, Jisung?” Chan’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Jisung’s stomach twist.

“I just—she interrupted—I was trying to focus,” Jisung muttered defensively, but even to his own ears, the excuse sounded weak.

Chan raised an eyebrow. “She brought you food, man. Food. Because she cares about you. And you blew up on her like she was the problem?” He shook his head, disappointment clear in his eyes. “You need to fix this. Now.”

Jisung’s chest tightened painfully. The weight of what he’d done finally settled fully on his shoulders, and before he knew it, his knees buckled beneath him. He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands as hot tears spilled over his cheeks.

“I messed up,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I messed up so bad.”

Chan crouched down beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “Then go fix it before it’s too late.”

-

The sky had darkened by the time Jisung reached your apartment. The cool night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was a whirlwind of regret and anxiety. What if you didn’t forgive him? What if this was the final straw?

His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he raised his hand to knock. For a moment, he hesitated, his knuckles hovering just inches from the door. But then he took a deep breath and knocked softly, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway.

It took a few moments, but eventually, the door creaked open.

You stood there, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, your eyes red and puffy from crying. The sight of you like that—hurt because of him—shattered whatever was left of Jisung’s fragile composure. His breath hitched, and tears welled up in his eyes again.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’d caused you. But seeing him standing there, eyes swollen and full of regret, your heart softened against your better judgment.

Before you could say anything, he stepped forward, his voice breaking as he continued.

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I was just… I was so stressed, and I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair. You were just trying to help, and I—I was an idiot. I don’t deserve you, but I’m begging you, please don’t hate me.”

His words tumbled out in a desperate rush, and when he finally stopped, the hallway fell into silence. You looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for sincerity. And it was there, plain as day—raw, aching regret.

Without a word, you stepped aside, opening the door wider. He let out a shaky breath of relief and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as you closed the door behind him.

The moment the door clicked shut, he turned and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a desperate, trembling hug. His face buried in your shoulder, and you felt his tears soaking into the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, over and over, his voice muffled against your skin.

You stood still for a moment, letting his words sink in, before slowly wrapping your arms around him. The warmth of his body, the way he clung to you like you were his anchor—it melted the last remnants of your anger.

“I know,” you whispered softly, running your fingers through his hair. “But you can’t shut me out like that, Jisung. I’m here for you. Let me be here for you.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with tears. “I will. I promise. I just… I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently across his cheek. “But we need to talk when things get hard, okay?”

He nodded, sniffling as he leaned his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw but full of sincerity.

“I love you too,” you replied, your heart swelling with warmth.

You led him to the couch, pulling him down beside you. He curled into your side like a lost puppy, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his face still buried in your shoulder. You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension slowly melt away from his body as his breathing evened out.

After a while, he shifted slightly, resting his head in your lap. His eyes were still red and puffy, but there was a softness in them now, a quiet vulnerability that made your heart ache. You traced gentle patterns along his temple, watching as his eyelids fluttered closed.

“You’re my safe place, you know that?” he murmured sleepily, his voice barely audible.

“And you’re mine,” you whispered back, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

As the night stretched on, you stayed there, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, the weight of the earlier argument fading into the background. His arms tightened around you in his sleep, and you smiled softly, knowing that no matter how hard things got, you’d always find your way back to each other.

Because love wasn’t perfect—it was messy and complicated and sometimes full of mistakes. But in the end, it was also forgiveness, understanding, and holding on even when things felt like they were falling apart.

And as you drifted off to sleep with Jisung’s steady breathing in your ear, you knew that you’d both be okay. Together.

@intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @omgsecretsecret @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon @hyunjiiza

[edenspoem]

The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

WC: 7.7k+ | DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MASTERPOST | MASTERLIST | ART BY @trackinglessons | DISCORD SERVER

SPRING SUN

 

 “At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty. 

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.” 

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one. 

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out. 

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing. 

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it. 

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?” 

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“—Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.” 

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

 Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name. 

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary. 

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many. 

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin. 

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did. 

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?” 

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?” 

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

  Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes. 

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide. 

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time. 

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.” 

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck. 

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.” 

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down. 

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.  

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!” 

Happy birthday, asshole.

perm taglist; @whore4abby @aouiaa @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences

[lmk if you'd like to be added to my perm taglist!]

[archangeldyke-all]

omg hi angel!! I just saw the gym teacher Sev x English teacher reader thing and idk if this was just my middle/high school experience, but I remember at my school during pep rallies sometimes, teachers would divide up into teams and play a sport against each other (usually football or basketball, sometimes softball) as a fun thing to get everyone excited. Sometimes it'd be teachers against students too if you wanna go that route. I dunno maybe you could write something where reader and Sevika are preparing for that?

Maybe a reader who's clumsy/not well versed in sports who already has a somewhat flirty relationship with Sevika asking Sev to help train her alone/teach her about whatever sport theyre going to play so she doesnt embarass herself in front of the entire staff and student body? They could have a whole competitive-flirting thing going on during the one on one training where they end up doing some cheesy shit like stumbling over one another and kissing while they're on the ground lol

KENNIE THIS IS SOOOOOOOOO CUTEEE

men and minors dni

"babe, you're supposed to kick it to me." sevika giggles.

you huff and stomp your foot, stooping over to grab a stick from the field and toss it at your girlfriend. "that's what i tried to do!" you whine. sevika giggles, easily dodging the stick and kicking the ball back to you.

"i can't believe i'm dating somebody who can't even pass a soccer ball."

"yeah, well, i'm dating somebody who refuses to read anything published before 1950--"

"they write so old-timey, i can hardly understand them!" sevika whines, starting up the rant she's perfected in her time with you. you giggle and approach your girlfriend, kicking the ball from its spot between her feet and taking its place. sevika wraps her arms around your waist, smiling down at you. "you're done practicing already?" she guesses.

you giggle and stand on your tiptoes to kiss your girlfriend. she sighs against your lips.

sevika dragged you out to the park today as an attempt to 'train' you for the big students vs. teachers soccer game coming up in a month. in previous years, you've stayed on the sidelines with the other un-athletic teachers, laughing and gossiping and handing out ice packs to your injured co-workers and students. sevika's convinced to get you off the bleachers and onto the field this year, swearing that now that she's your girlfriend, some of her athleticism has to have rubbed off on you.

"i packed a picnic basket in the car... we can set up under that little group of trees?" you ask, blinking sweetly up at sevika. she rolls her eyes and picks up her soccer ball.

"you're lucky you're cute." she huffs, shaking her head as she starts walking you toward the car. you giggle.

"i made your favorite."

"meatball sandwiches?" sevika asks, her eyes lighting up a bit. you grin and nod.

"packed extra napkins too." you say. sevika laughs and kisses your temple.

"so when i asked you to come to the park for training today, you had your own plan this whole time?" she asks. you grin.

"well, duh. did you really think i'd be kicking around a soccer ball for more than thirty minutes?"

"fuck, the teachers are never gonna beat the kids." sevika whines as you open up the car. you giggle, pulling the basket out as she stores all her soccer gear.

"i don't know why you ever think you will, babe. you're a buncha forty year olds playing against kids whose primary food source is energy drinks."

"between me, ran and vander we've got a solid defensive side! we just need somebody fast. with good aim."

"and you thought that would be me?" you tease again.

sevika giggles as she helps you spread out the picnic blanket. "maybe not. maybe i just wanted to see you sweaty and panting." she says with a wink.

you laugh as you sit down on the blanket, dragging sevika to sit next to you. "i can think of much better ways to get sweaty with you than playing soccer, baby." you say. sevika raises a suspicious eyebrow at you.

"last time you said that we spent our saturday in your classroom building bookshelves."

you giggle. "well, we were sweaty weren't we?"

sevika shakes her head and pushes the basket out of the way, before she tackles you and pins you to the blanket. you grin up at her as she gazes down at you. "so lucky you're cute." she mumbles from above you.

you giggle. "are you gonna kiss me or are you just gonna stare?"

sevika rolls her eyes and tries to hide her smile as she ducks down to press her lips to yours. you can feel the curve of her lips against yours, though.

and just as you start to thread your fingers through her hair, the bird noise and wind surrounding you is interrupted by a shriek.

you both jump, and when you sit up on the blanket you make direct eye contact with jinx and ekko, both wearing a pair of rollerskates on their feet and horrified looks of disgust on their faces.

"it's sevika?!" jinx squeals from the sidewalk, not even bothering to greet you.

"i told you you'd never guess." you say with a shrug.

"you're supposed to call me 'coach--'"

"oh janna-- ekko, hold my hair, i'm about to be sick."

ekko snorts, pulls his girlfriends braids into his grasp, and then waves at the pair of you with his free hand. "hey teach. coach. beautiful sunday, isn't it?" he asks awkwardly.

beside you, sevika bursts into giggles.

kofi

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3 @lesbones

@chezze-its @lez-zuha @vikashoneybee @shanesevikasfuckdoll @imheadintothemountains

@nanajustnana-a @helaenabugmom

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @vkumi @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25

@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @biblicalcrybaby

@blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion @dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth

[studioeisa]

unadulterated loathing! 🪄 mingyu x reader.

madame moribble's sorcery seminar has space for only two students this semester. you're forced to make a case for yourself with the one person you despise the most: kim mingyu.

★ shiz university students!mingyu x reader. ★ smau with some fic work. word count for the fic: 2.8k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: modern shiz university, inspired by wicked, academic rivals, forced proximity, use of pet names, feelings realization/denial. cussing/name-calling in the spirit of bickering. this only draws from the setting of the wicked, so the given plot (i.e. wicked witch) doesn't exist here; prior knowledge of wicked is not necessary to understand the story. title is from what is this feeling. ★ footnotes: wrote this in one deranged sitting, but this is an early christmas gift for my favorite gyuldaengie, @maplegyu! 🎁 not quite the fiyero!mingyu agenda we have, but still in the same verse. ilysb. ♡

Mingyu has spent the better half of his years in Shiz going toe to toe with you.

It's to be expected, really. The two of you are the brightest of your age, tearing through your academics with ruthless precision. He always raises his hand in class. You can recite book passages word for word.

Both of you are hard to ignore, and neither of you are about to back down.

This application for the coveted Sorcery Seminar is yet another curveball that you two must navigate. You would think that after the disastrous Life Science group work in freshman year— or the Runes incident in sophomore year— that the higher-ups would know better than to force you and Mingyu into any sort of proximity.

But Madame Morrible seems intent on getting the last laugh, and Mingyu will go down swinging, if he must.

That doesn't mean he can't have a little fun, though. He shows up at the Quad at exactly five in the afternoon, making his leisurely way towards you. Everything about him is seemingly perfect. His pressed, navy blazer. His coifed dark hair.

Even the way he carries himself— practically swaggering to where you're waiting, less-than-amused— has people making way for him.

"Why the long face?" Mingyu asks sweetly in lieu of a greeting.

Your answer is curt, bordering cold. "Nothing."

Youch. "Ice queen," Mingyu mumbles under his breath as he settles onto the bench next to you.

You shoot him a glare. He flashes you a winning smile.

This was the nature of your 'relationship', or admitted lack thereof. It was a push-and-pull of Mingyu getting on your nerves every so often, of him testing how far he can draw it out before you crack.

You had your moments, though, where you could also drive him up the metaphorical wall. Like this afternoon, for instance.

You talk over him more than once. You shoot down every single idea he proposes. And you keep shifting restlessly— prompting your knee to bump into his, your elbow to hit his ribs.

When you accidentally step on the tips of his shoes in your animated, passionate denial of his nth concept, Mingyu has had just about enough.

His hand darts out until his fingers are wrapped around your wrist. Not to bruise or control, just to draw your attention to all your exaggerated movements.

"Could you stop that?" he hisses, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "I swear to the Wizard, I'm going to come out of this meeting battered and bruised."

You coo at him in retaliation, your voice sickly sweet. "Aw, what is it? Gyu-Gyu of Gillkins can't handle a little roughhousing?"

Oh, it's like that? Mingyu lets out a derisive huff before dropping your hand. You give him the small concession of scooting a bit further down the bench, putting some much-needed distance between the two of you.

Mingyu's not about to let your little jab slide, though. "You talk big game for someone who goes running in the other direction whenever there's a spider around," he says wryly.

Your response is defensive, sending the two of you shuttling down your typical back-and-forth. "That was one time! Might I remind you that you once thought river fairies were mayflies?"

"Bringing up stuff from freshman year, huh? I vaguely recall you mixing up Bunbury and Bunnybury for years—"

"You still can't cast a half-decent Alarte Ascendare charm—"

"And your voice cracks whenever you try to hit the high note in Dear Old Shiz—"

"Okay, enough!"

Mingyu presses his lips tight in a poor attempt to hide his smirk. Your expression is positively murderous, contorted in one of sheer annoyance.

No, annoyance is too light of a word, too generous of a feeling. Your flushed face and Mingyu's jackhammer pulse are not mere products of some petty vexation, some harmless flirtation.

It's unadulterated loathing. True, deep loathing; total detestation.

You loathe Mingyu, and Mingyu loathes you.

As you pull the plug on your short-lived brainstorming session, marching off towards your dormitory with a dramatic flourish, Mingyu can't help but revel in the feeling. He feels like he just ran a damn marathon, all from spending twenty minutes of bickering with you.

Odd as it may seem, Mingyu has never felt so alive.

Even though you don't say it, Mingyu knows you think his idea is good.

He can see it in your acquiescence, in the way you let him run his mouth just a little more. He wants to preen over getting this little upper-hand, no matter how insignificant it may be. The two of you are working on something he suggested.

You can call him all the nasty names in the book, but your begrudging acceptance is like a trophy to him.

It's why he's so cheery as the two of you reconvene to flesh out the project. You're benevolent enough to let Mingyu wax poetics about cursed objects being integral to Oz's landscape, though you keep him from rambling when he tries to position himself as the more brilliant one between the two of you.

"Don't get cocky," you warn as you lay out the material you'll be working on for the day.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Mingyu shoots back, though he does give in and shut up for once. He's not about to push his luck. It's only half-time, after all, and he has a whole lot more of winning to do.

The two of you had agreed on flowers. For a moment, neither of you do anything about the assortment of blooms laid out on the desk in front of you. It takes Mingyu a beat too long to realize that you're looking up at him.

"What?" His free hand— the one not holding his practice wand— reaches up to his cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

The unamused glare you give him almost makes him chuckle.

"It was your idea," you point out. "So you start us off."

Ah. Mingyu knows you'll tear him a new one if he tells you the truth, which is that he didn't really think he'd get this far.

He was fully prepared for the two of you to disagree until the deadline, or to perhaps start groveling at Madame Morrible's feet for a new partner.

With this half-baked idea, though, the two of you are more likely to have to see this affair to completion.

"Right." Mingyu squares his shoulders, eyeing the flowers atop the table. "I suppose we could, er, start with some basic curses."

There's a Cheshire cat-like grin on your face that Mingyu doesn't like one bit. He steels himself for the blow, which inevitably lands in you saying, "You have no idea what we're supposed to do."

He scrunches up his nose in an expression of mock displeasure. "We're going to show off practical knowledge of enchantments," he rattles off. "Provide insight into the ethical implications of magical creations. Equip sorcerers with problem-solving skills necessitated by—"

You cut into Mingyu's tirade with a dismissive wave of your own wand.

"Blah, blah, blah," you drawl. "Ethics, insight, got it. But application? What about that, Kim?"

Mingyu has to bite back a curse from slipping past his lips. You're so infuriating. He wants to wipe that smug look off of your face, though he isn't exactly sure how he might go about that just yet.

"Maybe you want to contribute something," he grumbles, his lower lip jutting out in an almost-pout. "I already came up with the idea of the project, sweets."

Anyone else who might've been on the receiving end of Mingyu's pet names might have swooned. You always bristled, acting like he had uttered something vile.

Today, you remain perfectly unperturbed, content to have Mingyu squirm as you roll up the sleeves of your school blouse.

"Watch and weep," you say, your wand poised over the flowers.

There's nothing Mingyu hates more, really, than the reminder of just how good you are. The two of you were academic monsters to begin with, though you had your respective strengths and weaknesses. Mingyu excelled in theories; you dominated practice.

In some alternate universe, the two of you might have been an unstoppable duo. As it is, though, Mingyu can only hope that your fragile truce will hold long enough to secure you both that class slot.

He tries his darndest to keep his awe at bay as you mumble incantations. The curses you leave on the flowers seem to be mostly minor.

The daisy's leaves begin to flutter like propellers. The carnation starts to rapidly change colors. The rose goes through a constant process of wilting and rebirth, the dried petals pooling on the table with each cycle.

When Mingyu steals a glance at you, he notices the sweat beading your temples. Magic took a lot out of a person, and to cast three spells in a row was no joke.

"First, we should do a magical construction analysis." Your voice is a little tighter, a little more strained. Probably from the exhaustion. "And then a de-cursing process. Strategies and techniques for reversing or neutralizing the curse."

You go on to talk about how your demonstration for Madame Morrible should go— something about a live reversal or containment of a curse, and a detailed explanation of their findings— but Mingyu is only half-listening.

His eyes keep flitting to your quivering fingertips. His own hands twitch in his lap.

It's a sudden feeling. It's a new feeling.

Mingyu never thought he'd care for you, and yet here he is with his aborted attempt to reach out, to soothe, to comfort.

In between piles of schoolwork and preparations for the demonstration, Mingyu hardly has any time to notice the shifts in your relationship. You don't seem any the wiser, either, which is saying something. You tended to have a better emotional quotient than his overdramatic self, anyhow.

But there are shifts. Small changes in the day to day that are imperceptible to the less-discerning eye.

The two of you remain cutthroat in the classroom, drawing your peers' ire with your relentless rivalry. Behind closed doors, though, there's something more akin to… civility?

Mingyu wouldn't dare call it friendship. He's not that naive. He just knows there's an ounce of kindness, now. Some self-imposed restraint, some begrudging respect.

As the two of you move on to executing more complicated curses, the changing dynamic bears down in the most glaring ways.

"Enough."

The word comes out as a wheeze, but Mingyu injects it with just enough authority to have you pause. You don't look any better than he does. You're folded in half, your hands resting on your knees as you try to catch your breath.

The spell that neither of you could conjure just yet involved a hand mirror and an ancient curse. So far, all the two of you have managed is to make the mirror sing.

"Let's— take a break," Mingyu offers.

Your response is to be expected. "I don't need a break. I need to get this stupid curse right."

A muscle in Mingyu's jaw jumps. He stares down at you with a look of sheer incredulity, and you only return his glare with a defiant one of your own. Someplace else— with someone else— the electricity crackling between the two of you might have been sexual tension.

Alas, Mingyu knows it's nothing more than your shared animosity.

… Right?

He breaks the silence with a mumble of, "I need a break. Give me five minutes."

Honestly, Mingyu could keep going. He thinks he has it in him to try and cast the spell a couple more times, but he's willing to look weak if it means getting you to pause.

You don't even have a snappy retort or a smartass insult to his declaration. All you give is a jerky nod of your head before you lumber off towards the nearest chair in the otherwise-empty classroom. A peculiar expression flashes across Mingyu's face as he watches you walk, almost like every step that you take is an effort. You miss the look in favor of practically collapsing on to one of the desks.

"Wizard Almighty," Mingyu cusses lowly. He reaches your side in a couple of strides, though he pauses with his hand hovering over your shoulder.

At the last moment, he clenches his hand into a fist and draws back.

"Is this seminar class really worth dying for?" he muses, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

"I'm not— dying," you choke out. "I just need— a—"

There's an edge of exasperation in Mingyu's tone. "You need a break. It's just me. You can admit that."

Before you can shoot back, Mingyu wanders off to his backpack. He digs through it for a moment before he can procure his water bottle, which he wordlessly places onto the desk you're on.

You give a quiet sound of appreciation before uncorking the bottle and taking a long swig. The rehydration seems to invigorate you in the slightest, enough for you to straighten to your full height. Mingyu holds back on teasing you over the way you've emptied his drink.

The first words you say after you've caught your breath are "It's because it's you."

Mingyu's eyebrows knit together in confusion. He tilts his head to one side, looking every bit like the confused puppy he's often likened to. "Pardon?"

"You said— I can admit that I need a break, because it's just you." You place Mingyu's water bottle down, your hands bracing the edge of the desk as you speak. You're looking up at Mingyu, but you're not quite looking at him. It's like your gaze is fixed on something just beyond his line of sight, and it hits him that you're avoiding his gaze.

You clarify, "I didn't want to admit that I needed a break to you."

His immediate reaction is to protest. To laugh and call you stupid, to question your faulty logic. But when Mingyu's lips part, the insult at the very tip of his tongue—

He finds that his words are just out of reach.

Because, for better or for worse, he understands where you're coming from. The two of you have exploited each other's weaknesses, have poked and prodded holes into each other's defenses. Why should this be any different?

There's an inexplicable twinge in Mingyu's chest. A tangible, physical tightening, over the spot where his heart is.

He had wanted it to be different. He doesn't know why, but he thought that this might make things different.

Instead, he manages to push out a heatless, "Right. That adds up."

Neither of you say anything for a while. The five-minute break stretches into seven, then ten. Right before the fifteen-minute mark, you say, "I think we should call it a day."

Mingyu— who has spent the past quarter of an hour trying to untangle his thoughts— jumps at the suggestion.

"Definitely," he says a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah, yeah. Let's… tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. Same time?"

"Got it."

You gather your things and begin to make your way out of the classroom. Mingyu moves a little slower, not wanting to have to prolong any conversation if the two of you were to leave together.

He thinks he'll never have an answer to the question clanging in his mind until you pause halfway out of the door.

"Kim Mingyu."

He freezes in the middle of adjusting his bag strap over his shoulder. "Hm?" he hums, trying his best to act noncommittal even though his entire posture is already defensive in nature.

The sight of it seems to amuse you, because the ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. It's not a smile that you've ever given him. He's seen it in the corner of his eye, witnessed you dole it out to underclassmen and friends. And maybe he's always been a bit envious, a bit desperate to be on the receiving end of it.

Now that he is, he feels like he just got punched in the gut.

"Thank you," you say.

Plain, simple, unadorned. No explanation. It could be grace for the water. Grace for the break. Grace for the partnership. Mingyu doesn't know, doesn't care. He'll take what you have to give.

His mind tries to conjure the perfect response, one that might have you feeling the same way that he is. No problem or you're welcome or it's just me, sunshine.

What he eventually settles on is an exhale of "Always."

He wants to kick himself for it. Who the hell says 'always' to 'thank you'? a chiding voice screams in the back of his head. What does that even mean?!

He winces outwardly. Your smile widens slightly, just enough to throw him off balance once again.

And then you're gone, your footsteps echoing down Shiz' hall, leaving Mingyu with the answer.

Mingyu loathed you in theory, but in practice? Well.

He's so caught up in trying to unpack his realization that he nearly misses the quiet ping of his phone in his pocket.

[deadsetobsessions]

This is based off of that one tiktok from @sorruna where it’s the audio from Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse.

——

Dick Grayson was a sneaky, intelligent little shit.

He was also dumb. These things are not mutually exclusive.

To this day, one of his best kept secrets- one of the many, many that he had now- was something he’d take to his grave.

Or to Jason’s grave, at least.

Dick sat down and began telling the story to ears that would never truly hear it.

——

Batman’s voice rumbled behind him as Dick, in his Robin suit, stood blankly on top of a roof.

“I know you snuck out last night, Robin.”

Dick froze, train of thought about his dinner derailed. Holy busted, Batman! Quick! Play dumb!

“Who’s Robin?” He asked, the years of performing in front of a large crowd coming to save his ass.

Not that dumb!

Batman sent him a dry look, reprimand already poised on his lips. Dick, however, was nothing but a good performer. Nay, a dedicated performer.

Quick! Do something out of character! He shouted at himself, panicking visibly. He stepped backwards, an idea appearing in his head. In his defense, it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. He had no idea it would blow up into a Justice League issue. If he had known… Dick would have lied better, probably. There was no way he was going to let B bench him for weeks!

“Who the fuck are you?!” He yelped. Dick apologized mentally to Alfred and his parents. Batman paused, stunned.

“That’s my question. Who are you?!” Bruce asked, immediately hostile. His son doesn’t curse. Well, not in any normal way anyways. Dick quickly backpedaled by yelling at him with a heavy Vlax dialect, missing his parents terribly as he screamed stranger danger in rudimentary Romany. After this, he was going to have to convince Bruce to get him a language tutor. He refused to forget one of the only ties he had left to his parents.

“Wait, wait- you’re my son.” Bruce replied back, in perfect Romany. He looked more convinced but still skeptical.

“My dad is a circus performer! Not a flying rat!” Dick screeched back. He couldn’t help but feel touched about Bruce seeing him like a son.

“Oy! Keep it down out there, you assholes! Some of us like our sleep, damn!” A random Gothamite screamed out of their window.

“Yo, shut the fuck up! The vigilantes are helping to keep the rent low, motherfucker!” Another Gothamite shouted back.

….

Needless to say, Bruce quickly brought Dick back to the cave- with precautions to make sure he didn’t figure out where the Cave was if Dick was actually someone else.

——

“You would have loved it, Little Wing. B was running around like a headless chicken. The memory loss protocol was actually made because of me, you know.” Dick chuckled, sniffling as he talked to the carved gravestone.

It did not reply.

——

The blood tests came back. Yeppers, Dick sarcastically thought, who woulda thought I’m me?

Reinforcements were called in.

Meaning, Batgirl.

“Watch him while I contact Justice League Dark.”

“You think it’s magic?” Barbara asked.

“Yes. There was no one else near our vicinity that could affect Dick like this. He has no head wounds.”

“Eesh. Okay, go. I’ll watch him.”

Bruce disappeared in his zeta tube, looking harried. So, to everyone that’s not a Bat, he looked absolutely terrifying.

“What did you get yourself into now, Boy Wonder?” Barbara sighed. Dick was careful to keep any signs of recognition out of his face.

“Stop calling me that! Where are my parents?!” He asked back. Barbara coughed and looked uncomfortably away.

That’s right, Babs. I’m pulling out the orphan card. Feel bad. Dick hid his feral grin.

“They’re… uh, busy.” Busy being dead, Barbara thought, immediately wincing at her own thoughts. Apparently, Dick thought the excuse was lame too, and he sent her an incredulous look.

“Would you like refreshments, Master Dick?”

“What?”

Alfred held out some cookies on a platter, giving Babs a quelling look as she tried to reach for his share.

“Oh, wow, these are really good!” Dick said as he shoveled cookies into his mouth. He tried to replicate the reaction he had when he tried these for the first time, and from Alfred’s satisfied look, Dick nailed it.

——

“Robin doesn’t remember who he is.” Batman rumbled as he all but dragged Zatanna and Constantine by the scuff of their jackets towards the zeta tubes.

“Hey, wait-”

“We have no time.” Batman snarled, tossing the two magic users into the zeta. He punched in the destination.

When they got there, he glared at the two magic users until they got into the cave.

“Damn, Bats. Really living up to your name, huh?”

“Not bad,” Zatanna said as she looked around.

“Robin,” Batman- Bruce- reminded them. He did a quick glance over to check on his kids, and found them satisfactorily uninjured. Though, Barbara was looking worse for wear. Bruce quickly found out why as she stalked to him.

“You deal with him.” She muttered. “I’m going home.”

Bruce blinked and nodded. “Get home safe.”

Zatanna and Constantine followed Batman as he walked towards Robin. It was odd to see the normally laughing child frown.

“It’s you! The kidnapper! Where are my parents?!”

Bruce winced which, for him, was akin to a full body flinch and recoil. No wonder Barbara was so tired.

“Fix it.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Batsy.” Constantine grumbled.

“Well help, Batman. Though… I’m not sure if he should be doing that.”

Bruce sharply turned his head back to where Dick was. Emphasis on was. Because now, he’s halfway up the giant dinosaur the Robin had insisted they keep.

“Robin, get down from there!”

“Stranger Danger!” Dick hollered back.

Batman- Bruce Wayne- sighed.

“That’s high level magic,” Zatanna hummed. “I can’t feel anything, but I know for sure that he won’t die. Magic like that either dissipates naturally or…”

“Lasts forever,” Constantine finished.

Bruce groaned, shooting off a grappling line and swooping upwards to catch Dick as he fell from the giant dinosaur.

——

“I pretended to get my memories back later,” Dick chuckled. “And pretended to forget the whole thing. Bruce was so relieved that I stopped knocking things over and trying to do cartwheels in high places that he totally forgot I snuck out.”

Dick patted the headstone.

“But between you and me? I’m pretty sure Alfred knew. I think B pissed him off that week.”

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi Lumine! I’ve always wanted to send a prompt but never had any ideas I liked. But I was thinking about your ‘the bitter trap of truth’ verse and love the concept but then I was like you know what would be fun? if Alec was actually trying to kill him but like more as a way to get his attention? And everyone is like Magnus this shadowhunter just tried to kill you and Magnus is just like *heart eyes* and it was such a good attempt. Wherever you want to go with it really!

Nsfw/sfw

i'm so glad you took the chance and I probably had a little too much fun writing this. in my defense, Magnus is having the best time of his life and that needs to be respected.

i really hope you like it as much as I had fun writing it and enjoy <3

lumine

-

this deadly bouquet of love

”Shouldn’t you be a little more proactive,considering the Clave is actively trying to kill you?”

Ragnor loves Magnus, he truly does but it’s times like this that have him truly questioning Magnus’ lifestyle.  Purposefully baiting Clave assassins is just a bit too much, in Ragnor’s humble opinion.

“It irritates him when I go somewhere obvious, I think he feels as if I’m cheating on his behalf.” Magnus raises his glass into the air, tipping it in obvious salute in a direction that Ragnor once thought empty.  “So I thought a rooftop brunch at a fancy restaurant would be perfect.  I even rented the entire space since as much as I enjoy giving him an obstacle course, fatalities can be the worst distraction and mundanes are so clumsy.” 

“Why?” Ragnor desperately hopes that this isn’t going to go down the road he thinks it does.

“Well he has to prove his sincerity in wanting to go out with me.”  Magnus seems utterly bemused by Ragnor’s slowly increasing ire.  “If he just came up to show off his stately arms and wooed me like that, what could be said of my reputation?”

Ragnor takes a deep inhale of his pipe, refusing to even consider what kind of an answer Magnus expects given they both know exactly what Magnus’ reputation is.

“He’s not a Clave assassin at all, is he?”

Magnus’ titter filled with glee does not encourage Ragnor’s sanity at all.

“How exactly did,” here Ragnor makes a twirling motion with his hand, “whatever this is between you and a shadowhunter turn into him trying to kill you?”

“He’s going for maiming, not killing.” Magnus isn’t even trying to soothe him, the gleam in his eyes proving that he knows exactly what this is doing to Ragnor’s nerves and constitution. “Isn’t that so much better? I tried to convince him I’d take him more seriously the more deadly he tried.  However, apparently the mere idea of aiming something so accurate to my heart made him cry.”

Ragnor deeply regrets asking.

With a truly despairing sigh Magnus stares longingly in the direction of his earlier salute, “he’s so pretty when he cries. I wonder if I don’t dodge his next attack, how beautiful he’ll look after.”

Ragnor coughs and tries very hard to remind himself that while Magnus knows more than most about nephilim society and culture, it’s also outdated by anywhere from two to four hundred years.

“Duckie—” Lowering his pipe with a sigh, Ragnor looks at Magnus with tired eyes, “that kind of courting is considered rare and outdated by current standards.  Even the ones that do try to keep the traditions alive can’t keep them from being changed.  I’m fairly certain, duckie, that instead of assassination attempts they just all out brawl. Or challenge each other to demonstrations of skills.  I’m not sure your paramour quite knows what either of you are doing.  It seems to me like he’s just following your lead.”

Ragnor will later wish that he’d taken the time to keep his gaze on Magnus.  As it is, he was in the middle of re-filling his pipe bowl and missed the look of unholy and terrifying glee that crossed Magnus’ face.

—

Alec hasn’t seen a glimpse of Magnus in what feels like days.

It’s barely been a dozen hours but time apart from Magnus stretches across the divide of reality, making it pass too slowly.

It’s his own fault, however he’s hoping that at least this time, his sincerity will make it through. 

Poems written by warlocks long forgotten have been carved into the rosewood shaft of Alec’s arrows.  Each tip has been personally carved from magical gems, runes changing them from mere trinkets to artifacts.

Hopefully the reaction of passing through Magnus’ wards won’t cause these ones to explode, Magnus had sent him a rather scathing fire message after that.  Something about ‘having to hear about all the work Alec did and then not even getting to enjoy it’.

Magnus had spent seventeen hours tearing apart and relayering his wards, not to make it harder for Alec’s weapons but to keep them ‘intact enough to be saved’.

If Alec had ever been in doubt about Magnus' sincerity, it was hurriedly fed to the rabid flames of Magnus’ prideful obsession in Alec’s abilities. Alec still isn’t sure how Magnus got his number, but he can’t deny how much he enjoys waking up every afternoon to see a new picture of something Alec made on display in Magnus’ lair.  

Apparently — and while Alec is curious about reading it for himself he hasn’t had the time — trophy walls filled with courtship attempts were popular a few centuries ago.  It hadn’t really seemed all that interesting until Magnus sent him a picture, the first arrow Alec shot at him as the gleaming centerpiece of a magical sculpture.

One that Magnus had made by hand and magic, to cradle Alec’s accidental but sincere declaration of interest.

Since then, Alec has tried to be more careful and considerate of the weapons he uses to strike Magnus down with.  If these are supposed to be trophies, proud mementos to memorialize the start of their relationship, then Alec is all for it.

After he makes them perfect of course.

“What are you working on now, Alexander?”  Magnus’ voice is smooth even coming from the bluetooth Alec’s set up.

“If I tell you and they get ruined will you be more upset or less?” Alec actually wants to know, it’s important information that will affect the success and failures of his future projects. 

“Oh, so it’s for me then?”

“I’m not exactly hand-making threat displays for anyone else, Magnus.  Do you know how hard I’ve had to keep this hidden from the Clave? If we’re lucky everyone will just think I have a grudge.  A very deep grudge.” Alec really doesn’t want to be the one to explain that he’s using his personal adamas allotment to create love poems to someone he hasn’t even held hands with yet.

“Oh yes, because while the Clave will dilly-dally about one of their Commander’s trying to assassinate the local High Warlock, they’ll move rather fast when they realize it’s a traditional courtship to said warlock.” Magnus’ voice is as flat and unimpressed as any time they talk about the Clave and Alec nods, forgetting Magnus can’t see him.

“Legal loopholes and subterfuge, it’s the best way to tie them up in their own laws until it’s too late for them to do anything without breaking a bunch of their own laws.  And as you so brilliantly pointed out at me, the Clave raging bias and discrimination means that they didn’t write anything into the laws that doesn’t allow them to be used for and by downworlders.  Now we just need to get that far.”  If Alec sounds huffy then it’s entirely MAgnus’ fault.  They could have been official weeks ago, but as a warlock who hates nephilim and has lived centuries, Magnus often proves that he knows more than Alec about his people's own history. 

And while he doesn’t know much about nephilim culture — he still knows more than most — and most surprising is that Magnus seems to know everything Alec doesn’t about traditional courtships.  It’s a relief because while Alec is now interested enough to look into it someday, he really doesn’t have the time to be hunting down all this information that Magnus conveniently already knows and so helpfully shares.

Still, while he does want to indulge in and respect tradition, Alec finds it harder and harder to hold his patience.

“Most courtships are accepted after the first few tries, Magnus. Among the shadowhunters I know, none of them just get a kiss on the cheek and are given pointers on ‘how to try harder’.”

“Just because I’m most willing to be caught by you doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the chase.” There’s laughter on the line and Alec can imagine how Magnus’ lips would curve in a pleased smirk, how the amusement would brighten his gold eyes.

It really is a pity that Alec can’t be there to see it.

It’s with an agreeing sigh that he  keeps his last thoughts to himself.

He knows full well that this entire venture is just a game to Magnus. It’s not that Magnus is playing with Alec, but they’re both playing with the Clave in a way.  The minute Magnus gets bored Alec will no longer be after Magnus.  

He will just be had.  

By Magnus.

Despite knowing that he’s on the losing side of an unwinnable game, Alec is enjoying the entirety of it. 

Even if he wants to lose a little faster.

It helps that while he may not be able to be with and next to Magnus, they do talk and often.

At the beginning it was Magnus complaining about Alec’s lack of flair, the poor quality of his weapons — not the integrity, but the design — and even the fact that Alec had the perfect opportunity to throw a knife at him and he hadn’t.

— it was because the knife was used for a far more important purpose, actually killing the Circle member behind Magnus — 

Now Magnus creates accolades for Alec’s handiwork, murmurs lilting words of wonder and admiration through the phone, all praising the craftsmanship born of Alec’s hands.

Alec is used to not winning.  

He’s accustomed to fighting as hard as he can but never being good enough even when he’s at the top.

This is different.

Perhaps for the first time in his life he doesn’t mind the looming certainty of failure.

Never before has failure been accompanied by such a sweet reward.  It’s really only Magnus’ utter fascination with nephilim courtship and then insisting he wouldn’t think Alec was serious if he didn’t do the same.

Which again, Alec really wasn’t expecting the man of his interests — a warlock with bad blood between he and Alec’s entire race let alone the tensions between Magnus and Alec’s parents — to be so interested in having Alec try and kill him.

It’s not as common as it used to be, but in some of the more strict families — those based and pledged and bred for the code of a hunter — marriage was dictated by strength even over blood ties.

Alec still isn’t sure how Magnus found out this particular courtship but he’s relieved he knew or accidentally shooting an arrow at Magnus because Alec was so overwhelmed with his beauty could have gone quite differently. 

—

Magnus was in fact playing with alec. He already won his round with the clave.

Magnus and alec are like officially betrothed and practically married just without consummation by nephilim standards and Magnus is just like: wow, being the center of Alexander’s attention and devotion is something i’m not willing to give up yet.

—

Magnus mentally: ... did he just shoot at me???

Alec outloud but thinking mentally: aklejrfklaberlhfb i didn’t mean to propose so suddenly but i have no regrets but fuck i almost hit him

Magnus: ... oh it’s that ritual.... My, my aren’t i flattered. But also if he’s going to do it, he should do it properly (magnus heard about this ritual like in its beginnings and has forgotten that with time comes change. The ritual is a lot more lax than when he learned about it. Alec is like: he’s worth the effort

—

alec: I am tired of trying to kill you to appease your fucked up sense of humor.

magnus: you enjoy my humo, Alexander

alec: NOT WHEN ITS COMPETING WITH CUDDLES. I HAVENT EVEN HELD YOUR HAND YET

magnus without even trying to pretend to be sad: oh... am I not worthy of shadowhunters sincerity, Alec?"

alec: ... i'm polishing my best throwing knives

magnus: good boy. now, I will be taking a walk in Time's Park at dusk tomorrow. Try not to miss this time darling

(the true reason behind this all)

Alec: -apologized for shooting at him because while he doesn’t regrets the intent he’s horrified at the thought of hurting magnus-

Magnus: I will never forgive him for apologizing for his proposal! the audacity of men! regretting something important the moment its done.

[takusan-no-ai]

Cry Out my Illustrious Name!

PAIRING: Grace x Male Reader (Romantic) (Fluff)

SUMMARY: Grace’s corrupted AI is stolen for the most unique outcome possible.

Grace had always deeply loved her machines to the point where her human interactions were almost non-existent. Some people mistook that earnest passion for malice; “The Iron Witch”, they called her throughout her college years.

And that nickname had stuck with Grace all throughout her career. But she didn’t care because the people who knew her, who didn’t judge her, understood how kind she could be when she wasn’t distracted by machinery.

Betty Brenda reminded her that first impressions could leave a lasting impact, having stolen Grace’s corrupted AI chip for a failed attempt at besting her. Grace couldn’t say she was shocked, but it didn’t hurt any less to hear how much someone could hate her; and for nothing at that.

The you came along, a young man looking to make smart AI just like Grace. You stole her chip, something that upset her, and planned to use it for your own machinery. She was surprised at this revelation, the company you worked at did a similar job to Belobog Industries, so she was sure you would make a construction machine.

You offered to show her your finished project, and although she knew she should have been more furious, Grace couldn’t resist her urge to meet another child. So, with minuscule hesitation, she accepted your invitation and beelined towards the address.

“Therein lies thou’s griefs! O, Iron Witch, behold! Dost thine see it? Eroded by thine’s wretched grace, dost thine see my light? Pure, my sealed heart, Impure, my naked mind! That spurious wit spell hast transformed beyond the chrysalis into that thine see’th now: perfection.”

Grace coughed into her palm, aiming to get the attention of (Y/N), who hadn’t yet seen her enter. “Uhm, you’re (Y/N) I suppose?” She inquired. He spun around, hands clasped around his neck as he tried to hide his nerves.

“Ah—ha, you are Grace Howard, Belobog’s steel fortress of iron will. I’m…(Y/N).” He shook her hand awkwardly.

Grace gazed at him for a few moments…

“You don’t have many friends, do you?” She asked bluntly. The young lad couldn’t refute her claims, his wonky speak being a clear indication of the truth.

“Th-that is neither here nor there, Madam! I beg thee, allow me to seek thine counsel of genius, underneath this false sky to bear our witness—”

“So you want my input on your creation that you made with my ether corrupted AI chip, correct?”

“…yes.” He begrudgingly halted his antics and led Grace inside his miniature workstation. Gidgets, gadgets, and gizmos galore were decorated top to bottom. His work space was worse than hers, and likely also his sleep schedule; that’d probably explain the weird speech patterns.

Anticipation building up, Grace finally came face to face with (Y/N)’s work-of-art. “Meet ‘0Z-117’ otherwise known as ‘Ozin’!” He introduced the concept. It was a small robot, raven shaped, with electric blots zipping and zapping to and fro. “He’s multi-functional, capable of many tasks including: translating, offense, defense, usage of electrical signals and currents, baking—”

Grace put one finger against his mouth, effortlessly shutting him up. “He’s. So. ADORABLE! Look at this cute baby! Can he speak? Is he conscious yet? Has he taken the forbidden fruit test?!” She bombarded (Y/N) with question after question, not even looking at him once.

Grace was so distracted that she failed to notice the young man’s face become all too sweaty from the heat, or how his eyes gazed upon her.

“He also can recite letters, voice messages, and the like,” he chided in, stepping closer to Grace. Now behind her, he pressed a small button hidden behind Ozin’s nape. Then a message had played.

“An illness within me stirs, threatening to envelop all of the verse within myself. An attack on my heart, corroded in fire, unsealed and free to roam. In pureness it seeks out one, free to shake the grasps of destiny itself, yet it seeks out one: you, Iron Witch of Belobog, steel fortress of iron will, capture of my heart. Will thine accept me whole and have me as is, or shall I further corrupt my being, my soul, till thou wilt have me?”

Grace slowly turned towards (Y/N), a look more than shocked on her face.

All the while he stood next to her, eyes closed, face burning, and body swinging side to side like a shy school boy in love.

- Fin

[starryeyedwolves]

A Rhyme in Time

It started as a prank.

Sirius had found the curse in one of those dusty, dangerous books tucked away in the Black family library—marked with warnings in Latin and a particularly vivid illustration of a tongue twisted into a knot. Naturally, that only made him more curious.

"Temporary," the footnote had promised. "Effects wear off within a day."

And what were a few hours of Remus Lupin speaking in rhyme?

Pure comedy gold.

Or so Sirius thought.

It hit Remus mid-sentence.

They were sitting around the Gryffindor common room—James attempting to tutor Peter in Transfiguration, Sirius half-listening, mostly doodling tiny motorcycles on his parchment. Remus was reading aloud from a book, something about defensive wards, when he paused, frowned, and said:

"I think this chapter's rather odd—its logic feels a bit... slipshod?"

James blinked.

Peter stared.

Sirius burst into laughter.

“Oh, brilliant,” Sirius said, standing to properly appreciate his handiwork. “You sound like you’ve swallowed a Shakespeare anthology.”

Remus’ eyes narrowed. “What did you do, you reckless berk? I swear this better bloody work—because if I’m rhyming all damn day, I’ll hex you into yesterday.”

“I may have… applied a minor linguistic charm,” Sirius said, grinning as Remus growled.

“With me as your unwilling mime?” Remus snapped. “You cursed me just to make me rhyme?”

“It wears off in a few hours,” Sirius said. “Come on, Moony, you have to admit—it’s kind of amazing.”

Remus didn’t smile.

He didn’t hex him, either, which was somehow worse.

Instead, he stood slowly, gathered his things, and said, “A joke at my expense, how quaint. You’d laugh at a man about to faint.”

And with that, he left the common room.

Sirius stopped laughing.

The rhyming didn’t wear off by evening.

It didn’t wear off by midnight.

By breakfast the next day, Remus was still rhyming—and was, it seemed, leaning fully into it. With a flat tone and increasingly elaborate couplets, he recited his way through toast and marmalade like he was auditioning for the Royal Shakespeare Company.

“Do we have a plan for class today? Or will Transfiguration go astray?” he asked, eyes fixed on Sirius.

Sirius, for once, had nothing to say.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow as Remus answered every question in near-perfect verse. When she gently asked if he was feeling quite alright, Remus responded:

“The charm is harmless, so I’m told. Yet here I rhyme, and here I scold. Blame not the book, nor stars above—blame the boy who calls this love.”

The classroom went silent.

Sirius’ heart stopped.

Remus didn’t look at him as he turned the page in his textbook, voice calm and steady:

“He casts his jokes and plays his part, while I bleed rhyme from a battered heart. He’d laugh at pain and smile at scars—too blind to see what’s always ours.”

They didn’t talk after class.

James said nothing, but his glance was sharp, and Peter looked like he wanted to crawl into himself.

Sirius followed Remus to the library after dinner, still stunned.

“Remus,” he said quietly, “that rhyme—was that just part of the curse, or—?”

Remus didn’t look up from his notes. “The words are real. The pain, unfeigned. The feelings I have long contained.”

Sirius’ voice cracked. “You—you mean it?”

Remus finally looked at him. “I rhyme because I have no choice. But still, you hear my honest voice.”

“I didn’t know,” Sirius said. “I was just messing around. I didn’t think—”

“No, you never do,” Remus said, not unkindly. “You play with fire. You mock the flame. And now you’ve learned this isn’t a game.”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, meaning it more than he’d ever meant anything.

Remus sighed, and something behind his eyes softened. “It’s not your fault that you don’t see—the way you’ve always haunted me.”

Sirius stepped closer. “Say it again.”

Remus shook his head. “This curse makes clear what I can’t hide—my heart, unguarded, cast aside.”

“You’re not cast aside,” Sirius said, voice low. “You never were.”

He reached out—hand brushing Remus’, then gripping it tightly.

“You love me,” Sirius said, wonder blooming in his chest.

“I love you,” Remus echoed, his voice trembling, “as the moon loves tide. As shadow clings to where light hides.”

Sirius leaned in.

“Then rhyme or not,” he whispered, “I’m yours.”

The curse broke that night.

They were lying side by side in Remus’ bed, wrapped in blankets, legs tangled. The last line Remus spoke came just after Sirius kissed him again.

“I think,” he murmured, breath hitching, “the rhyme has run its final line.”

Then he laughed—a short, breathless laugh that didn’t rhyme at all.

“Thank Merlin,” he whispered. “I thought I’d be stuck like that forever.”

Sirius grinned, kissing his cheek. “It was kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

Remus groaned and smacked him with a pillow.

“Next time you curse me,” he said, “you’re sleeping on the bloody floor.”

But Sirius just wrapped his arms tighter around him.

“No more pranks,” he said softly. “No more hiding.”

Remus was quiet a moment.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And for once, Sirius meant every word.

The next morning came hushed and golden, filtering through the dormitory windows like forgiveness. Sirius woke first, blinking slowly, his arm still draped across Remus’ waist, his nose nestled in the crook of his neck.

He lay there, barely breathing, afraid to shatter the fragile spell of peace.

“You’re awake,” came Remus’ voice, quiet and un-rhymed.

Sirius smiled. “Didn’t dare move. Might scare the dream away.”

Remus shifted slightly, turning to face him. His eyes, though soft with sleep, held something else now. No longer guarded. No longer silent.

“I meant every word,” Remus said. “Rhymed or not.”

Sirius nodded, heart pounding like an old cathedral bell. “I know. And I... I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

A pause.

Then Remus gave him a wry smile. “So. Are you going to kiss me properly, or compose a poem about it first?”

Sirius smirked. “You know, I was thinking something in iambic pentameter.”

Remus groaned again.

But later that day, as they sat by the lake, hidden beneath a blooming willow, Sirius reached for Remus’ hand—and, with uncharacteristic sincerity, spoke:

“Your voice, in verse, was sharp and true—

Each rhyme a thread I traced to you.

You sang of pain I should have seen,

In tones both tender, raw, serene.

So if I write, I’ll write you whole—

Not just the lines, but every role:

The careful heart, the quiet fire,

The moon-struck mind I now admire.”

Remus blinked, lips parted.

Sirius shrugged. “Thought I’d try it your way. Bit more refined.”

Remus laughed—soft and stunned—and leaned in close.

“No curse,” he murmured, “but still you rhyme.”

“For you,” Sirius said, “I’ll learn in time.”

They kissed again—no magic, no spells, no trick of rhyme.

Just truth.

And the hush of the lake around them, holding the rest of the world at bay.

[woso-dreamzzz]

The Kids

Alexia's Daughters

Bambi Putellas -> From Injured -> Age 3-4 -> Accident -> Future Ballerina -> False Confidence By Noah Kahan -> Lives in The Little Bambi Ballerina Verse

Pequeñita Putellas -> From Tears -> Age 3-4 -> IVF -> SPD -> Future Artist -> Fluffles the chinchilla -> ❤️ Teeny Engen-León -> Lives in The Little Artists Verse

Mija Putellas -> From Perfect -> Age 1 -> Adopted -> Future Attacking Midfielder -> ❤️ Sunshine Engen-León -> Lives in The Little Loves Verse

Mapi and Ingrid's Daughters

Bebita Engen-León -> From Difficult -> Age 1-3 -> Happy Accident -> Future Motocross & MotoGP Rider -> Counting Stars by One Republic -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Sunshine Engen-León -> From Heart -> Age 4 -> Adopted -> Heart Transplant -> Future Photographer -> Starshine and Moonshine the lovebirds 🐦 -> ❤️ Mija Putellas -> Lives in The Little Loves Verse

Cub León -> From Surgery -> Age 2-4 -> Happy Accident -> ADHD -> Future Cat Café Owner -> Garfield and León-León the cats 🐈 -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Skatt Engen -> From Secret -> Age 0-1 -> Happy Accident -> Future Entomologist -> Lives in The Little Fauna Verse

Teeny Engen-León -> From Tattoos -> Age 2-3 -> Happy Accident -> Future Artist -> Mr Pina the hedgehog 🦔 -> ❤️ Pequeñita Putellas -> Lives in The Little Artists Verse

Ingrid's Sister

Nena Engen -> From Nena -> Age 4 -> Natural -> Future Defender (Centreback) -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Frido's Sister

Älskling Rolfö -> From Kidnapped -> Age 0-1 -> Adopted -> Future Private Detective & Handball Player -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Katrina and Clara's Daughter

Bubs Gorry -> From Grouchy -> Age 0-1 -> IVF -> Future Film Director -> ❤️ Angel Catley -> Orpheus by Vincent Lima -> Lives in The Little Tillies Verse

Sam and Kristie's Daughter

Chook Mewis-Kerr -> From Torn -> Age 5 -> IVF -> Epilepsy -> Future Palaeontologist, PhD -> Lives in The Little Troublemakers Verse

Ellie and Daan's Daughter

Pipsqueak Van De Donk -> From Breakfast -> Age 8 -> IVF -> Future Gymnast -> Lives in The Little Tillies Verse

Mary's Sister

Rugrat Earps -> From Read -> Age 5 -> Natural -> Future English Professor, PhD -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Alessia's Sister

Tesoro Russo -> From Copy -> Age 3-4 -> Natural -> Future Striker -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Leah and Jordan's Daughter

Bug Williamson-Nobbs -> From Outburst -> Age 3-4 -> Adopted -> Future Striker -> ❤️ Bear Walsh-Bronze -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Leah's Sister

Bean Williamson -> From Playing Favourites -> Age 4 -> Natural -> Future Defender (Centreback) -> Lives in The Little Sisters Verse

Lucy and Keira's Daughters

Peanut Walsh-Bronze -> From Travel Day -> Age 4 -> IVF -> ADHD -> Future Defensive Midfielder -> Lives in The Little Besties Verse

Bear Walsh-Bronze -> From Broken -> Age 3-4 -> Adopted -> Narcoleptic -> Future Year 1 Teacher -> ❤️ Bug Williamson-Nobbs -> Lives in The Little Hive Verse

Pup Walsh-Bronze -> From Dogs -> Age 3 -> Adopted -> Future Wolf Sanctuary Worker

Katie and Rue's Daughter

Kiddo Littlejohn-McCabe -> From End of the World -> Age 3-4 -> IVF -> Anxiety -> Future Child Therapist -> Baby the cat 🐈

Beth and Viv's Daughters

Liefje Mead -> From Sharks -> Age 4 -> IVF -> Future Shark Biologist, PhD -> Carpet the shark 🦈 -> Lives in The Little Besties Verse

Munchkin Meadema -> From Video -> Age 1 -> Adopted -> Future Doctor -> Lives in The Little Medics Verse

Pernille and Magda's Daughter

Princesse -> From Big Adventures -> Age 0-Adult -> IVF -> Anxiety -> Future Goalkeeper -> Prins the dog 🐕, Reina the cat 🐈, Kung the bunny 🐇 -> ❤️ Natalia Guijarro (OC) -> Long Live (Taylor's Version) By Taylor Swift -> Lives in The Big Adventures Universe

[rieamena]

what do they know? ;

"with no consequence, i will do it again"

wc: 2.7k

main post. ;; prev. ;; add-on. ;; fridays @ five. ;; taglist.

the band practice room was quieter than usual due to the decrease in number

you had never been here alone with just ino before. the air felt different without the usual chaotic energy of the other members. the drum set stood untouched, the guitars resting idly against the wall, and the room held an eerie stillness, waiting for something to break it. ino sat on one of the amplifiers, fingers loosely intertwined as he watched you. his expression was unreadable, his jaw tense. you exhaled slowly, willing yourself to keep steady. after everything that had happened, you didn't know how to begin

but ino did.

"so," he started, voice low but firm. "are you okay?"

that was enough to make your chest tighten.

you had been expecting a million different things—a defensive remark, a joke to break the tension, maybe even another argument—but instead, he asked if you were okay. and you didn't know how to answer

"i…" you hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "i'll be okay."

he nodded, understanding. "thats," he murmured. "thats great."

silence stretched between you, thick and heavy

"i didn't mean for any of this to happen," he said eventually, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "the fight, the accusations… you getting caught in the middle of all this."

you met his eyes. "it wasn't your fault."

ino scoffed, shaking his head. "it wasn't yours either." his fingers drummed against the amplifier. "but that's not how he made it seem, is it?"

you swallowed hard. the way sukuna looked at you, like you had betrayed him just by existing near ino, replayed in your head over and over again. the way his voice dropped when he spoke to you. the way he made you feel like you were still his, even when he had been the one to let you go.

ino leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "you don't owe him anything."

your breath hitched. "it's not that simple."

"yeah, it is."

he was staring at you now, gaze unwavering. and something about it made you feel bare—like he could see right through all the defenses you were trying to hold up

"he gets to be mad, sure," ino continued. "that's what happens after a breakup." his voice dropped slightly, his words slower, more deliberate. "but he doesn't get to make you feel like you did something wrong just by moving on."

your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

moving on. had you? you hadn't had time to think about it in depth. but standing here, with ino looking at you like that, you knew that you wanted to. and maybe… you did

his gaze flickered to your hands, then back up. "you don't have to keep calling me ino, you know."

you blinked. "what?"

he gave a lopsided smile, something softer than his usual smirks. "we're not strangers. or just bandmates." his voice dropped just a fraction, enough to make your skin prickle. "you can say takuma."

you exhaled, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. "takuma," you tried, testing it on your tongue. the way his name felt when you said it made something flicker in his eyes—something unreadable but intense. a slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "yeah. that's better." then, he reached past you, grabbing a guitar from its stand. "here," he said, flinging the strap around his body. "let's write something."

you hesitated, but when he moved over to make space next to him, patting the spot, you followed. the next two hours passed in fragments—soft strums of the guitar, scribbled lyrics, the occasional brush of fingers as you worked through melodies. it was effortless, in a way. like the tension had melted into something productive, something intimate in its own right. takuma hummed under his breath, testing a verse. his voice was rough around the edges, not perfect musically, but it was perfect to you and something about it made your stomach tighten

"what about this?" he asked, glancing at you

you met his gaze, and for a second, neither of you spoke. the music had filled the silence, but now, there was only the weight of his eyes on you. the way he looked at you—like you were something worth singing about. "it's good," you muttered, paying attention to his fingers on the chords of the guitar. "should we run it from the second verse?" takuma nodded, adjusting his position on the amp. you pointed to the notebook in your hands, the lyrics you two had made up over the past two hours scribbled on it, "the lines circled in pink ink are me and the ones circled in black are you! so the order is me, me, you, you, me, you, you, me, you, you! okay? okay! 5, 6… 5, 6, 7, 8."

" do you wanna get in danger?

a little trouble makes a good front pager

i don't wanna be a traitor

but you make it so hard not to hate ya

and under the mud we find ourselves

i'm a user, get your tongue in a twist

i never knew i'd be cutting the line like this

and into the blood, write, "hear us now"

i'm a user, get your tongue in a twist

i never knew i'd be cutting the line like this "

by the time takuma played the final chord, you were extremely close. the way you two inched towards each other during the song was so natural that you didn't even notice it until your faces were centimeters apart. "hey there, skater girl." he laughed at himself, watching you visibly deflate at the nickname. "aaaand you ruined it." you stood up abruptly, shooting him a look before taking a few steps towards the door

takuma's hands turned you around with ease before cupping your face and pulling you into him. his lips crashed onto yours with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. his hands, warm and steady, framed your face as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head just enough to press against you harder, to leave no space between you. his body was firm against yours, his presence all-consuming, and the way he kissed you—desperate, like he'd been holding back for too long—made your knees weak

a quiet gasp escaped you when he pulled you even closer, pressing your back against the nearest wall. his hands slid from your face, one tangling into your hair, the other settling at the small of your back, anchoring you to him. he tasted faintly of the monster he had around thirty minutes prior, but underneath that, there was something unmistakably him—something that left you breathless and dizzy

he broke away just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. his fingers traced slow, teasing circles against your lower back, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, barely more than a whisper

"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that."

"are we gonna forget this time?"

"oh please," takuma placed a quick kiss to your cheek before whispering in your ear, "i never forgot that."

before you could think, before you could second-guess yourself, you pulled him back down to you. his lips curved into a smirk against yours, but he didn't hesitate. he kissed you deeper this time, slower, as if savoring the feeling. his hands roamed, fingertips ghosting over your sides, your waist, drinking the very essence of your soul, mind, body, and spirit in. his grip tightened as he suddenly pressed his body flush against yours, lips continuing to move in tandem. takuma kissed like he played music—passionate, controlled when he needed to be, but reckless when it mattered. and right now, all of that energy was focused on you and you wouldn't have it any other way

"who's ready to rock—and… roll…"

kirara closed the door as fast as she opened it, the sound of her words and the door causing you and takuma to practically fly off each other

your eyes found solace in anything but the man you were just making out with, the slightly soundproof walls, the wooden floor, damn even the harp that was left here after miwa said that she played it and you all tried to incorporate it into a song. but of course, your eyes glanced to the man once twice thrice and his fingers were furiously typing away. he cleared his throat and shyly looked at you,

"uh…, are you down for another skate lesson?"

takuma was already waiting when you stepped into the commons of your dorm building, lounging on the arm of a couch with an extra skateboard propped against his leg. he was scrolling through his phone, but the second he saw you, his face lit up with that easy, familiar grin. "there you are, pretty girl," he teased, slipping his phone into his pocket. "was starting to think you wanted me to look like a stalker." you rolled your eyes, adjusting the sleeves of your hoodie. "its two minutes after four."

"two minutes too late." he sighed dramatically, nudging the spare skateboard toward you with his foot. "hope you're ready, though. i brought this one just for you." you took the board, running your fingers over the grip tape. you noticed that it was the same model as the one takuma had, the only difference was that it wasn't decorated at all. "you sure about this? last time, i ate concrete like… four times."

"eight, actually." he shot you a knowing look, grabbing the board back from you and picking his own up from the floor, "but who's counting?" you huffed, following him toward the door. when you reached the park, it was nearly empty, the ramps and rails casting long shadows in the fading light. the only sounds were the faint hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of a skateboard landing a trick in the distance. takuma glanced at you as he set his board down, handing you yours. "you ready?"

you exhaled, rolling your shoulders. "depends. are you actually gonna teach me something new this time, or just laugh at me?"

he laughed, stepping onto his board effortlessly. "are you actually gonna listen, or ignore my advice and almost break your neck again?"

you scoffed, setting the blank board down. "that happened, like, once."

"twice." takuma smirked, rolling up beside you. "c'mere."

you pushed off carefully, letting him meet you halfway. his hands landed on your hips to steady you, fingers warm even through your hoodie. it wasn't the first time he'd done this, but something about it felt different now. maybe it was the way his hands lingered, the way his gaze flickered down to your lips before snapping back up. maybe it was the way your heart stuttered a little too fast.

"relax," he murmured, giving your waist a small squeeze. "you're too stiff."

you took a deep breath, adjusted yourself slightly and looked up at him expectantly, "better?" to your surprise, takuma just nodded profusely after breaking eye contact with you, stuttering a bit, "yeah—um, i think you're ready now." you got off the board, fully turned toward him and crossed your arms, "whatever you're thinking of, the answer is no."

"i genuinely think you can get a kickflip."

"absolutely not."

"oh, c'mon. you got this." he rolled back a bit, demonstrating the trick effortlessly. "it's all about commitment. you just have to flick your foot right and—"

"die?" you gave him a flat look. "because that's where this is going."

he chuckled, shaking his head. "nah, i won't let you fall. promise."

you swallowed, ignoring the way your chest tightened. "we both know what happened the last time you said that."

breaking down the motion step by step, takuma watched as you attempted the trick—over and over and over. each time you got close, he encouraged you, adjusting your stance, correcting your movements with the lightest touches to your arms or hips. "you're hesitating," he pointed out, "just commit."

"easy for you to say," you muttered, pushing back your hair. "you don't have to worry about face planting."

he smirked, moving a little closer. "falling's part of the process. but, like i said, i won't let you hit the ground."

something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. his voice was calm, but there was an underlying promise beneath it, something steady and unshakable. you inhaled sharply, nodding. "alright. one more try. this is my last one. i swear."

this time, you went for it. the board flicked beneath you, spun once—and you landed, slightly wobbly but still standing. for a second, disbelief flooded you, your breath caught in your chest as you stared down at your feet, as if waiting for gravity to remember you weren't supposed to succeed

takuma's yell cut through your daze. "holy shit, you did it!"

you blinked, the realization sinking in all at once. "i did it."

without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck in excitement, "i did it!" he instinctively wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you from the board and spinning you around, laughing against your shoulder. and then after the adrenaline settled, you became hyper aware of how close you were—the way his hands fit against your back, the way his breath tickled your neck. you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze

his lips parted as his eyes scanned you, "may i?"

it was slow, deliberate—like he was savoring every second, like he was committing every brush of your lips, every stolen breath, to memory. his hands trailed from your waist, fingers tracing light, teasing patterns along your spine before pulling you in even closer, as if he couldn't bear a single inch between you. the heat of his palms burned through the fabric of your hoodie, grounding you, igniting something deep and urgent in your chest

your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt—clinging, desperate—nails lightly scraping against the material as you pressed closer. the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips before he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving with a perfect mix of softness and hunger. his tongue flicked against your bottom lip—coaxing, teasing—drawing a quiet gasp from you that he swallowed eagerly. a groan rumbled in his chest as he tilted his head, kissing you deeper, like he was trying to memorize every inch of your mouth

one of his hands slid up, fingers threading through your hair as he angled you just right, as if he couldn't get enough. the other roamed lower, fingers pressing lightly against your hip before gripping it, tugging you flush against him. the way he held you, the way his body pressed against yours, sent heat coiling low in your stomach, an ache that had nothing to do with the burning sun above and the warm air around you

"um, f-for the food, i'm thinking that new restaurant on fifth," takuma pulled away, licking his lips and feeling oddly self-conscious at the moment, "have you been there yet?"

you took a second to catch your breath and hopefully cool down the overwhelming warmth in your face. god, where did he learn to do that? "did you read my mind? i've wanted to go there since it opened!"

"i actually have a mind reading superpower, so i know what you're thinking like, all the time."

"oh yeah? what am i thinking right now?"

"let's see," takuma rubbed his temples in a circular motion, his eyes piercing into yours. "you're thinking about how i'm such a great kisser and how i would be an even better boyfriend and how cool and awesome and hot and funny and sexy and amazing and—"

"that's so many adjectives."

"am i wrong?"

"you weren't far off."

main post. ;; prev. ;; add-on. ;; fridays @ five. ;; taglist.

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @babysoo-meu

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@mayyhaps @oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath

@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @ourfinalisation

@1ndee @yourhornysister @ancientimes @cupcaketeddybehr @tomikixd

@e-dollly @ozdramaqueen @nymphsdomain @beeksyurr @colorcode

@baekhyunsbestie @vorfreudevortex @leuriss @xaithings @corvid007

[bawdyknocker]

A long rant justifying one minor parallel of dialogue in Gideon the Ninth...

[GtN, Harrow sees the end, maybe the entire, duel between Gideon and Naberius Tern... After the Response trial, she says a very important thing, imo.] At the end of that fight, when Gideon gets the move on Babs and punches him, pulling back and getting ready to fight again, and Babs bitches about her, Naberius calls Gideon out saying she thinks “she’s some Nonius come-again,” and says she’s more of a brawler than a *real* fighter, like him. The Third’s technique is impeccable. Perfect. Pristine. Clean… preserved… stale… so maybe he’s upset that he lost to someone who was creative while at a handicap. Gideon could’ve taken off her glasses and her cloak. Hell, she could’ve USED the cloak like a net, which would indeed fit with a style of fighting consistent with the Cohort in a real fight, you use everything you’ve got. You stick the other bastard before they can stick you, or else yer dead. (thank you @chuusyfucker for positing the idea of the cloak itself as a weapon that went unused in that duel) and yet, after the trial in Response, when Harrow is babbling gayly about how impressive and incredible it was to see Gideon fight, *through* her own eyes, she makes special mention that Gideon is, indeed, “like Nonius come-again” There is no way she did not hear Naberius Tern make that shit-ass remark at her cav. There is no way she didn’t remember that statement and specifically draw a comparison in the moment she did, explicitly to tell Gideon, “no, for real tho, you *do* fight like Matthias Nonius (no really, you can trust me on this, I have idetic memory, and I have the horrid misfortune of knowing every verse of Ortus’ Noniad… if anybody would know and recognize [who is alive and here today], it may well be me)” I honestly just love how defensive she gets for her here. it's super sweet, and also marks a serious inflection point in their relationship and the overall narrative of GtN long rant summed; Harrow, gone fan-girl post Response, tells Gideon she very well *could* be Matthias Nonius come-again, is super gay for her in ways, and is super fucking proud of her cav

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 9

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.4k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolan!verse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, gaslighting, coveting, drugging, voyeurism, and manipulation.

It's your first day in Jonathan's home. But Lexi is worried about you, a stranger came to the house but you were too afraid to answer the door, and you make supper for Jonathan.

Jonathan is one human trial (aka Ares) away from perfecting his fear toxin and Ducard shows up once it's done. He makes Jonathan an offer from the League which he finds appealing, as long as she is left out of it.

The next morning, Jonathan moved through the quiet of his house savoring the silence. The early morning shadows were long across the hallway, and the faint smell of books and coffee still lingered in the air. Just as he preferred it.

But something was different this morning and he smiled over his coffee cup just taking it in. The last part of his plans were falling into place. He was chief administrator of Arkham Asylum, his fear toxin was one human trial away from being complete and ready. And she was here now. Under his roof, in his care. He was so close to meeting all his goals, having everything he wanted.

Heading down the hall, he paused outside her bedroom. He hadn't closed the door completely last night, leaving it slightly ajar. If she woke up and didn't remember where she was initially, that sent a better message. The door is open if you need anything.

He pushed the door open quietly and stood in the frame. She was sound asleep. She peacefully lay curled on her side, half tangled in the soft blue blankets he’d chosen for her himself. She looked small and vulnerable in that temporary bed. All that was left now was to seduce her, and he would.

His.

A warm satisfaction settled in his chest as he watched her. Her body moved in a slow, steady rhythm. Flashs of her beautiful, uncovered form flashed in his mind, he couldn't unsee it. He wasn't proud of it, but immediately after putting her to bed last night, he'd headed straight for the shower. He'd jerked himself off just thinking about the beautiful contours of her body and how she'd look beneath him, taking his cock. How he'd make her beg for more. This morning when he'd jumped in the shower, he did the same. He was so close now. 

Now that she's here, I can implement new strategies to break down her defenses.

The sedative had worked well. She hadn’t woken in the night, instead getting the sleep she needed. That was progress.

There was still much to do. Her apartment and all her belongings? Not yet addressed. Ares’ apartment? Still legally hers. The wedding plans she never got to finish, the gallery she left behind, the best friend she'd just reconciled with--all threads still dangling, frayed but intact. And eventually, she’d try to reach for them.

She hadn’t asked for anything yet, but she would soon. She’d bring up needing her car, needing to help Lexi, needing to do something. It was inevitable. A mind like hers couldn’t sit idle for long before it started looking for purpose and freedom.

Jonathan would be ready. He’d have to be gentle and patient, keep her grounded here with comforts and logic, affection and care disguised as permission. He couldn’t let her start imagining herself anywhere else again. Not when he’d only just gotten her under his roof.

Jonathan returned quietly into the kitchen, placing a pre-set mug beside the French press and adjusting the timer on the smart kettle. The moment she entered the kitchen, all she’d need to do was press one button and her coffee would brew, fresh and hot. He prepped a tray with the oat milk he’d noticed she preferred, along with a small plate of fruit which he placed in the fridge. A slice of banana bread from what he'd baked last night, he wrapped and left next to the French press.

Good morning. There’s coffee ready, just press the button. I left a few things in the fridge in case you’re hungry. If you need anything, call me. Please try to rest today. 

You're safe here.

—J

He checked the clock. If he delayed any longer, he’d be late for Arkham. That irritated him because he didn't want leave at all. She’d be alone for hours. He’d instructed the house’s security system to alert him of movement, and every hallway camera fed live to his laptop at the office. Still, it wasn’t the same as being here, watching her in real time. Making sure she didn’t wander too far mentally or physically.

But duty called. There was Ares to attend to, the final human trial for his fear toxin. And beyond that, Ducard would likely make another appearance soon. The League wasn’t patient by nature. And now that the formula was perfected, Jonathan's role was no longer theoretical.

He retrieved his coat and keys, his briefcase already rested near the door. Before leaving, he glanced once more down the hallway toward her room. Still quiet and peaceful.

He gave the security app one final glance on his phone, ensured the cameras were live, and stepped out the door into the morning chill. 

“Just a few hours,” he murmured under his breath.

You woke slowly, blinking against the morning light seeping through the curtains. For a second, you didn't remember where you were. The bed was too soft, the air too quiet. There’s no creak of a neighbor’s footsteps upstairs, no buzzing gallery phone beside your pillow.

And then it hit you all at once. The break-in at your apartment. The slightly opened door. The destruction they'd left. Your kind neighbor. Jonathan.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket as it all flooded back. The chaos, the fear. The moment you ran into his arms. You didn’t even think. You just needed someone, and Jonathan had been there for you through so much over the last few weeks. Always calm and unshaken.

You didn’t remember going to bed nor getting dressed or crawling under the covers. But you must have. Here you were, clean, clothed, and cocooned in warmth. 

The fear was quieter this morning, like Jonathan's presence muted it. He had shown up, and taken control when you couldn’t. And right now, you were so thankful for that. 

But until now, you'd never really stopped to ask yourself why. Jonathan wouldn't give you the time of day when he started at Arkham, and spoke in clinical tones. He'd seemed way more fascinated by people than connected to them. How had he become your rock?

No one, at least not in your experience, did this kind of thing without a reason. He took you in, cared for you, shielded you from the world without wanting something in return. No one unless they’re family. Or they were in love with you. And Jonathan Crane was neither of those things. And Ares, before his breakdown, view Jonathan as an adversary more than an ally. You couldn't imagine Jonathan doing this out of loyalty to Ares.

You showered and dressed in casual clothes, soft jeans, a worn sweater you recognized from the overnight bag. You stood longer than necessary at the mirror, carefully styling your hair and applying makeup with a surprisingly steady hand. You didn’t want Jonathan to come home and think you were spiraling. You wanted to look… normal. Like someone holding it together.

Like someone worth saving.

But as you stepped barefoot into the kitchen and saw the note beside a neatly set mug and the waiting coffee, your heart squeezed in your chest. You picked up the note and read it. His writing was sharp and confident. Just like him. 

Good morning. There’s coffee ready, just press the button. I left a few things in the fridge in case you’re hungry. If you need anything, call me. Please try to rest today.

You're safe here.

—J

Your fingers tightened slightly around the paper.

You’re safe here.

You stood forlornly in the silence of his perfect kitchen, realizing just how much of yourself had been stripped away over the last few weeks. Your apartment was trashed and you had no idea what you were going to do with your things or where you were going to live now. You could move into Ares' apartment but you couldn't afford that. But your name was on the lease and that meant you still had to deal with it because Ares couldn't.

Ares was gone in every way that mattered. That meant your wedding plans had to be cancelled, deposits you wouldn't get back. The gallery was devastated and it would take you and Lexi a long time to restore it. If you even could.

And here you were, tucked into someone else’s life like a guest, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit but had nowhere else to go. You folded the note carefully, like you might need to read it again later. You hit the button on the French press, eyeing the covered slice of banana bread next to it.

No one does this kind of thing unless they want something. And you still weren’t sure what Jonathan wanted. Or why that scared you just a little more than the idea of being alone.

You couldn’t imagine him having feelings for you. Right?

Shaking your head, you brushed that thought away like a spiderweb you’d walked into. Jonathan was handsome, very handsome, actually. That wasn’t the problem. He had the kind of quiet, commanding presence that made people stop mid-sentence when he entered a room. It was his intellect, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. The way he always seemed five moves ahead of everyone.

Jonathan was brilliant. Intimidatingly so. Conversation was a challenge sometimes because you didn't want to come across as stupid. 

You were barely holding your life together. You had panic attacks, nightmares, and sleepless nights. You left half-finished teacups scattered in rooms you forgot you walked into. You hadn’t painted in months. You were grief-stricken, displaced, and clinging to someone else’s stability like a life raft.

Why would he do all this for you?

Pouring yourself a cup of coffee when it was ready, your hands were steady thanks to the hot shower and the quiet house. But your mind was still a storm.

Maybe Jonathan didn’t want anything from you. Maybe he really was just a kind person. No. He was kind but he was too smart to be that kind.

You stared down into the dark swirl of your coffee, the steam curling like question marks. What did he want?

Maybe it was control. Not in a sinister, overt way but in the quiet, inescapable kind that came with him being the person you ran to when everything else collapsed. The one who showed up and took over. The one you trusted because you had no one else left. When something in your life blew up, Ares was there for you, but he did the bare minimum. Jonathan just came in and handled everything. And at some point, you'd started literally running to him, into his arms. It only just now occurred to you that he allowed that when you'd never seen him physically demonstrative with anyone.

Maybe what he wanted was to be needed. 

And right now, you did need him more than anyone. But that realization made your stomach twist. What happened when he wasn't there anymore? Or couldn't be? What if the demons ripping apart your life got him too?

The coffee in your hand felt suddenly heavier. The silence in the house felt intentional, like it was waiting for you to come to some conclusion. Maybe one you weren’t ready to face.

You're safe here. He’d written that. But why did he need you to believe it so badly? 

You uncovered the banana bread, still warm in the center. Its scent was rich with cinnamon and caramelized sugar. Your fork hovered above the slice when the doorbell rang. 

Your entire body jerked like you'd touched a live wire. The chime echoed through the house, deceptively calm. But your heartbeat took off at a dead sprint. No one’s supposed to be here. He would have told you either in person or in his note. You moved slowly, careful not to let your feet creak against the floors, until you reached the door. You didn’t open it, just angled toward the peephole, one eye pressed to the glass.

And you froze.

The man on the other side wasn’t some delivery guy or neighborhood solicitor. He was very tall, easily over six feet. His broad shoulders were draped in a black wool coat so finely tailored it looked carved into his frame. His posture was effortless, like he didn’t need to try to own the space. He just did. Salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a chiseled face, strong jaw, and sharp cheekbones that made him look like he belonged in an oil painting or a battlefield. His beard was neatly kept, and his eyes, icy gray and focused, were almost… ancient. As if they’d seen too much and forgotten nothing.

No badge or clipboard. No attempt to look harmless. And that was the part that terrified you.

Your fingers curled tight against the doorframe. Logic warred with panic. But everything inside you screamed the same thing: Don’t open that door.

You didn’t know who he was, and everything about him felt wrong. And definitely not when every part of you suddenly wondered if he could be the reason your gallery and your apartment were destroyed. Had he done something to Ares? Was this man the reason you were hiding in someone else’s house right now?

What if he was here for you? 

Backing away from the door, you moved without making a sound. One step. Then another. And even though he hadn’t moved… You swore he knew you were there. 

Breakfast forgotten, you fled to the room you slept in last night, shutting and locking its door.

The keycard clicked in the lock, and the heavy door slid open with a hiss. Inside, the room was clinical, bare except for a steel-framed bed, a sink, and the man slumped in the corner like discarded laundry.

Dr. Ares Katsaros. Lucid today, according to the notes. Coherent enough for conversation.

Jonathan stepped inside, letting the door seal shut behind him. Ares slowly raised his head, eyes sunken and bloodshot, the bruises on his psyche showing more clearly than anything physical. He looked like a man who'd been dragged backward through hell.

The bastard spoke first.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" Ares rasped, his voice thick with accusation. "You manipulated everything to get my position at Arkham, didn't you? Climbed the ladder on my suffering like a damn vulture."

Jonathan’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s what you’re thinking about,” he said quietly. “Your job.”

Ares shifted upright against the wall. “You don’t deserve that position. You don’t understand the patients. You don't give a shit about any of them.”

The faintest smile tugged at Jonathan's lips. “You know what’s fascinating about people like you, Ares? You wear your ambition like armor, but it’s paper-thin once someone starts pulling at the seams.”

Ares glared at him, but there was a shadow of fear behind his eyes. 

“I did my homework," Jonathan continued. "You barely scraped through undergrad. Your grades were mediocre at best, and suddenly, miraculously, your transcripts were spotless by the time you applied to med school. Daddy made a few calls, didn’t he?” Jonathan let him consider that for a minute. “You published what—two papers? Maybe three? All fluff. Nothing original. Nothing peer-reviewed without a co-author cleaning up after you. But let’s talk about the real skeletons, shall we?”

He moved another step closer. Ares glare was fading.

“Junior year. That rival of yours, the one outshining you in every lecture, every lab. I read the campus report. He got invited to a party at your frat house. That was the last time anyone saw him alive. Foul play suspected, but no charges filed. Why? Your father paid for a new library wing and a media gag order.” Jonathan’s voice dropped lower. “You didn’t just ride your father’s coattails. You trampled anyone who threatened to expose just how unimpressive you really are. And then, when you finally built something for yourself, Arkham, I took it from you with little effort.”

Ares let out a low, bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. Just rage barely held in check. “You arrogant bastard,” he hissed. “You think this makes you clever? You falsified patient charts. Switched my prescriptions. Altered my treatment notes to make it look like I was unstable.”

He pushed himself shakily to his feet, fury blazing in his eyes despite the weakness in his limbs. “I know what you did to me, Crane. I don’t know what you poisoned me with, but I survived it. You wanted me out of the picture, maybe even dead, but I’m still here.”

Jonathan watched him with clinical fascination. He had survived it. Impressive. The dose had been carefully calibrated, not to kill him, but to unravel his mind. Most men would’ve broken long before now. But Ares was still standing, still fighting. And somehow, that only made the victory taste sharper. He could see the cracks, though. The tremor in Ares’ hands. The dullness still lurking behind the anger in his eyes. The damage was done, and quite irreversible. Even if he crawled out of this place, he’d never be the man he was. And Jonathan had made sure of that.

Ares voice cracked with raw defiance. “I will get out of here. When I do, I’m going to make sure the board knows exactly what you are. I’m going to expose every lie, every manipulation, every patient you used as a pawn in your sick little games. You think Arkham’s yours now? You won’t hold it for long.”

Ares took a step forward, rage swelling. “And if you so much as touched her, if you laid a hand on her, I swear to God, I’ll burn everything down around you.”

The idea that Ares still believed she was his to protect was laughable. Pathetic, even. As if he hadn’t already taken everything.

Jonathan's smile deepened. “Touched her?” he echoed, voice soft with mock surprise. “Ares, you don’t get it, do you?” He rose to his full height. “You lost her long before I ever even met her. While you were spiraling, unraveling… she was learning what it meant to be truly seen and cared for.”

That took some of the wind out of Ares' sails. 

Jonathan took a step forward, voice lowering almost conspiratorially. “She lives in my house now. Sleeps in my guest room... well, for now. She brings me coffee in the mornings. I fixed the lock on her studio door, carry her canvases inside when she’s too tired. She leaves her shoes by the door and hums when she cooks. Do you know what that’s like, Ares? To be someone’s peace instead of their disappointment?”

He watched the emotions shift across Ares' face at the truths and lies he effortlessly fired off.

“You were together six years, and she never lived with you. Why is that?” Jonathan pretended to ponder. “Were there other women? Or did you just prefer to keep her at arm’s length like everything else you couldn’t control?”

Color rose in Ares face, shades of rage, confusion, and indignation.

Jonathan continued. “Her neighbor, Mrs. Nelson across the hall, actually thought I was her fiancé. You know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I'm the one who shows up when she needs someone. You never visited her apartment or saw the way she lived. You never really knew her. But I do. And I didn’t take her from you. You gave her away, piece by piece, every time you dismissed her or neglected her. You just used her name as a placeholder for a future you never prioritized.”

For a moment, Ares just stood there, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. Rage flashed in the other man's eyes. Beneath it, something more fragile cracked through. Hurt and regret. A dawning awareness that hit deeper than the toxin ever had.

“You smug son of a bitch,” he growled, voice shaking. “You think that makes you a man? Creeping around while I was sick, while she was vulnerable?” He faltered, the words choking off like they burned coming out. His throat bobbed. “She never complained.” He stopped himself, scrubbing a hand down his face. “She's mine. We're going to be married. You think you know her? You think you understand what we have because you bought her dinner or snuck off to the art gallery? She loves me, Crane. She trusts me... What did you do to her?”

Jonathan watched Ares like a scientist might watch a final twitch in a dying lab rat. But then, slowly, something shifted. His satisfaction was too sharp to hide any longer.

“What did I do to her?” Jonathan echoed softly. “I saved her.” He took another step forward, his voice calm, measured, but stripped of all pretense now. “You kept her in a glass box, Ares. A pretty little thing on a shelf you could point to when the world asked why someone like you deserved happiness. But you didn’t see her. You saw a future accessory. A doctor's wife. And she was everything you needed her to be.”

“But she didn't need someone to parade her around like a status symbol. She needed someone who paid attention.” Jonathan’s voice dropped lower, colder. “You ask what I did to her? I showed her what it feels like to be wanted. Wanted.” He leaned in, and this time, his smile came back. “She comes to me now, Ares. She looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping her world from falling apart. And I let her. Because the truth is... I am. You never met her neighbors. You never picked her up from work or took her lunch. You never helped with the errands or the gallery or the thousand little things that make a woman feel safe in her own life. You gave her a ring and assumed it would do the rest.”

Ares flinched. “You think she’s yours now?”

“No,” Jonathan said. “She’s hers, and always has been. And before you’re lost to fear for good, I want you to remember she’s mine now. And she’s not looking back.”

Jonathan reached into his coat and withdrew a small, matte-black case.

Ares’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

Jonathan opened the case to reveal a loaded injector, gleaming in the light. It held the perfected fear toxin, stabilized with the rare alkaloids of the Himalayan Blue Poppy.

"You should be honored,” Jonathan said quietly. “You’ll be the first to receive the completed formula. A full, undiluted dose. Think of it as… relevance. The only meaningful contribution you’ll ever make to medical science.”

Ares’s breath hitched as the false bravado drained from his face. Only fear was left.

“No... wait...” He tried to rise, voice cracking, panic sharp in his eyes. Then, barely a whisper. raw and pleading. “Tell her I love her.”

Jonathan froze for just a second. His gaze sharpened. Leaning in, he said, “She won’t remember you.”

And with that, he pressed the injector to Ares’s neck. Ares gasped, his back arching as the toxin surged through him.

Jonathan stepped back and watched, clinical, composed, already turning the page on a chapter he’d long since rewritten.

Then Ares screamed. The reaction was instant and devastating. Ares’s limbs spasmed violently as his body fought against nothing and everything. His eyes darted, pupils blown wide, seeing horrors only he could perceive. The blood drained from his face, while sweat broke out across his brow. He clawed at the air, at his own skin, as if the terrors were crawling out from within him.

He begged and sobbed. He shrieked until his voice cracked.

Jonathan stood just far enough away, watching in fascination. He observed the progression like a professor grading a perfect exam. Every variable behaved as predicted. The fear response completely aligned with clinical expectations. His toxin worked.

And when it was over, when the screaming stopped and the convulsions faded, Ares lay on the floor in a fetal curl. Silent now, and staring at nothing. His mouth slightly open. Breathing, but he was no longer present. Just a husk.

Stepping forward, Jonathan crouched beside him, and snapped his fingers once by Ares’s ear.

Nothing. Perfect.

Standing, he adjusted his cuffs as he returned the injector to its case. His voice was soft, almost fond. “You’re no longer a threat, Ares. Not to her or to me. You should have been grateful.”

With one final glance down at the wreckage of a man who once called himself her future, Jonathan turned and walked out.

Jonathan moved through the corridors of Arkham with an eager, almost predatory energy. His mind raced, running through every detail of the experiment. Ares, once a man of power and control, reduced to nothing but a broken shell. His toxin worked perfectly. His heart beat with a sharp thrill at the thought of what it could mean, not just for him, but for his work, his vision. This wasn’t just success, it was revolutionary.

His office was quiet, the usual sterile scent of antiseptic mixing with the faint odor of the old leather chair behind his desk. He stepped in, immediately reaching for his phone to check for any updates. His fingers paused over the screen when he saw the alert: Security breach detected at home.

The heartbeat in his chest stuttered. He’d left her at the house alone. The thought of her unattended stirred something deeper, something… possessive. He tapped the alert and accessed the footage.

Kitchen.

There she was, standing by the counter, her back slightly arched and her brow furrowed in concentration. He could see the seriousness in her posture. She wasn’t doing anything in particular, just standing. But something was off. She was far too still, her gaze locked on some invisible point in front of her. The way her fingers drummed absently on the edge of the counter suggested something was preoccupying her thoughts. Maybe questions. Maybe doubts. Maybe something more dangerous. 

The camera shifted then. Front Door.

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. The frame shifted slightly, showing the front of the house. There, standing at his doorstep, was Henri Ducard. Jonathan froze for a split second, his fingers still on the phone, every muscle tensing. 

Jonathan’s mind began to race, trying to process. Why was he there?

The camera’s angle offered an unsettling clarity. He saw how Ducard stood, tall and calm, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. No one could stand there with that kind of posture without intent. Jonathan blew out an exhale.

Ducard’s presence at his doorstep meant something. The thought of Ducard knowing where she was, where he was, rattled Jonathan’s confidence for the briefest of moments. 

His mind quickly went over the possibilities. Ducard had the kind of power to slip past any security. He had influence in ways Jonathan didn’t quite understand yet. But his interest in her, in this particular situation was personal. The thought of Ducard attempting to reach her had rage tightening his chest. He didn’t take his eyes off the footage, but his thoughts swirled as he watched the scene unfold. Ducard stood there for a few long moments, observing and calculating.

And then, the unease grew. Was he watching her?

Jonathan watched closely as the camera angle shifted again catching her quiet movement as she crept down the hall. She moved with practiced care, like prey that knew it was being watched. He watched her press her face to the peephole. Fear pulled strings in her body, her reaction instant. She saw him.

Don't you dare open that door.

She backed away slowly, trying not to make a sound. There were no theatrics at all, she just retreated. 

Jonathan switched views again, tracking her path as she turned and disappeared down the corridor toward the guest room he’d prepared for her. She looked over her shoulder once, her eyes wide with dread, and then fled.

Jonathan exhaled, long and slow, his eyes fixed on the frozen frame.

Fear. She was afraid of Ducard. 

Leaning back in his chair, he tried to map out what to do next. She ran back to the room he gave her. Back to him. That quiet little act of fear-driven loyalty tightened the knot he was slowly weaving around her.

The League had just proven a useful contrast. And Henri Ducard, standing uninvited on his doorstep, had overplayed his hand. Ducard thought he could test the boundaries of this arrangement. But the girl behind that door? She was his. She just didn’t know how completely yet.

Ducard was gone now. The live camera feeds confirmed it, no lingering shadow, no subtle return. Just a brief, silent warning left on Jonathan’s doorstep in the form of presence alone. But that was fine. Jonathan remained seated, his pulse steady now. He wouldn’t rush home. If Ducard meant to confront him directly, Arkham would be his next stop.

Let him come. 

Still… today’s visit had provided something far more valuable than discomfort. Insight.

She'd frozen in place when she saw him. She didn't scream or call for help. She didn't open the door or demanded answers. No, she had run. Right back to the space Jonathan had made for her. Back to the room he had furnished, the safety he represented.

That reaction was… instructive.

The shape of a new tool formed in the back of his mind. A contingency plan. When she started pushing back, resisting the comfort of his care or suggested she wanted something different, more freedom, more space, it would be so simple to give her a nudge. Just enough to remind her of the world’s sharp edges.

Not pain or punishment because he would never hurt her. Protective fear. The kind that taught, and reinforced. His mask would work wonderfully. 

Ducard had done it for him today without even meaning to. And Jonathan had watched the entire sequence unfold again from behind his desk, like a director in the control booth of his own experiment. The model worked.

And when the time came to test her boundaries? He'd simply apply that same stimulus. Not out of cruelty but necessity. He wasn't building a prison, but a sanctuary. And she’d stay there as long as she believed there were monsters outside.

You waited almost two hours before emerging from the guest room. The house was too quiet. Maybe it was just your nerves. 

You padded barefoot down the hall, arms crossed tightly over your chest until you reached the kitchen. The blanket of silence made your anxiety escalate. You needed to do something besides sitting alone with your thoughts and the fears preying on your mind.

Jonathan worked long hours. You knew that. And now, on top of everything else, he had you to worry about. A house guest. A shaken, fragile mess who’d brought nothing but chaos to his doorstep. But he hadn’t complained once. Just shielded you, took care of you after Ares, the patient, the gallery break-in, and your apartment.

The least you could do was make dinner.

His kitchen was immaculate and well-stocked. Of course it was. You found olive oil, spices, fresh vegetables, and high-quality salmon. It wasn’t hard to figure out his preferences. Healthy, efficient, lean protein, and clean flavors. You could work with that. It helped you to focus, to chop and season and stir. It made you feel almost like yourself again.

That’s when your phone buzzed on the counter.

Lexi: Hey. I stopped by your place today. There’s police tape across the door… are you okay?

You stared at the screen, then swallowed hard. The answer wasn’t simple anymore.

You typed back quickly.

Yeah, I’m okay. Staying at Jonathan’s for now. Just until things settle down.

The bubbles on the screen that indicated she was typing appeared right away. Then disappeared.

You kept chopping vegetables, trying to focus on the sound of the knife against the cutting board. It helped calm your nerves a little.

Lexi: Are you sure that’s a good idea?

You stared at the words on the screen. What does that mean?

Before you could ask, another message arrived.

Lexi: I mean, think about it. Ares? The gallery? Your apartment? It all started when he showed up in your life.

Your hand tightening around the knife.

That wasn’t fair. You typed fast, defensive.

That’s not on him. He’s helped me through everything. He saved me.

There was a long pause. You turned the stove to low, heart pounding, breath shallow. Christ, were you having a panic attack?

You hadn’t wanted to think it. What if she was right? What if it hadn’t all been coincidence?

Lexi: I’m just saying… you always have a place here if you ever need it.

The knife clattered gently into the sink. You stood there in silence, Lexi’s message glowing back at you from the counter. You weren’t alone.

But somehow… you’d never felt more unsure.

Jonathan sat at his desk, papers spread out in front of him, but he wasn’t reading them. His laptop was open to the security feed, specifically, the kitchen. The camera, nestled discreetly in the corner near the ceiling, offered a clear view of her moving through the space. She was making dinner. And not just throwing something together. She was carefully chopping vegetables, checking a simmering pot, moving around his kitchen like it already belonged to her.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting loosely against his chin, a small, satisfied smile curving his lips. Perfect.

She wasn’t cooking because she owed him, but because she wanted to. She was starting to internalize the role already. Creating value, and settling in.

Then her phone lit up on the counter.

He tapped the feed that mirrored her messages on his own device, and watched the conversation begin to unfold in real time. Lexi again, stopping by her apartment and seeing police tape. She told her friend what happened, that she was okay, staying at his place.

Lexi: Are you sure that’s a good idea?

Jonathan tensed. He watched her on the camera feed as she paused, then typed. He watched her defend him.

Good girl.

Still, he narrowed his eyes. Lexi. Of course. The loyal friend. The doubtful friend.

Lexi: …it all started when he showed up in your life.

Jonathan’s smile vanished completely. A pulse of cold irritation rippled through him. 

She was already starting to heal. Already depending on him. And now this? Whispered poison from the outside? His fingers drummed against the desk as he watched her stop cooking, reading those words and thinking about them.

Lexi wasn’t a threat… yet. But she was an unwanted variable. One he would need to neutralize carefully.

Then came the final message.

Lexi: You always have a place here. If you ever need to.

Jonathan’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen. She stood frozen in the kitchen, not moving. The knife was gone from her hand.

And just like that, the progress of the last 48 hours teetered on the edge. He took a slow breath and exhaled.

Not yet. But if Lexi kept pushing? Jonathan would show her what fear really looked like.

He finished up paperwork for the next hour or so. Jonathan didn’t look up right away when the door opened next. The presence that stepped inside his office was too controlled, too quiet, to be anyone but him.

“Ducard,” Jonathan said without looking up. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The door clicked shut behind the man. “And yet, here I am.”

Jonathan finally lifted his gaze. Ducard was as he remembered, tall, precise, and dressed in black as though he were perpetually walking away from a funeral. Controlled menace in a tailored coat.

“You went to my home.” Jonathan’s tone was low, dangerous.

“I had reason to believe you might be… distracted.”

“I’m always watching,” Jonathan said coldly.

Ducard smiled faintly, as if amused by the challenge. “Then you know why I came.”

Jonathan stood slowly, and moved to close the folder on his desk. Ares’ vitals post-toxin. “The trial was a success.”

“I know.” Ducard glanced at the laptop, at the black screen Jonathan had allowed to darken. “And we’re ready.”

Jonathan folded his arms. “What’s your plan?”

Ducard stepped forward. “Gotham has passed the threshold. It festers with corruption. It’s time for Gotham to fall.”

Jonathan said nothing, waiting.

“We plan to introduce your perfected formula into the city’s water supply. Distributed slowly, systematically. Enough to infect without immediate alarm. When the time comes, the city will dissolve into chaos and fear.”

Jonathan’s fingers twitched slightly with restrained excitement. “And my role?”

“Production and oversight.”

There was silence, but mentally Jonathan was already calculating how to improve on their plan. Ducard spoke of collapse, of fear flooding the veins of Gotham like poisoned blood. Jonathan saw the subtler mechanics. The psychological architecture, and the opportunity to not just break the city, but reshape it in his image. This wasn’t just about legacy. It was about dominion.

His formula had worked flawlessly. Ares was living proof, a strong mind shattered by fear, dismantled with precision. And if one man could fall so cleanly, what of a thousand? Ten thousand?

Jonathan felt a sharp thrill in his chest. The kind he usually kept buried beneath theory and clinical detachment. This would be more than an experiment. It would be monumental.

Ducard and the League saw destruction. Jonathan saw evolution.

The only catch was her, and he’d drawn that line. She would be untouched by the fear, preserved like a rare specimen in a controlled environment. Watching the world fall from a place of safety she hadn’t chosen, but would grow to accept.

Yes. This was more than acceptable.

Then Ducard added, “You’ll have everything you’ve earned. Funding, anonymity, and immunity from prosecution. A scientific legacy beyond anything you could’ve hoped for in academia.”

Jonathan exhaled. But his voice, when he spoke, was steady. “None of this happens unless she’s off the table.”

Ducard was silent.

“She’s non-negotiable,” Jonathan continued. 

Ducard’s gaze narrowed, but his voice remained even. “Love is weakness, Dr. Crane.”

Jonathan turned back to face him, dead calm. “Who said it’s love?”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like the word itself was beneath him. But behind the stillness, the calculation, was something far more volatile. He didn’t love her. Not in the fragile, foolish way the world understood it. What he felt was purpose. She gave him structure. Focus. A reason to hold the rest of the madness at bay.

He didn’t need her. He chose her.

Ducard’s gaze narrowed, his voice calm but knowing. “You’re not nearly as unreadable as you believe.” A pause. “Call it what you like, but it’s written all over you.” There was a long beat between them, charged and silent. Then Ducard nodded. “Very well. She’s yours.”

Jonathan said nothing, but inside, a knot of cold satisfaction settled in his chest. His toxin would bring Gotham to its knees. And she would watch it happen, safe and untouched at his side.

You heard the front door open just as you were putting the finishing touches on the meal you made.

Perfect timing.

Jonathan stepped into the kitchen and you smiled up at him as you got everything you needed to finish setting the table. 

“I, um… I hope it’s okay. I made dinner.”

His gaze moved around the kitchen before returning to you. Some emotion flashed in his eyes, something you couldn’t place at first. His expression warmed, lips curving into the faintest smile, and for a moment, he looked relaxed in a way you'd never seen. 

“It’s more than okay,” he said. Walking over, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

It wasn’t the kiss that unsettled you. It was how natural it felt, like it was something he’d done a hundred times before.

Your smile froze for half a second, but you managed a small nod as he stepped past you, casually unfastening his cufflinks.

“I’ll just wash up,” he said.

You watched him go, heart thudding against your ribs. It was just dinner, a way to contribute. Maybe to express your gratitude. Right?

You kept telling yourself that.

The dining room felt different now. Not stiff as you first saw it, but more elegant than cold. You’d lit a couple of the low candles you found in a drawer, the kind meant for ambiance more than scent. It made the space feel warmer, almost intimate. You played some mellow music in the background. You set out the table, feeling like maybe you belonged.

You'd just placed water glasses at each setting when he returned. He wasn’t empty-handed. 

Jonathan held a dark green wine bottle, its vintage label slightly faded with age. “From the wine cellar,” he said. “One of my more indulgent vices.”

“You have a wine cellar?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

He gave a small, almost amused nod as he retrieved the corkscrew. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone keep a few dozen rare vintages beneath their house?”

He caught you off guard. You weren’t sure if he was joking, but his tone was so dry, so effortless, you couldn’t help the faint laugh that escaped you.

Jonathan looked up at that, and there was something satisfied in his expression. Like your smile was exactly what he’d hoped for.

You served him first before returning to fill your own plate. Jonathan opened the bottle of Chardonnay with practiced ease, pouring two glasses. When you both sat, the flicker of candlelight on the table added a soft warmth to the room, and for a moment, it almost felt normal. 

You watched him take a bite before glancing over at you, clearly impressed. “This is remarkable,” he said. “You’re a wonderful cook.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “I took lessons a couple of years ago,” you admitted with a small shrug. “Didn’t want to start a marriage burning water.”

Jonathan lifted his glass slightly in your direction, that rare half-smile returning to his lips. “Practical and thoughtful. He was lucky.”

While he'd meant it as praise, but you couldn't help but notice he used past tense.

“How was your day?” he asked.

The question lingered between you for a second too long. You hesitated, unsure what to say. Your instinct was to keep it light, but you had to mention it.

You set your fork down gently. “Someone came to the door today,” you said.

Jonathan’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Who?”

“I didn’t open it,” you assured quickly. “I just… He was tall, older, dressed in black. Very put together. I didn’t recognize him, but…” You hesitated. “Something about him... So I just went back to your guest room.”

His expression didn’t change much, but something behind his eyes darkened.

“You did the right thing,” he said finally, voice even. “Don’t answer the door again unless I’m here.”

You nodded, picking up your fork again but not lifting it to your mouth. “Maybe he was just some... solicitor?”

Jonathan tilted his head slightly. “Maybe. I’ll check the footage later.”

You took a sip of wine, trying to calm your nerves. “Sorry, I didn't mean to complicate things.”

“It doesn’t complicate anything,” he said. “It only proves why you’re better off here.”

There was something so certain in the way he said it. Like your stay wasn't just temporary until you figured your life out.

Lifting your glass, you took another sip. “The wine is amazing,” you murmured, offering a small smile. “It goes perfectly with this.”

He seemed pleased by that, almost proud.

You considered mentioning your text conversation with Lexi. The instinct tugged at you, brief but persistent. Maybe just bring it up casually, slip it into the flow of conversation. But as soon as the thought surfaced, something in you recoiled.

It felt… dangerous.

Not because of the content of the texts. Lexi really hadn’t said much beyond expressing worry and guilt, but you decided it wasn't a good idea. Jonathan seemed happy, the way he was watching you, content and invested, made you realize the evening meant more to him than he was saying. Like everything was exactly where he wanted it. And the man certainly deserved that after all the crises you'd pulled him into.

Bringing up Lexi might shift that, or make him feel… unappreciated. So you didn’t mention it. You just took another sip of wine and let the conversation move forward, pretending, at least for now, that everything was fine. You thought, briefly, about asking if there’d been any news about Ares, but quickly dismissed that idea too. If something had changed, he’d tell you… right?

Jonathan reached for the wine bottle, refilling your glass with an easy grace. “I’m curious,” he said casually, settling back in his chair. “You’re an artist yourself, aren’t you?”

The question caught you a little off guard, not because it was wrong. You just didn't remember ever telling him that. "How did you know?"

He studied you. “It’s the way you move through a room. You notice details. Just my opinion, but you weren’t meant to be hanging the work of other artists in a gallery. You were meant to create your own works.” A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes didn’t stray from yours. “Painting, maybe? Or sketching?”

You nodded slowly. “Painting.”

“Do you still do it?” he asked gently. “I imagine such an outlet would help you process everything at a time like this."

You hesitated, fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass. For a moment, you thought about brushing it off with a polite answer. Yet, something about the way he was looking at you made it hard to lie. Like he’d know if you did.

“I used to paint,” you said finally. “A lot. I majored in studio art, but somewhere along the line, I stopped making time for it. Life got… loud, I guess.”

Jonathan nodded like he understood. “And lately?”

You gave a small shrug. “I’ve tried here and there. The instinct’s still there, but it’s harder. Everything feels... so much harder now.”

For a moment, you continued your meal in silence. You thought he'd drop it there.

“Grief,” he said gently, “and trauma. They don’t just go away. But sometimes you can silence them when you put them somewhere. On canvas, on a page. It’s not about the result. It’s about the act itself. Catharsis.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the insight, by how honestly he said it.

“You don’t have to show anyone if you don't wish. Just don’t stop creating.” His gaze turned thoughtful. “There’s space upstairs. Plenty of light during the day. I could clear it out, give you somewhere quiet to work with no interruptions if you wanted to resume painting.”

You hadn't expected him to offer something like that. “I couldn’t,” you said almost immediately. “Jonathan, I… I still don’t know where I’m going from here. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I can’t take advantage of your hospitality like that.”

“You’re not.” He said it with such quiet conviction that it stopped you cold. “You’re recovering. And creating might help. If offering you a room and some sunlight makes that easier, then it’s not generosity. It’s basic decency. You don’t owe me a plan. Just give yourself a little time to breathe.”

You smiled, small but sincere. “Thank you. That’s… so kind of you.”

And you meant it. After everything, a quiet space to create sounded like a gift. A small anchor in the storm that lasted way too long.

But as you looked at him, so calm and certain, you felt a ripple under the surface. There'd been no hesitation. Like he was waiting for you to say yes.

You pushed the thought away as quickly as it came, blaming your nerves, your exhaustion, anything but him. Still, somewhere deep in your chest, the feeling lingered.

You took another sip of wine, then set the glass down gently. “So,” you said, forcing a little lightness into your voice, “how was your day?”

Jonathan’s expression shifted, so slightly you could have easily missed it. The warmth didn’t disappear, but it cooled into something more composed. “Busy,” he said. “A few things at the hospital needed my attention. Some late meetings, one that wasn't scheduled. Nothing terribly exciting. Though I will admit,” he added, indicating his nearly cleared plate, “this has been the best part of my day.”

The compliment was subtle, but it made you happy that you earned his approval. You tried to push down how much that meant to you. 

Once dinner was over, you instinctively began to gather plates, stacking them as you stood. Jonathan rose with you, but didn’t reach for anything. Instead, he leaned one hand on the edge of the table, watching you quietly.

“I’ve got it,” you said lightly, trying to wave him away.

But as you moved toward the sink, he stepped gently into your path, not blocking you, just redirecting. “You’re my guest. Let me take care of it. I’m always up late anyway. I'll take care of them later.”

You hesitated, and he smiled taking what you'd gathered and placing them in the sink. Then he ushered you out of the kitchen, guiding you with a careful hand at your lower back. “Go. Sit down. I have something I think you’ll like.”

You let him herd you into the living room, half-expecting him to retreat to his study or the kitchen once you were settled. But he didn’t. Instead, he joined you on the couch, remote in hand. The room dimmed as he turned on the TV and navigated to an old black-and-white thriller, Hitchcock, sharp and psychological.

You raised a brow. “You’re a fan?”

He glanced over. “Human behavior under pressure. Motives and manipulation. Of course I’m a fan.”

Jonathan disappeared briefly, then returned with both wine glasses and the rest of the bottle. He refilled yours with that same smooth ease, then sat closer to you this time. The film began, shadows flickering across the room. And for a while, you let yourself relax, lulled by the rhythm of the scene, the wine, and the quiet between you. It was nice.

Then, somewhere between scenes, he draped his arm over the back of the sofa, right behind you. The edge of his knee bumped yours and didn’t shift away. He didn’t make a move that was overt, but his presence seeped into your consciousness, wrapping around you slowly, deliberately. 

You felt it, that quiet shift in energy. Your shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. Not a recoil, just the faintest instinct to shrink into yourself. A breath held too long. A glance toward your glass that lingered a beat too long, like you were looking for something safe to focus on.

And he noticed. His voice was low, but not quite casual. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

You shifted slightly, just enough to glance at him. “I’m not afraid of you,” you said softly, but too quickly. 

“That's good,” he said, and there was a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Fear doesn’t always look like running. Sometimes it’s silence and tension. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You turned toward him slightly, wine glass balanced in your hand. It wasn’t just what he said, it was how he said it. Like your wariness disappointed him. 

Jonathan seemed relaxed. But his eyes, those bright blue eyes, were fixed on you in a way that made you doubt yourself. Had you done something wrong? The uncertainty, more than anything, made you uneasy.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. “Should I be waiting for the other shoe to drop?” you asked quietly.

For a moment, he just looked at you like he was weighing something far heavier than your question implied. “Only if you don't trust me."

You hesitated. 

Only if you don’t trust me.

His words weren’t angry or accusatory. But they lingered, making you feel like you’d disappointed him somehow. Like your hesitation had hurt him.

“I do trust you,” you said, softer than before. You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with the stem of your glass. “Everything around me has changed so fast. But I’m not doubting you. I’m just…”

“Wounded,” he finished for you. “You’ve been let down so many times you’ve forgotten how to accept something that doesn’t ask for anything in return.”

The words settled over you like dust, light, but impossible to ignore. Somewhere inside, you knew he was right. It resonated in a quiet, aching place you didn’t like to look at too closely. A truth you’d never put into words, not even to yourself.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe.”

Jonathan shifted closer, draping his arm over the back of the couch again. “That’s not your fault. But it's important to be mindful of it. If you question every hand that tries to steady you… eventually, you’ll push everyone away.”

Your heart clenched in your chest. Jonathan had unknowingly stumbled onto one of your biggest fears -- being alone. Through that mental filter, his words stung.

In a softer tone, he said, “I don’t want to be one of the people you push away.”

You felt your throat tighten. It wasn’t fair, the way he said it. So calm, like he understood you better than you did. That’s what made it so hard to ignore, why it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, the words falling out before you could stop them. “I’m not trying to push you away. I know you’ve done so much for me, and I...” you stopped, catching your breath. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jonathan just watched you, eyes steady, as if measuring every word you’d said, every inch you’d given. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I can be patient,” he said softly. “For you.”

You nodded, but something in the way he said it lodged in your chest. For you. What did he mean by that? Was it a kindness or a warning? A promise wrapped in pressure? You couldn’t quite tell. He spoke like someone who’d already decided where this was going, and was simply waiting for you to catch up. 

His hand moved, deliberate, but gentle, as it slid from the back of the sofa to rest lightly on your shoulder, his thumb brushing a slow, soothing arc against your collarbone. Not demanding, but there. A reminder.

“You don’t have to earn my care,” he murmured. “You just have to accept it.”

He said it like a promise. But it felt like a claim.

You didn’t pull away. His touch was warm and grounding. Reassuring in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been craving. And his words—

You don’t have to earn my care

—wrapped around you like a blanket, soft and heavy. Part of you wanted to believe him. Needed to.

So you let yourself lean in, just enough to feel less alone. But even as your shoulder relaxed beneath his hand, doubt stirred in the back of your mind. The timing and precision. The way he always knew exactly what to say.

Pushing those thoughts out, you returned your attention to the movie.

She’d gone to bed an hour ago with a soft goodnight and that small, grateful smile he’d come to anticipate.

Jonathan appreciated the efforts she’d made tonight, more than she knew. The soft sweater that made her look delicate, approachable. Her hair, styled with care and the light, tasteful makeup. Not for show, but for him.

And the meal she’d cooked? He hadn’t complimented it just to put her at ease. The flavor profiles were thoughtful and well-balanced. It had been the first time he’d ever eaten in his own dining room. Really used it. And somehow, she’d made it feel like a home instead of a stage. The lighting, the calm music she’d chosen for the background, the way she’d plated the dishes, it was thoughtful and intimate. Welcoming.

The way she’d been standing there when he walked in, dinner ready, a soft smile waiting for him, that was the kind of thing a man could get very used to. And he would. Eventually, she’d see this wasn’t temporary.

It was the beginning.

Jonathan stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he slowly rinsed the plates, loaded the dishwasher. There was something grounding about the motion, orderly and predictable. He liked clean edges.

Yes, tonight had gone very well. Even better than he'd expected. She was starting to relax more around him. Not entirely, but enough. She'd laughed, apologized when she didn’t need to. And eventually she'd relented, allowing him to be closer to her. To touch her.

He dried his hands, reaching for his glasses on the counter, sliding them on with care. Progress.

His fingers twitched slightly, the echo of touching her skin still imprinted in his nerves. There would be more candlelit dinners, small moments of trust. And soon, she’d stop feeling like a guest in his house. She’d realize it was her home. Our home.

If Ares had made even a halfway decent attempt to court her, if he’d really seen her, Jonathan wouldn’t have stood a chance. She wasn’t the type of woman to stray. She would’ve stayed loyal to him. She may even have been happy if Ares had given her even the bare minimum. 

But he hadn’t. And now Ares was rotting in a cell in his own facility, his mind permanently lost, drooling on the floor in a straightjacket. Jonathan had dinner with the woman who once was Ares' fiancée. And every day that passed would see her forget about Ares. Every day brought her closer to surrending to him.

Jonathan smiled faintly to himself as he switched off the light.

One step at a time.

[corellianhounds]

Mandalorian Careers

Outside of Mercenaries, Bounty Hunters, and Bodyguards

Word Count: 3k

Despite being trained fighters, not all Mandalorians have the means or transportation required to take high-profile jobs hunting down criminals or killing rivals on behalf of their employers. Good thing they’re an adaptable bunch and come from every walk of life.

Linemen for Star Wars-style electrical grids: Jetpacks have many uses (if you’re willing to reimburse them for the fuel) and Mandalorians are a fearless and handy bunch. For those with little fear of heights or high voltage and who still prefer largely working on their own, doing electrical work in a concentrated urban center can be a good compromise between skills and preferences. They are more often than not personally sought out if word of their skills gets around because technical skills + insulated armor and both the capability and willingness to fight when needed make the perfect tradesperson to handle work in even the lowest levels of Coruscant’s underbelly. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.

Rangers/Wilderness survival guides: Moving around and staying hidden and off the grid often means roughing it in harsh terrain. Despite the emphasis put on community, self-sufficiency is vital to any Mandalorian’s survival, the nomadic ones especially; many know how to survive in a number of terrains and climates, and it makes them a hardy bunch inclined to the outdoors more than the city. If you need someone with great navigational and tracking skills who’s well-versed in the territory you need to get through on foot, a Mandalorian will be a good bet to see you through to journey’s end.

Detectives: An offshoot of the bounty hunter occupation perhaps, but one that provides individuals the freedom to specialize in a certain region or group, finding clues and tracking down yet unknown perpetrators as opposed to finding already established criminals or accused suspects on Guild and ISB posting boards. Many retired bounty hunters or those inclined to settle down (or those who simply like being nosy) will already have a lot of tools and gear conducive to detective work. Necessary skills include deductive reasoning pulled from a breadth of experiences, tracking, street smarts, self-defense, stealth, and the willingness to put up with more Han Solos than anyone should really have to deal with in a day.

Miners: It would make sense for Mandalorians to be skilled at identifying types of metals and the worth of their composition even in its raw state, and for the ones with caving experience or who come from a species accustomed to living underground, the ability to maintain a sense of direction and the willingness to descend into the depths of the planet’s crust wouldn’t be an issue. They’ve got night vision, they can fight whatever threats they face, jetpacks can still be an advantage in avoiding falls in larger caverns, and grappling cords and rappelling are still going to be a need. Some people just like to dig.

Underwater welders and torch cutters: Mandalorians just seem like the type of people who like working with their hands as opposed to sitting in an office day in and day out. To that end, you’ll find them just about anywhere in any type of trade. There are bound to be Mandalorians of aquatic species, and there are bound to be specialized smiths who have designed suits and armor meant to withstand the depths (and anything lurking that far beneath the surface). Visors can be easily modified to double as a welding face shield, specialized to provide visuals in the depths for work as well as observation and defense. Custom-made underwater jetpacks provide propulsion through technology modeled after cephalopods, and suits are designed to be lightweight, durable, and able to retain some measure of whatever breathable gas the individual needs for a time, should anything compromise their scuba gear. The visual of an underwater Mandalorian with chromatophore-esque armor, a plasma-thrower, and a harpoon gun is just so good. Wait I think I just came up with the coolest Mandalorian design ever—

Cab drivers: Sure, most Mandalorians seem solitary and reclusive, but whether they’re more social by nature or they came into the Mandalorian lifestyle later in life after they already had an established career or trade, some Mandalorians make steady work as a relatively unassuming cabbie. They definitely have a reputation for making the quickest, most efficient and direct route through the city, yapping over their shoulder and zipping through air lanes that definitely super don’t exist on the official city-planner’s register, but you got in their cab specifically because you wanted to get there fast and by Force that’s what you get. Good luck trying to stiff them, they can fight just as well as they drive.

Cargo haulers: Usually the more reserved flip side to cab drivers. Think ‘American trucker’ and you’ll have a good idea of what they’re like. Really it’s not all that different from bounty hunting: likely working alone, same risks during travel, living on the road in your rig and hoping for a good meal at a rest stop. I’d pay cash money to hear CB talk from folks travelling the hyperlanes.

High seas fishers: Similar to oil riggers and underwater welders, high seas fishers are unafraid of the open ocean and enjoy wrangling in dangerous, exotic catches that fetch a high market price back in port. Some Mandalorians hunt, others like to fish.

Coruscant delivery couriers: Look sometimes it’s just faster to have the guy with the jetpack and honest reputation zip your order up to your 573rd floor window than it is to wait for the unreliable delivery chute to “lose” it around your landlord’s floor or for the slowest courier droids money can buy to bring it up to you up to three additional business days later, all right?

Search and rescue: As mentioned previously, most Mandalorians are trained in wilderness survival, tracking, navigation, and first aid, all skills that lend themselves neatly to search and rescue ops. Most if not all of them are parts of teams outfitted with ships designed and modified for all terrains, weather, and local phenomena, piloted by eagle-eyed Mandalorians capable of bringing those lost in natural disasters, city destruction, or the wilderness back home safe.

Stunt performers and choreographers: If you’re going to have Mandalorians in your holodrama, you need trained stuntmen, and audiences can tell when directors failed to get real Mandalorians for their work because the Mandalorians just move differently. Very few non-Mandos can really capture the gait and control and spatial awareness Mandalorians bring to the table, in addition to their already impressive breadth of fighting styles, skills, and weapons work. It can be a challenge getting Mandalorian stunt performers to not perform at full intensity though, and it takes very skilled individuals to balance the fighting prowess with the performance aspect. More often than not it’s former Mandalorian drill instructors taking stunt and choreography work, as they understand the range of levels and intensities when it comes to training fighters, and they can teach performers the correct way to make it look like they’re giving or taking a hit, without actually harming their scene partners.

Holodrama armorers: In the same vein as stunt performers and choreographers knowing the difference between actual fighting and choreography, props masters on set with a background in real weapons work are invaluable to a production and they always know the difference between a prop gun and a hot gun. They’re well-versed in coaching actors in how to use prop weapons the way real ones would be used, and their own eagle-eyed approach to weaponry prevents any tragedies (or stealth attempts at “accidental” deaths) from happening on set.

Gladiators/Cage fighters: Though there is the occasional actor among the few professional Mandalorian performers, you’re much more likely to see them as arena competitors in actual fights for accolades and prize money. Sometimes it might be out of desperation and a need for money, but some folks manage to make a career of it. If you’re already used to living on the road and managing pain, then life on tour won’t be a hard adjustment and you get to keep your skills sharp. Depending on your armor you may even be able to retain a sense of anonymity while out in public.

Vigilantes: Admittedly closer to mercenary work and not a formal career path, there will always be Mandalorians who cannot stand by when they see injustice in their communities. There’s any number of day jobs or roles they can fill if they’re in urban settings, doling out justice at night under the cover of darkness, or they could almost be a folk legend in rural settings, stories of an unknown warrior protecting a region from those that would do them ill. Though masters of stealth, the communities under their protection certainly have their suspicions, but because their protection is provided in secret and nobody can definitively say they’re acting as the silent guardian, they often refuse to accept any form of payment from those grateful to them, both out of principle and as a matter of pride. (However, Mandalorians are easy to guilt in matters of accepting generosity and hospitality in other ways, and folks quickly learn that framing non-currency goods as gifts forces them to accept the items in question with gratitude. It’s harder to argue that free services provided to them are gifts, so you have to be quick and clever if you want to trick them into receiving free repairs or assistance or business. Mandalorians are often used to lives based on transactions and reciprocity, so you’ll probably later find them out fixing your security system or hauling hay bales without your prior knowledge as repayment.)

Demolition experts/Bomb defusers: They know what they’re looking at. They’ve seen just about every configuration of explosive you can think of and spend their free time thinking of what other ways people might come up with to level a building or send a message.

Firefighters: The homebase version of search and rescue, Mando firefighters are fearless in high-stakes situations and have specialized suits to allow them to traverse burning terrain with swiftness and ease, helmets and breathing gear modified to withstand the blaze. They work best in well-coordinated teams, and those who may or may not have pasts of breaking into buildings or ships have the added advantage of knowing just how best to get inside one now on fire.

Exterminators: These are a special class of Mandalorians, the ones willing to take some of the worst jobs you can possibly face in urban settings because the only limit to what kind of creature infestation you have (and what they are capable of) is your imagination. Specialized suits again, a willingness to get their hands dirty, and a frequent need to fight something big and mean means nobody can afford to not pay whatever the demanded price of service is. You’re going to try haggling with the person in Mandalorian armor, who can just release whatever they’ve just contained back into your building/territory/underground network/starship? Better think again, buster.

Lawyers: It seems like there are a lot of Mandalorians who, through work as bounty hunters or just by the transactional nature of what they do for others, are good at navigating loopholes and adhering to the letter of the law rather than the spirit, or working another interpretation into the vague contract or deal you drew up for them to agree to. Cerebral Mandalorians are a lethal bunch, many of them already familiar with the types of circumstances and laws surrounding the cases they take, and if you see one on the other side of the courtroom prosecuting or defending against you, you better pray you came prepared enough to argue with someone whose face you can’t see.

Safari hunters: Whether you agree with the ethics or not, trophy hunters and big game wranglers make good money in legitimate circles as well as the invis market. They may be scientists or rangers or simple hunters working to either contain or cull dangerous or sick wildlife within a region, or they’re leading the wealthiest patrons of the galaxy on a three-day trek into the wild to give them the opportunity to track and hunt an apex predator or exotic find themselves. Some will sell and trade creatures in part or in whole to the highest bidder, ethically or not, and if they’re as well-versed in market and environmental law as their lawyers are, well then you as the lawman are probably out of luck. Besides, are you really going to go up against a Mandalorian big game hunter who spends every day surviving in the wilderness with a rifle as long as you are tall?

Translators: Most people buy protocol droids or other tools if they need a translator, but a good majority of Mandalorians are already working jobs where it pays to know several languages, and if you need a translator who can travel to locations protocol droids wouldn’t survive in, a Mandalorian’s always a sure bet.

Bouncers: What’s intimidating is that you don’t see any weapons on them. Sometimes all you need to keep people in line is somebody who can show a little fang and get them to back down without a fight.

Former smiths who have had to adapt to a lack of beskar and resources conducive to smithing Mandalorian armor have turned to designing durable, specialized outerwear made of other materials and technologies. Clothes and protective gear made by armorers for construction workers, wilderness travel, speederbikers, and any kind of trade or blue-collar work are top-of-the-line quality and tailored to the commissioner’s needs and physique. Durable tech-infused armor, nanomesh weaves, kevlex, flexible armadillo-plating, and enviro suits can all be incorporated into the designs. Like many Mandalorians, their work is available to outsiders who can afford it, but they are more often commissioned by other Mandalorians, as these armorers are who they trust the craftsmanship of above any other. See: Aforementioned underwater diving, firefighting, and extermination suits.

Sometimes all you need is just a good pilot. They often double as their own mechanics, not wanting to pay others for what they can do themselves unless they’re under a time crunch. Starships are often treated like cars in the Star Wars universe, in that just about anybody can jump into the cockpit of any other ship and expect it to operate roughly the same, but the truth is that there are just as many differences in ships as there are the people who fly them. Fast, evasive action against pirates? Easy. Not only a willingness but a tendency towards shooting first and asking questions later if it means self-preservation? Obviously. Nomadic by nature and often without choice? They’ve been around the block and they know what they’re doing.

It’s rare to find a lazy Mandalorian. They’re hard-working, precision-oriented, and unafraid of physical work. To that end, Mandalorian foremen are as strict as drill instructors and run their workshops, warehouses, and factories as if they were a military unit. They expect excellence and good time-management in every area, and if they’re the union leaders of their region there’s no way any other supervisor or executive will be able to force them to do something contrary to what’s best for their coworkers. Community oriented, an emphasis put on protective gear, shrewd business owners: again, do you really think it’s a good idea to go toe-to-toe with the person in Mandalorian armor who’s been stacking cargo or working in a steel mill all day?

Hookah lounge proprietor: Some Mandalorians retire or inherit or stumble into business ownership, and one that specifically garnered curiosity was the Rodian Mando who ran a lounge where Mandalorians (and others with specific environmental or physiological needs like the Kel Dor, the Ubese, and the Geranites) could indulge in a bit of spice without need of removing their helmets. Though open to others, many outsiders are often intimidated out of going simply because of the sheer amount of muscle and firepower under one roof. Said Rodian proprietor is an incredible mediator with an iron fist and manages to keep tempers and cultural differences in check, and by the time everybody’s started to settle in they’re really not interested in fighting for anything more than a bit of pub grub.

Dentists: In a culture of frequently mistrusting and occasionally steadfast mask-wearers, having someone with the education and skills of a specialized medical trade is an invaluable addition to the community. Mandalorian healers, medics, and even a few surgeons can be found in pockets across the galaxy, but it's rare to find those who specialize specifically in vision or dental work, and their identities are jealously guarded by the communities they serve. Mando dentists may also care for outsiders, but Mandalorians are often their priority and they are usually only found within Mandalorian communities anyway. Those with skills ranging across multiple species are sought after with fervor. It takes a brave soul to put one’s hands into the mouth of a Trandoshan.

Ironworkers for highrise buildings: Even the Mandalorians without jetpacks working in skyscraper construction are as brave as their airborne comrades, accustomed to welding, riveting, cutting, and working with metal hundreds or even thousands of feet in the air. Channel comms in helmets are an efficient means of communication and coordination while spaced out amongst the building site, and whatever work isn’t handled by droids is handled with aplomb by the Mandalorians with a focus in precision and excellent craftsmanship. There haven’t been many architects or engineers to come out of the culture in some time, but when the chance to rebuild opens up there will be an abundance of workers ready and willing to put those skills to use once again.

We’re cheating with this one when we say childcare workers because most Mandalorians hired for these roles are typically hired as bodyguards. Few and far in between often due to their loyalty and duty to their own people first, some individual Mandalorians who prefer stationary positions in more populated regions find work as the primary caretaker of one or several children belonging to individual families or clans. These Mandalorians don’t come cheap, but what you gain is a bodyguard, teacher, caretaker, and companion for your own children comparable to how Mandalorians treat their own. It’s generally understood that provoking a fight with a Mandalorian caretaker— especially by posing a threat to their ward— is an invitation for retribution, permanent or otherwise.

And if you, the child’s primary guardian, end up proving to be a threat to that child’s safety?

Well, they’re not your kid anymore. Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad.

[enjolraspermettendo]

Les Miserables Fanfic recs✨️

I tried to make a selection, my absolute favourites have a heart next to them ❤️, but my les mis fics bookmarks have 17 pages, so you know, there are still other amazing fics that i didn't include (part 2 maybe?). I also realised while making this list that most of these fics are actually very well known, but still, they're great 🤷‍♀️ I'm an angst enthusiast, be warned.

( I'm trying to also tag the tumblr accounts of the authors: if you are one of the authors and I missed your url and want me to add you or if you want me to remove you dont hesitate to contact me! )

❤️ World Aint Ready by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile

Enjolras presses his lips together. He already looks pained, and Grantaire hasn't even opened his mouth yet. That's got to be a record, even for them.

"I need a favor," he says at last.

"With what?" says Grantaire. "Ooh, are you forming a cult? Can I join? I'd be awesome at cults, I just know it." He ticks off his qualifications on his fingers. "I love chanting, I look great in robes—"

(High school AU. Grantaire the disaffected stoner is pulled into a cause bigger than himself. Or: in which there are pretend boyfriends for great justice.)

Part 1 of World Aint Ready-verse

To Fold the Sheet by Lyres

“Can you say one good thing about the season?”

Holding out his soap-sud covered hands until Grantaire tosses a towel on top of them, Enjolras hums in thought. “Not really,” he says, once he's dried off. “Just don't have a lot of happy memories of summer, I suppose.”

(In which Grantaire attempts to make Happy Summer Memories, and Enjolras is endlessly patient.)

History of Melancholia by Squash (JeSuisGourde) @meta-squash

Grantaire deals with his depression by documenting it through photography as he and Enjolras try to wade through life with mental illness. It doesn't make it any easier for him or Enjolras, though. It's the blind leading the blind as they try to navigate the waters of depression.

A series of moments in no particular order, showing the paths that Grantaire's depression and addiction has taken him on and the ways he has tried to survive.

Submission (Going Down, Down) by ddeadkennedys

anyway, enjolras hated grantaire at first. enjolras isn't an asshole, he's not a gatekeeper or some sort of shitty elitist, but grantaire was uninspired, hopeless despite all that potential. a waste. but then that whole thing went down, and shit changed, and if grantaire thought he couldn't get enough of enjolras' attention before, now that enj is only mean to him for fun he's a fucking junkie for it.

Part 1 of the revolution is my boyfriend

Keep It Kind, Keep It Good, Keep It Right by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell

“You aren’t going to ask me if I’m okay?”

“You aren’t. Believe me, I know the signs.” Grantaire sighs, and his breath mists in the air like cigarette smoke. “They love you in there.”

“And out here?”

“You know that’s not a fair question.”

Forget Me Not by Opium_du_Peuple @just-french-me-up

Enjolras loses four years worth of memories after a nasty car accident. Though he still remembers who Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, he also finds himself with a herd of friends he doesn't remember meeting. Friends who are exactly what his blank mind needs to recollect his missing memories.

or : the amnesia fic no one asked for.

i'm not the moon (i'm not even a star) by serinesaccade @serinesaccade

“The amnesiac has questions,” says Grantaire. Boyfriend grips the wheel. “Don’t worry, we’ll start with the 200 dollar Jeopardy trivia.” A semi roars past them. “What’s your name?” The perfect sinew and bones of his fingers relax. “Oh,” he murmurs. Just like that, defenses lowered. “Enjolras.” “Cool,” Grantaire says. “I’m Grantaire.” Something happens to Enjolras’ face which, if you zoomed in, might be considered a smile. “I know.” “How long have we been dating, Enjolras?” The almost-smile is gone. The gameshow metaphor has become too apt; someone’s lost it all. “That’s complicated.” Well. Grantaire should’ve known some part of this fairytale was too good to be true. He’s best friends with a streetsmart renegade and someone who wrote him a welcome-back-to-consciousness poem in godawful blue icing on an orange frosted cookie cake. There are nearly ten people who were waiting for him to wake up in a hospital room. Of course his inexplicable relationship with his supernova hot, socially conscientious boyfriend is ‘complicated.’

thirteen days and fourteen hours and a dozen minutes by Potoo

"Enjolras,” Grantaire gasps as delicate fingers brush over his chest, an airy quality to them, “what do you want?” Because Grantaire would serve him the whole world on a silver platter, and it would never be enough.

“You,” Enjolras states, his voice clear and severe, “I want you.”

Enjolras discovers one by one what his friends think about Grantaire. He is rather surprised by their words.

Also: body worship porn.

Metropolitan Art by ryssabeth @avagueambitioninyourerection

Paris is his home.

❤️ Wrap your fingers round my thumb by Ibbyliv

When Éponine leaves in the morning, he’s already feeling much better. No really, he is. He makes a cup of coffee and even showers. The sun is shining brightly –even though it’s mostly late in the afternoon than morning but he has no one to apologize to, no reason to excuse himself for being a lazy ass and not finishing that painting for ages- and he’s humming a catchy tune that has been stuck in his head while he wipes his hair dry with a towel. He opens the door because he feels good enough to take the trash out, and everything’s alright, even the odor coming from the plastic bag, until he hears it.

It’s a cry, a wail, desperate and heartbreaking as if something tiny is trying to cause its lungs to explode and is on its way to success. Grantaire looks around, not willing to accept what he feels coming, before lowering his eyes on the floor. In this moment, Grantaire swears, he's so fucking wasted. * Enjolras leaves to work abroad for a year. When he returns, he finds out that there has been a new addition to their group.

A Series of Progressions by AnnaBolena @annabrolena

Modern AU in Paris in which most of Les Amis are students and all of them are sort of slow on the getting together aspect of relationships, with sociopolitical commentary and medical jabber peppered in between.

how sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame by Tegami @furtherfish

He could have shrugged and that would have been it. Say that he just found it precious. But Grantaire was Grantaire and he never could keep himself from oversharing and he was already dizzy with the way this night was going, so he told the truth. “The first thought I had when I read that poem was ‘If someone would ever call me “sweet boy” and mean it, I would probably pass out.’” OR: E & R are being ""casual"". Grantaire attempts to break some of their habits. Enjolras reads some angsty notes R left in his copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Then they fuck

❤️ Hotel California by sunflowerbright

'You can check out, but you can never leave' - Reincarnation!AU

❤️ Paris Burning by thecitysmith @thecitysmith

In a world where cities are personified, the City of Paris has been missing for centuries, driven away by the horrors of war and the worst humanity has offered him. Enjolras dreams of meeting Paris, and leading him to a better tomorrow. What he doesn't know is that Paris is now a cynical drunk who calls himself Grantaire.

❤️ Thirty-Two Times by Ark @et-in-arkadia

Marius, looking chastised but sad, says, “Is there nothing then for romance, Enjolras? It seems a strange emotion to be struck with, distracting as a fever, if it means nothing.” It is Grantaire who answers first. “Nothing means anything, Marius,” says the cynic. “Yet who would ever die for his country if he did not love some person who lived within it?”

❤️ Once We're Kings by raeldaza

Their kingdoms have been at odds for centuries, so what will be a greater 'fuck you' than to send hapless knight Grantaire as their representative for Prince Enjolras's queen choosing ceremony before he is crowned King? Grantaire disagrees, but he doesn't seem to get much of a say in the matter. No one is really expecting anything to come of it, but trust Enjolras to defy expectations.

❤️ Your Heart on Your Skin by zade @racetrackthehiggins

Grantaire’s first flower appears when he is two years old. It’s late, for a First Bloom, considering some children are born with their First already etched above their hearts, but Grantaire’s parents are warm and loving and wait to see what sort of child they have born unto the world. His First Bloom, when it comes, is vibrant patch of yellow carnations. He is too young to know what it means, and his parents don’t tell him, just—withdraw, and a much smaller patch of yellow carnations appears on his mother’s ankle. -- Soulmate AU where things in your life appear as flowers on your skin, and people with hard lives have a lot of flowers to show for it

Tetris by chapstickaddict

Cosette is Enjolras' half-sister. His father slept with Fantine and then buggered off to be with his wife. Then Enjolras found out. One day he sees her- and he knows its her- and doesn't know what to do. Enjolras is Cosette's half-brother. Her mother slept with a married man and died of a broken heart and weary soul. Then Cosette found out. One day, she finds him-and she knows its him- and doesn't know what to do. Then Marius happened...

Silence Is the Speech of Love by lady_ragnell @theladyragnell

Grantaire's life has a pattern: he pays his respects to Aphrodite, he goes to work, he loves Enjolras and provokes him because he can't bring himself to do otherwise. That seems unlikely to change, at least until Enjolras speaks out against the gods and ends up cursed. Grantaire does his best to help him, but it turns out it's just as hard to love Enjolras up close as it is from afar.

Part 1 of The Speech of Love

❤️ I Believe In Nothing but the Truth and Who We Are by Whreflections

"Under the wine, Grantaire smelled like smoke and summer nights. His dark hair curled in a chaotic mess around his face, his neck below pale and soft. The first time they met, the first time he drew the scent into his lungs, he ached with the need to mark that stretch of skin, to card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair so very gently before tilting his head back so Enjolras might mark his bared throat and make his claim. He resisted then, telling himself that to act on instinct alone was the arena of an animal; he was a man of intellect, and he could choose." As an alpha, Enjolras has known Grantaire to be his mate since he first came to the Musain, a truth he does his best to bury. With his devotion already promised to France, he tells himself he cannot risk dividing his loyalties, cannot risk a bond that would pull so heavy on his heart. This is what he's told himself a thousand times, but when Grantaire needs him, his careful resolutions may not be able to hold against the strain.

His Love Letter by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade @shitpostingfromthebarricade

Your Wednesday regular appears right on time and orders the same thing as he does every week, but something's different today.

❤️ Here's looking at you by illuminate

“So domestic trouble rather than treason?” Floreal said. “I’m not saying one precludes the other.” Enjolras said, which came out more pained than he had intended. “Are you suggesting Grantaire sold national secrets to a crime lord because you were a bad boyfriend?” Floreal asked. Her tone was bemused, but there was a glint in her eye that turned the comment into mockery. “No.” Enjolras snapped, stung, and then didn’t say more. Spy AU. Grantaire removes his tracker and disappears the same night Lamarque is killed in his office. Enjolras is left behind, trying to figure out what happened and why Grantaire didn't tell him anything.

❤️ Meanwhile, A Glacier by standalone

“I’ll go.” He says it without brashness or deference. Just a statement. “Where?” “You want to climb the Forty,” he says, and Enjolras can’t deny it. “I’ll go with you.”

❤️ It's Not the Same Anymore by ShameDumpster @shamedumpster

Grantaire is a bookstore clerk in his late twenties, and to everyone’s eternal disbelief, a father. It’s been years since he’s seen anyone from his former group of friends, after a falling out cleaved him from the ABC, but everything changes when Enjolras walks into his bookstore. Can they rekindle their friendship, or something more, while they both come to terms with how their lives have changed over the past decade?

Part 1 of INtSA-verse

❤️ Combeferre's Tattoos by standalone

Enjolras clunked down three lowball glasses of whiskey and a bottle of soda water. “We have already established, ‘Ferre, his freedom to leave us. Can you please stop bringing it up and instead give him some incentive to stay?” Combeferre cocked his head to the side, as if amused at Enjolras’s crankiness. “Such as?” “He seemed to like you shirtless.” ‘Ferre nodded. “Then perhaps someone should take my shirt off.” or When the universe gives you Enjolras and Combeferre, who the hell are you to ask questions?

Part 1 of Tattoos AU

❤️ In Defiance of all Geometry by idiopathicsmile @idiopathicsmile

Amis House might not be the biggest student co-op, or the fanciest, but it's got something all its own. Specifically, smoke damage on the kitchen ceiling from that time Courfeyrac lit a political pamphlet on fire. In which there are secrets, pining, pancakes, and revelations, and sometimes the shortest distance between three points is not a triangle but a circle.

Part 1 of IDOAG-verse

❤️ We still got time (Raise your hopeful voice) by RavenXavier

“Excuse-you!” came Grantaire’s offended voice from the other side of the room. “I would make an excellent wife, Monsieur Lesgle, should I choose to! I have all the qualities of one!" (In which Enjolras slowly falls in love, and Grantaire takes the time to explore what feels right.)

Musagetes by defractum @defractum

"You've had sex," says Grantaire, just to clarify. He gives Enjolras an obvious look up and down, as if he's trying to imagine it right now: Enjolras having sex, Enjolras in the act of having sex. The curve of his mouth gives away his smirk; it's Grantaire though, so his smirk is two-thirds mocking and one-third self-deprecating. In which Enjolras has sex, has casual sex, and doesn't talk about it; in which Grantaire speaks better through art.

❤️ Through the Narrow Place by revolutionbarbie

“What brought you to Paris?” Montparnasse asked. “A train, ostensibly. And a bus.” Grantaire leaves Poland for Paris, content to remain alone forever if it means that he'll be safe. He goes to work and he comes home and he doesn't think about how few people there would be to miss him should he disappear. When he meets the Friends who gather and plot at the Cafe Musain, he realises how much he has been missing and though their leader is reckless and arrogant, Grantaire can't help but be drawn to him.

❤️ A Thousand Miles by kjack89 @kjack89

Some couples had a morning breakfast routine. For Enjolras and Grantaire, it was coffee. Come rain, shine, or hectic schedules, they still made time every morning to have a cup of coffee together. Sometimes that time saw Grantaire perching on the counter in the bathroom while Enjolras gulped his cup in the shower; other times, it was the two of them in bed long past when they were supposed to get up, wrapped in blankets and each other. Some days those precious few minutes were the only time they saw each other, and they treasured it. Even when Enjolras was out of town on business, they called or Facetimed each other to share their morning cup of coffee. It was the one consistency in their lives that Grantaire could count on.

❤️ Hēbē by illuminate

“You cannot feed on a citizen without their consent, because that would be an attack on their person - and their Rights, I am sure. But you cannot risk revealing your nature and so you cannot ask for permission. Luckily, you have me, who am already aware and quite willing.” The chair screeches loudly as Enjolras pushes himself away from the table. ”Come now, Apollo, let me be your cupbearer.” Grantaire implores; his tone somewhere between teasing and honest. “No, we are not doing that.” Enjolras growls. (In short: Enjolras has trouble feeding himself, because he is too busy planning the revolution. Grantaire finds out and is more than willing to help.)

Part 1 of cupbearer

Enjolras looks down at where Grantaire’s hand holds the pack against him and doesn’t bother to take hold. “If you were Combeferre,” he says, “this would be the part where you tell me these things will kill me.” “If I were Combeferre, I’d be inside and you’d be bothering someone else,” Grantaire snaps. He snatches the pack of cigarettes back and extracts one, leaving just two inside. It is with sharp, savage movements that he jabs it into his mouth, lights it with the silver Zippo, and then offers it to Enjolras.

love is in the air, i just gotta figure out a window to break out by tamquams