Babysitting :-)

i'll be lonely with you — MIGUEL O'HARA

SUMMARY: with the passage of time and whispers from your acquaintances at the spider society HQ, you've found out that your boss has a habit of sneaking out of his office during the dead hours of night to eat dinner. completely alone.

NOTES: new formatting for fics !!! do you guys like it? :3 i decided to include summaries that way it would be easier for people to understand the general jist of the plot without me spewing nonsense in the notes. anyways enjoy !!!!! thanks for the support on my recent works as well ^_^

You didn't consider yourself the most introverted person.

Even when it came to hundreds of Spider-people, you tried to get to know who you could and become acquainted with as many of them as possible. How could you not?

However, there were few that you knew on a more personal level. People that you'd keep close to your side whenever you visited headquarters. People that you'd enjoy having an exchange of gossip with during lunch in the bustling cafeteria.

Miguel O'Hara wasn't exactly one of those people.

It's not like you didn't want to develop something more than a boss-coworker relationship. Though, conversations with him were always difficult, to the say the least. Most of the time, he's talking about work and anything that goes past that boundary goes unspoken.

Quite literally. You've forgotten the amount of times that you've built up the courage to mention anything about your other (not deceased) relatives or your friends and the amount of times that the room was filled with a silence so awkward that crickets are on the same volume as missile launchers.

Though, you didn't want to lose hope. You sort of understood where he was coming from. People go through grief and mourning in different ways, Miguel's was probably just isolation and a complete avoidance of discussions of personal life.

He was a leader. A good one. A trait of a good leader is to connect with their subordinates, establish relationships. So it really made you think.

How messed up was he that he missed that one quality?

"Hey. Your food's getting cold." There it goes, the sound of your train of thought leaving the station. Sometimes, you were grateful for Jess being there for you. She could snap you back to reality you like nobody else could.

You mutter an apology before stabbing your salad with your fork and taking a bite, Jess rests her head on her palm. Raising a brow at you, "So, did you want to eat lunch with me for fun or are you just using me to get info about Miguel? Again?"

Nervously, you shake your head. "It's nothing like that!" She leans in a little more, waving her other free hand in the air in a circular motion.

"...But if you have anything that you'd like to share then I'm not going to refuse entirely—"

"Oh my god. Fine, fine. What do you want to know?"

With that question, it felt like your mind blanked. You fidgeted with your fork, twirling a leaf of your salad against the plate as you pondered on what question to ask.

Jess responds with a deep sigh, "If you're trying to find a way to talk to him more, he doesn't leave that office of his much unless it's for work. He's in there most of time. Although..."

"Although?"

"Although, I've seen him come here normally somewhere around midnight to get a very late dinner alone. The place is less crowded, most are just in their own universe or sleeping or working."

Your face falls a little upon hearing that. "So I can only catch a non-serious conversation with him... in the middle of the night?"

"Exactly. Besides, there's a good chance he's going to just— continue talking about work with you whether he's in his office or not. You know that, right?"

You drop your utensil in defeat, burying your face shamefully in your hands. "I know..."

You quickly wrap up your lunch with Jess, as she shares bits and pieces about him. You had really wondered how she was able to learn all of these things about him anyway but before you had the opportunity to ask her, she told you to not.

Respecting her wishes, you keep your mouth shut. Respecting her even further, you decide to pack up both of your plates and wave her a goodbye before picking up those thoughts that you were left a while ago.

Admittedly, you didn't know why you were so persistent for something like this, for someone like him.

Determination was a strength of yours but that didn't mean that you didn't know where your limits rested and you would back off when you needed to.

There was just something. A swirling feeling in your gut that was telling you to keep going.

That it would be worth it.

So, you follow everything that Jess told you. Around midnight, he'd be alone, in the cafeteria, and looking for an empanada to snack on before heading back into his office. A very small fraction of his time left for personal conversation if you tried hard enough!

This most likely wasn't a good idea. You didn't sleep at all through the day but the thrill kept you alive and thriving. You confidently stride up to the counters of the cafeteria, picking out a small bag of chips for yourself and the last empanada for your soon-to-be snack companion.

Now, you wait.

You surveyed your surroundings and as you were doing that, you realize why he particularly emerges during these kinds of hours to eat. There was a significantly less amount of people.

Whenever you came here during the day, it was a miracle to be able to find completely empty seats. At times, you were forced to sit with a group of people.

You weren't entirely ungrateful for that though, you've made a lot of friends that way. Sure, it was awkward at first but the more you were forced to interact with people that way, the more you adapted to making small talk.

Even then, there were a lot of tables that were taken here save for one completely empty one at the far end.

Then, you finally see that navy and red suit.

Deciding to observe him just a little bit more, you watch him curse under his breath seeing the display case for the empanadas empty. Before he walks away any further, you tap him on the shoulder.

His mask was on, his eyes widen a little bit before you hand him the small box. "I saved the last one for you."

With a soft huff, you see the muscles in his shoulders and back grow loose once more, he hestitantly takes the container from your hands. Looking at it then looking back at you, "Thanks."

You two share a few seconds of awkward silence, you felt a little exposed. You decided to unmask for this because you wanted him to feel more comfortable talking to you rather than who you were as a Spider-person yet there's still that same awkwardness in the air.

Clearly without nothing to do and no idea on how to makem something better out of this, Miguel's about to walk off before you stop him once more.

"W— wait," A little piece of yourself dies inside as you hear yourself stutter but nevertheless, you keep going. "Uh, there aren't any other spots so is it alright if I sit you? I don't know any of the people here."

The way that you see the eyes through his masks narrow ever so slightly once the question escapes your throat makes your heart quiver like crazy.

You wanted to get to know him but damn, if you said that he didn't scare you sometimes then you would be lying.

You cry on the inside with sweet victory as he says...

"Fine."

That was it. That was all you got but you gladly take it! You have to catch up to him though because once you're done mentally celebrating, he's already a little bit far from you.

You try your hardest to keep your head straight but you can't help but look up and spare him one glance, the fact that you even had to look up at him really only emphasized your height difference with him.

Another factor that made you just a little bit more intimidated by him, his physique. You considered yourself to be of average height, you weren't the tallest person in the room but you were never the shortest as well. Just average.

The way he practically towered over you, his hand nearly being the size of your head. It made you feel something.

The moment that both of you have a seat, you take your opportunity.

"So, is there anything that you plan on doing after this?"

You get a little distracted once his mask comes off, he raises an eyebrow at you, crimson eyes that feel like they're looking straight into your soul. Though, side-tracked as he bites into the dough and meaty goodness of his empanada, with a shrug— he replies,

"Not really. Unless there's an anomaly I haven't heard of yet then I have no plans. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing. Was just curious is all." Why was this so hard?!

The conversation goes as what you expected. You'd ask a question every moment or so and he'd give you a short response before going back to his food. He wouldn't ask you anything back, wouldn't add any 'unnecessary' comments. Just bask in the silence.

You simply couldn't take it anymore, you didn't know how to express your interest in him without asking him more questions about himself which he seems to avoid trying to answer.

You couldn't ask him about his hobbies because he'll most likely say that he's too busy working to actually spend time gaining and branching out to different interests.

Dejectedly, you sigh. "I'm sorry for imposing— on your alone time, I mean." It was like everything that you wanted to say just kept spilling out of your mouth.

"I didn't want to eat with you at this hour because I pity you or— or I found you lonely or whatever. I just thought that whenever you weren't talking about work, we'd be able to get along."

You stand up from your seat, eyes mindlessly darting arounf the labels of the bag of 'Spider-O's' in your clutches.

"I'll, uhm, let you eat in peace now. Once again, I'm—"

"Wait."

Which ever brain cells died from that interaction certainly reignited now. "Sit back down," It comes off an order. An order you certainly obey.

"I wouldn't have actually said yes to you if I didn't want to talk." He starts. "I know a lot of people but it's not in the same way that you do. I know their names, their faces, their canon events. You know their feelings, their mindscapes, and their troubles—"

"—And those are the exact kinds of things that I can't comprehend most of the time. We understand people differently, is what I'm saying. I still have no idea why exactly you sought out me of all people but I will... try to gain this new perspective of things."

You want to tamp down the smile that creeps up on your lips as you hear those words but you can't. What he said, it all made sense now. You couldn't see the full picture still, but you were willing to find it—

"I understand. It's fine."

"So? Do you have plans after this?"

Together.

How is this supposed to be the most violent Robin????

TSUNDERE MIGUEL O'HARA THAT IS DENYING HIS FEELINGS FOR READER WHILE HE ACTIVELY THINKS ABOUT THEM 24/7 AND KNOWS ALL THEIR CUTE LITTLE QUIRKS (READER CAN BE SPIDERMAN OR NORMAL PERSON YOUR CHOICE) PLEASE I NEED TRUNDERE MIGUEL SO MUCH IM DYING IM STARVING *sob sob cry sob*

love, your best friend Dre <3

i won't say i'm in love — MIGUEL O'HARA

(( uhhh .... i have no clue who this motherfucker is! jk lol hi tommy [ you slut ] here is your severely in denial miguel fic, spoiler free. ))

"Lyla, arrange this mess."

Miguel waved his hand at the AI, eyes focused on the glowing screen in front of him. He always had the habit of keeping a messy desktop, though it wasn't a big problem for him considering his trusty artificial intelligence assistant.

To which the trusty artificial intelligence would poke and tease Miguel in response. At times, he really wondered if Lyla was secretly being controlled by a human. A pesky, occasionally annoying, childish human that constantly pushed his buttons.

"What's the magic word, Miguel?"

He groaned bringing his index finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, massaging the stress lines that have formed from constantly being teased and played with.

"...Please."

Lyla lets out an electric hum, her avatar glitching into a thinking pose. She stares at Miguel with a confused look through her heart-shaped sunglasses. "Sorry. The signal in here is so bad. What was that?"

"I said, please, Lyla. Get to work."

"Oh, don't worry. I heard you the first time."

The man lets out a defeated sigh, he's given up on trying to defend himself against Lyla. Even when he's old and withered, this charade will continue like a never-ending circus show.

Multiple screens pop up in front of the AI, to which Miguel bashfully averts his gaze. He's normally organized enough, in the workplace but he's also very busy. Little things like putting files in the folders they belong simply evades his mind sometimes.

However, one file in particular stood out in front of him from the corner of his eye. It was a drive, among all the others that are colored in the regular shade of blue and labeled accordingly, this one was highlighted in pink with a little heart symbol at the end.

"Lyla, what's that?"

Her avatar glitches again into her in a sitting position, a little teacup in her hands as she takes a fake sip. "Hmm? I don't know, I don't see anything. Which one are you talking about?"

"Ay dios mío... The one in pink, Lyla. What is it?"

"Ohhh..." An obviously fake display of surprise makes itself present on Lyla's face, she opens the file. "This is a drive of all of the times you talked about that recruit. Lovingly, might I add."

Miguel's eyes darted around the screen, folding his arms over his chest. There were many, many videos of him. The scroll bar just kept going like there was no end.

Hesitantly, he pointed to one among the sea of videos and Lyla opened it. The playback goes as follows, the 'recording' is from her perspective, it seems.

Miguel is hunched over his desk, mumbling nonsense to himself until it becomes more coherent as Lyla approaches him.

"Whatcha' got there?"

The camera shifts and zooms over to Miguel's hand, to where he's holding a small tupperware. Filled to the brim with baked goodies, a small sticky note is pasted to the top of it however the writing is too tiny to make anything of it.

'They got me a gift.'

'That's the third one this week.'

His chest heaves as he lets out a deep sigh.

'...I know.'

A small moment of silence before Miguel continues speaking.

'Esto es tan tonto. I don't why they keep bringing me these... these things! I don't know why they keep smiling brighter than sun when they give them to me!'

Miguel frustratingly opens the tupperware, brings one of the pastries close to his mouth and takes a big bite. A small groan escapes his throat.

'I don't know what they're putting in these things to make them so delicious! Giving them to me, of all people. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So smart they are. Agile, strong, and capable and— and kind...'

Another bite.

'You know that you've gotten them gifts before, right?'

'But they all look idiotic next to this. Made with their precious time and care. Putting in the effort to make sure that they actually taste good and they do,'

Miguel closes the tupperware with a loud snap.

'¿A quién estoy engañando? They're amazing.'

"Miguel?"

That wasn't part of the recording. Miguel swipes at the screen and it fades out of existence, little pixels hovering in his sight before it completely disintegrates. Lyla disappears too as you swing onto the platform of his office.

He tenses up once he sees you, leaning a hand against his desk. God, he definitely did not want to look at you after what he just watched. He especially did not want to look at you because of the blush that stained his cheeks. Thankfully, mostly hidden by the darkness of his chambers.

Of course, you greeted him with the same warm smile.

"Haven't seen you all day today. Are you doing alright?"

"Fine. Doing fine. Just cleaning, why are you here?" Says Miguel, he despised how his heart pounded in his chest so loudly right now. Whenever he was around you.

Being so composed was what he was known for, what he was respected for. Yet, everytime you even look in the same direction as him, his exterior just melts.

"I just wanted to check in on you, was all. I noticed you haven't come out in a while, I brought you an empanada from the cafeteria just in case you were hungry."

You toss the small container to him and he catches it in one hand, he could hardly comprehend what was going on right now. Staring mindlessly at the box. "Thank you."

"Of course. Take care of yourself for me, I'll... head out now."

He watches over the edge as you fall off the platform, landing onto ledge that separates his desk from the rest of the room.

"Can you start ranting now? I want to get this drive up to 600 videos."

Miguel grumbles, opening the box and biting into the delectable snack before going back to organizing his desktop.

After graduation

MIGUEL

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about)  A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves. 

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit. 

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events. 

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes. 

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry. 

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.” 

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table. 

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you. 

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus. 

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh. 

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back. 

You take the tiniest nibble. 

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory. 

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first. 

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?” 

A long pause. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness. 

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” 

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage. 

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this. 

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull to let yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender. 

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is. 

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color. 

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic. 

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time. 

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!” 

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.” 

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well. 

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle. 

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

-

-

-

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…” 

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.  

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he? 

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast. 

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are. 

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”  

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment. 

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak. 

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers between the spaces untouched. 

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…” 

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring. 

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to. 

You love him. 

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest. 

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke. 

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud. 

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew. 

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time. 

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control. 

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same. 

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you? 

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that leads to nowhere? 

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid. 

-

-

-

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month. 

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence. 

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again. 

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive. 

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city. 

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people. 

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back. 

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again. 

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air. 

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest. 

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this? 

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills. 

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you. 

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

_

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops. 

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.” 

You know what’s coming. 

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).  

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course. 

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables. 

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly. 

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.” 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

La Vie en Rose

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason wildly preferring you over everyone else

4 in 1 blurbs

warnings: standard batfam arguing etc.

You sit curled up embarrassingly close to Jason on the couch, head on his shoulder. The team is still in their gear as they filter into the living room, masks and helmets discarded in scattered locations between here and the cave. The mission had been fairly simple and with all of them together it only took a couple hours to finish up.

As you waited, Alfred had kept your mind busy in the kitchen while he taught you how he makes his famous ice cream from scratch.

The clamor of the heroic party’s return had made itself known sooner than later, and you think your face must have displayed your emotions nicely because Alfred nodded you away with a small smile and no second thought.

You’d walked into the living room, weaving through the mess of siblings until a hand snuck out on your left and grabbed your wrist. You barely had time to look at him before Jason pulled you down to sit next him on the sofa. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in and leaving virtually no space between you. His armor sits heavy against you, but a welcome weight on your shoulders.

Tim plops down on the couch across from you and you can just make out a bit of blood on the side of his head, aptly accompanied by an irritated look sprawled across his face. It’s not enough blood to be concerned about—not for them—but you can venture a guess that whatever they were up to shouldn’t have called for any injuries and his pique is likely directly related to that.

Though Dick’s goading aura might have something to do with it too, as he comes crashing down next to him a second later, partially sitting on Tim’s cape and pulling him into an awkward angle. 

Nightwing doesn’t seem too perturbed by the younger vigilante’s agitation and curt manner of pushing him off.

The others are too caught up in chatter to pay much attention to you, and you can be certain that’s why Jason takes that moment to press a kiss to the side of your head. He lets his lips linger there for just a second as you lean into him.

Alfred’s own entrance is the only thing able to subside the flurry of conversations skirting around the room.

“A job well done,” he commends with a nod. “A selection of ice creams awaits you in the kitchen.”

He gives you a sly wink before retreating back through the swinging door, leaving Stephanie and Cass to practically trip over themselves trying to beat each other to the kitchen. Robin follows after unhurried, mask still on, with his hands behind his back.

Jason kneads your thigh before pushing himself up to stand. He turns back, looking down to you. “What do you want?” he asks softly.

You hum, "Just strawberry's good."

Tim sits up, "Can I—”

"No, you've got legs,” Jason grumbles, stalking off to the kitchen.

Dick barks out a laugh and you bite back a smile.

Tim looks absolutely aghast. 

“That’s such bullshit. You know, he used to be nice.”

“No he didn’t,” Dick laughs, shaking his head. “Not since you’ve known him.”

Stephanie stumbles out of the kitchen then, the door hitting her back on the way, as she mutters a curse behind her. You can vaguely makeout Jason grunting something back before she rolls her eyes.

Steph looks at you, shaking her head as she returns to her seat, “You live like this?”

You shrug, “He’s nice to me.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Tim grumbles.

Jason returns after Cass a minute later with a bowl of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. He expertly ignores Tim’s unwavering glare as he resituates himself beside you.

He scoops your legs up over his lap and positions the bowl in between you, wrapping the sleeve of his jacket around it so that the cold porcelain doesn’t make contact with your skin.

The others have set themselves up so that the four of them are stuffed up against each other on the sofa adjacent to you, very obviously examining you both. 

And while you’re willing to acknowledge the amused stares and singular glare, Jason only sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he glares at the coffee table.

Only a few seconds of this are allowed to go by before he pulls over a throw pillow and sets it over your knees, so that it rests atop your heads like a mini-fort, successfully blocking out his siblings' view of the two of you.

You smile and press a light kiss to his shoulder as he simmers.

Regrettably, you miss the way Damian side-eyes the pillow above you as he re-enters the room, perching himself atop the back of the couch behind the others.

“This is so nice,” Dick preens. “He used to just leave the room when too many of us gathered in one place. Now he has to stay.”

Stephanie watches the makeshift fort with wary eyes, scooping ice cream into her mouth. “Yeah…I don’t wanna freak you guys out but, uh…”

It’s quiet for a moment and you guess Cass is speaking. 

You’re proven right when Stephanie starts up again, “My thoughts exactly.” Her voice drops into a raspy whisper that isn’t really meant to go unheard, “I don’t know who the hell that is, but it is not Jason.” 

“This is unprecedented,” Damian mumbles, dipping into his own chocolate cup.

“Do they always talk about you like you’re not here?” you ask Jason quietly. 

“Yes,” he grumbles with a scornful look directed at the bowl.

A low hiss can be heard immediately after, “I’ve never heard him whisper before, what the fuck?”

You can’t hide your laugh as well as you mean to, but you know Jason’s light swat to your thigh is nothing more than a rib.

Mumbles continue along the other couch, mostly going unacknowledged, until Tim busts out, “He doesn’t even like strawberry!”

Jason snaps the pillow out of the way, “The fuck do you know about what I like?”

Tim resets his posture with one hell of an attitude, snarking, “Well I can name one thing you really seem to fucking—”

Jason grabs the pillow harshly and chucks it at Tims head which connects with a loud thwack.

Damian swats it away before it can knock him off balance, though his scowl is only half worth what Tim’s is. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he says with a sneer. “This is why you don’t get invited to movie night anymore.”

Jason doubles back at him, “Sorry, is this not your own fucking house?”

Tim huffs, “Yes, which i—”

“Then get your own goddamn ice cream!”

Tim huffs as he stands, sending Jason a pointed look. “I’m going because I want to.”

Jason barely gives him a sardonic nod as he stomps off.

“Get me some too!” Dick calls back, only for the back of his head to be met with a sideways grimace from Tim.

As he leaves, the focus of the room seems to shift towards Damian dripping chocolate onto his cape and it fades away from there.

You turn to Jason, lowering your voice to just below a whisper, “If you don’t like strawberry—”

“I like it,” he tells you, leaving no room to argue as he takes a bite.

Voicemail. 

Voicemail.

Voicemail. 

Voicemail.

Declined.

Voicemail.

Declined.

Declined. 

“I swear to God, he better be dead,” Stephanie mutters to herself.

She shuts her phone off and tosses it into the passenger seat with a huff. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel as she scans the sidewalk across from her car.

The night before the majority of the team had been involved in a less-than-successful plan, which some have called “a display of complete idiocy and inability to circumspect.”

Then Tim had to go and make a joke about that word choice in what was apparently a bad moment. This gave way to a harsher punishment of the team being forced to clean the batcave foot by square foot—notably, an impossible task.

So naturally, they had to retaliate.

The plan was to dismantle the batmobile piece by piece and leave it a collection of parts for Bruce to find. Problem being, the group as it stood didn’t possess the capability to do so without doing a great deal of damage to the parts. Damage, that the family was not willing to face extra retribution for.

Fortunately, they knew just the man for the job. 

Unfortunately, said man has devoted his life to ignoring their messages, favoring to live peacefully and distantly from them. And because that peace and distance does come with an add-on of borderline complete secrecy from his family, no one had any idea where to look for him.

So, Stephanie decided to do the next most rational thing and track down your location. She’d hoped he would be with you like he always is, but for seemingly the first time in the last year—he’s nowhere to be found.

Now, was revenge for a minor-slight by Bruce so important that it required Stephanie to take all of these steps to get a hold of Jason? No, absolutely not. She’s pretty sure that the others have already given up on it by now and started cleaning. But it’s about the principal. And also, she does not want to clean the floors of a cave.

She jumps up in her seat when she spots you exiting a store, scurrying to unbuckle and pry the car door open.

She’s across the street in half a second, running directly into your line of sight. It actually would’ve been very difficult for her to miss your line of sight, considering she’d landed only a good six inches in front of your face. “Hey!”   

“Oh, fuck—” you jump, grabbing your chest. You take a breath when you realize who it is, less surprised now by the theatrics of the introduction. “Hey Steph.”

“Hey,” she smiles casually, like she didn’t do what she just did. “So Jason’s been ignoring us and I need to get a hold of him,” she tells you.

You nod, still collecting yourself. “Oh. I don’t know where he is—”

She shakes her head, “That’s fine. Can I use your phone to call him?”

You frown, “Is something wrong?”

“With him, yeah,” she snarks. “I called him, Tim called him, Dick called him, Cass called him, Damian called him, we used Bruce’s phone to call him—that was a bit of a long shot, but still. This is our last option. Well, not our last option, if this doesn’t work I could get really invasive, but—” She shakes the thought from her head, “Nevermind.”

You nod blankly, taking in the mountain of information she’d just handed you. “How’d you know I was here?”

She scans your eyes back and forth for a second before her own widen in realization and she’s shaking her head. “No, no, don’t worry we’re not tracking you! I just hacked into the traffic cameras to find you.”

“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding some more. “Okay.”

You hand her your phone without any further questions—for your own sake—and she happily accepts. 

“You know I texted him 115 times?” she tells you as she scrolls through your contacts.

You furrow your eyebrows, watching her click his name and press the phone to her ear. “Did you count?”

“Well, I had the time, di—you son of a bitch! One ring?” Stephanie scorns into the phone.

You can hear Jason groan on the other end of the line. 

He says something to Stephanie that she follows up with a firm shake of her head.

“No,” she says defiantly. “She let me use it.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes, not pleased with his response. “What if it was an emergency?”

She listens for a second, skeptical look on her face.

She gasps suddenly, “I am not overstepping, we thought you were dead!”

Over the course of about ten seconds the shock on her face drops into just-been-caught guilt. “Well, I mean we considered it.”

You imagine Jason’s telling her to give you your phone back as she stands her ground, pushing, “If you promise to text me back.”

A short response on his end.

“Promise to text me back!”

There’s a brief lull before she’s giving a self-satisfied nod and jostling your phone back into your hands. “Here ya go. Thanks, babe!” She smiles wide at you before jogging back across the street, not waiting for the cars.

You smile as you watch her go, putting the phone up to your ear, “Hey Jay.”

You can hear the relief on the other end of the line. “Hey sweetheart. You know if you see Steph in public, you can just walk away?”

“I’m not going to walk away from your family.” You look again across the street, “Also I don’t think that was an option for me this time.”

“That thing is fucking scary.”

Cass smiles fondly, signing, “I think he’s cute.”

Tim eyes the way Salem traipses around his feet, yellow eyes staring up at him. “Why’s it even here?”

Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to scroll on his phone. “He’s hers. Deal with it.”

Tim scrunches up his mouth. “She knows I hate it. And she, unlike you, wouldn’t subject me to this just for the hell of it. So again I ask: why is it here?”

Jason huffs, looking up from his phone. “What do you want me to say? He wants to be.”

Tim scoffs at that, “‘It wants to be’? You’re the one who put it in the car.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jason says factually.

Tim looks at him sideways as Salem leaps onto Jason’s lap and nudges his hand up. Jason follows along as requested, petting the top of Salem’s head with an open palm. 

Tim squirms to the other side of the couch with a look of disgust on his face. Salem watches him the whole time.  

A smile adorns Cass’ face as she signs, “She says he can read people’s energy.”

Tim huffs, resting his head against his fist. “What does that even mean?”

The conversation is cut off by the clatter of you and Dick stumbling into the room, carrying a freshly painted headboard. Blue paint coats both of your hands and has no doubt stained your clothes.

You’re clearly struggling a bit to keep your grip on your end, the weight of the wooden frame dragging your arms down.

Jason stands and Salem flows along with his movements easily, leaping down onto the hardwood. He comes over and helps you lift your end of the frame with a stupid amount of ease, to the point that you’re not even holding any of the weight up anymore. The three of you—less so you—move the headboard and lean it up against the wall. After it's set down Jason steps back and looks over it gingerly.

“It looks good,” he murmurs to you, quiet enough to not give his brother the satisfaction of his approval.

Dick had asked you over to help him paint Damian’s bed frame as a surprise for him for not getting in any “altercations” at school this semester. You’d decided on coating it with his favorite color first and then fill it in with a collection of what Dick has “on good authority” are his favorite animals. It’s a fairly random assortment that you’re not sure adds to or disproves Dick’s credibility. You’d spent the better half of the afternoon googling animals you’d never heard of just to make sure you projected their likenesses accurately. Dick had been very clear that you had to be precise on the details because Damian would know if he was really looking at a komodo dragon painting or if it was “some common lizard.”

You sigh, “I hope he likes it. I’m worried we did it too childish for him.”

“He is a child,” Jason says plainly.

“But he is not childish,” you counter. And he sure isn’t. You’d had a hard enough time convincing Damian to watch cartoons, adding a colorful animal mural to his bedroom might be one step too far. You’re still trying to figure him out.

“He’ll like it,” he says firmly.

You smile, slipping around under his arm and tucking yourself into his side.

Not a moment later, Dick slings an arm around Jason's shoulder, grinning as he pulls his brother in close.

Jason’s immediately louring. "No, get away from me."

Dick, unfazed and still smiling, removes his arm and takes a big step to the right. You do the same, figuring he needs his space, but you get caught by the wrist before you can do more than sway to the side. 

“Not you.” 

He pulls you back under his arm, wrapping it around the front of your shoulders. You hook your fingers around his forearm, letting your hand hang.

You hear a double-clap from the other side of the room that has you both turning around to face Cass. 

She signs something to Jason with a fond smile on her face. 

You look back and forth between them as Jason waves her off. “What?”

He shakes his head, “It’s nothing. She said—she said we’re cute.”

You smile up at him and he deflects—not so subtly—and starts nudging you back towards where the group is gathered, now all standing. 

Dick’s quick to start bragging off to the room about how great of a job the two of you did and how really complex and daunting it actually is painting animals for a child.

As he talks, your eyes find Jason, who’s definitely about to roll his eyes any second now. A bit subconsciously, your hand comes up to brush Jason’s white streak of hair back, away from tickling his forehead. 

On the other side of Jason, Tim does the same, sweeping Jason’s hair back in a much more mocking manner. 

This gives way to Jason smacking his hand away, harder than he needed to.

"Wha—You let her do it!" Tim protests, overplaying how much the slap hurt.

Jason scowls, "She can do whatever she wants."

Tim drops his shoulders, looking at Jason as if he’d been scandalized. “Oh but I can’t?”

“Not if it involves touching me,” Jason grumbles.

Tim steps closer, putting a finger to Jason’s chest. “You’re such a—”

From the floor, Salem hisses up at Tim, successfully startling the teenager. “Auahh—”

He stumbles backwards, grimacing at the cat. 

“Fucking demon,” he hisses, walking away.

When Tim’s far enough away and Salem’s seemingly satisfied, he brushes up against your leg, purring. 

You peer down at him with a furrowed brow. 

“What’s Salem doing here?”

“I’m not doing this shit with you.”

“No, come on, 9 out of 10 times is what you said. How ‘bout just once? Beat me one time at anything, Jaybird.”

“Anything?” Jason asks like he knows damn well Dick can’t swear on that word.

Rightly so, Dick backtracks. “Something agreed upon.”

Jason throws his hands up, partially in exasperation, partially relenting.

Dick smoothly turns his back to him, announcing, “Opening up the room for ideas.”

Damian’s eye roll is almost audible from the corner armchair, where his attention is unmoved from intently sharpening a blade he’d recently come into possession of.

Bruce similarly remains unbothered in his seat, trying to read despite the distractions. 

“Ooh, okay. Okay.” Stephanie wiggles up a little on the couch. “You could race!”

Dick shakes his head negatively, “I literally just busted my knee up two days ago, Steph.”

“Convenient,” Jason mumbles.

“You were there!” Dick exclaims with an open mouth.

Steph continues, “Um…”

Cass waves to the room from her position upside down on the couch, head hanging down next to Stephanie’s legs. Attention successfully acquired, she signs, “Staring contest.”

Jason grimaces, “That sounds like a nightmare.”

Dick gives him a faux-smile.

“You should play chicken,” Damian chimes in, holding up his knife.

“No,” Bruce drones monotonously as he flips a page. 

“Tic tac toe?” Steph suggests.

Cass is already shaking her head as she scrunches up her mouth in thought.  

Jason rolls his eyes, “What are we, five?”

Dick nods, cracking his knuckles as he thinks. “No, we need something that really proves our worth.”

Bruce looks up from his book, staring numbly through his brow, but remains silent.

“You could arm wrestle,” Steph suggests.

The elder brother twitches at that, “Uh, no.”

Cass moves past that before a joke has the chance to be made. “Handstand contest?” she suggests.

Jason shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

The elder brother looks at him incredulously. “You’ll do a handstand contest with me?”

“That’s what I just said.”

Dick scoffs, “Jaybird, I’m an acrobat, you’re just some guy.”

Jason, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact, pulls his sweatshirt off from his back. “Well, you’re a lot of things, aren’t you?”

Dick throws his head back with a squint.

Jason fishes his phone out of his pocket and Dick follows suit, offended stare maintaining all the while. 

No exchange is required as they both toss their phones across the room, landing together with a rough clatter on Damian’s lap. Damian’s resulting glare is borderline disgusted.

Dick starts them off, “Alright, go. One…two…”

Both men push up onto their hands, muscles flexing as they find their balance. Dick’s form is better, of course, but Jason looks to have a stronger foundation.   

They both hold strong as several minutes go by with the brothers only maintaining the attention of some of the room, and the interest of none of it.

Stephanie huffs and tilts her head, thoroughly unentertained with the consistency they’re both managing. 

“Starting to wish they’d picked something that moved along a little faster,” she murmurs to Cass.

Dick glances over at the younger brother, clearly displeased with his lack of trouble keeping up with him. He shuffles closer one hand at a time, using the decreased distance to poke at Jason with his foot, trying to knock him over.

Jason kicks him back harder, “Hey! Don’t be a dick—”

“Very funny,” Dick leers.

They both end up finding a struggle to keep balance and are forced to mind their own.  

A chime rings out from the corner that has heads turning briefly in his direction before coming back to the competition. 

“Whose was that?” Dick calls out.

Damian leans over and inspects the screens with disinterest. “Todd’s.”

Jason adjusts his position, “Who is it?”

Damian responds with your name. 

“And?”

He picks up the phone shrugging like he couldn’t care less, “She wants to know if you want to go see some movie.”

There’s a brief silence before Jason drops out of the handstand, standing up. 

Dick’s blood-flushed face peers up at him, bewildered. “Wait, what?”

The family watches with wide eyes as Jason picks his sweatshirt up off the floor and tugs it back on.

Stephanie gawks, bordering on laughing. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

Dick lets himself fall into a kneeling position with a huff, “You would rather go to some movie you don’t even know the name of than win a bet?”

Jason moues at him, “Uh, yeah.”

He tosses a twenty at Dick, and plucks his phone from Damian’s hand as he strolls past him, typing out a reply.

Cass sits up a bit and signs up to Stephanie, “Does he even like movies?” 

Bruce, now attention now fully removed from his book, watches Jason exit with the slightest hint of a smile. Dick sits dumbly on the floor, staring after him with an open-mouth. 

Damian twists the knife in his hands around contemplatively before rising to stand. 

“I will go,” he announces, dropping his blade onto the seat of the chair. Jason grumbles a no but Damian follows after him just the same.

you know what happened to the last guy that didn’t reblog? … 🔪🧨💥😵⚰️🪦

Hogwarts Legacy Headcanon - Scent

Can’t believe I haven’t done something like this sooner

Sebastian Sallow

* First and foremost, smoke. The smell of fire and electricity from his wand and his fiery spells.

* An undertone of cheap cologne when he remembers to wear it, along with aftershave and toothpaste if you’re very close.

* Sweat. Crossed wands and keeping you out of trouble takes a toll, but the way his hair sticks to his forehead in a flush makes you swoon.

Ominis Gaunt

* Clean. Clean laundry and soap. He takes very good care of himself and always makes sure he’s ‘presentable.’

* Subtle florals. Like lavender and violets.

* If you get close to his neck, you can smell the chemical scent of his pomade that he does his hair with.

Poppy Sweeting

* Fresh cut grass. Always being outside, rolling around chasing Nifflers or diving to catch a falling baby Jobberknoll.

* Fur. A bit of animal musk, also due to her hobbies.

* If you somehow catch her right after a shower, she smells like flowers and lemons, Her hair fluffy and light as she pulls you along to get muddy again.

Garreth Weasley

* Shampoo. That mop of hair holds scent for hours, and if he walks in front of you in the hallways, it’s all you can do not to lean forward and drink it in.

* His common room. The smell of warm blankets and incense, a fire that’s been going for decades.

* To his dismay, probably the scent of a bad potion that he just can’t seem to get out of his robes. It’s been two weeks, and the House elves are livid.

Upcoming Auror! Sebastian Sallow x Auror! Reader Fic Details <3

Hi guys! As some of you may know, I'll be doing a Seb Auror Fic soon which will be based in the Philippines <3. Since there's no wizarding lore yet in the PH, i've decided to set the setting first before moving w the story. Here are the details below!!

MOODBOARD

Setting:

Mid-1800s, Philippines.

Hogwarts Legacy Setting will be adjusted slightly before the events of the fiction. (At this point I suggest just not getting into it too much im getting confused as well lmfao)

Details:

(About the Filipino Wizarding Community)

Philippine Magic has deep roots in the dark arts. Wizards and Witches back then often used and were masters in the arts of dark magic. It was often a misconception that the dark arts were inherently evil and while it did hold some truth to it, it all depends on how it's used. Filipino Wizards and Witches value the proper use of dark magic to use it to help people rather than harm them. However due to the misuse of said magic because of its great power, there is then a rise of magic users who seem to use it for personal gain. So these Wizards and Witches adapted their form of dark arts into the magic that can help combat sinister magic. This evolved into healing magic which is the main core of Filipino wizardry.

Marahuyo en Mahika Akademya | Philippine School of Wizardry

(place of reference: University of Santo Tomas)

A school formed to preserve the ancestral magic and history of Filipino Wizardry, Marahuyo en Mahika Akademya is a School of Magic for Wizards and Witches in the Philippines. Founded by Maria Ana Flordeliza Santos, she opened the gates to magic users so that they may expand their knowledge, academic prowess, and capabilities in the field of magic. The school's patron deity is Bathala, the god of creation and the being who granted mahika to the people.

The process of acceptance is quite peculiar. At the young age of 11 is when young wizards and witches will be doing a sacred ritual also known as Pagtawas. While the ritual is used to detect supernatural illnesses, it also detects magical traces within the person. It is a form of healing and a sacred ritual to determine one's fate. A piece of the person's hair will be burned on a special type of candle and then its wax will be poured into a basin. If the wax produces an image or a form according to the person's true self (some form a type of animal or plant) then the person does indeed have magic. If nothing happens, there is no magic within them. From then on, their parents will be responsible for the basic magic curriculum. At the age of 15, they will then be brought to the Akademya by carriages driven by the Tikbalang tribe. They have 5 years of magical curriculum to learn during their stay there. There are three houses to be sorted in Marahuyo en Mahika;

Mayari

known for their bravery, strength, determination, ability to excel in their most desired fields and leadership. They are categorized as the warriors.

Colors: Navy Blue and Beige

Hanan

known for their optimism in the unknown, courage in taking risks, perseverance amidst challenges, and an open perspective in life. They are categorized as the pillars.

Colors: Gold and Bronze

Tala

known for their willingness in helping others, their need for knowledge, vast creativity, and wisdom. They are categorized as the shepherds.

Colors: Cyan and Silver

Philippine Bureau of Magic and Wizardry (aka PhilMaj)

(place of reference: Las Casas Filipinas De Acuzar)

The official governing office of the Philippine Wizarding Community. Inspired by Britain and America's Ministries of Magic, the PhilMaj was to be open not only to the PhilMaj community but to wizards all over the world thus the name in English. Founded by the 5 great Maharlikas (aka Aurors), the organization was created to protect the Filipino Wizarding Community from outside threats which includes 'SeroMahi' (Sero (Zero), Mahika (Magic) or the Muggles basically).

The PhilMaj exists independently and separates themselves from their seromahi counterparts as they see seromahis as a threat to their existence if they are to be found. With the Philippines experiencing a great force of oppression from outsiders, PhilMaj has done its best to stay hidden and away from its affairs (they are specifically known to hide too well that they have not encountered any type of exposure to the seromahi community. They, unfortunately, have strict rules regarding wizard —seromahi relationships and usually wizards or witches with mixed bloodlines take long processes to enter PhilMaj. MaraMahika (school) is an exception as it accepts all magic users despite their blood lineage).

Aurors also known as Maharlikas are divided in Divisions. Division I is for investigation, Division II is for order and Division III is social relations.

PhilMaj has different departments to tend to concerns.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Department of Protection of Magical Tribes and Folk

Department of Control and Care for Magical Creatures

Department of International Social Relations

Department of Magical Education

Department of Magical Businesses and Endeavors

Department of Magical Transportation and Building

Department of Recruitment and Referrals of Wizards and Witches

Department of Mysteries

Current location of PhilMaj is in Manila, Philippines. (Guarded by the Siyokoy Tribe in the waters of Manila Bay, the waters open like a door as it parts the way underground where the PhilMaj Headquarters reside)

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A/N: i have a shit ton of details in my notes but im sharing the general lore or idea of the magic world in the philippines. this counts as a teaser as well 😎 lmk if i've miswritten something or if some things dont line up. you guys can add ideas as well and ill add them in my notes hehe (if you wish to be included in this fic's taglist, reply to this post or any of my posts regarding this fic ty !!)