à§Ś Ś synopsis âź Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave.
pls read a/n at the end before replying !!
aka âșâșâșâș âLook at that,â you murmur. âSexy jawline coming back.â âNever left,â Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
Jason has started growing facial hair again.
Itâs such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone elseâs life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.
Not him.
His face is a map of healed disastersâthin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.
The Joker had called it âlight acid.â
As if acid could ever be light.
As if anything about it had been.
After that, hair just⊠didnât grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.
Jason never got that stage.
He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.
Until now.
At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.
There is hair there.
Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.
It doesnât.
The memory surfaces uninvitedâyour voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadnât eaten in days. Youâd swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.
It hadnât been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.
Not that time.
âOh, god,â he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.
He looks dreadful.
Thatâs the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hairâthick, black, unrulyâis sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didnât bother winning.
He leans closer.
At least his skin looks better.
That part softens something in him.
You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated againâtoo tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadnât teased him. You just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.
He grumbled the whole time.
You ignored him the whole time.
In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his faceâgentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. Youâd murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.
Jason had fallen asleep like that.
Just like that.
He doesnât remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.
âI knew it was hair!â
Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.
He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.
Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. Youâre wearing one of his old shirtsâswallowed by itâand a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they donât drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.
Like you belong here.
You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.
âJason, babyâŠâ you murmur, studying him in the mirror like heâs something precious and slightly ridiculous.
He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where theyâre clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.
âYou loooove it,â he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though thereâs something almost hopeful beneath it.
You hum, pretending to consider it.
One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.
âHmm,â you decide, lips twitching. âIt's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.â
Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.
Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.
âI donât have a razor,â he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like heâs something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. âAnd itâs a holiday⊠stores wonât be open.â
The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning wayâsunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest.Â
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.
âI use a menâs razor,â you mumble thoughtfully, as if youâre offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. âWanna use that? I can disinfect it.â
He stills.
Itâs subtleâthe way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wristâbut you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that arenât empty; theyâre crowded. This is one of them.
âIâŠâ he starts, and the word drags.
Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.
âI donât know how to shave,â he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like itâs suddenly fascinating. âEven⊠before⊠uh. It didnât really grow.â
He doesnât elaborate.
He doesnât have to.
The space after before is heavy, but you donât reach for it. You donât pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.
âWhy now?â you murmur, mostly to yourself.
The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if youâve already decided the answer to that question doesnât matter nearly as much as what youâre going to do next.
Jason watches you through the mirror.
Why now?
Itâs the same reason heâs gained weightâreal weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didnât force himself to finish out of obligation. Thereâs a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like itâs bracing for impact every second.
He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.
Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.
Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.
He doesnât say that.
âMaybe itâs because youâre always slathering me in your fancy stuff,â he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. âIt probably shocked my face back to life.â
You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.
Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.
The light doesnât hide anything. It travels openly across himâover the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.
But you didnât run.
The first time you saw him like this, you hadnât looked horrified or pitying. Youâd looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always didâno hesitation, no recalibration.
If you didnât run from that, he doubts youâll run from stubble.
You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like youâre about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink youâve just run warm water into.
âCâmere,â you murmur.Â
You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.
âThis feels like a trap,â Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.
You smile down at himâslow, fond, almost reverentâand press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.
âRelax,â you say softly. âIâll take care of you.â
The words arenât dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.
He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if youâre handling something both fragile and fierce.
You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything thatâs going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scentâclean, subtle, faintly medicinalâmixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.
Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.
âHold still,â you murmur.
He huffs softly. âI am holding still.â
âYouâre flexing.â
âI am notââ
âYou are,â you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.
He forces his shoulders to drop.
Jason isnât used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correctionâforceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, itâs impactâbruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.
But this?
This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him.Â
You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. Youâre meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.
Your touch changes when you reach the scars.
Not hesitant. Not afraid.
Just attentive.
You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when youâre trying to get something exactly right.
âYou donât have to look at me like Iâm hurt and you need to patch me up,â he mutters.
You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.â
He snorts quietly despite himself.
The razor touches his skin for the first time.
Itâs a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Jason feels it more than he expected to.
Not painâjust awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time.Â
That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.
The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.
He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.
âYou trust me?â you ask lightly, but thereâs something real beneath it.
He doesnât hesitate this time.
âYeah.â
The answer is simple. Immediate.
Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek.Â
His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.
You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jawâthe place where the skin never quite grew back the same.
âDoes this one still feel tight?â you ask softly.
âSometimes,â he admits.
You donât comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.
Jasonâs eyes close for a second.
He lets them.
Thereâs something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like youâre not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. Iâm not afraid of any of it.
When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.
âLook at that,â you murmur. âSexy jawline coming back.â
âNever left,â Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
You grin. âSure, baby.â
You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.
He watches you again.
The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you donât seem to notice how intimate this isâhow your hands cradle his face like something precious.
When youâre done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.
âThere,â you whisper.
You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.
âMuch better.â
Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.
The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.
He looks at himself in the mirror again.
The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.
But thereâs something different in the way heâs sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isnât waiting for the mirror to betray him.
He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.
âYouâre gonna make me soft,â he mutters against your skin.
Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
âThats the goal,â you say.
And for once, the idea doesnât sound like a threat.
Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too
I need recs of Chinese novels, preferably cultivation setting, with female main character. She may be isekai-ed, reborn, transmigrated, or a native. It may be action, revenge, triller, detective, romance (yuri, het, or she could be just sex positive with many happy partners). Found family, female friendships. Perhaps her lack internalised misogyny is the centre of narration that deconstructs c-novel typical tropes.
If not c-novels or manhuas, then maybe original works on ao3, or fics.
Just. Give me girls. Girls who love and hate and kill and take revenge, who make friends and destroy the plot with cleverness or a sword.
I don't care if she breaks up canon ships, or seduces someone's sister.
The radio is screaming, the machines are working, the colleagues are talking with each other, at each other, AT me, singing along the radio. I am in headphones. I can't hear anything because the noise is drowning it. I am dying...
The radio is screaming, the machines are working, the colleagues are talking with each other, at each other, AT me, singing along the radio. I am in headphones. I can't hear anything because the noise is drowning it. I am dying...
you were always from two different worlds: you, a high-status noble who never had to lift a finger to get what you want, and he, a commoner who swung a flimsy stick and covered himself in bruises to achieve his aspirations. even when he rose through the ranks, never did you think you would find yourself on equal grounds. yet he shouldered through it all â through any and all obstacles which stood before him, including the walls you had never once let down; the ones which crumbled before him without you even realising.
CONTAINS : 3.4k wc, fem!reader, fluff, (attempts at) humour, angst if you squint, royalty au, villainess!reader, general!varka, somehow hurt/comfort crept into this..., mentions of alcohol, alluded family issues (kinda), reader has more depth than i initially planned
A/N : so this originally was an ask. and originally i was going to answer it in like. 3 paragraphs. that of course never happens so here i am with a new varka fic which isn't the vampire hunter varka fic... sigh. but this is basically manhwa au varka.... which is basically royalty au varka........ gobbles it (him) up. anyway new header and divider !! courtesy of his drip market hehehahahoho throws up what a handsome man orufdsl
dedicated to: the nonnie who sent in the ask abt villainess!reader and general!varka like. over a month ago. pls believe me when i say i stared at it constantly wondering how i am supposed to live with this revelation.
AO3 LINK HERE !!
The General â or Grand Master, as he had been officially titled years ago when he became the youngest in history to reach such a level, is a righteous and chivalrous knight of the highest order who commands the royal army. He is known as the strongest in the land, the nation's hero who paved the way through countless battles as a beacon of light even amid the bleakest of situations, and serves directly under Mondstadt's reigning king, Barbatos.
(No one can seem to catch a glimpse of the fabled king on the throne aside from a select few, with many believing there to be no king at all. Yet he still holds some semblance of power despite being the one to bring in the rule for democracy.)
He is a man with many achievements. Military medals, more than favourable public opinion of both the nobles and the commoners, numerous peace treaties with the most ludicrous of parties, and an avid drinker who reigns undefeated. Well, aside from the nation of warâs leader managing to drink him under. People donât really talk about that though, as he still managed to secure a prosperous trade deal with their grains and Mondstadtâs ports.
Truly, his reputation precedes him.
Well, not that you care. These are all things your stoic father constantly goes on and on and on about during family dinners when returning from a meeting with said general. And it's not just your father, but your strict mother, your teeth-grinding annoying older brother, your retired general of a grandfather, your uptight grandmother, your money-hungry aunt and uncle, your bratty blabbermouth of a third cousin, your, quote-unquote, "clique" who foolishly agrees with everything you say, yourâ
Seriously, what a load of nonsense. He's not even all that, and yet he gets all the approval from everyone around you! You, a dukeâs daughter! And he's just some... some muscle-loaded, freakishly strong, happy-go-lucky brute with an annoying laugh! Even in a ballroom packed with gossip-mongering nobles, his unmistakable, âhahahaâ still manages to ring clear through the air!
Speaking of that insufferable laugh, you can hear it right now. It booms from somewhere behind you on your left, the area where most of this eveningâs party-goers have congregated. Well, you canât say youâre surprised. Whenever he attends these gatherings everyone seems to flock towards him like some kind of hivemind.
Itâs laughable, really, considering how they were the ones who mocked him in the past; how a lowly commoner like he could never become something great, let alone even enter the knightâs academy. Yet now that he has become a living legend, built a name for himself after all these years, all of their past transgressions behind his back seem to have been conveniently forgotten. Like birds of a feather, you suppose. No matter where you go, no matter who the next target is, theyâre always the same.
(You would know best, after all.)
You donât realise youâre staring. At least, not until his eyes catch yours. Champagne bubbles stuck in your throat, you are not even given the luxury of pretending such an interaction never happened when his easy-going smile suddenly turns into that of a beam replicating the watt of a thousand suns, eyes glimmering like the sharp edge of a finely carved diamond caught under the light, as he begins to spew apologies to the crowd around him before steadily making his way over to where you stand.
God, you hope some knight or military official or someone swoops in and takes him away for some urgent business. What a delight that would be, sparing you theâ
The ladies around you gasp, blushing gazes drawn to something behind you like moths to a flame. You donât even need to turn to guess who could be making his way towards you.
Glass creaks under your fingers.
Damn it all.
You really donât understand this guyâs deal. Have all your previous schemes really had no effect in deterring him away?
Initially, you ignored him and gave the cold shoulder whenever he would approach to try and strike up a conversation of sorts. Honestly, youâre not entirely sure what you thought would happen when he was the man who went from zero to hero in record time and overturned the favour of this snobbish high society. Maybe you thought he would take the hint and leave you alone, but no. He stayed. And even when he did start to maintain a distance after your first and only confrontation, you could feel his gaze linger in the moments when everyone looked away.
It was unnerving, the way it seemed he could see right through you at times when you have spent your entire existence as anything but acknowledged. Thatâs what you hated about him the most, how he kept his distance not out of respect (though youâre sure he has some strict knightly code he abides by, he certainly seems like the type), but because he seemed know something beyond you. He always had that annoying expression akin to understanding or, worse yet, pity. And who was he to pity you? He may be a hero of the nation, but what right does that give him to play the role in the lives of others? In your life?
So, you resorted to tactics in hopes of driving him away for good. Petty? Sure. But thatâs what you are known for, so why not make use of the rumours and reputation already at your disposal to get rid of him before he manages to reach a part of you youâre sure wonât be the same ever again.
Once, you spilled the darkest red wine available on his clean, white ceremonial garb. It was his celebratory banquet for becoming the youngest to inherit the title of Grand Master. Your dress was coincidentally just a little too long, your grip on the glass coincidentally a little too loose, and he just so happened to be there when you coincidentally stumbled and spilled your drink over him, staining his pristine attire crimson. Coincidentally, of course.
Your family gave scathing glares, but whatâs new? Well, that foolish generalâs laid-back reaction was certainly new. He took one look at his soiled clothes, flicked his eyes over your own attire, before grinning at you, the words, âNo need to sweat over it! It was an accident, after all. But now we match!â Much to your immense horror, the crimson bleeding into his ceremonial garb was an almost one-to-one match with that of your dress!
There was also that time when you were â begrudgingly, you must stress â sharing drinks and sneaked in some very potent alcohol, adding it to his cup without anyone realising, confident it would render him sick and unable to perform his duties for a while. You know, just to tell him, âStay away if you know whatâs good for you.â
So imagine your complete and utter bafflement when he drinks the entire thing, licks his lips, sighs in complete and utter contentment, and has the audacity to ask, âHey, that was pretty good! Mind if I take some with me back to the barracks? Iâm sure the others would love it, too! Hahaha!â
Mouth agape, you seriously contemplated the idea he was not human.
(No, genuinely. How can he still be fine after downing such a high alcohol concentration in one go?? Is his liver alien??? How did he not get alcohol poisoning???? What in the world is this man?????)
âŠand many more failed attempts at getting him to despise your entire being. You've done just about everything you can to throw this stubborn man off your back, yet, much to your complete and absolute horror, he has not relented a single inch. After that last attempt, which has you sick at even the mere thought of consuming a single drop of that near-pure concentrate alcohol concoction, you promptly gave up on tricks and went back to giving him the cold shoulder. A full-circle moment, if you will.
Ugh! Curse this brute and that stubborn smile and stupid laugh of his! Just who does he think he is?!
And, as if to make matters even worse, your father appears by your side, your mother and brother following soon after. Great. Just great.
Tuning out their conversation, you sip on your champagne flute and mindlessly listen to the surrounding chatter. The ladies in your group have gone back to discussing the most recent play by that popular acting troupe from Fontaine, debating whether or not it was better than the last performance. That Furina seems to be making a name for herself lately. Apparently the affairs of the Fontainian nation werenât doing so great, but things seem to have settled if they are able to travel so often like this, along with that magic group with the three siblings.
Some of the older nobles are discussing the current affairs of Mondstadt, particularly the military and political scenes. Thereâs some rumours about the Snezhnayan diplomats making their move. Some seem relatively tame, while others have you wondering just what in the world their leader is thinking, letting people like that run free as influential figures. At least they are yet to come here, but who knows how long that will last. You just hope one of the seemingly tamer ones come to Mondstadt for negotiations, like that⊠that Captain guy? Seriously, why do they all have such strange aliases? You wouldnât ever agree to being referred to as a child.
Well, whatever. Itâs none of your business anyway. The worse that can happen isâ
âYour Grace, I would be honoured if you would bestow me your daughterâs hand in marriage.â
This. This is apparently the worse that can happen.
Glass shatters somewhere in the distance. Actually, something tells you it also shattered near you as well, but you have bigger things to worry about than some replaceable material scattered across the floor. This conversation between the general and your father you unfortunately overheard being one of them, with the other constituting of not dying from choking on champagne. (What a mortifying way to go that would be.)
From the corner of your eye, your father tenses. Itâs rare to see him in such a state. For all his feats in building the familyâs name and further prospering the ducal house and its territory, his stoicism is one of his main traits; a most annoying one, but itâs familiar. Nothing like a certain manâs jolly demeanour; the complete opposite, if you will.
âGrand Master Varka, I am afraid I will have to reject your proposal,â he responds after a few long seconds worthy of baited breaths.
Figures, a commoner like him wouldn't ever be able to gain approval for your hand, no matter how incredible his feats are. Perhaps your father maintains that wretchedly stubborn noble pride of his even in the face of the figurehead he constantly praises in your home. Or perhaps he has some heart in him for you after all. Maybe the thought of his one and only daughter being snatched away by some hulking guy who swings a sword has knocked some sense into him, andâ
âI fear my daughter is less than suitable and far too lacking for someone of your calibre.â
...what? You? Lacking? Should it not be the other way around?? And what kind of father says that about his own daughter??? You're his flesh and blood!
It seems your so-called father makes it a point to avoid your glare, if the way he claps a palm over the general's shoulder and treats him so familiarly is anything to go by. Ha! He should just go and take him in as a son then! They can gallop to the registry and have him officially become a part of the family. You're sure everyone would be jumping over the moon with that notion, finally having the golden child they always dreamed of having.
(What were you expecting? You should have never dreamed, should have never hoped for the impossible. You fool. You absolute fool.)
You expect the general to laugh that annoying laugh of his. Does he find this situation funny? Is your complete and utter humiliation that enjoyable to his sick senses? He probably does. Well, if not him, then those around you certainly find amusement in the current scene. You can already see all those two-faced nobles smirking down at you behind their masks. Maybe next time you should go to the black market to put some actual poison inâ
âThat's not true.â
...come again?
âLady [Name] is anything but lacking,â Varka continues, as if what he is saying isnât absolutely ludicrous in and of itself. âShe is graceful, poised, and confident in her every manner. There is no one more suitable, and if she is considered as âlackingâ as you say, then Iâm afraid I will go the rest of my life without marriage.â
You blink. Uhh... is he really talking about you? Has he lost his mind? No, never mind that. What really has you gawking is how flippantly he brushed off your fatherâs hand from his shoulder; as though the weight that palm carries is nothing but mere dust soiling his clothes.
(âŠdid your father always look so small? What happened to the man whose mere silhouette had your hands clamming up? Was his entire image simply something you made up? What were you always so afraid of? How much of your life have you wasted?)
A dull, prickling pain digs into the base of your palm.
âEven when alone, she tries her best to prove herself. To me, Lady [Name] is someone to be admired, but even more than that,â he trails off, tearing his blazing gaze away from that of your stunned father and instead focusing his sole attention onto you. Within that instant, his features relax, as though his parched throat has finally been relieved with a drop of water.
You want him to stop. To let this whole thing go and to forget this incident ever occurred. Why did he have to bring up such a topic to begin with? Why wonât he stop and just move on?
And then, within a blink, it happens.
One second he is standing, stature tall and posture the epitome of confidence. The next, he swoops down to bend at the knee â left knee flat against marble, one hand splayed across his heart, the other holding yours as he looks up at you in a way which screams warmth personified. When he slowly guides the back of your hand closer to him, clear blue seeking permission to continue, you find yourself unable to tear neither your gaze nor your hand away from him.
Feather-light is the kiss placed atop your gloved hand. Searing is the remnant which lingers when he pulls away.
âYou are someone to be cherished; reverently, wholeheartedly, most ardently.â Even with the glove as a barrier, his breath is warm; his eyes even more so when he continues. âI may be lacking in many ways, my lady, but I hope you may give me a chance to love you in the way you deserve.â
He's not putting on a facade, that much you can tell. Then again, when has he ever put one on? You can't recall, and you really don't believe there to be a time where he ever did don a mask of his own. He has just remained as himself; unapologetically so.
...seriously, what's wrong with this guy? How can he be so... so...
Dammit.
And so when you snatch his stupidly large hand in yours and dash out of the ballroom with only the stunned silence of the nobles, the hurried clacks of your heels against polished marble, and Varka's infuriatingly concerned tone when asking if you're alright as if running at this speed doesn't wind him in the slightest, you choose to ignore the searing heat spreading rapidly across your skin, nor do you acknowledge the tears which threaten to spill over after years of repression or the rapid palpitations of your heart you already know aren't from running.
Youâre not sure how long you keep running for, but you eventually come to a slow, your huffing figure caring little about what unsightly state you might be in right now. Rows of Cecilia extend as far as the eye can see, glimmering lamp grass lighting up the cobble-squared path further into the palace garden. There is a water fountain beside you, the faint pitter-pattering filling in the silence.
Varka doesnât say anything. You donât even look at him, gaze stubbornly fixed to the dampened grass. But he shifts, his shadow moving to enshroud you in your entirety, as if he were blocking anything else from disturbing this space. Feet shuffling, he eventually guides you to sit on the stone ledge of the fountain, his hand still held firmly in yours. You canât bring yourself to pull away, and yet your eyes refuse to meet his in fear of what would eventually escape through the widening cracks of your composure.
âWhyâŠâ Gritting your teeth, you blatantly ignore the warmth of his hand beginning to seep through your gloves. âWhy did you say all of that in front of everyone? Why didnât youâŠâ
âWhy didnât you laugh and mock me like everyone else in that room?â Is what you would have asked had you not bitten back the remaining words, had they not been stuck in the back of your throat like a wedge shoved under a door.
No words are said. Instead, he kneels down once more in the damp grass, and youâre reminded of moments prior in the ballroom. Except, instead of cool, polished marble, a patchy green already begins to bleed into the pristine white of his trousers, the plane of his knee a mini field, matching the blue skies of his eyes and the golden sun of his hair.
âŠthis is stupid. He is stupid. Youâre stupid. Everything is stupid.
Him and his stupid messy hair, fanged grin, scar-littered skin, infuriatingly gentle gaze, boisterous laugh, steadfast resolve, callused hands, annoyingly warm voiceâ
He looks at you then; really looks at you. In a single instant, you have never felt more exposed than you do now under this manâs gaze, as if he himself understands what everyone else never bothered to try like itâs nothing.
A thumb brushes over your knuckles like itâs easy; like itâs second nature. Warm, comforting, gentle â everything youâve come to associate with the man, and everything you have come to despise him for.
âBecause I see you.â
You scoff, disbelieving, heart caught in your throat. âWhat kind of answer is that?â
It takes a moment for Varka to respond, eyes boring into your own with something secure and assured and utterly incomprehensible to you.
âAn answer I believe in, because when you thought no one saw the cracks slowly forming to reveal everything you worked hard to hide, I saw them. Where everyone else saw the contempt and vitriol, I saw someone trying to survive in a room where no one took them seriously â where you were always under constant scrutiny for every minor thing and did all you could just to remain afloat.â
Your lip trembles; his grip tightens.
âI see you,â he reiterates once more, body leaning up until his forehead rests against yours, both of your hands held firmly within his. Strands of gold enter your vision, tickle the skin of your cheek, yet your eyes remain fixed onto his, wondering how someone could look so sure and unwavering in their beliefs. He whispers your name in utter reverence, like silk doused in the sweetest of honey. âIf youâll have me, I will happily spend the rest of my life giving you everything you shouldâve had since the moment you blessed this world with your birth.â
Ha. What a fool. What a complete, utter fool.
(Whether that is meant for him or for you... Well, you're not even sure anymore. Perhaps he is a fool. Perhaps you're both fools. But maybe, you're the biggest fool of all for thinking someone as earnest as he could truly be hated; that his sincerity hadnât reached you through the hairline cracks of your noble composure back during the first time you saw him as a knight-in-training when visiting the palace, swinging that flimsy wooden sword one thousand times.)
(Yeah. You really are a fool. In more ways than one.)
if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33
My list of favorite beauty channels. Not influencer stuff, not buy-buy-buy stuff, no obnoxious voices, fake personalities. Just beauty. It maybe make up, style, home, media, self care (not just skincare otlr buying stuff but hobbies, rest, self reflection) :
Heaven Sent Honey
Beauty and Discipline
Christine McConnell
Share your videos with friends, family, and the world
The Rambling Rose
đ· Botanical art, cottage gardens & a slow creative life đ·
Hello, Iâm Nancy â an artist and writer living on the wild South East coast of A
Haley Post
✠living in harmony with nature & the seasons ââșââ
whimsical recipes ⧠cozy crafts ⧠everyday magic
ââșââ forest fairy & kitchen witch ââșââ o
Evangeline Molly
Beauty as Art, Myth & Magic
I'm an online creator interested in exploring the connections between beauty, aesthetics, ritual, and art. I st
theArtup
Join me on a journey of beauty and self-expression!
theArtup is a safe place where you can try new things, not just in beauty but in lif
My Project Pan results of the last two years. Approximately.
Gold eyeshadow from some little known brand. Used it all winter over my eyelids with a primer. Looked amazing, a great mood booster tbh.
The Body Shop nail oil is... Old. I've used it sparingly since it was my first snd only purchase of this kind and I wasn't an avid nail polish user back then. Still, it's gone and I've bought three replacements (3 for 1 kind of deal) which I am not sad about, because I've started using my nail polishes every one-two weeks and their going down pretty fast.
My first "colourful" eye pencil. My mom bought it for me when I was a teen and started easing up on my faux goth makeup and outfits. I wasn't goth but it was easier to let people have their assumptions than explain my mental state and black bring my safety blanket against hostile world.
This has sentimental value that's why it was hard to finish the last 5 cm đ„Č it's double sided: brown eyeliner snd bronze eyeshadow. The last bits were used on lips because it caused allergic reaction on my eyes. But it's gone.
My mascaras. The least problematic products to use. Usually I have two in use simultaneously â one for upper lashes, the other for lower ones.
My eye primer, second in use after I bought a pot of dried one. It has been with me for... 15 years. Don't ask. Seriously. Don't. There's still some left but it's expired. Truly expired, as in giving me rashes on eyelids.
The others are councilers: one is empty, the other has a little left but again rashes, the third one... I got the stopper out but it had sand in it đ
After watching Heaven Sent Honey and Evangeline Molly I realised that it's okay. My face is okay with it's imperfections: brown discoloration on my eyelids, the bruises under my eyes, even red breakouts. I still would love to try cc cream or these half transparent shimmery toners (I've discovered the second one on Matilda on Video channel), but it's mostly about fun rather than discomfort of living in my own skin. If I find what I love, and have spare money, I'll buy it and use it without fear of using it up fast or because I want to hide my skin. I am, I think, too old and tired of constant hate women receive concerning our faces, bodies, manner of living to give a shit about imperfect. Sorry for the rant but many things in my life somehow slid down from passion and fun into resentment. And I am trying to find my way back to enjoying life and myself.
I've bought new eye primer.
Wooo. All of them were bought when I was a teen. Gifts from mom. Many happy memories. It was time to let go. Starting from bottom:
âą bright slim pink lipstick. At first I see it sparingly during summer but in twenties I worked in The Body Shop and bright lips was part of uniform. It was either my own lipstick or the testers... Ew. No. Don't do that. My colleagues always used clean brushes on clients, disinfecting everything and scraping the edges of lipstick ... But people are nasty pigs. Absolutely nasty. Always putting their herpes on all testers. Don't do that.
So, this lipstick was finished in two months. Two months of consistent use and 5-6 reapplication in a day, while working 2/2, 3/1.
The lipstick (and lip glosses) we're bought at the same time as bronze double sided eye pencil and was creamy lavender purple. My favoriteđ used half of it as a teen, then finished it off last year wearing before leaving for work. Gone in two months of consistent use. Loved it. Miss it. Scraped it out but the leftovers were expired đ
(I have bright red and brow red from the same line)
The lip glosses (there is red one left) finished in 2025 by wearing it to work, the upper one gone bad before I could finish it. I am not sad actually, because they've been holding for over ten years and it's my own fault for saving them. A lesson for me for sure. I am using their red comrade here and there, depending on my mood. Because red is a hard colour to wear imho.
The purple lip gloss. Finished this year in spring. Also was constantly in my work bag) I found a way to use up my lip products â work bag!
I am very happy to actually use my makeup snd see it go down from wear. I have another lipstick hearing it's end. I've bought an empty pallette to hold my scraped lipsticks in, because gods there is a lot of product hiding there!
Red lipliner I used as eyeliner. It was fun. I did it before red makeup was in the trends đ unfortunately it dried out and started breaking into crumbs. But I consider it finished and my friend gifted me a tiny pot of powdered red eyeshadow đ so I am good.
The dofa was from broken lip gloss container. I've poured it into another used and cleaned lip gloss empty. I am using it in the morning, very 2000s pink glittery thing. It's lovely.
I have three nail polish empties: red and white essence and mint Sephora. But I am using it now as vessels for frankening my polishes. It's strangely freeing and fun, knowing I can make my own colours. So far I have shimmery violet one and a pastel purple) I'd love to make chartreuse.
Also, there's is a lot of perfume empties but I have no idea where they are. I was hoping to give them to recycling organization, but the one I found closed. It was specifically for makeup/perfume bottles.
I've no idea what to do now. Just throw them into glass trash container? And I know you can give away mascara brushes to eco orgs. But it was strangely hard to find any.
A/N so this was supposed to be a short thought and ended up longer than I'd planned, whoops.
TW: heavy body image issues, quick skin picking mention
x fem!reader
"You don't understand!"
"Sweetheart-"
"No!"
Throughout the apartment you can hear two sets of feet slapping against hardwood in the kitchen. Hers, fast and angry. His, cautious but intentional.
"Did I do something?" He asks. "Because if I did, just tell me what it is so we can talk about it-"
She spins around and stares at him, incredulously. "What? No you didn't do anything!"
He blinks at her.
"Okay," he starts off, trying to wipe the last bit of sleep from his eyes. "Did you not want me to come here after work? Because if you need space that's totally fine, I just need you to let me know that."
He'd gotten off early today, and in a bid to surprise her he had headed on over to her apartment, wanting to be there when she got home from work. Letting himself in (with the spare key she had given him), he had then made a home on her couch where he intended to stay until she arrived, however the exhaustion from the day had caught up with him. He'd passed out.
And he was then awoken by the door swinging open, and his beautiful fiance storming in like a bat out of hell.
"I'm sorry I didn't let you know, but I thought it'd be a nice surprise."
"It was a nice surprise!" She exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air, "It is! I love when you're here! I love being around you!"
Silence settled in the room, the only sounds being her exasperated breathing.
"Then baby, what's wrong?" He asked, gently.
He takes a slow step forward, and then another, like he's approaching a frightened animal. And with the wild look in her eyes, that feels like a fair comparison.
Next thing you know, he's right in front of her, sliding his hands around her waist gently. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but she seems more calm than before. Looks less like she's going to bite someone.
"Just talk to me." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.
A large exhale. Then he feels her hands twist themselves into his shirt, holding on tight like he would float away otherwise.
"It's just," the mumble comes from pressed into his chest. "It's just stupid, fucking Gina."
"Gina?" He questions, still cradling her. "From work?"
"Yes!" She huffs. "She and freaking Roger-"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Not anymore! They're engaged now!"
He can feel her tensing up in his arms again, and starts to rub her back in small circles.
"Is that a bad thing?" He questions. "Just last month you told me he was gonna pop the question any time."
"No it isn't a bad thing, I'm very happy for them!" She puffs indignantly.
He smiles into the top of her head. He doesn't know how she continues to be so endearing even when clearly quite upset about something.
"Then what's the issue, my love?"
This gets a reaction, but not quite the one he was hoping for. She pulls out of the hug and starts pacing the kitchen again, mumbling and pulling at her hair now.
"It's just that, now that they're engaged Gina won't stop talking to me about all their damn wedding prep." She pauses her footsteps and squeezes her eyes tight, pinching her nose. "And it's like, well duh! Of course she's talking to me about it because we," she gestures between the two of them. "-are also engaged! But we've been engaged for months and in a fucking week it feels like she's already so much more prepared than I am!"
She stomps over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water, then downing it all in one go. Then she continues.
"He booked everything for their honeymoon last weekend, the venue she wanted didn't even have a wait list, and get this," she throws her hands in the air again. "-she's already got her dress!"
"Don't you have an appointment to go try on dresses in a few weeks? I'm sure you'll find yours-"
"But it isn't about the dress." She sighs. He can slowly see the fight abandoning her, leaving whatever ugly feeling was truly the cause of all of this. "Her boobs are just perfect."
Silence.
He blinks once. Twice.
"Sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me how nice hers are, I'm quite attached to yours."
This gets a smile out of her. Brief and small, but the first smile he's seen since she got home.
"You don't get it." She murmurs. "Hers are so nice, and they sit pretty by themselves, and she could wear a bra that has no support whatsoever and she's still gonna look like a freaking Barbie. Do you know what she told me about her dress?"
He knows this is rhetorical, so he waits.
"She doesn't have to put on any shape wear. Not a single piece. She doesn't have to tape, or suck in, or squeeze. She just looks that way! I don't even have my dress and I just know I'm gonna look like a stupid walrus if I'm not squished into spandex."
"Now wait a second that's not-"
But the truth is starting to spew out now, she's already started and can't hear him.
"My boobs have never looked like that. They will never look like that. If I took my bra off right now they would damn near kiss my bellybutton, can you imagine if we have kids?" She violently blinking, refusing to make eye contact now.
"And then I started thinking about everything I need to fix before we get married, everything I'm trying to get dealt with before the ceremony so you don't have to see it." She squeezes her eyes tight.
Crickets can be heard for a moment, it's quiet enough you can hear the television from the next apartment over.
"It makes me wonder if we should even do this at all."
"Stop."
Her head snaps up.
His eyes are burning, his chest is tight and his fists are balled. He's enraged, but not at her. Never at her, but at the way she clearly sees herself.
"Don't do this, don't ever say those things about the woman I love ever again."
Tears are now streaming down her face, but there's a ball of indignation rising in her chest as well.
"How can you say that when you don't even know all the gross things about me?"
The kitchen is starting to feel suffocating, so she leaves into the living room. He's right behind her.
"Baby there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me not love you-"
"Oh yeah?" She eyes him. She's too far now, everything that's been kept locked up for the last almost year is forcing itself through the open dam.
"I haven't worn my retainer in a year, and I can actively feel my teeth shifting back to the way they were in middle school. That isn't pretty."
She circles the couch, now keeping him on one side while she stands on the other.
"Not only are my tits saggy, but they're covered in stretch marks. And they get absolutely disgusting when it's hot outside. They get white heads and the worst rash from my bra chafing and that sure as hell isn't appealing."
"My stomach rubs the tops of my thighs and makes ingrowns there that I pick at until they bleed. The insides of my thighs chafe so bad that they look infected, and I can hardly stand to see them myself!"
That boy just stands there, his heart breaking as she lists everything she can think of that should make him not love her.
"I get ingrown hairs in my armpits, that get worse when I shave so I have to let them grow out and I hate it! I have zits on my butt that I am so ashamed of, no matter what I do they will never permanently go away, and my worst nightmare-" she's hysterical now, snot clogging her nose and tears tattooing themselves on her face. "- my worst nightmare is you seeing me on our wedding night and being absolutely revolted by everything I am. Resenting me for all of my flaws, for not being able to fix everything I have tried so hard to keep from you."
She slumps into the couch, hands finding her hair and pulling.
"I'm so scared that we're going to get married and you'll realize that it's a mistake. That you deserve someone better, someone prettier and quieter and more presentable than me." She whimpers. "And then you'll leave."
Her eyes are glued shut, so when she hears footsteps she can only assume that he's leaving. Going to grab his things and head out the door now that she's finally laid out what he would actually be getting into. Everything that he would actually have to deal with as her husband.
She was right, it was too much. She wasn't enough like Gina to make him stay, and now she needs to gather the strength to tell everyone that their engagement has been called off-
Then a warm, calloused hand is gently cradling her chin, lifting her head out of her hands.
"Open your eyes, pretty girl." He whispers from in front of her. "Let me see you."
It takes a moment, but he's patient, and when she finally opens her blurry eyes she can see him, the man she loves more than anything else in the world, on his knees with his eyes full of tears.
"Thank you," he murmurs as he presses a kiss to both of her cheeks. "Thank you for sharing this with me, I know that it wasn't an easy thing to do."
A watery laugh escapes her unintentionally. "That's your response?"
"Not entirely," he gives her a little smile, brushing away the baby hairs that are stuck to her forehead and the sides of her face.
"You are the most precious thing in my whole world, and nothing that you just said will ever be able to change that." He gazes at her lovingly. "Your body being totally normal and human is not something that I will ever hold against you, not something that will ever drive me away."
He takes his thumb and ever so carefully wipes the tears and smudged mascara out from under her eyes.
"You are my beautiful fiance, the woman that I am so blessed to be with. The woman that I cannot wait to marry, to live with. The person that I hope to give my children, the incredible lady that I dream of growing old with." He nuzzles his nose against her own, unbothered by her tears now mixing with his.
"It makes me feel so special to get to be the person that you share these things with. To be a safe place for you to rant and rave and cry and scream and just exist. And my sweet love, you are that for me as well. You hold me when I'm tired, piece me together when I'm broken, and love me when I cannot love myself."
He plants another kiss on her forehead, then stands from where he is knelt on her rug, carefully lowering himself next to her on the couch and pulling her close.
She easily clicks right into his side, right where she belongs, fingers once again tangled in his shirt like he'll disappear if she doesn't hold on.
"I can't wait to marry you." He murmurs, "I'm yours as long as you'll have me."
"I can't wait to marry you," she whispers into his neck, her breathing finally evening out for the first time this afternoon.
"..and I kind of feel bad about everything I said about Gina. She was just collateral because of how I felt."
An unexpected laugh bursts from his throat, and he squeezes her a little bit closer.
"Then tomorrow you can buy her a coffee and apologize, but for tonight let's just stay right here."
A/N so this was supposed to be a short thought and ended up longer than I'd planned, whoops.
TW: heavy body image issues, quick skin picking mention
x fem!reader
"You don't understand!"
"Sweetheart-"
"No!"
Throughout the apartment you can hear two sets of feet slapping against hardwood in the kitchen. Hers, fast and angry. His, cautious but intentional.
"Did I do something?" He asks. "Because if I did, just tell me what it is so we can talk about it-"
She spins around and stares at him, incredulously. "What? No you didn't do anything!"
He blinks at her.
"Okay," he starts off, trying to wipe the last bit of sleep from his eyes. "Did you not want me to come here after work? Because if you need space that's totally fine, I just need you to let me know that."
He'd gotten off early today, and in a bid to surprise her he had headed on over to her apartment, wanting to be there when she got home from work. Letting himself in (with the spare key she had given him), he had then made a home on her couch where he intended to stay until she arrived, however the exhaustion from the day had caught up with him. He'd passed out.
And he was then awoken by the door swinging open, and his beautiful fiance storming in like a bat out of hell.
"I'm sorry I didn't let you know, but I thought it'd be a nice surprise."
"It was a nice surprise!" She exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air, "It is! I love when you're here! I love being around you!"
Silence settled in the room, the only sounds being her exasperated breathing.
"Then baby, what's wrong?" He asked, gently.
He takes a slow step forward, and then another, like he's approaching a frightened animal. And with the wild look in her eyes, that feels like a fair comparison.
Next thing you know, he's right in front of her, sliding his hands around her waist gently. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but she seems more calm than before. Looks less like she's going to bite someone.
"Just talk to me." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.
A large exhale. Then he feels her hands twist themselves into his shirt, holding on tight like he would float away otherwise.
"It's just," the mumble comes from pressed into his chest. "It's just stupid, fucking Gina."
"Gina?" He questions, still cradling her. "From work?"
"Yes!" She huffs. "She and freaking Roger-"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Not anymore! They're engaged now!"
He can feel her tensing up in his arms again, and starts to rub her back in small circles.
"Is that a bad thing?" He questions. "Just last month you told me he was gonna pop the question any time."
"No it isn't a bad thing, I'm very happy for them!" She puffs indignantly.
He smiles into the top of her head. He doesn't know how she continues to be so endearing even when clearly quite upset about something.
"Then what's the issue, my love?"
This gets a reaction, but not quite the one he was hoping for. She pulls out of the hug and starts pacing the kitchen again, mumbling and pulling at her hair now.
"It's just that, now that they're engaged Gina won't stop talking to me about all their damn wedding prep." She pauses her footsteps and squeezes her eyes tight, pinching her nose. "And it's like, well duh! Of course she's talking to me about it because we," she gestures between the two of them. "-are also engaged! But we've been engaged for months and in a fucking week it feels like she's already so much more prepared than I am!"
She stomps over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water, then downing it all in one go. Then she continues.
"He booked everything for their honeymoon last weekend, the venue she wanted didn't even have a wait list, and get this," she throws her hands in the air again. "-she's already got her dress!"
"Don't you have an appointment to go try on dresses in a few weeks? I'm sure you'll find yours-"
"But it isn't about the dress." She sighs. He can slowly see the fight abandoning her, leaving whatever ugly feeling was truly the cause of all of this. "Her boobs are just perfect."
Silence.
He blinks once. Twice.
"Sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me how nice hers are, I'm quite attached to yours."
This gets a smile out of her. Brief and small, but the first smile he's seen since she got home.
"You don't get it." She murmurs. "Hers are so nice, and they sit pretty by themselves, and she could wear a bra that has no support whatsoever and she's still gonna look like a freaking Barbie. Do you know what she told me about her dress?"
He knows this is rhetorical, so he waits.
"She doesn't have to put on any shape wear. Not a single piece. She doesn't have to tape, or suck in, or squeeze. She just looks that way! I don't even have my dress and I just know I'm gonna look like a stupid walrus if I'm not squished into spandex."
"Now wait a second that's not-"
But the truth is starting to spew out now, she's already started and can't hear him.
"My boobs have never looked like that. They will never look like that. If I took my bra off right now they would damn near kiss my bellybutton, can you imagine if we have kids?" She violently blinking, refusing to make eye contact now.
"And then I started thinking about everything I need to fix before we get married, everything I'm trying to get dealt with before the ceremony so you don't have to see it." She squeezes her eyes tight.
Crickets can be heard for a moment, it's quiet enough you can hear the television from the next apartment over.
"It makes me wonder if we should even do this at all."
"Stop."
Her head snaps up.
His eyes are burning, his chest is tight and his fists are balled. He's enraged, but not at her. Never at her, but at the way she clearly sees herself.
"Don't do this, don't ever say those things about the woman I love ever again."
Tears are now streaming down her face, but there's a ball of indignation rising in her chest as well.
"How can you say that when you don't even know all the gross things about me?"
The kitchen is starting to feel suffocating, so she leaves into the living room. He's right behind her.
"Baby there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me not love you-"
"Oh yeah?" She eyes him. She's too far now, everything that's been kept locked up for the last almost year is forcing itself through the open dam.
"I haven't worn my retainer in a year, and I can actively feel my teeth shifting back to the way they were in middle school. That isn't pretty."
She circles the couch, now keeping him on one side while she stands on the other.
"Not only are my tits saggy, but they're covered in stretch marks. And they get absolutely disgusting when it's hot outside. They get white heads and the worst rash from my bra chafing and that sure as hell isn't appealing."
"My stomach rubs the tops of my thighs and makes ingrowns there that I pick at until they bleed. The insides of my thighs chafe so bad that they look infected, and I can hardly stand to see them myself!"
That boy just stands there, his heart breaking as she lists everything she can think of that should make him not love her.
"I get ingrown hairs in my armpits, that get worse when I shave so I have to let them grow out and I hate it! I have zits on my butt that I am so ashamed of, no matter what I do they will never permanently go away, and my worst nightmare-" she's hysterical now, snot clogging her nose and tears tattooing themselves on her face. "- my worst nightmare is you seeing me on our wedding night and being absolutely revolted by everything I am. Resenting me for all of my flaws, for not being able to fix everything I have tried so hard to keep from you."
She slumps into the couch, hands finding her hair and pulling.
"I'm so scared that we're going to get married and you'll realize that it's a mistake. That you deserve someone better, someone prettier and quieter and more presentable than me." She whimpers. "And then you'll leave."
Her eyes are glued shut, so when she hears footsteps she can only assume that he's leaving. Going to grab his things and head out the door now that she's finally laid out what he would actually be getting into. Everything that he would actually have to deal with as her husband.
She was right, it was too much. She wasn't enough like Gina to make him stay, and now she needs to gather the strength to tell everyone that their engagement has been called off-
Then a warm, calloused hand is gently cradling her chin, lifting her head out of her hands.
"Open your eyes, pretty girl." He whispers from in front of her. "Let me see you."
It takes a moment, but he's patient, and when she finally opens her blurry eyes she can see him, the man she loves more than anything else in the world, on his knees with his eyes full of tears.
"Thank you," he murmurs as he presses a kiss to both of her cheeks. "Thank you for sharing this with me, I know that it wasn't an easy thing to do."
A watery laugh escapes her unintentionally. "That's your response?"
"Not entirely," he gives her a little smile, brushing away the baby hairs that are stuck to her forehead and the sides of her face.
"You are the most precious thing in my whole world, and nothing that you just said will ever be able to change that." He gazes at her lovingly. "Your body being totally normal and human is not something that I will ever hold against you, not something that will ever drive me away."
He takes his thumb and ever so carefully wipes the tears and smudged mascara out from under her eyes.
"You are my beautiful fiance, the woman that I am so blessed to be with. The woman that I cannot wait to marry, to live with. The person that I hope to give my children, the incredible lady that I dream of growing old with." He nuzzles his nose against her own, unbothered by her tears now mixing with his.
"It makes me feel so special to get to be the person that you share these things with. To be a safe place for you to rant and rave and cry and scream and just exist. And my sweet love, you are that for me as well. You hold me when I'm tired, piece me together when I'm broken, and love me when I cannot love myself."
He plants another kiss on her forehead, then stands from where he is knelt on her rug, carefully lowering himself next to her on the couch and pulling her close.
She easily clicks right into his side, right where she belongs, fingers once again tangled in his shirt like he'll disappear if she doesn't hold on.
"I can't wait to marry you." He murmurs, "I'm yours as long as you'll have me."
"I can't wait to marry you," she whispers into his neck, her breathing finally evening out for the first time this afternoon.
"..and I kind of feel bad about everything I said about Gina. She was just collateral because of how I felt."
An unexpected laugh bursts from his throat, and he squeezes her a little bit closer.
"Then tomorrow you can buy her a coffee and apologize, but for tonight let's just stay right here."
âââââââ just a drabble about your cat lying in jason's lap man. very much based off my cat.
"jason have you seenâ oh, nevermind."
you pause next to the couch, staring at where jason sat, your cat in all her furred glory curled up in his lap like it could very well be her throne. her ear twitches at the sound of your voice, but she doesn't lift her head from where it's buried into his shirt and between her paws. jason sits almost straight as a board beneath her, staring down at her with an expression so confused and caught off guard, it has you snorting back a laugh. you wonder what happened before you walked in, when she went up to him and climbed in his lap.
"so," you drag out, taking a few steps close to get a better look at your cat, "this is new."
jason looks up at you, and he looks like he's about to say something but then your cat adjusts her position, stretching out her arms and kneading at his pants a few times before she goes still again. watching her, you can't quite help the sound that leaves you, cooing at the way your cat goes right back to sleep. it gets another ear twitch from her, but she otherwise doesn't move.
it's a little ironic you think â just the other day you and jason had gotten into a small unserious back and forth about how your cat supposedly hates him. you told him she didn't, he was convinced she did. and you couldn't blame him, not really, your cat was the perfect example of anxiety in a pet, she was scared of everyone; but jason had been coming around enough you could tell your cat was getting used to him, jason just couldn't tell.
"see," you grin, pointing at her, "told you she didn't hate you."
"she hated me yesterday," jason scoffs, holding out his arms, like he's trying to decide if he's allowed to put them down when she's taken up his personal space.
you roll your eyes, "she did not, she just takes her time."
"i think she's purring."
that makes you pause, leaning over the couch, and just loud enough that you don't have to be right next to her, you can hear your cat purring, just like jason said she was.
"oh my god, i think she loves you," you say, serious enough that it gets an odd look from jason.
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenagerâyou had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.â Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. âAny reason for the limp?"
âJumped down from the fourth floor.â He shrugs. âWasnât sure youâd wait up on me.â
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a jokeâand he merely returns your stare, amused.
âJason, youâre joking.â
âI never joke about closing hours.â He muses.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thingâbut his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?â
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, Iâll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.â
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sighâand thatâs all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldlyâa gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or twoâwhatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another timeâ"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
âExperience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.â He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn'tâ" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still haveâ" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "âfive minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place isâ"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mockingâonly to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
âHeyââ
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find thereâs handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
âJackass left you a tip for the troubleâand the rec. - Jason.â
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerkâand probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
âYou shouldâve seen him.â He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. âMakes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. Thereâs nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my woundâ"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
âWhyâre you back here anyway?â You question, trying to distract yourself. âOf all the places you couldâve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?â
âNot medical expertise.â He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. âI wanted..â
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. âWanted what?â
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. âA recommendation.â He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. âYou came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours againâfor a recommendation?â
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that heâs at least half-serious. âI knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.â
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have beenâhe offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down tooâand you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jasonâs presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a âclosing hourâ. He's usually your last visitor regardlessâleaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
âIâm sorry, Margery.â Your voice remains perfectly levelled. âI can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
âCanât you understand my situation?â She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. âNo one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.â
âWhich by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, maâam.â
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. âI want to speak to your manager.â
Your lips quirk up. âJason.â
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasnât turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
âThere a problem?â
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
âPolicyâs law.â Jason shrugs. âIf youâd like to take this further, to save yourselfââ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higherâthe perfect composition of a jerk. âSeven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.â
âI have never experienced such horrible service!â Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. âActing as if I'm in the wrongâyouâll be receiving the worst review!â
"Allâs fair in Gotham, maâam.â He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. âThe review will be wiped the moment she hits post.â
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. âShould I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?â
âNah.â He shrugs. âLast place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.â
âShabby.â You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
âOh-no, Iâm beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.â He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. âWhy, cause youâll be the boss of me?â
His smirk deepens. âOne of its many perks, I imagine.â
âOh, get over yourself, Todd.â You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hairâwhatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He couldâve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yoursâmeant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied felineâaccompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "YouâMr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's ableâand willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you obligeâflipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to careâactually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilatedâbody locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like youâve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
âJason.â
âIâve never done anything like this.â It spills out of him, as if he canât contain himself. âOur thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anythingâI just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in meâthat it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tenseâbut now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess butâevery book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. Soâyou're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
âI thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.â You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. âYeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.â
You raise a brow. âYou and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smokyâso distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
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