#<- canon pre-fic

[vulturereyy]

The Watcher dreams alone.

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[siffrins-therapist]

opening scene in ch 7 of my vampire!sif wip

[necrotic-nephilim]

I think what I love the most about Reverse Robin AU TimJay is the absolute potential for hero worship with Jason toward Tim. In canon we often forget that Tim didn't really care for Jason as Robin, meanwhile as I never shut up about, Jason has been weirdly respecting and obsessed with Tim since finding out about Tim's existence. So if you flip their order, make Tim Red Hood and make Jason Red Robin, there's so much room for hero worship from Jason.

As Robin, Jason has always teetered that edge of being pro-murder or not. Whether you believe he killed Felipe or not, even in his Post-Crisis introduction as Robin, he almost kills Two Face. Those concepts of lethal justice have always been brewing inside him, just reigned in by Bruce. So if you have Robin!Jason witnessing Red Hood!Tim start killing people and quickly making noticeable change in the landscape of gangs in Gotham, Jason would take quick notice. I think Tim as Red Hood would still be lethal, but there'd be a different application than Jason's Red Hood. Heads in duffle bags isn't Tim's style, even if he kills. I think you'd see something much more akin to that time Tim almost killed Boomerang, where it's such an elaborately thought out set up, it realistically doesn't even look like Tim killed anyone. It'd take months for Bruce to connect this string of deaths as anything other than coincidental, let alone link them to Red Hood. And Jason is wickedly smart, even as Robin. Jason, putting those pieces together before Bruce does and witnessing the undeniable positive change for Gotham it's enacting? Robin!Jason would be incredibly drawn in by that, and then even more-so, a Red Robin!Jason who has to grapple with being replaced to make room for the next Robin would I think, in anger, turn to Red Hood. And Tim would push him away at first, his plans don't have room for a scorned teenager who's trying to get back at Bruce and Nightwing!Damian like this- but I think Jason would wear him down. Prove to Tim that Jason can think on his wavelength.

Slightly related, what interests me about Red Hood!Tim is how it'd implicate his closeness to Ra's. Jason is taken into the League by Talia in Lost Days and Ra's doesn't necessarily approve of Jason's presence, especially not of Talia dunking him in the Pit, but Ra's has always canonically been A Little Weird about Tim. I think in a world Tim dies as the second Robin, it would be Ra's who dunks Tim to preserve his mind that Ra's thinks shouldn't be wasted, and you have the potential for 'apprentice of Ra's' Tim wrapped up in it all, even without him experience the Red Robin arc. So when it's Jason as Red Robin, instead of him going to Ra's when he's scorned by the Batfamily, he goes to Tim. The person he once idolized, because I think Tim would've been Jason's Robin. Smart, competent, a strong legacy to live up to. And now he's back, and he's pro-killing, an edge that Jason has always teetered on and would feel even closer to when he's replaced by a young Dick. I think Tim wouldn't ever be able to get rid of Jason.

Then on Tim's side, I think his reaction to being replaced after his death would be a complicated one. Objectively, being the Robin who believes Batman needs a Robin, he'd respect the logic and know Bruce was always going to replace him eventually. But still, there's always going to be that instinctual emotional reaction of betrayal and replacement. I think he'd view Jason at first with anger and distance, but then, seeing Jason as this street kid with begrudging potential, I could see Red Hood!Tim testing Jason. Constantly throwing things at Jason, seeing how he reacts, if he lives up to being Robin. Tim has a need for analyzing people, understanding their strengths and weaknesses. And he seems the Robin mantle very uniquely, he'd need to have it proven to him that Jason can handle it.

So you would have this dynamic of Jason hero worshipping Tim, slowly believing in Tim's methodology. While Tim is at first dismissive of him, but then starts to test him, see what makes this kid tick. And I think the TimJay potential of Jason trying to prove himself to Tim could be Neat.

[klanced]

this is why i never read voltron fanfic 💀

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 29

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 26, part 27, part 28

Dustin’s not exactly sure what happened. He was patiently waiting for Steve to meet him in the lobby, but it’s been almost a half hour, and Dustin has no idea where he is. He already went back to check in Eddie’s room, but nothing. Then outside, nothing again. And Steve would never leave his stranded, so it can’t be that.

Which leaves Dustin completely alone, eating a Snickers bar that he got from the vending machine because they were out of Three Musketeers. The second one he got for Steve slowly melting in his pocket. Wondering if it was at the level where he had to go check under the bathroom stalls to see if any of the feet were wearing Steve’s shoes.

But he can at least be a little bit saner and go double check Eddie’s room again. Maybe Steve couldn’t find him and went back there to look. That would be the logical thing to do.

When Dustin opens the door, Steve has the chair pulled up close to Eddie’s bed hunched over and looking like he’s about to cry. Eddie’s looks like halfway there himself. Both of them jumping to hide that fact when Dustin entered.

“I didn’t know where you went,” Dustin says. Not sure whether to ignore or acknowledge what he just walked into. “I thought we were going to go home.”

Steve shakes his head gently, pressing his eyes shut like it will stop the tears from flowing. “Yeah, sorry. Could you just give me a second? I was just talking to Eddie about something.”

“It’s ok,” Eddie brushes off with his hand. “Take the kid home, we can talk about this later.”

“Are you sure? He can wait another minute-.”

“I’m sure. We’re good, ok. Go home.” Eddie looks at him like he really means what he’s saying. Not just pretending for both of their benefit. Not again.

Steve nods. Standing and pushing the chair back in place against the wall. “I’ll see you later then.”

Eddie waves Steve over and whispers something before letting him leave. Steve just snorts and smiles at whatever it is. Whispering something back before finally ushering Dustin out of the room. Some sort of weird energy radiating off of him in the car ride home. A mix between happy and sad that Dustin doesn’t understand.

“What was that about?” Dustin asks. Trying to do it without a confrontational tone.

Steve shrugs. “We just had something to talk about, that’s all.”

Dustin nods. “But you’re both ok, right? It looked like you were both about to cry.”

He’s trying to be gentle about the topic. Trying to calm the way he can ask about things. So it doesn’t sound like he’s pressuring his way into situations. That way people can feel like they can open up to him, and tell him what’s going on. Instead of just brushing it off and telling him it’s not his problem.

Because it was his problem. This was his friend. This was his family. He didn’t have siblings to fight through all of this with. He didn’t have parents who he could tell these things too. For the most part, it’s been Steve that he’s talked to about all this. It’s been Steve that he radioed in the middle of the night when he was so scared he couldn’t breathe. Or when he needed advice about school problems. Or anything.

Somewhere along the line, Steve became the sibling he fought through stuff with. That’s been a sure fact since he helped Dustin get ready for the Snowball. They were one of the mini units in the bigger organization.

It hurt when Steve hid things from him out of “protection”. Dustin didn’t need protecting, he needed transparency. He needed for Steve to know that Dustin’s here for him. Just as much as Steve’s there for Dustin. This was a two-way street.

“We were, kinda,” Steve says after a long break of silence.

“Are you ok?”

Steve puts the car in park, turning to Dustin with an almost relieved expression. “Yeah. I am.”

“Ok.” Dusting is choosing to trust that Steve would tell him if he wasn’t. “Just, if you start to feel not ok, you know you can talk to me about it. I’ll listen.”

“I know.”

There’s a knock at Dustin’s window. His mom waving hello with a gentle smile. Dustin knows why, he always knows why. It’s to invite Steve in to have dinner that he’ll refuse three times before giving in. He’s over there for dinner more nights that he would probably admit.

“Hi, Miss Henderson,” Steve says when he rolls down the window.

“Hello. I haven’t seen you in a while, Steve. Why don’t you come in for dinner?”

That’s a lie, she saw him two days ago when she returned a movie at Family Video.

Steve lets out a small huff, catching her on her lie. “I appreciate it, but I really should be heading home. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Oh, it’d be no bother at all. It’s the least I can do for all the time you drive Dustin around.”

Dustin rolls his eyes as Steve rolls out another excuse. His mother already coming up with a response that negates the excuse entirely. Steve takes a deep breath and turns the car off, accepting the dinner invitation.

He only refused twice this time. Steve is starting to be worn down.

They go inside and are almost immediately ushered to the table. Set with three places each with their favorite sodas. Because there wasn’t an option for Steve to not be here for dinner, and the three of them knew it. It was just in Steve’s nature to try and refuse.

Even though he knows that once Steve steps through the doors of the Henderson house, he never wants to leave it. It’s much smaller than his house, and a lot more cluttered. But that’s what makes it warm. Every time he walked into his house after an upside down event, with all of this clutter and décor surrounding him, he never felt more relief in his life. He was home.

Whenever he visits one of the other guys’ houses, that feeling is mirrored in its own way. That same feeling wasn’t there whenever he went to Steve’s house.

Dustin remembers the first time Steve ever let him come over. The house was pretty much what he was expecting. High ceilings and fancy flourishes. A room full of furniture no one was allowed to sit on and carpets that couldn’t be walked on with shoes. But there was something wrong with it. The house was only a home when Steve was in it.

Without Steve, it would feel like no one lived there. The walls only had a few pictures on them, and there were more shut doors than open ones. The kitchen sink only ever had a few dishes in it, and the couch only had one cushion with a permanent dent. The whole of it felt so empty.

The worst part was that Steve knew it to. It was a nice place to throw get togethers. It was nice to look at and imagine living there. But Dustin felt the pull from Steve to stay anywhere else for just a second longer. So he didn’t have to go to a place that didn’t feel like home to him.

It’s part of the reason that his mom invites him over to dinner so much. When Dustin told her about how empty his house was, they decided to build Steve a place in theirs. They didn’t have a lot of space, but it was easy for them to make it feel like there was more. For Steve to have his own coat hook when he came over, and a place to put his shoes. A chair at the table that was always his, and his own blanket when they had movie nights.

Dustin wanted Steve to know that this could be his home if he needed it to be. And he knows that it worked. He can see it in the way that Steve relaxes every time he walks through the door. How he is nothing but himself when he’s here.

But eventually he has to leave and go home. He hugs Claudia goodbye and tries to refuse the container of leftovers shoved into his hands. Even though Dustin knows he’s grateful for it. Steve says goodbye to Dustin with a brief hug and a ruffle to his curls. And then he leaves.

Dustin wishes he didn’t have to.

tag list (capping at 100, only 2 spots left): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Revolutionist

masterlist

pre-canon!silco x gn!reader [2.5k] [AO3]

cw: implied/referenced suicidal ideation, implied/referenced depression

summary: at a particularly melancholy night that drives you to the heights, you meet a stranger in the shadows who coaxes you from the edge.

tags: pre-canon, sexual(?) tension, depression, suicidal ideation, undercity, smoking

a/n girl iono what this is, but here's to my first one shot (clinks glass) idk why i'm nervous (btw requests & taglist are open if you're interested)

From this dizzying height, the Undercity unfurls below. A tapestry of ethereal greens and golds, luminescence piercing through the murky haze—stark silhouettes of buildings jut upwards, defiant sentinels of black and grey amidst the swirling miasma. Its signature sickly green fog blankets the metropolis; coils around structures and seeps into every crevice, a suffocating embrace.

Your feet graze over the edge, toes curling over where solid ground gives way to a yawning abyss. The boundary between life and oblivion is razor-thin here. One small shift, imbalance, and gravity would claim you.

The wind whispers seductive promises of flight, tugging at your clothes, daring you to test the limits—it’s a heady mix of terror and exhilaration.

The precipice beckons, a siren call you’ve never heeded this far before. Each step tracked each loss that then etched into your very bones. First, it was your father, consumed by the blight. Almost expected. It was a degradation the Undercity-born was familiar with. Then, your sister, life snuffed out by an enforcer’s merciless fist. The brutes. Now, your mother, long adrift in her own ocean of grief. You’d become little more than ghosts haunting the same halls, the world’s greed carving an insurmountable chasm between you.

Logic screams that your presence here is madness. The need for comfort, for solace only another soul can provide, wars against reality. You long to bridge the gap, find someone’s warmth, spit out the bitter poison fed by the relentless suffering.

If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after—the world will take again. This grim lottery where Death deals the cards. Will it be the fist of an enforcer or the invisible killers that saturate every breath?

Are you really contemplating this?

“Bit dangerous, don’t you think?” a voice, velvet and silk, cuts blade-like through your contemplation.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. A jolt of surprise sends you teetering forward. Heart pounding, you stumble back from the edge.

Whirling around, you fix the intruder with a glare. His dark silhouette materialised a few feet away like some spectral apparition, leaning against the roof with an infuriating nonchalance. A cigar dangled between his fingers, wisp of smoke curling around his face.

His eyes, half-moons of disinterest, survey you with the casual indifference of someone observing an insect. It makes a look that makes your spine straighten, your earlier melancholy rapidly morphing into irritation.

“Sort of the point,” you spit back, words tasting of bitterness and bravado. You slide a step away, creating further distance between you and him. The roof suddenly feels too small. Who is he? What does he want? And more importantly, how dare he interrupt your affair with oblivion?

He responds with a half-shrug, somehow making it an eloquent gesture of his impassivity. Drawing a deep breath from his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a tangible manifestation of your growing annoyance.

Your mind races and falters. Is he really just going to stand there? Not that you want to be stopped, but his nonchalance was… unsettling? A highly irregular response to finding someone conversing with non-existence. Though, the idea was not novel—a common fate for many under dwellers.

You turn back to face the sprawling cityscape, trying to ignore the insidious tendrils of smoke that start coiling around your senses. The question burns in your mind: What is he doing here? This moment was supposed to be yours alone. You hadn’t anticipated a witness for your last moments.

Unable to resist, you shoot him another glare, only to find him utterly disinterested in your turmoil. He’s busy scraping something off the underside of his boot, as if the grime of the city is more worthy of his attention than your life-or-death deliberation.

Frustration boils over, and your words escape you before you can stop them. “Are you just going to stand there?” the question cuts through the silence and he looks up, meeting you gaze with those half-drooped eyes.

His face remains a mask of calm, thoroughly unaffected by your hostility. It’s a further irritant how much your obvious displeasure slides off him.

“You want me to catch you, or something?” he drawls, tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and boredom that makes your blood even hotter.

His words hang between, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.

“What are you doing here?” you strike back, impatience sharpening your words.

He takes another languid drag from his cigar, smoke veiling his face. “What—can I not be?” his voice carries a hint of amusement as he pushes off from the wall. Each step towards you is a study in fluid grace, soft and languid. “Like you, I can appreciate Zaun’s skyline. Seems we just have a point of preference,”

He halts a few feet away, gaze drawn to the cityscape below. The proximity allows you to truly observe him for the first time, the details etching themselves into your memory with startling clarity.

His eyes, a stormy blue, almost grey when drenched behind mist. They’re set in a face that could have been chiselled from marble—all sharp angles and clean lines, giving him an almost shark-like profile. Long, dark hair is gathered into a careless bun at the nape of his neck, rebellious strands escaping to frame his face, softening the harsh edges ever so slightly.

A spark of gallows humour flickers to life within you, at last a defiant flame against the dark. “Ah,” you nod, wariness still evident in the tension of your shoulders while a sardonic smile curls your lips. “Planning a dive, too, are you?”

A huff escapes him—a sound that might charitably be called laughter, but falls short of genuine mirth.

Suddenly, the name snaps you back to reality. Zaun. The word carries with it its reputation and weight. So few people use the name that it stands more so for people that had “rebel” ideas rather than what it was created for. Your eyes narrow. “You’re one of those… revolutionists, huh?”

He turns to you, face still angled downward, but his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that momentarily catches your air. You fumble for composure, scraping together the dregs of your wit.

“Nation of Zaun, children, brothers, sisters,” you intone, bobbing your head in mock-solemn gesture as you attempt to recall the group’s motto. The words taste foreign on your tongue, like reciting a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.

His brow shifts slightly. “Is that mockery?” the question hangs, but not accusatory, rather tinged with a gentle curiosity that catches you off guard.

You shrug. “Sure is an idea,” you mutter, words running away before you can fully process them. You’ve never given it much thought before, too entrenched in the sorrow that’s dogged your family’s steps like perpetually wet shoes, leaving its trail of misery.

This time, he turns to face you fully, his complete attention zeroing in on you. It halts you momentarily, but you push through, averting your gaze as you continue.

“Idealistic. Hard-headed,” you pause, then look up to meet his eyes, your own gaze hardening. “Unrealistic,”

His head tilts slightly, reminiscent of a predator assessing its prey. “You don’t agree with us?”

You exhale sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. The revolutionary ideals tumble around you head like a well-worn shopping list. Independence, rid of topside’s clutches, own leadership, own government. “No, I do,” you admit, surprising yourself. Your brows furrow, grappling with the contradiction between your words and your earlier mockery. “Just ballsy, I suppose. It’s never been done, uncharted waters and all that,”

He nods, absorbing your perspective with a thoughtfulness that makes something in you quiver as if in surrender. You find yourself studying his eyes, that stormy blue-grey gaze that seems to hold secrets of their own. They flicker with an inner light as he searches for his response, and you're struck by the intensity of his conviction.

“Then how are we ever to find new land?” he says finally, his voice low and resolute. The simple statement carries an undercurrent of determination that sends a shiver down your back.

“We seem to be surviving fine,” you say, your words dripping with trying humour, a brittle shield.

His response isn't the sad attempt at laughter. Instead, his brow quirks upward, a subtle gesture that feels like a probe into your very secrets. “Then what drove you here?”

You're caught off-balance. How did he read you so easily, peeling back your layers in mere moments? Your gaze darts away, then back to his piercing eyes, discomfort radiating from every pore. “That’s hardly your concern,” you attempt a smile, but it's a weak thing.

“But I can bet it’s one of the following,” he drawls, taking a long, deliberate drag from his cigar. The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. “Lung blight from working in factories, lung blight from working in the mines, or a stray enforcer who got a little too… harsh,” the smoke drifts and drowns you both, swarming your heads in a little bubble.

You inhale, feeling the intoxicating tendrils crawl up into your head, a silent song of temporary escape. Your eyes fix on his cigar, mesmerised. Does it fuel his poetic responses and that maddeningly indifferent stare? You wonder, your hands rising of their own accord, reaching to pluck the cigar from his grasp.

You rest it between your lips, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke fills your lungs, a familiar burn that grounds you in this surreal moment. With practised ease, you exhale, your tongue crafting perfect smoke rings that float lazily between you. They dissipate against his face, a ghostly caress that lingers.

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smile as his eyes bore into yours. Is he entertained? Infuriated? His face remains an impassive mask, giving nothing away.

“Been trying to learn that,” he says, gaze flickering between the cigar in your hand and your eyes. There's a hint of something else in his voice.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. You hope your demeanour mirrors his earlier bored facade. “It’s all the tongue,”

His eyebrow arches slightly. “Is that so?” he murmurs. “And here I thought it was about control,”

You take another drag, letting the smoke curl around your lips before speaking. “Control is part of it,” you concede, voice low. “But flexibility is key,”

He reaches for the cigar, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. “Show me,” he challenges, eyes never leaving yours.

You lean in, forcing your gaze to fixate on the smoke and its origin. Nothing else. “It’s all about the right pressure,” you pause, your breath a ghost drifting from you, as if absorbed by him. “Too much, and it falls apart. Too little, nothing happens at all,”

He inhales deeply, eyes latched onto yours, then attempts a ring. It’s clumsy, dissolving almost instantly. “Pitiful,” he huffs, frustration and amusement colouring him.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Close,”

As if instinctively, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be kind,”

Is that a dare? Your brows twitch in brief process. You take the cigar back. “Relax your lips, circular,” your eyes fall to his mouth, mimicking yours subconsciously. “Bend your tongue down. Tip on the bottom of your mouth,”

“Mhm,” he hums.

You demonstrate, creating a perfect ring that quivers over his shoulder.

“I see,” he mutters, watching, mesmerised. Whether by the ring or your mouth, you don’t want to know.

Nodding, a slow smile spreads your lips. “Delicate,” you raise the cigar his way.

He takes it with his lips, hooking his fingers around and taking a long drag.

You find yourself captivated by his attempts at smoke rings. As he inhales, his eyes close, a moment of quiet concentration. They flutter open to witness his handiwork—thin, frail rings that dissipate quickly in the air. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic facade.

He tries again a few times, clearly taken by this newfound skill. His presence has shifted, no longer infuriating but almost... playful.

Emboldened, you gather your courage and circle back to his earlier question. "All of the above," you say, your words herding his attention back to you. Your voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of pain you couldn't quite strap back. “My dad worked in the mines, and my sister... she got in with the wrong crowd. Crossed some enforcers on the wrong day.”

His eyes soften, a wordless apology that's more than enough. You've never been one for overly expressed sympathies anyway.

“And mom's been showing…” your voice trails off as your mind drifts to your mother's face, the image of her becoming more gaunt with each passing month etched painfully in your memory. It's a familiar process, one you've seen play out in countless Undercity families. Someone's mother or father always showing signs of the blight. Now it's your turn to watch it unfold in your own home. “Declining,” you finish, the word heavy on your tongue.

The light atmosphere dissipates, replaced by a shared understanding of the Undercity's—no, Zaun's harsh realities. You stand there, smoke curling between you.

“It’s never easy, is it?” he says softly, words simple but sincere. He takes another drag of the cigar then offers it back to you. "But we endure," the tone seems to challenge your earlier actions—asking, are you still thinking about it?

You accept the cigar, fingers brushing his. With a long drag, you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. "Guess it's just what we Zaunites do, right?" you take a step away from the edge, nearing his side.

An amused smile finally tugs at his lips.

He was a stranger mere moments ago, and yet here you are, mixing tastes and sharing ideologies. Names seem almost irrelevant. Still, you offer yours, falling from your lips like a confession.

He repeats it, sounding entirely new as his voice wore each letter in that silk tone, escaping his mouth alongside whispers of smoke.

“Silco,” he gives back, the name igniting a spark of recognition that raises your brows as you return his cigar.

The name echoes in your mind, often whispered in the same breath as 'Vander'—the two faces of the revolution. The muscle and the voice of a movement that promised to reshape Zaun's future.

“Mm,” you murmur, your eyes tracing the contours of his face with newfound interest, drinking him in. Each line, each shadow takes on new significance as you piece together the man behind the name. “Not just a revolutionist. The revolutionist,”

A short laugh escapes him, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. He brings the cigar to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a burning in his gaze that pins you in place, making you acutely aware of every breath.

He takes a deep drag, the ember glowing bright in the dim light of Zaun's eternal twilight. As he exhales, your attention is drawn inexorably to his mouth.

A more practised smoke ring emerges, expanding and drifting between you. It's a marked improvement from his earlier attempts, a physical manifestation of how quickly he learns, adapts. You find yourself wondering what other skills he might possess.

[yumenoberu]

Baby Steps

Kyoya Ootori x fem!reader (kind of Gen)

summary: Middle school 3rd year Kyoya Ootori lives through another mundane day. Bored from the dull lectures, he distracts himself, scanning the classroom and sees Y/n. Compelled by the elegant scene he is witnessing, he picks up his pen and starts sketching. Could it be that our young Shadow King is displaying an innocent act of fascination, with maybe even a twinge of affection for the girl?

word count: 1.8k words

warnings: none!!

published: 10/20/24

author’s note: I liked the idea of exploring the version of Kyoya that was more expressive because he was just developing back in middle school. Also always wanted to see the artistic side of him depicted more, cuz even if we don’t see it besides his solo episode, it exists! Anyways, this one is more of a gen fic rather than a romantic one but I’m sure you can see it can lead to something much more, it’s cute!! Hope this one brings a smile to your face like it did for me ☺️

The clock tower chimed, signaling the next set of classes after the lunch break. The students of Ouran Middle School’s 3rd year Class A break up their fleeting conversations and file back to their assigned seats, each readying themselves to endure another few grueling hours of class discussions and worksheet completion.

The day had been relatively mundane for Kyoya, aside from the occasional disruption of his peace by none other than his lovable moron of a best friend, Tamaki, there was nothing in his day that particularly stood out to him. The topics tackled during class, he understood right away, he had no homework or projects that had to be done, and so the only thing that was worth looking forward to was… Well, if he thought about it, he wouldn’t come up with anything.

Suffice to say, Kyoya was bored.

“Ms. Jounoichi, kindly read the 3rd paragraph out for us.” The teacher in front instructed.

“Yes, Sir.” Ayame swiftly replied as she stood from her seat and recited the passage from her textbook.

Out of sheer disinterest from the topic, Kyoya passively listened and let the other half of his mind ponder on any vanishing thought.

His eyes traveled from across the room aimlessly, mindlessly looking for something to distract him from his boredom. His gaze eventually landed on the window on the other side of the room and onto Y/n L/n’s desk.

Kyoya was never close to Y/n. Even though they’ve been classmates since he’d first attended Ouran Academy, both of them had always been reserved and quiet, and so neither of them had made efforts to get acquainted with the other.

It remained that way until their dynamic drastically shifted that very year when Tamaki waltzed into their lives.

The guy seemed to behold a certain power to connect with even the most difficult people. Kyoya could attest to this, as he himself was brought out by the bubbling blonde. Y/n was similarly reached out by Tamaki and soon enough, the trio formed an iconic friendship.

But even when that was the case, Kyoya and Y/n were still closed off from each other. Tamaki was clearly the only common ground between them.

Kyoya was comfortable with the arrangement. Though, he knew that Y/n was starting to make moves to genuinely befriend him; He wasn't ready to break down his walls to a friend of a friend just yet, nor was he willing to acknowledge that it was his own stubbornness that’s causing this strain.

His thoughts simmered down, focusing instead on observing her. He noticed she looked identically disinterested, judging by how she silently tapped her fingers against her blank notebook, as she drew out shallow breaths and watched the front with glossed eyes.

She was sitting perfectly still, so much so that one can even mistake the scene he was witnessing with a framed image.

As Kyoya continued, he paid attention to how perfectly the lighting from the window next to her illuminated her features.

The afternoon sun shone on her like a spotlight. From her side profile, the light that bounced off of her hair almost formed a halo over the crown of her head. Her eyes radiated, its color brightened by the day. Her nose, casted a tiny shadow over the side accentuating the contour of her cheeks. Her lips, charmingly pinkish and rounded. Stray hairs peeking from the sides of her head glinted like mirrors, perfectly framing her delicate face.

He wasn’t going to admit it to himself, but it was indeed a stunning sight.

Turning back to his own desk, Kyoya casually picks up his neglected pen and his unused notebook, bringing the stationary up closer to his chest, turning back to Y/n’s direction and begins sketching.

The nib of the pen gently glides across the smooth surface of the paper, creating thin lines that comprise the outline of his drawing. His eyes slowly switch between the notebook and the subject, carefully examining and then applying, repeating this process a number of times in an attempt to capture the scene with flawless accuracy.

He continues on for the remainder of the class. Jotting down all the little details with intention, his mind completely detached from the lecture. He was focused, dedicated to completing his render.

Eventually the end of the day approaches, their last class concludes, they bid their teacher farewell, and the class is dismissed.

Kyoya peeks at the portrait of Y/n he made for a final time before packing his belongings. He reaches for his school bag and grabs his notebook to shut it closed but then it’s unexpectedly pulled out of his hands.

Surprised, he looks to his right, looking up at the culprit and sees Tamaki.

“Tamaki. What are you-“ Kyoya starts, questioning him for his actions but is cut off.

“I didn’t know you could draw so we’ll…” Tamaki admires the drawing, voiced uncharacteristically hushed in his awe.

“Hey Y/n!” Before Kyoya could explain, Tamaki skips happily toward his other best friend on the other side of the room while flailing the notebook in the air.

At this point, Kyoya knew it was best to not interfere with the blonde’s antics, knowing he’ll just be putting himself in an even more troublesome spot if he showed any apprehensiveness toward the situation. Even so, he can’t help but feel flustered and irritated. He could do nothing now but stay silent, gauge her reaction, and come up with a logical explanation for his actions—as he himself couldn’t pin down what exactly compelled him to draw her.

“Y/n!!”

Y/n placed her pencil case back on her desk, turning to the voice that called out her name.

It was Tamaki of course. She grinned immediately as she saw him enthusiastically skipping his way over, waving a pocket-sized notebook over his head.

“Tamaki,” She fondly greeted him. She gives him a questioning look afterward, prompting him to say whatever he needed to.

“Look at this, is it just wonderful?” He handed the aforementioned notebook to her, helping her flip through the pages to find what exactly he wanted to show her.

“What is it, Tamaki?” She inquired while he frantically flipped through the pages.

“Hold on a second,” He scrunched his face in determination, “Ah! Here! Take a look.”

Y/n eyes fall onto her sketched portrait, lightly touching over the lines and examining the little details as her eyes widen, mouth opens, and cheeks flush in admiration.

Tamaki smiles at her reaction, throwing in a little complement at how cute he finds it.

“So, what do you think?” He beams and fixes his position, moving from her right side and stands behind her, propping his hands on her shoulder, leaning forward, and placing his chin on her head to get a good look at it too.

“It’s stunning, Tamaki… Did you make this?” She peers up, eyes sparkling in anticipation.

“Not me, Kyoya did!” Tamaki gives her a cheerful smile, letting her turn to Kyoya’s direction to call him over, only for them to see that the raven was already making his way over to them.

“Kyoya!” Tamaki jumps and brings his friend into a hearty embrace, earning an irritated glare and sigh of annoyance from him.

Tamaki backs away slightly and pouts and whines about his mon ami’s reaction.

Y/n looks up from the notebook and looks at Kyoya in a mix of confusion, surprise, and gratitude.

Trying his hardest to restrain the growing warmth traveling up his cheeks from the unexpected, positive reception of his work and initial embarrassment that came with it. Kyoya breaks the silence,

“I noticed you were sitting perfectly still for a while, and so I thought it would make a fine artwork.” Replying in a nonchalant manner, saying it as if he didn’t just indirectly compliment her.

“O-Oh..! Thank you, Ootori…” Y/n replies after a few awkward moments.

“It’s nothing to feel gratitude for, I was simply keeping myself occupied while the lecture went on.” He added cooly, pushing up his glasses trying to sound as convincing as he could.

He brings a hand up to take back his notebook wishing to make a quick escape but before he could reach it, but Y/n pulls it out of his reach. Startled by the sudden movement, he shoots her a questioning look.

“Wait!” She hesitates, “Is it alright if I take a picture of it? It’s masterful, I really like it.” She smiles sheepishly.

Even more baffled from her response, he says nothing for a few seconds, processing it all.

“Don’t bother, you can keep it…” He follows with a hushed voice.

She’s visibly taken aback by what he says but smiles at him nonetheless, joyfully thanking him as she proceeds to rip the page from the notebook, storing it between the pages of her own, and hands his notebook back.

“How generous of you, my friend!” Tamaki latches onto Kyoya again, throwing an arm around his shoulders and sways him from side to side.

“You don’t need to mention it,” He replies quietly, looking at the ground, lightly shoving Tamaki off of him and strolls out of the scene.

Y/n and Tamaki watch as he packs up and leaves, waving him goodbye as he exits the classroom, finally making his escape.

Unknown to the two, Kyoya was trying his best not to show the blush he knew was forming on his cheeks. He was nitpicking every word he exchanged with her just moments before, unbearably embarrassed and conflicted about his flusteredness, being equally confused about his own reaction.

He sighs to himself and shakes his head in exasperation, speed walking out of the building.

Back in the classroom, Tamaki and Y/n silently stared at the door he exited from.

“I never thought he would—“ Y/n started,

“Kyoya shows his care in his own way. He may not be the most expressive person in the world but he can be the most caring when he tries. Even if he doesn’t always outwardly show it.” Tamaki asserts, eyes still trained on the doorway where Kyoya left. Y/n surveys him, staying silent.

“This just proves that he does care about you, otherwise he wouldn’t spend his time working on that drawing of yours, would he? You have nothing to worry about my dear, just give him some time and he’ll open up to you eventually,” Tamaki smiles affectionately at her, patting her head and then her shoulders.

“Just have to be patient with him,” With that he leaves to retrieve his own things, waiting by the doorway to walk her out of class.

“You’re right…” Y/n huffs, as they stroll out the doorway.

“He’s quite difficult isn’t he, Tamaki.” She sighs, relaxing as she recalls Tamaki’s words.

‘It may not seem like much, but it’s a good start.’

She smiles and blushes ever so slightly at her thought, walking with a hop in her step as she and Tamaki leave the school building, content with the developments of the day.

masterlist

[cupidscrule]

SIT STILL !

Dad!gojo and kid!reader

Warning - none pure fluff

(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) A/N. This isn't an x reader thing just ignre the tags 😭 reader in gn

WC 500

"mm Sato- Stop movin' around" you muttered down at him holding his face. He sat in a small chair which surprisingly didn't immediately break under him, it was a dingy pink plastic one with hearts on it. Got it for your birthday but it got boring only playing with yourself! So that's why now, Satoru Gojo, the world's strongest sorcerer, his eyes closed with a shiny glittery powder covering them.

"Sorryyy" he says in an exaggerated voice with a stupid smirk on his face. You just stared down at him, in disappointment.

"Just drop moving! Sit still.." you say brows furrowed, picking up the eyeshadow palette from behind you, it was a pretty nice set up you'd say. Had a nice vanity, rose coloured desk, an array of 'supplies'. Talking the fluffy brush to his face and gently padding it over his lid. You were kinda mad at him because you didn't have any white eyeliner or lashes to match his, but you made it with what you had..?

"Okay open your eyes I need to do your lashes.." you say a pout on your face, he opened his eyes and you took the little prickly brush and tried to not poke his eyes out, didn't really matter if he went blind in the process though.

It was cakey, but it was pretty to you, picking up the bigger brush and dunking it in the pink palette

"Okay! Almost done-" you say squinting your eyes, Satoru was still just sitting there with a small smile on his face before you very aggressively rubbed the pink stuff on his cheeks and nose, unfortunately for him this stuff was scented so when you brought it over his nose he was trying his hardest not to sneeze but.

"DAD!"

"M'SORRY-"

"YOU MESSED ME UP"

God he was annoying, but alas you've come to the final step, lips. Debating what colour would be the best, red? Pink? Purple? Black?

Landed on red, basic but it was pretty. "Okay now push your lips like you're gonna kiss " you tell him sternly holding out the tube, he listens trying to not laugh. God knows what will happen if he makes a sound, you drag it over his pale lips messily adding the colour.

"Now for accessories!"

"Hey you just said you wanted to do this makeup stuff-"

"Well I changed my mind, stay still again-"

Epilogue lmfoaia

You were sitting there now with him at the tiny tea table, of course there wasn't actually any tea or even water. Satoru suggested he actually gets something for you two to drink during this 'game' but that would just kill the mood..

He's sitting there with a barely fitting white tutu over his pants, his hair in poorly done pigtails, and to top it off little bows with a crown.

Knock knock knock

"I'll get it-" you mutter standing up from your chair tiptoeing to the door, to see suguru.

"Where's Satoru-"

"I'm here."

"What happened."

"ISN'T HE PRETTYY!!"

[some-stars]

for today's poolverine-adjacent thoughts, i offer you: Major Character Death! please scroll past if you reasonably want to avoid this.

so most of the time i just ignore that logan is aging slowly while wade seems literally immortal, because most days i don't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with the implications. but i do have a longstanding soft spot for fic about grief and picking up after and finding ways to go on after having and then losing the love of your life. so sometimes i like to think about--they get a good two or three hundred years together, and it's the happiest either of them have ever been and they grow into and change each other and are so, so in love. and then logan dies.

and for a long time--decades--wade is just...not really in the world. sometimes literally (he spends a good eight years holed up in a cave mostly asleep, letting the sensation of starving to death become soothing white noise) and sometimes in the sense that he'll eat and get out of bed and maybe even find some kind of work to do, but he isn't there.

but eventually--because he is human, and this is what happens to humans--he connects with someone again. not in the same way (never the same way, it's never going to be the same) but he finds himself taking care of someone who needs help, or running into the same person often enough that he starts to respond when they try to start a conversation with him, or just--someone. somewhere. that buried rusting part of his heart creaks to life, the way he was sure it never would again.

and god, how badly i want a story about the slow agonizing process of coming back to life, realizing that despite knowing how it'll end, despite everything, he does still want to reach out and build that connection. and he can. his heart can do that, still. and how beautiful and horrible it is that he can feel this way again even though logan is gone. i want him to get to a place where he can tell his loved ones stories about logan, all those centuries of funny and sad and sexy and stupid stories they made together. and i want him to have that again, with someone else. and then someone after that, and after that, and forever.

[wangxianficrecs]

Crimson leaves by barisan

Crimson leaves

by barisan (@barisan-no)

T, 4k, Wangxian

Summary: There is a world where Wei Wuxian could not take another word of slander towards a mother whose smile he couldn’t even remember, a father whose embrace he couldn’t recall the warmth of. A world where he could not take another beating, another misplaced punishment, another thoughtless insult. Perhaps he grows tired of fooling himself into thinking that he has a place in Lotus Pier. That he belongs. That he is wanted. Loved. Kay's comments: Barisan gives Wei Wuxian the lesbian grandmothers he deserves!!! A wonderful little fix-it AU in which Wei Wuxian leaves the Yunmeng Jiang Sect pre-canon, because he feels as if he has no future there and meets Lan Wangji during a night-hunt, he also literal found family and all the love and support he deserves. This is a story for all the warm feelings; a story that wraps Wei Wuxian in a soft blanket and makes sure he's safe and comfortable. Wangxian are adorable too. Excerpt: “What do you mean you’re leaving, A-Xian?” “Forgive this one, Jiang-zongzhu.” He bows. “I have a dream of seeing the world the way my parents did.” He tries to keep the hurt from his voice. “It has become clear that I cannot learn about them here.” “But A-Xian,” Jiang Fengmian starts. “Please, do not refer to me so intimately.” He closes his eyes. A man who never dared correct his wife from spitting venom on his mother’s name and his father’s birth must lose the right to be called shushu. “I shall leave by morning.” He raises.

pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, not jiang family friendly, pre-canon, wei wuxian leaves the yunmeng jiang sect, rogue cultivator wei wuxian, families of choice, wei wuxian is a wen, getting together, wei wuxian has a fear of dogs, genius wei wuxian, falling in love, different first meeting, developing relationship

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[encantobrainrot365]

I have an idea for a story I like to call Dos Oruguitas: The Mariposa and the Cameleon

It’s the story of Camilo and Mirabel’s relationship and how it changed over time.

Since they are only six weeks apart, they were born basically twins 🤞and grew up together as the best of friends. Just like Isabela, Dolores and the Triplets.

(Credit to @lintushadow-art )

However, things began to 👀, shift, when Mirabel didn’t get a gift.

I imagine the aftermath of that day was difficult for the both of them.

For Camilo, his best friend was just denied a gift, when he himself just got one. While he tried his best to comfort her, it must have been very hard for him to accept. It’s likely he felt guilty and tried to avoid shifting whenever they played together.

Meanwhile, Mirabel just couldn’t help being jealous or heartbroken. 💔 Her primo, her twin, got a gift, but for some reason she didn’t. For a long time she must have worried that something was seriously wrong with her and nothing anyone said could change that.

Then add the fact that Tio Bruno just up and left days after her ceremony. The family was already worried about Mirabel and the magic, and now they’re dealing with the pain and loss of a family member. A primary caretaker and play mate for the kids has disappeared with no explanation. Just like Mirabel’s door.

This would definitely lead to some abandonment and attachment issues.

There was probably a lot of fighting and anger, blame and accusations thrown about too. They might have even avoided each other for some time due to their own insecurities.

However, they still loved each other and they’re best friends, so of course they made up. But in spite of their closeness, they still drifted apart with time. They grew up and faced a lot of big changes. They started going to school; made new friends; developed their own separate interests; took on more responsibilities in town; welcomed a new family member; and just started spending less and less time together and more time apart.

Ten years later, we’re at the start of the movie, now, they’re still pretty close, but they aren’t best friends anymore. For Mirabel, that title belongs to Antonio, now.

So yes, it would be cool to explore the evolution of their relationship. Before and after the events of the movie as they fall apart, only to reunite again.

[vindicated-truth]

Jeongje,

I assume Joowon-ah has given you this letter during one of his visits. Said something about including it in the gift he has prepared for you.

You know he now only has a Lieutenant’s salary, right? He lost access to all of his family’s money, because he didn’t listen to me when I warned him that he shouldn’t ruin his life for me.

He’s an idiot.

But he’s an adult with freewill, and it’s still his money, so of course I have no say on what he chooses to spend it on.

Besides, I don’t begrudge him choosing to spend it on you. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t want you to be alone.

I never wanted that for you, Jeongje.

That’s why I’m glad Joowon-ah is making sure you aren’t. Because… I can’t be that person for you.

Not anymore.

It’s why I’m writing you this letter. Because I want you to know why.

Because I’m sorry, Jeongje. I’m sorry because… I can’t forgive you.

And it’s not because I’ve stopped caring for you. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt this much if I did.

I really wish I did.

But the reason why I can’t forgive you is that the forgiveness isn’t mine to give.

The one person who has the right to forgive you is dead.

Because you killed her.

And I’m not saying this because I want to punish you, either. Because contrary to what you might think, I don’t want you to suffer anymore.

You’ve suffered enough. And I know that because I’ve seen that in Joowon-ah, too.

No one deserves to suffer, Jeongje. Not you. Not him.

But the forgiveness isn’t mine to give. It’s Yuyeonie’s.

I’m hurting because I lost a sister. My parents are hurting because they lost their daughter.

And I know you’re hurting too. Because you, too, lost the one you love.

I’ve always known, you know. Both of you had never been good at hiding it. It hurt that you two believed you had to, but—you made her happy, Jeongje. Yuyeonie had never been able to hide that. And to be honest, neither did you. And I can never, ever begrudge how you made each other happy.

Which is why I know… you’re hurting, too.

It’s the one thing you and I have in common, even after all this time.

You and I… we both lost her.

But all our pain, Jeongje… it’s all secondary. None of our pain compares to what she lost.

She lost her life.

She lost a future that should have been hers. You know she wanted to be a lawyer, right? But do you know the kind of lawyer she wanted to be?

She had a very clear vision of the life she wanted for herself. She’d sit at the foot of my bed while I’d practice on my worn-out guitar and she’d regale me tales of how she wanted to be a lawyer who defended women.

Her ideals were way ahead of her time. She said our society was too patriarchal, that it was a society where women didn’t feel safe, and she wanted to change that.

She wanted to be a lawyer so she could be a safe space for all these women who were victims of the cruelty and violence of men. She wanted to be the kind of woman she herself needed.

She would’ve been the kind of woman who could’ve stopped women like her from being killed by men.

Which is why it was such a cruel twist of fate that her life ended precisely like that.

I always wonder, Jeongje… how many women would’ve also been saved had she grown up to be the kind of woman she wanted to be? A woman who protected women?

Would she have been able to protect our Minjeongie too?

Did you know that she had always been wary of Kang Jinmook? She didn’t dare say it directly because I think she might have been scared back then, too. But she would always tell me, casually but consistently, how it might be better for Minjeongie if we adopt her as soon as it was legally possible.

Do you know what I told her back then, Jeongje? That she was being ableist. That she was looking down on Jinmook’s capability as a father just because he was mentally disabled.

Turned out he wasn’t. He was just evil.

And she was right.

Even back then, Jeongje, she was right. And I didn’t listen to her. Her own twin brother didn’t listen to her.

How unforgivable is that?

Can you imagine what our society would’ve been like if someone with her brains and her advocacy had lived to see her dream come true? Can you imagine, Jeongje, how different things would’ve been if only our society listened to women more? If only we listened to our Yuyeonie more?

She could’ve saved so many women, Jeongje. And now—

Now, we’ll never know. Because she’s dead.

We all lost a sister, a daughter, a friend, a lover. None of that compares to what she lost.

She lost her life. She lost her dream. She lost her advocacy. She lost her future.

And that’s the reason why, Jeongje. Why the forgiveness should come from her.

It had never, ever been my right to give.

It’s why I can’t forgive you. Because the one person who has the right to gift you that forgiveness—is dead.

And I’m sorry, Jeongje. I’m sorry because that’s the reason why… I can’t let you back into my life.

Not anymore.

Because I love her, Jeongje. I love her more than anything in the world, more than anyone I’ll ever love in my life.

She’s my twin, Jeongje. I had never known what it’s like to be alone because from the moment we were conceived in our mother’s womb, she had always been there. She had always been beside me. She was the other half of my soul.

Do you know what it feels like to lose the other half your soul?

Then again, maybe you do.

You love her, too.

I don’t know if she would have forgiven you. Fuck, I don’t know if she would have forgiven me. But that’s our punishment, Jeongje. That’s the pain we all have to live with: that we will never know. Because none of us have the right to take that away from her.

The right to forgive.

Because contrary to what you might think—I don’t want to lose you as a friend.

I miss you, more than you could ever know. More than you could ever hope to understand.

But it’s a loss I have to live with. It’s a loss I choose to live with. Because she’s the only one who could have granted you that forgiveness. And we all have to live with never knowing if she ever will.

I can’t let you back into my life, Jeongje—because I don’t know if Yuyeonie would’ve forgiven you for me to let you.

For me to have you back.

I am not the one who has the right to forgive you, so I am also not the one who has the right to punish you.

So please, Jeongje. Don’t suffer anymore. Not for my sake.

Don’t be alone anymore.

Both of you.

Your friend,

Dongsik

—

Dongsik-ah,

Did you know what Lieutenant Han was going to give me? Because you should’ve talked him out of it still, never mind that it’s his money he’s spending. I’m not going to risk your ire by telling you how much he spent, because I actually know how much all of it cost, but I really hope you’re at least treating him to dinner for a month because I can’t imagine how he’d be able to afford to feed himself after this.

Or maybe just let Jaeyi-ya treat him. I’ve heard he’s been frequenting the butcher shop more often lately.

I’m glad. He deserves to be fed.

He deserves to be happy.

He’s a good guy, Dongsik-ah. You know that, right?

You might be wondering why this prince who has fallen from grace keeps going out on a limb for someone like me.

I’ll tell you why, Dongsik-ah. It’s because he’s lonely.

In the kindest way I can tell you this, I don’t think you’ll ever understand Lieutenant Han. And it’s not because he was brought up in a life of luxury and privilege that the rest of us can only imagine.

But because you were loved, Dongsik-ah.

You and Yuyeonie—both of you were brought up in love.

I think that’s part of why I stayed over at your house a lot, even when we were kids. I was drawn to your family, because I badly wished I had a family like yours. You can’t imagine the kind of envy I felt seeing how your parents are.

You had that ridiculous dream of becoming a singer, even though Jihwa-ya kept telling you to your face that you couldn’t hold a tune to save a life. Yet your parents supported your dream all the same, and had never once compared you to Yuyeonie.

You know, I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion she was tone-deaf too, mostly because I couldn’t understand why she’d keep clapping for you every time you'd “perform” for us during family nights.

I’d been a part of your family for that long.

I never had any of that. And I think—that’s why Lieutenant Han is drawn to me.

Because he never experienced that kind of love, either. And he knows what it’s like to be alone.

That’s why he’s making sure I’m not. Even when I deserve to be.

Because he knows exactly what it’s like.

And I don’t think it’s as selfless as you think, Dongsik-ah. I think—he just wants someone to understand what he’s been through, too.

Because you’ll never be that person for him.

Because you were never abused by your parents, Dongsik-ah, the way Lieutenant Han was. And he’s drawn to me, because I’m someone who understands that the most.

Between the both of us though, I honestly believe I still had it better. And this isn’t false modesty or debt of gratitude or anything like that. My mother was evil, too, but in her own way, she did love me.

At the very least, until the very end, she had never abandoned me.

Even when it meant she had to hurt you instead.

That’s something Lieutenant Han never even had.

He never had a family.

And that’s the reason why I’m writing you this letter, in return.

Because you’re right, Dongsik-ah. I don’t belong in your life anymore.

I belong to the past. And I deserve to stay there.

Do you know why, Dongsik-ah?

Because that’s where Yuyeonie is.

You’re right. I don’t know if she would ever forgive me. But that’s okay. I’m not doing this for my forgiveness.

Because you’re right, Dongsik-ah. I did love her. I love her, still, even when she might not want that love anymore, after everything I did.

After everything I failed to do.

But that’s also why, Dongsik-ah. Why I want to stay in the past. Why I choose to stay in the past. Because that’s where she is. That’s how I choose to live the rest of my life.

Immortalizing her memory.

That’s why I gave you that sketchbook. To the best of my ability, Dongsik-ah, until my last breath—this is how I choose to love her.

I will never let her memory die.

This is how I choose to live the rest of my life in penance.

The people who have hurt you, the people who hurt Yuyeonie and your family—we all belong to the past. That’s why we all belong in prison, because it’s keeping us there.

But you, Dongsik-ah—you don’t belong to the past. Not anymore. There’s no more reason for you to stay there.

Because you have a future with him.

And that’s where the problem lies, you see. It’s precisely because he equates himself with me that he thinks he deserves to stay in the past, too.

He was never there, Dongsik-ah. Because his own monster of a father sent him far, far away, where he was forced to look for love in all the wrong places, when he should have already found it first in his own home. His own family.

You and Yuyeonie showed me that.

I don’t think he did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so utterly deprived of it. Starved of it.

Until he found you.

You told me, Dongsik-ah, how you will never love anyone the way you loved Yuyeonie, ever again. And you asked me if I know how it feels like to lose the other half of your soul.

I do, Dongsik-ah. But I don’t think that’s the point.

We weren’t supposed to replace her.

We’re simply allowed to love again.

I’m allowed to have a friend again. One who chooses to starve for a month because he doesn’t know how to love halfway and he always gives it his all in everything he does.

I agree with you, by the way. He is an idiot.

But you know what, Dongsik-ah?

I’ve come to love this idiot, too.

And if I’m allowed to have a friend again… you’re allowed to rebuild the other half of your soul again.

You’re allowed to not let yourself be alone anymore.

You’re allowed to love again.

Dongsik-ah… Han Joowon is like me. But at the same time, he isn’t.

Because he belongs to your future. If you let him.

And this is why I'm writing you this letter, too.

Please don't let my friend starve anymore.

Your friend,

Han Joowon’s friend,

Jeongje

[peapodbond]

that was us

abby tears her rotator cuff and doesn't get her range of motion back after the surgery and rehab. she quits swimming.

one of her friends is going through med school and they go out together sometimes, and there's a rotating group of first responders who come out with the residents because they've gotten to know each other at the hospital.

she's not really in a partying mood, and sometimes she can drift to the back of the group and talk with the tall firefighter who looks as awkward as she feels. they spend an entire evening dissecting love actually and debating if die hard can be seen as the sequel where alan rickman's character finally gets what he deserves.

she tries training other swimmers. but some of them are the people she competed with, the rest are babies, and other than "you really shouldn't exceed the coach's orders on practice time" and "maybe don't go to a roller rink when you're not great on rollerskates", she doesn't have much to teach them. they've already got their forms down, and while she can hold their arms in the proper positions, she can't show it to them in the pool without aching for the rest of practice. the doctors warn her that if she keeps trying she might end up with more damage.

she gets a receptionist position. it's fine. it's boring. she learns how to balance a company's books and how to direct visitors to the correct office.

she and the firefighter (tommy) spend two months at the bar debating the 1995 bbc pride and prejudice.

she quits her job. abby says she wants to do something that means something. a friend of her friend looks at abby and suggests she tries dispatch. what the hell. it's three months of training. it's not like she's getting roped into eight years of med school.

the first time she's able to help someone at dispatch it feels like winning a race.

she asks tommy if he wants to grab a coffee.

it's really easy to talk to tommy. they recommend books to each other, go to the movies a lot. they date casually. abby's not sure she wants something serious right now. they spend weeks hitting up every small hole in the wall they can find.

abby offers to bring tommy lunch at the fire house. his face does something complicated and he admits that his captain isn't a great guy. tommy would rather keep abby away from him.

she tells him if it gets worse he should try and switch houses.

tommy finishes his probationary year and takes abby out to the fanciest restaurant she's ever been to. they both hate it and end up grabbing a burger on the way home.

they're not living together but they are spending almost every night together. abby gets a lead on a gorgeous apartment fifteen minutes away from dispatch. tommy and his friend sal help her move all her furniture in. tommy's lease was renewed before she found out about the apartment, but he's over so much it barely matters.

the family introduction goes well. he charms her mother and her brother thinks he's pretty great, choices in sports teams aside. three months after she moves into her new place, tommy makes her dinner and proposes.

(it's so much better than the fancy restaurant.)

she catches him looking at houses. it's just a thought he has, finding a place that needs to be fixed up. maybe he keeps it, maybe he sells it later, but there are so many places around town that just need a little love to be good again.

the housing market crashes in the recession and tommy finds a small two-storey place that's closer to the harbor station, which is when abby finds out that tommy wants to fly again, he's just waiting for a spot to open.

she thinks that's much safer than running into burning buildings, but she doesn't say that out loud.

he signs for the house the next day, and abby starts looking at paint chips. she's not much for do it yourself, but she knows how to paint a mean wall. it's an older house and she does research about what colours were common when they were built, knows that tommy wants to preserve the original house as much as possible.

she's priming the newly drywalled living room when there's a loud curse from down the hall and the sledgehammer tommy is using to tear down the kitchen crashes into the wall.

his captain tanked tommy's transfer to harbor.

tommy's miserable. she doesn't know what to say to make it better, because there is no way to make that better.

abby knows what's coming when he sits her down a few weeks later. (if he hadn't, she was going to.) she leaves the ring on the kitchen island. it's the only thing that survived the sledgehammer. part of her wants to ask for updates on the house. the rest of her knows a clean break is better.

"i really hope you get what you need."

and that's that.

part two

[autisticlancemcclain]

wip tease number god knows, truly

The phone doesn’t ring for more than two seconds. Which is crazy, because New Altea is an unfathomably huge number of lightyears away and also Lance’s phone signal is perpetually garbage.

“Ahoy,” greets Allura when the line connects, because she is strange.

“Ahoy,” Lance greets back, because he loves her.

They sit in silence. He can hear, vaguely, the clicking sounds of compacts being opened and closed, and the particular humming noise she always makes when she’s putting on eyeliner.

It occurs to Lance, for the first time, that they have known each other so long and so closely that to the outsider, their relationship might be quite strange. The thought makes him smile widely.

“So,” he says.

Allura hums again. Deliberately, this time.

Lance takes another long time to answer, digging the toe of his boots into the ground. He spies a worm wiggling in the newly churned dirt and bends down to pluck it, writhing, out of its hovel. He quickly snaps a picture and sends it to Pidge with the caption, ‘didn’t know you were on Earth today.’ She responds with a grotesquely realistic custom clown emoji.

“There is a possibility. Perhaps. That I do not actually want to be a farmer.”

“No shit,” replies the Queen of New Altea And Also Lots Of Other Things Lance Can’t Remember, blithely.

Lance sniffs haughtily. “This is quite the revelation, you know. I’ve had four panic attacks about it.”

“You have an anxiety disorder. You had a panic attack about malevolent gut bacteria last week.”

“…This is true.”

“Also, whenever I feel you need to be humbled, I ask your mother to send me stuff from your childhood. There’s a video in particular I enjoy of you sobbing about the prospect of being anything but an astronaut. You looked at a cornfield and threw up. You were four, I believe.”

Lance does, actually, vaguely remember that. Well, he remembers Luis writhing on the floor, weeping with laughter, and kicking him in the shins. He also remembers the cornfield, if only because he distinctly remembers lobbing a piece of corn at Luis’ head, also.

He was a very expressive child. Also, Luis is a turd.

“I am entitled to a period of self-reflection,” Lance says primly.

“It has been an Entire Year, knobhead.”

“I needed time to collect my thoughts in peace and on Earth. I died, you know.”

“Oh, did you,” says Allura drily. “I wonder how that went.”

Lance’s smile widens. He lets her have this one. “Fuck farming, okay. I’m bored. I love my family to pieces but I need to be closer to drama. Give me a job.”

“That is a garbage application, Leandro.” He hears the distinct sound of a nail polish bottle being shaken. “I should hire someone more qualified.”

“How about you hire deez nuts.”

“Hm,” she says, and he can hear her grinning. “On the other hand, I need a second in command who is unafraid to challenge me. You know, in case I grow corrupt with power.”

She pretends to deliberate for a moment.

“You’re hired. I’ll send someone to come pick you up tomorrow.”

“Is that someone going to be a hot, tall Altean in a slutty outfit?” Lance asks hopefully.

She can’t help a laugh. Lance grins triumphantly. “You’re fired.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’ll think about it.”

She hangs up.

[elinorbard]

what she came for (f!Dark Urge/Enver Gortash)

Enver Gortash finds his life disrupted when the Dark Urge decides to bring him three gifts. (Rating: Explicit. Word count: 7.6k)

Written (belatedly) for Gortoween. Prompt: A Bloody Mess.

series: sex and violence, one is just the other

The Bhaalspawn announced herself with a loud, dramatic sigh. “For someone who talks so much of manners and propriety, you have been remarkably rude, Enver Gortash.” The sudden lack of light had left him nearly blind, but he turned his head in the direction of her voice. The soft purr of her words came from somewhere near his bed. “I have been rude?” he said curtly. “Do explain.” The Bhaalspawn laughed; she was forever laughing at him, somewhere in the dark.