#HIS FAMILY WAS NOTHING BUT CRUEL TO HIM SO HES SO KIND TO THE KIDS 🤧🤧🤧🤧🥺🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭😤😤😤🤲🤲🤲🤲

[batsandbirdbrains]

ok ok i’ve seen a bunch of different bad father Bruce and evil Talia hcs and AUs and i raise y’all: evil/bad grandparent Alfred but only with Dick. Like Alfred is a British guy who was in the SAS and has spent the better part of his time as a butler for the ultra-wealthy Wayne family. Then it’s just him and Bruce for a long time. Then Dick comes along, as Bruce’s ward, and the kid is a little gremlin. He’s constantly throwing tantrums, breaking chandeliers, he never eats the food Alfred makes, he screams a lot, and he’s not very appreciative of where he ended up. In front of Bruce, Alfred is always professional. But when it’s just Alfred and Dick? Alfred constantly tells Dick what a brat he is, threatens that Bruce will throw him out if he doesn’t behave, tells him his parents should be ashamed of how they raised him, and says a bunch of other fucked up shit. He tells Dick that if Dick were to tell Bruce how Alfred treats him, Bruce wouldn’t believe him. It completely fucks up Dick’s emotional regulation because he swings between picking fights with Bruce (to see if he’ll really throw him out) to clinging onto him for long periods of time to hiding away in his room and not talking or eating. It seems like no matter how much Bruce tries to comfort him, nothing works. And all the while, Alfred is subtly suggesting that Bruce be harsher and harsher and harsher with Dick. So Bruce starts to get harsher and meaner, thinking that this is what Dick needs. It doesn’t work, and eventually, by Alfred’s suggestion, he takes Robin away. Dick can’t it anymore and leaves, but he still doesn’t tell anyone about how Alfred treated him.

Then Jason comes along, and Dick is worried that Alfred will treat him the same way. He tries to bring it up subtly in conversation, but it seems like Dick has nothing to worry about. So Dick goes to Alfred to threaten him, but Alfred tells him that it’s not necessary because Jason is “actually a good kid” and that he and Alfred have long talks about literature. Dick leaves feeling hollowed out. Maybe it really was his fault, if Alfred hadn’t treated anyone else like that. After all, the man had raised Bruce and Bruce had never said or done anything that indicated Alfred treated him poorly.

Then Bruce just keeps getting more and more children, and with each child the idea is reinforced in Dick’s head that it’s fault for being such a bad child. He still has poor emotional regulation, and swings between isolating himself and clinging on too tightly to his family. It doesn’t help that Alfred is constantly whispering in his ear that the family is better off without him. Then Damian comes along, and he acts so much like Dick used to that Dick is terrified for him, but he knows there’s not much he can do so he just keeps an eye on the situation.

When Bruce dies, one of the first things Dick does is fire Alfred. Everyone is furious with him, especially since Dick won’t explain his reasoning. All Dick manages to say kind defense of himself is that Bruce’s will states that he’s in charge. Alfred goes back to England and dies shortly after. It splinters the family even more. But Dick doesn’t really care, because one evening after patrol, months after Alfred died, Damian begins to softly recall the harsh words that Alfred spoken to him in private. Dick knows he made the right choice, he just wishes he could’ve spared Damian the pain sooner. Dick begins to open up to Damian about the harshness Alfred bestowed upon him as well.

Then Bruce comes back, and he’s not just furious, he’s enraged. He starts screaming at Dick, about how he could ever do this, about how Alfred was nothing but kind to him, and about how maybe Alfred was right and Dick was a bad kid. Dick is shaking like a leaf, his worst fears being confirmed in front of his entire family, and he still doesn’t know how to defend himself from this. He knows Bruce is grieving and upset, but all he can hear are Alfred’s cruel words, telling him that Bruce hates him, that he’ll kick him out of the family, that he’ll beat the shit out of Dick. So when Bruce takes an angry step forward, Dick flinches back hard, falling to the floor of the cave, trembling and on the verge of hyperventilating. It’s enough to shake Bruce out of his anger and grief, fear and confusion filling him as he takes in the scene in front of him. He had never hit Dick before, though he may have been harsh with him verbally. He doesn’t understand why Dick would be so full of fear, so certain that Bruce would hit him. He doesn’t understand anything about the way Dick is behaving, really. Everyone is looking a bit incredulous at the sight in front of them, which breaks Bruce out of his stupor. He takes a small, softer step forward, reaching out to try and comfort Dick, but before he can, a small katana blocks his path.

Fuck you dude I’m crying and I have a meeting in like 10 mins (I mean this in the best way possible this prompt is absolutely deliciously angsty)

I want to see Damian admitting to Dick in the tiniest, most nervous voice Dick has ever heard from him about how, “Pennyworth said Father would never have kept me if I wasn’t his blood.” I want Dick to damn near have a nervous breakdown, because he’d hoped and prayed that Alfred never treated the other kids like how he was treated. I want him to hug Damian so tight and tell him in hushed whispers that Alfred was wrong, that Bruce loved him, that Dick loves him so so much and would never ever get rid of him no matter what.

I want Dick to be so protective of Damian after he finds out. I want Dick to reassure Damian that Alfred was the problem, that Alfred treated Dick just the same when he was younger, had still treated him the same even when Dick became an adult. I want Damian to cling to Dick because he’s the only one who understands, because the others were all wrapped around Alfred’s finger.

When Bruce comes back and Dick falls to the floor, so sure he’s about to get the shit beaten out of him, I want Damian to stand between them. I want Damian to slip up and say in a strangled, devastated voice that Pennyworth was right, that no one in this family loved him or Dick, but Damian isn’t going to let them hurt his Batman.

I want Dick to sit up so fast and tug Damian away and hug him so tight and whisper no, no, that’s not true, that’s not what was happening, Dick was just startled that’s all but please don’t you remember everything we talked about? It’s alright, Dami, everything’s alright. And everyone is so confused because what are they taking about, why are they both so upset, what’s going on?

But Damian is only 11 and he’s upset and Dick has been trying his best to let Damian know he’s allowed to show his emotions, so even though he’s not actively crying, the tears in his eyes are making Dick’s heart break. Because Damian may as well be sobbing. And he hugs him so tight and just keeps whispering reassurances to him, telling him it’s alright, smoothing back his hair.

“I’m glad he’s dead!” Damian huffs into Dick’s shoulder. And it’s muffled and Damian’s voice is thick, but everyone hears it. They all bristle, but Dick doesn’t react at all.

“I know,” Dick whispers. “I know. It’s alright.”

“Don’t leave me here!” Damian begs. “Don’t leave me with them! They don’t understand!”

“I’m not leaving you,” Dick tells him. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you want to go get ice cream? We can go get ice cream.”

“This discussion is not over!” Bruce barks, because he’s still livid, but now he’s confused on top of it.

“It is for now,” Dick says, his tone firm. “We’re leaving. We’re going to go and calm down. I suggest you all do the same.”

Dick is quick to get Damian away from all of them, but the rest of the family is still in shock.

“What do we not understand?” Tim asks slowly. When everyone turns to look at him, he raises an eyebrow at their baffled expressions. “Damian said we didn’t understand. What is it we don’t understand?”

They all know it has something to do with Alfred, but none of them can figure it out.

Maybe Dick and Damian will explain it to them. Maybe they never will. But it leaves a divide between them for a long time either way.

[the-froschamethyst4]

Viking! König

————

Viking! König Headcanons

NSFW

————

————

Viking König who starts making sharper weapons to slaughter his enemies

Viking König who has a soft spot only for his wife. You came from a different village, one that König is known for “collecting their tax” for his protection. You were part of an arranged marriage because your family couldn’t pay him, so you where the payment

Viking König who won’t let anything happen to you. You both grew to love each other

Viking König has a bit of that dad body with a bit of muscle to him

Viking König who is covered in traditional tribal tattoos for his bravery as a warrior and clan leader

Viking König who lives kind of secluded from everyone else but everyone knows where to find him if anything happens

With that being said Viking König like to take baths in the river with you naked joining him in the same river you both washing dirt off each other and it leads into something more

Viking König has started to like walking around his home naked or half naked and likes for you to join him

Viking König who loves seeing your face, moaning his name or placing your small hands on his lower stomach knowing he is way bigger than you and you look sexy as hell under him

Viking König who’s favorite position is missionary because he loves seeing your face while you are under him taking him so well

Viking König who carries you on his arm showing you off in a way, you are all giddy when he flexes and you are slightly raised up

Viking König who treats you like the Queen or Princess you are. You sit on his lap in the great dining hall with the entire clan. He let’s you eat from his plate that was more of a feast than anything

Viking König who eats you out on the big table with the clan members acting like nothing is happening

Viking König loves being home and sees his wife walking around the home nothing but bare skin

Viking König who loves you laying on the warm furs on your shared bed

“How could you look so beautiful?” You just shrug at his comment

Viking König who loves seeing you get off with nothing but your fingers, your warm bodies finally getting close to each other and he starts to help you out

Viking König who hates being interrupted while his time with you

“Someone better be dying!” König yells.

Viking König who is intimidating, buff, cold, ruthless, and cruel, the little time he has with you and it gets interrupted by someone he’s pissed

Viking König who sits on his throne as a traitor was amongst his clan

Viking König who lets the traitor take an axe to the face and head and then goes back to you

Viking König who starts wanting a child

Viking König who takes his time with the baby making till you were comfortable with the idea of having to carry a baby around in you for 9 months

Viking König who treats you like you were glass. His hands always holding you as you tried to move around the clan

Viking König who scares off all the man who thought you looked even more sexier when you were pregnant

“How dare they look at you?” König growls while looking down at you

“I’m okay, König,” you tell him, patting his arm.

Viking König who becomes a tad jealous of your baby always latched to you

Viking König who is seen as the best father

Viking König who takes your sons hunting for the first time. He shows your son how to shot a bow, it started out with fish and he made his way to start hunting turkey and deer next

Viking König who sees your daughters making things out of leaves and flowers. Flower crowns, and woven baskets, he like carrying them around for her as she collects her materials for more things to make

Viking König who sends his kids to bed early because he loves to have his time with you, making love to you and kissing every square inch of your body just hear your soft moans

Viking König who loves having date night in a stream of water naked with you, you two drinking and it became very heated in the water

Viking König who likes to play with his children, having a lot of kids and he spends all of his time with them the best her could

Viking König who gets caught in the middle of his daughters braiding his hair, putting flowers in his hair, curling his hair with pinecones and they pretended to give him more tattoos

Viking König who plays 'hide and seek' with his sons, showing them how to not get caught by the enemy and how to be sneaky when also hunting.

"I found you Leon," König says, pointing an arrow at his son hiding behind a tree.

"Dad~" he groans, coming out from behind the tree.

"I saw you Claus," he comes out from the tree, that Leon was behind.

"Felix, go wash up, your mother will hate seeing you covered in mud. If I can see you, your enemy will too," König says as he walked back to his home with his boys behind him.

Viking König who starts training himself to get ready for when he has to leave you and his children for a battle

Viking König who hates when he has to leave, he's leaving you to handle 5 kids on your own

Viking König who started a big feast before he has to leave

[angelsuecult]

the captain | s. crosby

warnings: sexual content, strong language, MDNI, 18+, NSFW, minors please do no interact, smut.

summary: Sid is given a hard time by his gf about his very stoic interactions with the media. he's not going to let you off so easy.

request: Younger reader and Sidney are already dating, but she can’t help but roll her eyes at his impeccable media training and family friendly personality in the media he does for the league, so she makes fun of him and takes a strong interest in pushing his limits 👀 (aka ends in smut)

word count: 6.3k

a/n: sorry for the extended hiatus guys! i should be back to regular uploads at this point in time and i am currently working through the request list! more to come to keep your eyes peeled guys! thank you for your patience with me! angelsuecult returns!! also to the original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if i completely missed the mark on this and you want me to retry! and requests are still open and update so dont forget to check that out!

--

You’re pretty sure Valentine’s Day games are a scam. Some cruel cosmic joke designed to make girlfriends sit through 60 minutes of freezing cold air and overpriced concessions just to watch their man play his heart out in a sport that could, at any moment, take all his teeth and potentially a limb.  

Not that you minded. Much.  

Sidney had played his ass off tonight—like he had something to prove. Not that he ever really didn’t, because the man didn’t know how to do anything half-assed. Especially not when it came to hockey. Or you, for that matter.  

But of course, it just had to be Valentine’s Day.

You stood now in the tunnel by the player’s exit, phone in hand, watching as Penguins fans in Crosby jerseys flooded toward the concourse, buzzing about the win. Your fingers flew over your screen.  

You: You know I was going to blow you when you got home, but I’m reconsidering because you just had to make it about you tonight.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then vanished. Then nothing.  

You rolled your eyes and snorted. “Coward.”  

The man had just been named first fucking star of the game. Of course he had. Two goals, one assist, and a faceoff win percentage so sexy it made you squirm a little. You knew his media obligations were kicking off soon—he was probably just peeling his sweaty gear off now, miserable about the idea of answering questions about “how it felt” and “what went right tonight.”  

Sid: Can’t believe you’re texting me shit like that while I have to sit half dressed with 5 cameras pointed at me.

You bit your lip and grinned.  

You: I can. 

You: You looked good tonight. Real good. Like I’d let you put it in my ass kind of good.  

You: Kidding. Kind of.  

Another pause. He was slow replying, which you’d expected, and it only made you smirk more knowing he was probably trying not to react in front of his teammates or, worse, the media guys. You could practically see his jaw tightening as he tried to suppress a smile, annoyed but secretly delighted.  

You could picture him already—still in his gear, slumped at his stall with his towel around his neck and that half-annoyed, half-resigned expression on his face. Someone probably tossed a mic in his face already. He was probably giving them that polite nod, the “Sure, go ahead” look, all while internally screaming. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Too private for his own good.

Sid: Go to my place. I’ll be done soon.

Sid: Stop texting me this shit.

You laughed out loud, drawing a glance from a nearby couple as you stepped out into the cold Pittsburgh night.

You: Oh baby, I haven’t even started.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your bed.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your shower.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in that stupid jersey you “don’t like me wearing because you take it seriously.”  

You could practically hear him groaning through the screen.

Sid: You’re an asshole.

Sid: Say the same shit every time anyway.

Sid: “Good team effort, got the bounces, lucky to come out on top.”

Sid: Happy now?

You: You forgot “credit to the guys” and “just trying to play the right way”

You: Gotta hit all the NHL buzzword bingo squares.

You: And don’t forget to smile like a humble Canadian virgin!

No reply. You let that one simmer. He was either suffering or plotting. Maybe both. Probably both.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in front of your face as you made your way to your car. The wind cut through your jeans, but your smile stayed in place. There was something so satisfying about teasing him after a big win—especially when he hated the attention but couldn’t stop being the best guy on the ice. You just couldn’t help yourself.

You got in the car and cranked the heat while pulling up the radio broadcast. They were still recapping the game, gushing over Sid like he wasn’t just a man who’d once tripped over his own shoe in the hallway.

“…and of course, Crosby with a textbook finish. You can see why he’s still one of the most consistent players in the league…”

You rolled your eyes, mimicking the voice in the car. “Oh yes, Sidney. So clean. So polished. Such a gentleman. Definitely didn’t say he was going to fuck me through the headboard if he scored tonight.”

Traffic cleared slowly as you went to his place, a familiar route etched into your brain. His street was quiet when you pulled in—classic Sid, all understated wealth and privacy. It took you forty five minutes to get from the arena to his house, another five to park and kick off your shoes inside the door.  It smelled like him—like clean laundry, cedarwood, and that subtle vanilla scent of his shampoo you’d teased him for using but secretly loved.

You wandered through his halls, turning on a few lights, getting cozy. It always felt familiar here, even though it was very clearly his space—clean, functional. Like a guy who didn’t like clutter but had more money than he knew what to do with.

You padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Full of ingredients. Not a single thing you could just grab and go.

“Romantic,” you muttered under your breath, pulling out a container of strawberries instead and wandering toward the couch.

The rest of the house was dark except for the hallway light, left on for you, and your socked feet were silent on the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The hallway was chilly as you padded toward the bedroom in your socks, carrying the half-eaten strawberries and your phone tucked beneath your arm. Sid’s place had that always-too-clean look to it. Like he tried to live in it, but barely spent enough time home for it to actually look lived in. You made a note to mess it up later. Nothing too dramatic—just a sweatshirt on the floor, maybe a bra hanging off the couch cushion, leave a cup on the counter. Domestic terrorism.

You tossed your phone on the nightstand and peeled off your jacket, fingers brushing over the remote on the dresser.  

TV on.  

Pants off.  

You were in his bed now, wearing his shirt—an old Penguins one that smelled like his laundry detergent and game day nerves—and absolutely nothing underneath.  

Just as God intended.  

The analysts were falling over themselves about his performance.

“…you know what you’re getting with Sid. Every single night. Discipline. Poise. He’s just got it.” You snorted.

“Yeah, discipline until he’s got me pinned under him telling me I’m not going anywhere until I apologize for teasing him about his ‘media voice.’”

Another buzz from your phone.  

Sid: About to start media. They’re dragging it out tonight.  

Sid: You’re lucky I like you.  

Sid: And that I want to fuck you stupid.  

You choked on your laugh, clutching your phone tighter as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers onto his shirt. You stretched dramatically across the bed and typed.  

You: Wow. Romantic.  

You: Just like I dreamed when I was 10.  

You: “One day I’ll date a hockey player who talks to me like a caveman on Valentine’s Day.”

Sid: Don’t act like you don’t like it. You’re already naked, aren’t you?

You: You’re not even here yet and you already think you know everything.  

Sid: I do know everything. And I know you’re wearing my shirt. And that’s it.  

Sid: Because you’re predictable. And a little slutty.

You covered your face with one hand and laughed out loud into the empty room. Your heart fluttered like a fucking schoolgirl even as you cursed him out in your mind.  

There was something wildly unfair about the duality of Sidney Crosby. The version the world knew—stoic, polite, humble to the point of parody. And then the real version. The one who texted you filthy things from the dressing room and called you a brat with that low rasp in his voice that promised you wouldn’t be walking straight the next day.

He was such a damn con artist.

You: You’re the one who’s gonna cry when I leave you with blue balls tonight.  

You: “Sorry Sid, I got tired waiting for you.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I used all my energy climbing your stairs.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I found your toothbrush and that did it for me.”

Sid: You’re such an asshole.

Sid: You’re lucky I’ve been horny for you since warmups. 

Sid: You knew what you were doing, sitting that close.

You had known.  

You always knew.  

And he always played better when he knew you were there watching.  

You yawned, stretched your legs beneath his sheets, and flopped dramatically on the bed, taking up all the space just to be a brat. You could already hear it: his sigh of fake annoyance when he got home, the shake of his head, the way he’d peel your shirt up with one hand and drag your body down with the other.  

You rolled to your stomach, phone buzzing again beside you.  

Sid: I’ll be home soon. You better be exactly where I think you are.

Sid: And if you’re not, you’re done. Actually done. I’ll find a Valentine who respects me.

You: You?  

You: Wanting respect?  

You: I’m sorry. I thought this was Sidney “I’ll fuck you on the bench if no one’s around” Crosby.

No reply. Which told you all you needed to know.  

He was already doing media.  

Probably giving his same bland ass answers.  

Probably planning what he was going to do the second he walked through that door.  

You looked around, debated getting up to light a candle or make the bed look a little less like a war zone. Then shrugged.  

Let him deal with the chaos he caused.  

You flipped onto your back and sighed happily, smirking at the ceiling.  

The remote was still in your hand when the screen switched from the postgame panel to the locker room feed. You didn’t even bother turning up the volume—didn’t need to. You could already hear it in your head.  

Sidney Crosby, media-trained robot, coming to life in hi-def.

You sighed and settled deeper into his bed, still cocooned in his shirt, bare legs tangled in his sheets. The duvet smelled like him. So did the pillow you were shamelessly half-lying on, half-straddling. Your phone sat close, a loaded weapon in the war of flirtation, but for now, you watched.  

There he was, perched in his stall, sweat-slick hair hidden under a black team hat, compression long sleeve clinging to his chest and arms like it was painted on. No jersey. No pads. Just muscle, all angles and sharp focus, like the game hadn’t even left his bloodstream yet. Cue Captain Canada.

The reporter asked about the team’s energy tonight, and you muttered out loud to no one, “We played a full sixty, stuck to our game, did the little things right—blah, blah, blah.”  

And then, right on cue:  

“Yeah, I thought we played a full sixty tonight… stuck to our game, did the little things right…”  

You cackled.

“Fucking called it.”  

He looked half dead behind the eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodding as another reporter threw a question at him. You didn't even bother listening this time. You just watched his face. That twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say. That calm, serious voice he used like a shield. That stupid, safe, polished version of himself that made you want to throw something at the screen.  

Because you knew the real Sid.  

The one who talked absolute filth into your ear with that same mouth.  

The one who made fun of his teammates the second the cameras were off.  

The one who said “fuck” more than he said “I.”  

And then—then—it happened.  

The reporter asked:  

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Sid. You played a great game. Got any plans tonight?”  

You sat up a little. That one actually surprised you. When did the reporters get so bold?

He gave them that laugh—that stupid, breathy chuckle he only used when he didn’t want to give too much away. Then he smiled, eyes low, lips pressed together like he was fighting off the real answer.  

“No,” he said. “Just recover. Get ready for the next one.”  

That was it. That was all.  

You stared at the TV, jaw slightly open.  

“Recover?” you muttered. “That’s your answer? No wink? No cute little nod? Not even a fucking smirk? You lying sack of shit, Sidney Patrick.”  You looked absolutely nuts talking to yourself.

You picked up your phone and unleashed.  

You: “Just recover,” he says.  

You: Wow. My pussy just dried up.  

You: Say hello to celibacy apparently.  

Still no reply. You fired off another.  

You: You are such a fucking fraud.  

You: There is literally a naked woman in your bed. Right now. At your house.  

You: On Valentine’s Day.  

You: But nooo, he’s gonna “recover.”  

You: Go ahead, Sid. Recover. I’ll just be here. Thinking about life. My choices. The fact I could’ve fucked a dentist. Or literally anyone else but hey.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, watching him wrap the interview up, nodding politely, face locked in full Captain Mode. You could practically feel the tension buzzing under his skin. The itch to get the hell out of there and back to you.  

One more for good measure:  

You: When they say “Crosby keeps his private life quiet,”  

You: They don’t know it’s because he talks so much shit in bed the FCC would fine him.

That did it.

Your phone lit up almost the second he stood from his stall.  

Sid: You need to be stopped.

Sid: You need help.

Sid: I’m not even out of the building yet and I’m hard.

You flopped backward against his pillows, laughing like a lunatic.  

You: I’m sorry did you forget you have a girlfriend? Did your nut brain erase me from memory just because you got first star??

You: Not even a cute little “gonna go home to the girl who’s been letting me rearrange her insides all season”???

You: Also don’t think I didn’t notice your compression shirt. You know exactly what you’re doing you manipulative little slut.

Sid: Jesus Christ

Sid: You knew what you signed up for.

You: I signed up for the hot hockey sex. The rest was a scam.

You: Don’t worry, I’ll be asleep by the time you get home.  

You: No recovering necessary. You’re off the hook.

Sid: You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow if you keep this up.  

Sid: You want recovery? I’ll give you something to recover from.

You swallowed.  

Slowly.  

Okay.  

So maybe you did like poking the bear.  

And maybe the bear knew exactly how to fuck you into next week.  

You tucked your phone under your pillow and let out a slow breath, heart thudding, a little thrill sparking low in your belly.  

Valentine’s Day.  

Just another game on the calendar.  

Until Sid got home.

And the worst part was, you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep. One second you were tucked under his sheets, limbs comfortably sprawled, phone still clutched in one hand and TV murmuring softly in the background… and the next, you were blinking against the warm glow of the bedside lamp and squinting up at a very large, very amused, very smug silhouette looming over you.

“Unbelievable,” Sidney muttered, shaking his head as he stood beside the bed. His coat was halfway off, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that fucking backwards hat still on his head. “All that mouth, and look at you now. Out cold.”

You groaned before you could speak, voice thick with sleep and low like you’d swallowed a blanket. “'M not.”

“You literally just snored,” he said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud and crouching beside the bed. “Like a full-on little cartoon snore. Tiny inhale, wheeze on the exhale. Real cute.”

“I did not snore,” you mumbled into the pillow. But your voice was gravelly, throat dry, and goddammit—your limbs were heavy with sleep, and he smelled so good, and everything was so warm.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Talked all that shit and knocked yourself out.”  

You shifted slightly, nose scrunching, a quiet little groan escaping your throat.

“Mmph.”  

He grinned. Leaned in close to your ear.  

“Babe.”  

Nothing.  

“Babe.” He kissed your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”  

You grunted, rolling slightly. “M’tired…”  

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, barely lifting your head from the pillow.

“…What time is it?”

“Late. Or early. Depends who you ask.” He pressed a kiss to your hair. “You passed out. Didn’t even make it to Valentine’s Day sex.”

You groaned again, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to. Your bed is criminally warm. I got cozy. My body betrayed me.”

“You talked a lot of shit.”

“Yeah well, I thought you were gonna be faster.”

He laughed low in his chest, slipping his hand beneath the covers to grab your hip and give it a squeeze. He climbed onto the bed with all the smug grace of a man who had absolutely earned this moment of superiority. He leaned down, one knee pressing into the bed right between your legs, and shoved at the covers just enough to catch a glimpse of your legs tangled beneath his sheets.

“You look real cozy for someone who was talking an awful lot of shit about how boring I am,” he said, tone low and teasing.

You squinted at him, your voice a gravelly whisper.

“You are boring. You literally said, ‘recover.’ Who says that on Valentine’s Day? Recover from what, Sidney? Being 37?”

He let out a sharp laugh and pushed your hair back from your face, warm fingers brushing your cheek.

“You’re a little shit,” he murmured.

“And you’re a liar.” You poked a finger into his chest. “You lied to the media. There was an actual naked girl waiting for you in your bed and you gave them the ‘I’m gonna rest up’ speech like a fucking priest.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

“You know I can’t give them anything,” he said. “They’ve been trained like bloodhounds. If I so much as hint at having plans, I’ll have a fucking headline on every sports page tomorrow.”

“God forbid people find out you’re not a virgin,” you deadpanned.

“Watch it,” he warned playfully. “I am a role model.”

You burst out laughing, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Oh my god, you are so full of shit. You talk like you’re running for office, but then you come home and say things like, ‘c’mere, baby, I’ve been thinking about fucking you against the kitchen counter since warmups.’”

He grinned. “Still true, by the way.”

You hummed and looped your arms around his neck lazily.

“You missed your shot then, Captain Celibate. Shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”

Sid smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Didn’t realize the threat of dick was the only thing keeping you awake.”

“You should’ve. It’s your strongest feature.”

He laughed again, breath warm against your cheek, before ducking his head to kiss you properly—slow and deep and good, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into it, arms tightening around his neck, legs shifting beneath the covers until you hooked one behind his bent knee, dragging him closer.

Then he nuzzled into your neck again and added, low and dirty:  

“You wanna go back to sleep, or you want me to give you something real to recover from?”  

You groaned dramatically. “You are such a whore, oh my god.”  

“And yet, here you are. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Wet for me in your sleep, probably.”  

“Shut up—”  

“You were,” he said smugly, dragging his hand up your thigh. “I checked. You twitched.”  

You covered your face with both hands. “You’re disgusting.”  

“You’re worse,” he said, kissing down your throat. “And when you wake up tomorrow sore as hell, I want you to remember who was ready when the moment came, and who—” he nipped your collarbone— “took a nap.”  

“Sidney.”  

“Y/n.”  

You sighed, dropped your hands, and stared up at him.  

“You gonna fuck me or give another locker room interview?”  

He grinned. And with that, he kissed you again, deep and slow and fucking smug. You could feel the smile on his mouth, even as he pressed you back into the mattress like you were the only thing worth coming home to.  

"Holy shit," you said, breathless as he tugged your shirt up over your hips, revealing those barely there red panties you wore when you knew he’d be seeing them. Lacy. Dark. A tiny bow on the waistband.

Sid looked smug. “I’m so obsessed with you, it’s disgusting.”

“You're disgusting,” you corrected, but you were already arching up, letting him pull the shirt over your head. 

He laughed low, all pleased with himself. "You love it."

His hand slipped a little higher, fingertips grazing the side of your hip where your underwear were just barely clinging to your curves.

You sucked in a breath you tried to pretend was casual. "Sid," you warned.

"What?" he drawled, blinking down at you like he hadn’t just started setting your entire nervous system on fucking fire. You lifted your head, giving him a look. "You’re fucking pushing it."

Sid grinned, so goddamn starved it made your toes curl. "You need me to spell it out, Y/N Y/LN?" he teased, voice dropping into that dangerous gravel. "Need me to tell you how bad I wanna fuck you?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands like that could somehow save you. "Jesus Christ, Sidney."

He pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles like a fucking gentleman, even while his other hand kept creeping higher up your thigh.

"Could just be gentle," he murmured, kissing the inside of your wrist now, right over your pulse. "Real slow, babe. Let you sit on my cock nice and easy. You barely gotta do anything. I'll do all the fuckin' work."

You whimpered, and he fucking heard it.

He grinned harder, absolutely predatory now, shifting to hover over you more fully, careful not to press too much weight onto you.

"Bet you miss it," he murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin. You literally had sex in his bed this morning but you hated that he was right, you did miss it.

"Sid," you gasped, arching your back automatically, and fuck, he hadn't even touched you properly yet.

He chuckled low and mean, dragging his mouth along your throat, nipping lightly. "Tell me, baby," he rasped. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You shoved at his chest weakly, more for show than anything else. "I hate you," you breathed. "I fucking hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, grinning into your hair. "You love this dick though."

You burst out laughing, half-horrified and half-scorched alive. "You are so fucking nasty," you managed between giggles, pinching his arm lightly.

He caught your hand easily, pressing it down above your head, pinning you with almost no effort. "And you're so fuckin' wet for me right now, I can feel it through your goddamn panties," he grunted, pressing his hips into yours just enough to make you feel the thick, heavy line of him behind his dress pants.

You whimpered again, biting your lip. "Sid," you whispered desperately.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Say it," he ordered softly. "Say you want me."

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing hard.

It was so unfair, how good he was at this. How easily he turned you into this trembling, needy thing even when you thought you had the upper hand for most of the day

But he looked at you like you were the best part of his night. Like he couldn’t wait to ruin you in the best goddamn way.

You cracked your eyes open, meeting his gaze. "I want you," you whispered. "You asshole."

Sid’s grin turned downright feral.

"Yeah?" he rasped, nuzzling into your jaw, his hand finally — finally — sliding under your panties, the rough pads of his fingers skimming where you were already slick and throbbing for him. "Good," he murmured. "‘Cause you're not gettin' away from me, princess. Not tonight."

You gasped as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing, and you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle there.

"Sid," you panted. "Bed’s gonna break if you fuck me the way you're lookin' at me right now."

He laughed low, dirty, and thrilled. "Then we'll buy a new one," he said, voice rough as he sank two fingers into you slowly and deep. "Hell, babe, we'll break every goddamn bed from here to fuckin' Canada if it means I get to feel you come around me again."

You moaned helplessly, arching into him.

And when he bent down, kissed you— really kissed you, slow and filthy and possessive — it felt like a promise burned into your skin.

Sid could’ve fucked you stupid in under thirty seconds if he wanted. The way you were already whimpering under him, writhing in his hands, he knew it wouldn’t take much.

But tonight — tonight he wanted to be slow. He wanted to wreck you proper. Melt every bone in your goddamn body.

He slipped his fingers out of you with a slow, slick sound that made you whimper again. He fucking loved that sound. Loved everything about you like this — messy and needy and all his.

"You gotta relax, baby," Sid murmured, dropping kisses along the flushed line of your throat, working his way lower. "Can't be tense on me. Gotta stay nice and easy for me."

Sid pulled back from your body just enough to catch you breathless— just enough to see you, all flushed and desperate, lips swollen, hair a wild halo against the pillows. His heart punched hard against his ribs.

"Fuckin' hell, Y/N," he muttered, staring at you like he couldn’t decide whether to devour you whole or build a shrine at your feet. "Look at you."

You whimpered and tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, begging him wordlessly to keep going.

Sid huffed a soft, broken laugh, dragging your panties slowly — so slowly — down your thighs, baring you completely to him. He didn’t just toss them. No. He pocketed them. Smirked while he was doing it. Like the absolute sex demon he was.

And he was hard. So hard it was actually starting to hurt. He was damn near grinding in his pants for some kind of friction.

He pressed a kiss right between your breasts, trailing down your belly. You shivered so hard it made the mattress creak.

Sid grinned against your skin. "You already taste so fuckin' sweet," he muttered, nosing at your core, not even touching you properly yet, just letting the heat of his breath drive you crazy. "Bet you could get me drunk off your pussy right now, baby. All thick and fuckin' sweet just for me."

"Oh my god, Sidney," You gasped, tossing your head back. "You're fucking filthy."

"Yeah, well," he said, voice low and smug. "You like it, baby. You like havin' me mouth off about how sweet your pussy is when you’re desperate."

You made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Sid finally gave you what you needed — flattening his tongue and dragging it up through your folds, slow and deep.

Your entire body jerked.

"Jesus fuck, Sid," you gasped, arching off the bed, thighs trembling.

He groaned into you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up even closer to his mouth. "You’re fuckin’ drippin', babe," he muttered, voice vibrating against your soaked skin. "Beggin' for it. Haven’t even touched my cock yet and you’re already so fuckin' close, huh?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, trying to close your thighs around his head — he loved when you did that, so desperate you wanted to trap him there.

Sid laughed low, all smug satisfaction, and stiffened his tongue to shove into your leaky entrance, bobbing in and out like he was starving. Every little whimper, every twitch of your hips, just made him harder, his cock aching in his dress pants.

He shifted one hand, dragging two fingers back inside you, pumping slow, gentle strokes in and out while he circled your clit with his tongue, slow and deliberate. His fingers moved slow between your legs, curling deep, working that perfect rhythm only he knew. Your thighs quivered, trying to clamp shut, but he squared his shoulder and pushed them open lazily. "None a' that," he said, smirking. "You’re taking it, baby. Not hidin’ from me now. Not after all that shit you talked on my phone."

You clawed at the dress shirt he was still wearing, trying to yank him back up. "You’re such a fucking dick," you gasped. "Coulda just got me some flowers and left me the fuck alone—"

Sid grinned, slow and greedy, dragging the how tongue down your slick folds, circling your clit just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "And miss this?" he murmured. "Babe, you’re better than Christmas. Better than a fuckin’ playoff win."

He pushed your shirt up higher until your breasts were exposed, beautiful and tender. He palmed one carefully, thumb brushing across your hardening nipple, and you gasped, your legs falling further open for him.

"Sensitive, huh, baby?" he whispered, watching you squirm. "Bet you could come just from my mouth on you right now, no hands, nothing."

"You’re fucking killing me," you moaned, lifting your hips helplessly, trying to get more friction.

He laughed again — slow, dangerous — and dipped his head to take your clit back into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, pulling a desperate, broken sound from your throat.

You fisted his hair, hips rocking mindlessly against his face, your whole body tightening.

"Sid, fuck," you gasped, "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He lifted his head, grinning at your flushed, wrecked face. "You gonna come for me already, baby? Just from my fuckin' fingers?" he teased, pumping them harder now, twisting his wrist so his palm rubbed against your clit perfectly. "Fuck, that's hot. Goddamn, you're perfect. So fuckin' good for me,Y/N."

"Jesus–Fuck–Sidney." you cried out, arching hard off the bed as you came, gripping his wrist as if to tell him not to stop, body shuddering, your pussy clenched down so hard around his fingers it almost hurt, soaking his hand and mouth with a gush that made Sid groan into you.

He kept working you through it, slow and patient, until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly wrecked.

He kissed you again, deep and slow, until you went boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.

He pulled his fingers out finally, dragging them slow between your thighs, teasing your slit just to hear you whimper again. Then he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning low like you were the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted.

You slapped his chest weakly. "You're disgusting," you muttered, still breathless, half-dazed.

Sid grinned and grabbed your hand, pressing it to the bulge straining against the front of his now wrinkled pants. "Yeah? Feel how bad you got me, baby?" he rasped. "’M about two seconds away from blowin' my load like a fuckin' teenager over here."

You laughed, exhausted and glowing and a little feral around the edges. "Good," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Now fucking do something about it, Crosby."

He stripped his shirt off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him, before finally, finally undoing his jeans.

His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and you made a broken, desperate sound that made Sid’s heart squeeze. Your mouth actually watered.

“Baby… fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he guided your hands above your head, he tapped his tip against your slick folds, nudging your clit teasing the both of you, you instinctively moved forward, preparing for more stimulation, “You ready for me, huh?”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the warmth of the head pressing against your entrance, so close yet so far. You could barely form words, the need building inside you too overwhelming, and all you could do was let out a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly against him. “Mhmmm,” you murmured, your voice trembling with anticipation. “need you.”

With a groan, Sidney shifted above you, his hands holding your hips as he slowly pushed his length into you, slowly, inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—your heat, your tightness, the way you stretched around him as he filled you. He couldn’t hold back the curse that slipped from his lips as he bottomed out inside you, his breath ragged as he held you close.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your neck, "tightest fuckin' thing, swear to god...made for me."

Sid stayed still for a moment, just breathing, letting you adjust, feeling your soft, fluttering muscles pulsing around him.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back further into the pillow as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, and the slow, steady throb of him buried deep inside made your pulse race. You could feel every inch of him, the way he fit perfectly against that gummy spot inside you, and it made you dizzy with need.

It took every ounce of control he had not to just start pounding into you like a goddamn animal.

Instead, he pulled out slow, almost all the way, and slid back in with one long, careful thrust that made you whimper and dig your heels into the mattress.

"That’s it," he murmured against your temple. "Just like that, princess. Let me take care of you."

He fucked you slowly—long, hard, deep strokes,  savoring every twitch and gasp and curse. You arched under him, hips pushing up, body moving with his like you’d been built just for this.

The sound of his hips hitting the back of your thighs filled the room. He kept a first grip on your hips as he continued a consistent pace. At some point your brain just melted. Your eyes could no longer focus on him above you and your mouth hung open, moans no longer falling from your lips. The only thing you could do was tighten around him.

Sid could feel you getting close. He dropped down, his chest pressing right up to yours stopping his thrusts. But in your cockdrunk you started to grind upwards when Sidney wouldn’t move. Caught between needing the break but also wanting him to continue.He wanted this to last though. 

And just like that, he was sitting back, pulling you up with him. Chest to chest, you were now on top. His lips catching yours in something deeper now—hotter, messier. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, maneuvering with muscle memory and intention, letting you sink down completely onto his cock.

“I got you,” he murmured, one hand on the small of your back, the other moving down to stroke your thigh. “Just move how you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

You couldn’t answer — too full, too overwhelmed, too in love — so you just sat on your knees and began rocking your hips in desperation. He knew you were getting impatient. It was in the way your hips started moving impatiently against his aching cock. He knew you needed to come and that you were close. It was in the way you took everything he gave you, every rough upward thrust, every whispered praise.

You leaned forward, one hand braced on his broad shoulder, the other tangled in his hair as you rode him slowly — hips rolling in little waves, the angle hitting all the right places, making your whole body quake.

“‘M close Sid,” you whispered, gasping when his thumb found your swollen clit again.

“Good,” he said hoarsely, “You need it. Look at you. All needy and swollen. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that?”

“Don’t stop ohmygodohgodfuck-” you whined, burying your face in his neck.

Sidney couldn’t stop even if he tried to. You’re too damn addicting.

He starts to thrust upward, matching the pace in which you're riding him. He desperate to watch you fall apart on top of him. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, you instinctively start sucking on them as if they’re his cock.

“There she is,” he whispers, rough and low.

You clamp down around his cock, coming hard and fast. It rolled through you in heavy, pulsing waves–warm and all consuming–pulling a wrecked cry from your lips.

“Fucking–Jesus–I’m–Goddammit Sid–”

Sidney came with a deep, desperate groan, burning his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside of your pussy. He emptied himself inside, thrusting up lazily a few times, fucking his come deep inside of you, even as you writhe above him in overstimulation. He watches as his cock drags in and out of you, a circle of your cream circling the base as his come leaks down his length and down to his balls. 

Sid pressed you back onto the mattress, unintentionally thrusting his softened cock into you. You whine softly, already spent and tired and ready for bed. He presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” You mumble softly, already drifting off.

You had all the time in the world now. Sid had made damn sure of that.

--

[lazy-ahh]

It would be cool if you wrote something for maskless mark x kryptonian!malereader

(YOU WERE) MY HOME

pairing maskless! mark grayson x (kryptonian) male reader

you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

your earliest memory is fire—not the gentle kind, not the warm glow of a hearth, but the violent, screaming kind. the kind that eats metal and flesh alike as your family’s ship tore itself apart in earth’s atmosphere, the heat so intense you could feel it searing your skin even through your crash harness. the scent of burning circuits and something darker, something organic—your parents, still strapped into their seats, their bodies limp and wrong in ways your child-mind couldn’t name but understood instinctively. you remember the way your throat burned from screaming, the way your fingers trembled as you clawed through twisted wreckage, your tiny hands slick with ash and something wet that wasn’t yours. then—cold grass beneath your palms, the shock of it against your skin as you collapsed in a stranger’s backyard, the night air biting at your tear-streaked face. you didn’t know where you were. you didn’t know if you were dying. you just knew you were alone.

until you weren’t.

a boy—messy-haired, pajama-clad, eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear—peered down at you like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. "whoa," mark whispered, voice hushed with awe, as if you were a fallen star instead of something broken. "are you an alien?" you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your voice was lost somewhere between the wreckage and the weight pressing against your chest, but it didn’t matter because mark didn’t wait for one. he just reached out, small fingers brushing your arm like you were something precious, and you shattered. you clung to him, shaking, gasping, and he held you back without hesitation, his arms tight around your shoulders like he already knew you needed to be held together. neither of you understood what had happened—you were both just kids, too young for death, too young for the weight of the universe—but mark didn’t need to understand to be kind. he whispered soft, clumsy reassurances against your hair, rubbed your back in slow circles the way his mother did for him when he cried, his voice wobbling but determined. "it’s okay," he kept saying, even though it wasn’t, even though it would never be okay again. "i got you."

mark always had good intentions.

after that night, you were never alone again. the grayson household wrapped around you like a second skin—debbie’s gentle hands guiding you through human meals that tasted too rich, too warm compared to the nutrient packs from your ship. nolan’s steady voice explaining earth’s customs with patient amusement when you stared too long at things like skyscrapers or television. and mark—always mark—dragging you into his world with both hands, insisting you share his bed when the unfamiliar silence of your new room kept you awake. the mattress was too soft, nothing like the firm sleep-pods you were raised in, but mark’s presence beside you, his quiet snoring, made it feel like home.

cecil came later, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, but his grip on your shoulder was firm, not cruel, when he signed the adoption papers. you even remember cecil's expression softening a tiny bit when you finally mustered up the courage to look up at him. "you’re special, kid. you could do a lot of good in this world." he’d said, and you didn’t realize then how much that would cost you. the training was brutal—learning to control the way your fists could shatter concrete, how your vision blurred red-gold when anger spiked too hot in your chest—but you endured it. not because you cared about being a hero, but because nolan had quietly told both you and mark that he would inherit powers one day. and mark? mark already dreamed of it. of soaring through skies, of saving people with that bright, fearless grin of his. "we’ll be unstoppable," he’d say, bumping his shoulder against yours, and you’d nod, because all you ever wanted was to stand beside him.

you remember the little things most: the way mark split his peanut butter sandwiches with you in the cafeteria when you couldn’t stomach the school’s mystery meat. how he’d sneak you onto the roof at night, pointing out constellations he’d misname on purpose just to hear you laugh and correct him. the winter your fingers went numb during a snowball fight, and mark—without hesitation—pulled off his gloves and pressed your hands between his own, blowing warm air onto your skin until the feeling returned. "better?" he’d asked, cheeks pink from cold, breath fogging between you. you lied and said yes, even though your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

and then there were the bigger moments: the first time you flew together, mark whooping as he clung to your back, his laughter vibrating against your spine. the way he’d look at you after messy, early missions—bloodied but triumphant, grinning like you’d hung the stars yourselves.

somewhere between stolen lunches and whispered secrets, between scraped knees and shared victories, you fell in love. not all at once, but slowly, inevitably, like gravity pulling you into orbit around him—helpless, hopeless, a collision course written in the stars. and the cruelest part? you never even tried to stop it.

you memorized the shape of his name like a prayer, the syllables curling soft and reverent against your tongue every time you almost said it: i love you, i love you, i love you. it lingered in the spaces between your ribs, ached behind your teeth, spilled into every quiet gesture you couldn’t stop yourself from making. the way you’d fix his suit after battles, fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric stretched over his shoulders. how you’d always bring him his favorite snack after patrol, even when he forgot to ask. the nights you stayed up late just to listen to him ramble about his day, your chest so full it threatened to crack open.

you were brave in every way that mattered—except one. the words never made it past your lips, because you knew. you knew. mark liked girls. loved them, even. the way his eyes followed amber in the hallways, the soft, dazed smile he’d get when eve laughed. you watched it all with a hollow kind of hunger, wondering if maybe—maybe—you could be the exception. if his hands, so careful when they patched up your wounds, might one day cradle your face instead. if his laughter, bright and endless, might one day be yours in a way that wasn’t just friendship.

(you remember one night, the two of you tangled together on the couch after a movie, his head lolling sleepily against your shoulder. your breath caught, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. this is enough, you told yourself. this has to be enough. but then he shifted, his lips brushing accidentally against the curve of your neck, and for one delirious second, you let yourself hope.

he didn’t even notice. just yawned and mumbled, "g’night, dude," like you hadn’t just short-circuited entirely.)

you never overstepped. never pushed. you loved him too much for that. so you stayed—always giving, always there, hands outstretched but never grasping. and mark? mark never pulled away. never acted uncomfortable. just smiled at you like you were his favorite person in the world (and you were, just not in the way you wanted).

sometimes, you wondered if that was worse.

but of course, ever the giver, you stayed. continued to pour yourself into the spaces between his broken pieces after nolan left him shattered across that mountain. held ice packs to his bruises when his healing factor was too slow, stayed awake through his nightmares when the memories of his father's fists became too loud. every life he couldn't save weighed on him like stones in his pockets, and you? you became the water that buoyed him up, whispering "it wasn't your fault" into the hollow of his collarbone when he shook apart in your arms. and when he'd look at you afterward—eyes wet with gratitude and something unreadable but familiar, mouth soft with something you didn't dare name—you let yourself pretend, just for a second, that it meant more.

but then the drift began. slow, like the tide pulling back from shore—that subtle, inevitable retreat you didn't notice until you were already standing on damp sand, wondering when the water had gotten so far away. you told yourself it was fine. normal. that this was just what happened when two people grew up and became heroes, when the weight of the world settled across their shoulders like second capes. mark was drowning in responsibilities, just like you were—global crises that left blood under your fingernails for days, collateral damage measured in broken buildings and broken families, cecil's ever-growing demands that came with that particular tilt of his head that meant refusal wasn't an option.

you'd see mark across crowded briefing rooms, the shadows under his eyes darker each time, his shoulders tensed like he was still bracing for his father's blows. sometimes your fingers would twitch with the memory of how easily they used to fit between his shoulder blades, how he'd lean into your touch like a sunflower chasing light. but in the rare moments he surfaced for air—between missions, during stolen minutes in the guardians' lounge—he never reached for you. not like before. not with that easy, unconscious trust that used to have him slinging an arm around your neck before he'd even finished saying hello.

instead, there were new distances measured in centimeters of couch space between you, in conversations that ended just a beat too soon, in the way he'd sometimes look at you like he was trying to solve an equation written just behind your eyes. you told yourself it was the exhaustion. the trauma. the growing up. you told yourself it didn't feel like losing something you'd never really had in the first place.

(you remember that particular tuesday night with crystal clarity—the way the dim lamplight caught the exhaustion in the slope of mark's shoulders as amber's name flashed across his phone screen again, the third time in forty-seven minutes. the couch cushions dipped under his weight as he slumped against you, his forehead pressing into the junction of your neck and shoulder like he was trying to fuse himself there. you could feel the frustrated heat of his skin through your shirt, could count each uneven breath that gusted against your collarbone. "she says i'm never present," he muttered, the words cracking open like overripe fruit, all sticky vulnerability. your fingers spasmed against his back, nails leaving half-moon indents in your own palms as you fought the urge to fist your hands in his shirt and scream i'm here, i'm always here, why can't you see me? instead, you traced the familiar topography of his spine through thin fabric, your palm skating over the knobs of vertebrae you'd set back in place after countless battles. "then be present, mark," you whispered, the advice settling like powdered glass between your teeth. he never knew you'd rehearsed those exact words in your bathroom mirror that morning, watching your reflection mouth them until your expression stopped twisting into something ugly. never knew you kept a mental tally of all the times you'd talked him through his relationship problems like some masochistic saint.)

you were stupid. selfish. a fraud wearing a martyr's skin. because when mark and amber finally shattered apart—when you found him sitting on your roof outside your bedroom window in the rain, his hands shaking around a lukewarm cup of coffee you'd made him just how he liked—your grief came in layers. the first was genuine: the way your throat closed at his red-rimmed eyes, the immediate urge to fix what you couldn't. but beneath that? something rotten and hungry uncurling in your ribcage, whispering maybe now. maybe me. the shame hit like a solar flare, burning through your veins hotter than any kryptonian heat vision ever could—because even as you pulled him into a hug, even as you let him stain your shirt with tears, some treacherous part of you was already calculating if this pain of his might finally turn his gaze your way.

and then—

the words hit like a kryptonite blade between your ribs, delivered with that familiar, awkward scratch at the back of his neck that you'd always found endearing. "hey, so. eve and i. we're, uh. together." mark's grin was bashful in the way that made his left dimple appear, afternoon sunlight gilding the curve of his cheek like he was something holy. your fingers spasmed around the coffee cup—the one you'd brought him back from that paris mission last year—and you took a hurried gulp, letting the near-boiling liquid scald your tongue raw. the pain was a welcome distraction from the way your vision blurred. "that's great, man," you managed, the lie sticking like wet sand in your throat. you'd gotten good at this, at stitching your voice into something steady when everything inside you was collapsing.

he didn't notice. of course he didn't. mark never saw the way your breath hitched when he touched you, never caught you staring at the place where his t-shirt rode up when he stretched. now he was practically vibrating with the need to share, knees bouncing as he leaned forward. "she kissed me after the downtown mission," he confessed, voice dropping like you were co-conspirators in this joy. "like, right in the middle of all the rubble? and her laugh—" his fingers fluttered over his sternum, mapping the phantom flip of his heart, and you thought distantly that you could chart every fracture spreading through your own chest in real time. the ceramic mug creaked ominously in your grip, but you couldn't feel the heat anymore, couldn't feel anything except the terrible, perfect clarity of this moment: mark, glowing with happiness that wasn't yours to claim, and you, committing every detail to memory like a masochist preserving their own ruin.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the sky isn't just red—it's hemorrhaging, great arterial sprays of crimson light pulsing behind thick, choking clouds that don't move like normal clouds should. below you, the streets gape open in jagged wounds, asphalt peeling back like the skin of some massive creature trying to escape its own bones. the air isn't just smoky—it's alive with the taste of burning copper and molten steel, each breath scraping your throat raw with the ghosts of a thousand shattered lives. your cape snaps violently behind you, a desperate thing trying to flee the carnage, while your heart jackhammers against your sternum with such force you're half-afraid it'll crack through and go tumbling down into the ruins below.

chicago isn't just burning.

it's being unmade.

again.

you've seen this city broken more times than you can count—watched it crumble under alien invasions, superpowered brawls, the careless collateral damage of beings who called themselves heroes. you know the drill by now: the screaming, the sirens, the way the news cameras always zoom in too close on crying children. you've memorized earth's sick little dance of destruction and rebirth, how it always stitches itself back together with temporary scaffolds and hollow promises of "never again."

but this?

this is different.

because the figures streaking through the carnage below—the ones reducing buildings to dust and civilians and heroes alike to red smears on concrete—they all wear his face. his jawline. his messy dark hair. they move with his fighting style, shout with his voice, even bleed the same shade of red. but their eyes? their eyes are all wrong. cold and chaotic where his are warm, empty where his always held that stubborn spark of hope.

none of them are your mark.

the sky weeps fire around you as you hover above the carnage, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes worse than the truth ever could. somewhere in this nightmare of broken concrete and broken bodies, the real mark fights for his life—while you're trapped here, your lungs burning with the cruel joke of it all. that in this city of a thousand twisted copies wearing his face, the most unbearable pain wouldn't be failing to find him... but reaching for him only to grasp another hollow imitation.

you don't know where your mark is. he's probably halfway across the world by now, his arm slung protectively around eve's waist as they fight back-to-back like some perfect, seamless team. while you? you're knee-deep in rubble, using your body as a human shield between collapsing buildings and innocent civilians—always the bridesmaid, never the groom. or something like that.

the irony tastes like blood in your mouth—metallic and thick, the kind that lingers after a punch to the jaw. you’d stood like this days ago in the guardians’ headquarters, your trembling fingers digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents, half-moons of desperation carved into your skin. mark had been gearing up for another mission with her, his suit clinging to his shoulders in that way that always made your throat tight. his gloves smelled like ozone and sweat when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him mid-motion as he reached for his mask. your grip was too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

"you're always with her," you’d choked out, the words scraping your throat raw, tearing free like shrapnel. your voice fractured like the sidewalk now splitting beneath your feet, each crack exposing years of buried longing.

it all came tumbling out then—how you’d memorized the exact shade of brown in his eyes (warm, like earth after rain), how you’d counted every faint freckle scattered across his nose like constellations. how you’d give up your powers, your legacy, your name if it meant he’d look at you just once the way he looked at her—soft and awed, like she’d hung the stars herself. the confession burned worse than kryptonite, searing your tongue, leaving your mouth tasting like smoke and regret.

for one suspended second, mark’s face did something complicated—his lips parted like you’d punched the air from his lungs, his pupils blowing wide, dark with something unreadable before his gaze dropped to your mouth. your heart stuttered, a trapped bird slamming against your ribs.

you didn’t know why you’d said it. maybe it was the alcohol rex had shoved into your hands earlier, his smirk sharp as he’d muttered, "drink up, superboy. maybe it’ll make you stop staring at him like a kicked puppy." you’d swallowed it all down—the bitter drink, the bitter truth—and now here you were, spilling your guts like some pathetic, lovesick fool, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

mark had frozen like you’d hit him with kryptonite, his hands suspended in air, fingers still curled around the edge of his half-raised mask. the familiar crease between his brows deepened, his lips parting slightly—not in anger, but in dawning, terrifying comprehension. "what?" he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, and you saw it then—the exact moment realization struck. his breath hitched, his pulse visible in the jump of his throat, his gaze dropping to your mouth one again for one electrifying second before snapping back up, wide and startled.

in that suspended heartbeat between confession and consequence, you could have sworn something shifted behind his eyes—something warm and terrified and impossibly, dangerously like reciprocation. like maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for this too.

then the comms crackled to life with eve’s voice, bright and urgent, and whatever fragile moment existed between you shattered like the storefront windows now raining glass down around you. "mark? you there?"

he flinched like you'd caught him with his hands in the fire, his mask slipping into place with a sound that felt too final—like a coffin lid sealing shut. "we'll talk later," he muttered, but the words came out all wrong, cracked down the middle like his voice was splitting apart the same way your ribs were. you saw everything in painful clarity: the tremor in his fingers as they fumbled with his mask's edge, the way his adam's apple bobbed like he was swallowing back something thick and unsaid. then he was gone in a streak of blue and yellow, leaving you standing there with your heart ripped clean from your chest, still beating raw in your palms. you wondered if this was how icarus felt—watching the sun flee from him, knowing he'd flown too close.

you became a hero for him. learned to fly not because the sky called to you, but because it was where he lived. trained your fists to break bones only so you could be the one to set his afterwards. stood beside him through every battle, every loss, every quiet midnight where the weight of the world pressed too hard against his shoulders. always beside him. never with him. never the way you truly wanted—fingers laced together, mouths sharing breath instead of battlefield strategies.

now, as you wrench a sobbing child from collapsing rubble, their tiny fingers clutching at your collar like you're the only solid thing left in this nightmare, you wonder if that hesitation in his eyes meant he felt it too—that inexorable pull between you two, like twin stars caught in each other's gravity. or if you'd just shattered the best thing in your life for nothing more than a maybe.

a building groans nearby, its steel skeleton screaming as concrete rains down in deadly chunks. you move before you think, your body slamming into the structure with enough force to crack your spine. the impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you hold firm, muscles burning as you lower the crumbling mass inch by agonizing inch. people scramble free beneath you, their screams mixing with the distant wail of sirens. you don't have time to gasp before the shockwave hits—another explosion ripping through the street, sending you skidding backward through debris. smoke fills your mouth, your nose, your pores, but all you can taste is the ghost of his name.

that’s when you see him.

floating there like some half-remembered dream, blood painting abstract patterns across his cheekbones. but—no mask. no goggles. nothing to hide the way his face transforms when he sees you, his eyes widening like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. the moment his gaze lands on you, something fractures deep in your chest—not the clean break of a bone, but the slow, seismic splitting of tectonic plates—only to knit itself back together with golden thread when his lips part in quiet awe.

this mark looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. like you’re water after decades of drought, like you’re the first star he’s seen after being trapped in an endless night. his eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s trying to drink you in before you disappear again—and oh, god, the way his expression softens when he realizes it’s really you, like his entire body sighs in relief.

then he’s moving, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face before stopping just short, trembling in the air like he’s afraid you’ll vanish once again if he touches you. "hey," he murmurs, his voice so tender it aches, the sound wrapping around you like sunlight. "it’s okay. i got you."

and suddenly you’re seven years old again, trembling in the wreckage of your pod, your tiny fingers clutching at the grass as the world spins too fast around you. you remember the warmth of mark’s small body pressing against yours, his arms tight around your shoulders like he could shield you from the entire universe if he just held on hard enough. the way he whispered, "it’s okay, it’s okay," into your hair like a prayer, his voice wobbling but sure.

this mark is looking at you with that same fierce protectiveness, that same unwavering devotion—but now it’s layered with something deeper, something older. something that makes your breath catch. he looks at you like you’re the axis his world spins around, like every scar on your body is a constellation he wants to worship. like he’s loved you in every lifetime, and will love you in every one to come.

a sob claws its way up your throat, raw and broken, because this—this is how you’ve always wanted to be seen. not as a sidekick, not as a best friend, but as the living, breathing center of someone’s universe. and here, in the middle of a burning city, with a version of mark who wears his heart as openly as he wears his scars, you finally are.

you let him carry you in his arms, let his fingers curl protectively around the back of your head as he tucks your face against the warm hollow of his neck. the wind screams past your ears as he takes off, but you don’t fight it—don’t even tense. your mission brief echoes dimly in your mind (neutralize all variants, show no mercy) but it feels distant now, drowned out by the steady thump of his pulse beneath your lips. let them see, you think hazily. let the whole world watch as he flies you away like something precious.

next thing you know, you’re perched on the edge of your bathroom sink, his hips slotting between your knees as he patches you up with practiced hands. he’d flown you high enough earlier that the sun could kiss your wounds closed, but he still fusses—dabbing antiseptic over the cuts that haven’t quite healed, his touch feather-light when you flinch. "still hurts here?" he murmurs, fingers hovering over your ribs. you nod, and he makes a soft, wounded noise in his throat before reaching for the salve.

you watch, hypnotized, as he cups the salve between his palms—the same way you've done for yourself a thousand lonely nights—letting his body heat soften it before spreading it across your aching skin. his fingers move with practiced ease, tracing the map of your wounds like he's reading braille, like every bruise and cut tells a story only he understands. "you know my place better than i do," you murmur, voice scraped raw from smoke and unshed tears.

his hands freeze mid-motion. when he lifts his gaze, his eyes are bottomless pools of ink in the dim bathroom light, swirling with emotions too complex to name. "of course i do," he breathes, the words spilling out like a confession dragged from his chest. his thumb finds the sharp angle of your hipbone, brushing once—a fleeting touch that burns hotter than any solar flare. "how could i not when i spent most of my life with you?" his voice drops to a whisper, cracking open like an eggshell. "when i spent years memorizing the way you breathe when you're hurting? the way you grit your teeth slightly when you're lying?"

the air between you grows thick, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. you can feel his pulse where his fingertips rest against your skin, rapid as a hummingbird's wings. the mirror fogs with your shared breath, obscuring your reflections until it's just this—just his hands on your body, his truths in your mouth, this fragile thing you've both been too afraid to name.

the confession lingers in the humid air between you, delicate as the steam spiraling from the faucet, as transient as the condensation tracing paths down the mirror. you ache to ask—how many realities exist where your fingers intertwine as more than friends? how many versions of himself experienced this moment with you? but then his calloused palm rises to frame your jaw, his thumb sweeping salve across your cheekbone with a tenderness that steals your voice. the medicine stings, but you'd endure a thousand cuts just to keep his hands this close.

"there," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin like a summer breeze through open curtains. the scent of him—ozone and the faint metallic tang of blood—mixes with the antiseptic's sharpness. "good as new."

except you're anything but. you're a constellation of fresh wounds and ancient scars, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath your skin where your bodies press together. yet as his forehead comes to rest against yours, as his lashes brush your cheek when he blinks, the familiar ache in your chest doesn't feel like shattering.

it feels like dawn after endless night. like gravity finally pulling you into orbit. like the first full breath after years of drowning.

it feels like every cliché about home you ever rolled your eyes at—because home was never a place. it's the boy who learned your pain before he learned your favorite color, who carries the shape of your wounds in his hands like something precious.

the warmth of his hands on your skin feels like sunrise after decades of darkness—like finally breathing after being submerged too long. for one heartbeat, two, you let yourself drown in it, this dizzying sensation of being cherished, of being truly seen for the first time in your life. then reality comes crashing back like a fist to the gut, bitter and violent. this isn't your mark. can't be your mark. this is one of the invaders, the destroyers, the monsters who painted chicago's streets red with innocent blood. his hands may cradle you with familiar tenderness, but you saw what the other versons of him did to the city. what he's done too.

your muscles tense, fingers curling into fists at your sides. you should attack. should drive your fist through his chest the way cecil trained you to. should make him pay for all the lives lost today.

but then—

his lips quirk in that lopsided smile you've traced in your dreams a thousand times, the one that makes his left dimple appear just so. his eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you could recognize blindfolded, but there's something shattered in his gaze now, something ancient and grieving. "god, i missed you," he breathes, voice cracking like dry earth in a drought, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat for years. the sound of it—so raw, so painfully familiar—makes your traitorous heart stutter behind your ribs.

your breath catches. "what happened..." you swallow hard, fingers twitching at your sides. "to the me in your world?"

his face does something complicated. for a second, he just looks at you, his gaze tracing your features like he’s trying to commit them to memory all over again. then, softly: "we were together. properly, i mean." his thumb brushes your cheekbone, hesitant. "confessed to each other a year before i got my powers. it was... stupidly awkward. i tripped over my own feet trying to kiss you." a wet laugh escapes him, his eyes shining. "you laughed at me. then pulled me in by my shirt."

the image blooms in your mind—mark, younger, softer, his face burning red as he fumbles through a love confession. you can almost see it.

his expression darkens. "then the invasion happened. you fought—of course you did. even when that bastard pulled out the kryptonite." his voice cracks. "i was too hurt to move. could barely breathe. but you—you looked at me, right before..." he chokes, his hands tightening around yours. "you smiled. like you weren’t scared at all."

the sob tears through you like a supernova—violent, uncontrollable, leaving you trembling in its aftermath. before you can think, you're clutching at him with desperate hands, fingers twisting into the frayed fabric of his suit as if you could somehow stitch reality back together through sheer will alone. your knuckles press white against his ribs, nails biting into your own palms, but you can't loosen your grip. you'd crawl between dimensions yourself if it meant bringing his version of you home. because seeing him so broken like this... it just. hurts so fucking bad.

he collapses into you like a dying star, his arms locking around your waist with bruising intensity. his face presses hot and wet against the curve of your neck, his tears searing your skin as his shoulders shudder against yours. you feel the exact moment his knees give out, how his weight sinks into you—the great invincible mark grayson, brought to his knees by grief.

"we lose you... in every other dimension," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words fracturing as they leave his lips. his fingers scramble across your back like he's memorizing your pulse points, your scars, the way your lungs expand with each shaky inhale. "and i feel so god damn jealous of the versions of me who didn't-" his voice shatters completely then, dissolving into something raw and wounded.

instinct takes over. your hands find their way into his hair, cradling his head as your thumbs sweep across his damp cheeks. "shhh, i've got you," you murmur into his temple, the same words he once whispered to a scared alien boy in his backyard. the irony tastes bitter on your tongue—how after all these years, you're still comforting each other through losses that never seem to end.

the salt on your lips could be from his tears or yours. you've lost track of who's breaking apart more violently, whose grief runs deeper. are you mourning the you he watched die? the mark who will never look at you this way in your own world? or simply the cruel joke the universe keeps playing—that in every reality, one of you is always left holding the pieces?

"please..." his voice cracks like a breaking spine as he drifts closer, hands hovering near your face but not daring to touch. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, lips trembling around each word. "come home with me." the raw need in his tone makes your stomach flip. "my dimension—it's quiet there, baby, so quiet. just us. no eve, no cecil, no him." his fingers finally brush your cheek, sticky with blood and tears. "we'll disappear somewhere where no one knows us. i'll build us a house with my bare hands. you'll plant those stupid flowers you love. we can even take a bunch of cats with us. i'll—fuck—i'll worship you like you deserve. please."

you want to. god, you want to. your traitorous body already leans into his touch, craving more of the warmth you've been starving for.

but—

"mark," you whisper, heart shattering at how his face lights up just hearing his name from your lips. "you've... you've killed people. innocent people."

he doesn't flinch. doesn't hesitate. just leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven puffs that ghost across your lips. you can smell the blood and smoke clinging to him, can feel the way his pulse races where your skin touches. "yeah," he admits, voice rough like gravel, thick with something desperate between shame and worship. "but i'd burn a thousand worlds to ashes before i let anything hurt you again." his hands slide down your sides, fingers digging into the curve of your waist hard enough to bruise as he yanks you flush against him. you can feel every hard line of his body, the way his heart hammers against his ribs where your chests press together. "i'm already damned," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with every word. "let me be damned with you."

you wince, hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "mark, you're not mine—"

"i know," he interrupts, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he's trying to fuse your thoughts together. his voice drops to a whisper, raw and broken. "but i could be."

around you, the city burns. the air is thick with the stench of melting metal and charred flesh, the distant screams of the dying swallowed by the roar of collapsing buildings. somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, your mark is fighting—whole, unbroken, untouched by the kind of grief that twists this version of him into something sharp and feral. somewhere, he's pulling eve close, whispering promises against her lips that taste like forever.

and here you are.

letting a ghost hold you.

this mark—this broken, beautiful monster—is on his knees for you.

you swallow hard around the lump in your throat. because despite the blood on his hands and the fire in the distance, you already know your answer.

oh my god, 6.1k words of pure, unfiltered angst and i am unwell over it. this one-shot clawed its way out of my soul like a demon possessed and i blacked out only to wake up with this masterpiece of pain?? i was absolutely feral writing this, fueled by spite, sleep deprivation, and the haunting echo of "what if mark loved him back but in the worst way possible? what if he did love him but never realised he did (but he did realise this in every other dimension except this one)?" and now here we are. sobbing. you probably thought this would be cute or wholesome. you probably thought, "oh, maskless mark? hot." AND THEN I HIT YOU WITH THE EMOTIONAL WAR CRIMES. but come on, it’s maskless mark—did you really expect anything less than soul-crushing, heart-stabbing, tear-your-ribs-open angst? be so for real. anyway, enjoy the suffering. i sure did. 😭💔

[4linos]

the ghost of what was.

bang chan x fem!reader

synopsis: a relationship ends not with a fight, but with a quiet, devastating sentence. chan walks away without explanation, leaving behind confusion, silence, and heartbreak.

warnings: angst, emotional heartbreak/breakup, mutual pining, love triangle (but not really), unrequited love.

wc: 4268

You never thought it would end like that, with no storm, no explosion, not even the slow erosion of time. Just a conversation that came out of nowhere, the kind that shifts the ground beneath your feet in a way that’s almost too subtle to notice until you’re already falling.

Chan sat across from you on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. But the look in his eyes wasn’t cruel, or angry. It was… tired. Resigned. You remember staring at him, waiting for the punchline because surely this wasn’t real. Not him. Not you.

He didn’t cry. You did.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he said, and the words felt like they were rehearsed, like he’d said them to himself in the mirror over and over until they sounded detached enough to pass for truth.

You didn’t believe it. Not really. Because just a week before, he’d been tracing constellations on your back with his fingertips, whispering sleepy little nothings about your future. He’d kissed your forehead with the kind of tenderness that only comes from certainty. He talked about names for the kids you'd maybe have one day, about places you still wanted to go, about which of you would go gray first.

And now he was saying it was over.

No explanation. No confession. Just vague words that didn’t match the way he used to look at you, like you were the safest place he’d ever known.

You didn’t ask questions at first. You didn’t have the strength. But you stayed up that night, alone in a home that suddenly felt foreign, staring at the ceiling and playing every moment of your relationship backwards in your head, trying to find the part where it all went wrong. You didn’t find it. Because it wasn’t there.

That was the worst part.

It wasn’t a bad relationship. It was perfect. Not in some storybook sense, but in the quiet, stable way that mattered. You talked through your arguments. You knew how to calm each other down. You had little rituals, the way you always kissed twice before he left the room, how he made you coffee in the morning even though he didn’t drink it himself. It was real. It was solid.

So how could it just… vanish?

-

After the breakup, the days bled into each other.

You stopped measuring time in weeks or hours and instead in how long you could go without crying, without thinking about him, without reaching for your phone and remembering he wasn’t going to text. You told yourself to be strong. You told yourself if you could just hold out, if you could get through the silence, he’d come back with a real reason. Something you could fight for. Something that made sense.

But all you got was quiet.

And then, one day, Hyunjin showed up at your door.

You weren’t surprised, not really. He and Chan were close, part of the same tightly wound fabric of people who had always been around each other, who blurred the line between friends and family. You’d known Hyunjin almost as long as you’d known Chan. He had always been the light to Chan’s quiet warmth, brighter, more expressive, a little unpredictable in the way artists always are. You liked him. Trusted him. And that familiarity is probably why you let him in.

At first, it was casual.

He brought you soup. A coffee. A playlist you never asked for. He didn’t pry, and for that, you were grateful. He didn’t talk about Chan, not at first just offered a quiet presence when everything else felt like it was closing in. He made you laugh when your chest still felt too tight to breathe, and for a moment you thought maybe he was just being a good friend. Someone filling the space Chan had left behind.

But then, little things began to shift.

He texted more. He stayed longer. Sometimes he would just… linger. Watching you. You tried not to notice the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed you a cup of tea. The way he smiled a little softer than he used to. The way he looked at you, not like someone who was checking in, but like someone who was waiting. Hoping.

You told yourself you were imagining it.

That maybe you were just sensitive, raw from the breakup, reading too much into kindness because it had become so rare. But deep down, part of you already knew. Part of you had always known.

There was a moment that tipped it. A small, quiet evening, rain on the windows, a movie playing that neither of you were really watching. You had made some offhand comment about how Chan used to quote that exact line, and the silence that followed felt heavy in the room, as if your words had shifted the air. You glanced over, and Hyunjin was staring at you. Not upset. Not annoyed. Just aching. Like hearing his name in your mouth still hurt.

And then, a few days later, he confessed.

He came over late, like he’d done a dozen times before, but there was something different in the way he sat, nervous, hands clenched, gaze flicking between you and the floor. You offered him tea. He declined.

Then, quietly, without buildup, he said, “I need to tell you something.”

You felt the stillness that followed, the way your heart skipped, not out of excitement, but dread. You already knew. Even before he said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words were simple. They didn’t crash into the room or burst out in desperation. They were soft. Careful. Like he didn’t want to scare you.

“I have been,” he added, his voice trembling just slightly. “For a long time. Before the breakup. Before you even noticed.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

Because all you could hear in your head was Chan must’ve known.

You could see it now, the dots connecting. The strange way Chan pulled away toward the end. The sudden coldness. The vague excuses. He must’ve known. And if he knew, and still walked away, this was why. He’d left to spare someone else. Or maybe, to spare himself from watching it happen anyway.

You stared at Hyunjin, heart thudding, the weight of too many emotions crashing down at once, shock, betrayal, confusion, guilt. But the loudest thing in the room wasn’t his confession.

It was your answer.

“No.”

It came out before you could think. Before you could soften it. Before you could pretend you needed time to think about it.

“No,” you repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t.”

His face fell, just slightly. Like he’d expected it but hoped he was wrong.

“I’m not angry,” you said, your voice low, barely steady. “I’m not blaming you. But I’m still in love with Chan. I didn’t move on. I haven’t even started.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, swallowing whatever heartbreak was blooming behind his eyes. And maybe, in that moment, you both understood that this wasn’t just bad timing, it was impossible timing. Because you weren’t just rejecting him, you were rejecting the very idea that love could simply transfer from one person to another like nothing had been lost.

You were still tangled up in the ghost of a relationship that never got to die properly.

Hyunjin left that night without saying much else, and you haven’t seen him since. But you think about that conversation more than you want to admit. Not because you regret saying no, but because part of you resents that the whole thing ever happened. That your heartbreak became an opportunity for someone else. That instead of answers, you were handed more questions, more silence.

And Chan… he still hasn’t come back.

Not physically. Not in words.

But he lingers everywhere, in the songs you can’t skip, in the way you always sleep facing the same side of the bed, in the ache that shows up at 2 AM when your guard is down and your chest is hollow.

You're still trying to understand it. Still trying to forgive him for walking away without giving you the truth. But some nights, when the world is too quiet and your head won’t stop spinning, you wonder if the truth was never his to say.

Maybe it was Hyunjin’s all along.

And maybe that’s what hurts most of all.

- flashback -

It was late, so late that the hallways of the building were quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed after the world had gone to sleep. Chan was exhausted. His shoulders ached from sitting in the studio too long, hunched over mixes he couldn’t seem to finish. But he didn’t want to go home yet. Home meant you. Meant facing the soft warmth of your smile, your sleepy voice asking if he’d eaten, your arms pulling him into bed like he belonged there.

And the truth was… he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it.

He wandered through the halls, earbuds in, music turned down low. That’s when he heard it, voices, two of them, coming from behind the partially open door to the smaller studio room.

Minho and Hyunjin.

He wasn’t trying to listen. He was about to keep walking, give them privacy, not eavesdrop on whatever venting session was happening. But then he heard Y/N.

And he stopped.

Hyunjin’s voice was quieter than usual, subdued, like it was heavy with something that had been sitting in his chest for far too long.

“I can’t keep pretending anymore, hyung. Every time I see them together, it’s like I’m being stabbed in the same place, over and over.”

There was a pause. Minho didn’t interrupt, he just let him speak. Chan’s feet stayed frozen to the floor, his whole body going cold.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. But I love her. I’ve loved her for a while now. And I know it’s wrong. I know I don’t have the right. But I can’t turn it off.”

Chan couldn’t breathe.

Hyunjin’s voice broke around the edges.

“She makes him so happy. And that’s the worst part. I feel like the villain. Like I’m waiting for something I’m not supposed to want.”

Chan’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might be sick. He backed away from the door like it had burned him, heart thudding in his ears.

He walked back to the studio in a daze, hands shaking, every breath ragged with something too complicated to name. Betrayal? No. Not quite. Hyunjin hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t tried to take you. He hadn’t even told you. But the weight of those words, of knowing that one of the people closest to him was in love with the person he loved most in the world, crushed him.

At first, he told himself it didn’t matter.

You loved him. You chose him. Everything you and Chan had built together was real. Solid. Safe. He told himself to focus on that, to hold onto it. But the thought kept creeping back in, the idea that Hyunjin was quietly hurting every time he saw you together. That behind every smile, every joke, there was a fracture. A wound.

Chan carried that with him for days, then weeks. It festered in the quiet moments. When you kissed him and told him you loved him, a voice in his head whispered, Hyunjin would give anything for this. When you talked about the future, he imagined Hyunjin hearing it, watching it happen from a distance, bleeding in silence.

He tried to shake it off. But the guilt sank deeper than he expected.

And then came the self-doubt.

What if Hyunjin was better for you? What if Chan, with his sleepless nights and constant pressure and insecurities he could never quite silence, wasn’t the right choice after all? What if you were only with him because he got there first?

He didn’t know when exactly it shifted from guilt to resolve, but one night, alone in the studio, a beat looping endlessly in the background, he made the decision.

He would let you go.

He would break your heart so Hyunjin wouldn’t have to keep breaking his own. He would lie to you. Pretend it had been fading for him. That you’d outgrown each other. That it wasn’t love anymore. Because as long as he told you something final, something sharp, you wouldn’t question it. You wouldn’t wait for him. You’d move on.

And maybe, maybe, Hyunjin would finally let himself try.

It was the hardest thing Chan had ever done.

When he sat you down and told you it was over, everything inside him screamed to take it back. To pull you into his arms and tell you none of it was true. That he still wanted all of it, the house, the wedding, the kids, the future. You. But he didn’t. He made his voice flat. He didn’t look you in the eye. He played the role. He became the bad guy in his own story, because someone had to be.

And then he left.

He didn’t know how he made it out of the building. How he made it to the dorm. How he didn’t break down in the hallway. But he remembers one thing clearly: the moment the door closed behind him, he dropped to the floor and cried like he hadn’t since he was a kid.

And ever since then, he’s lived in that silence.

He hasn’t spoken to you. He hasn’t told Hyunjin what he heard. He hasn’t told anyone.

Because if he did… it would make it real. It would unravel everything.

And maybe, deep down, he knows that someday the truth will come out.

But he also knows it won’t fix what he broke. Because when you walked into his life, you became his home, and he’s the one who burned it down.

Chan had always thought he was good at pretending.

It came with the job, smiling when he was tired, joking when he felt like breaking down, carrying the weight of other people’s expectations without letting his knees buckle. And for the most part, he could manage it. He could look into a camera, sit through interviews, perform like nothing inside him was unraveling. But after the breakup, something changed.

It wasn’t the pain, he expected that. What surprised him was the heaviness.

It sat in his chest like a stone. Not sharp, not unbearable, but constant. Like an ache you forget how to live without. He would wake up, go to schedules, check in with the guys, show up to the studio like always. But everything felt slower. Duller. Muted. Like he was watching life happen from the wrong side of the glass.

The dorm was quiet more often now. Or maybe he was. He barely left his room unless he had to. Hyunjin had stopped looking at him so directly. Members stopped asking questions. Everyone could tell something wasn’t right, but no one pressed. Chan was too good at shutting doors without slamming them.

Still, the nights were the worst.

That was when the silence got loud. When the guilt and the grief curled around him in the dark, whispering all the things he didn’t let himself say in the daylight. He missed you so much it physically hurt. He missed your voice, your hands in his hair, the way you used to hum under your breath when you were focused. The little things. The things no one else saw. The life you’d quietly built around each other, piece by piece, until it felt like home.

And he’d burned it down.

He told himself he did the right thing. That he left to protect you. To give Hyunjin space to breathe, to feel, to maybe try. But it didn’t bring him peace. All it did was leave him alone with the knowledge that he’d given up the one thing he truly wanted.

You.

He hadn’t seen you in almost a month.

And even though he told himself not to check your social media, he did. Of course he did. He scrolled through old photos, read old texts, listened to voice messages until they felt like echoes in his head. But you hadn’t posted much. You’d gone quiet too. And part of him hated that because it meant you were hurting, and he couldn’t fix it.

He had no right to fix it.

But that night, that night was unbearable.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. The weight in his chest was suffocating, pressing down until he could barely breathe. His fingers trembled as he gripped his phone, staring at your contact name for what felt like the hundredth time that week. He nearly called. Nearly texted. But what could he say?

I lied to you. I still love you. I never stopped.

Instead, he jumped out of bed, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, phone in hand. He didn’t think. Just moved.

He was halfway to the front door of the dorm, chest heaving, heart pounding like it was trying to force its way out of him, when he froze.

You were standing there.

Your hand was raised, just about to knock, but you paused when you saw him. And for a moment just a breathless, suspended second, you both stared at each other, as if neither of you could believe the other was real.

You looked tired. Pale. Worn down in that specific, quiet way that only heartbreak leaves behind. Your eyes were red, like you’d been crying. Maybe for a while.

And then you broke.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just dropped your hand, stepped forward, and wrapped your arms around him with a kind of desperation that shattered every wall he’d built over the last four weeks. Your face buried in his chest, your shoulders shaking, your sobs muffled by the hoodie he didn’t even remember putting on.

And Chan, Chan, he didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you into him like his life depended on it, like he needed to hold you just to stay standing. His arms locked around your back, one hand cradling your head like he was afraid you might disappear again. He felt your tears soaking through the fabric, felt your fingers twist into the material like you were trying to anchor yourself to him.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He held you tighter.

He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to feel you again, how empty he’d become without you. You weren’t just someone he missed. You were someone he ached for. Someone who lived in every part of him, even the ones he tried to close off.

And you were here.

He didn’t know how long you stayed like that, wrapped in each other at the threshold of the dorm, hearts racing, breaths shaking. The world didn’t exist in that moment. Just you. Just him. And the relief, the overwhelming relief of finally touching the person he never wanted to let go of in the first place.

When you finally looked up at him, eyes swollen, voice raw, you whispered, “Why did you leave?”

And he broke again.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Just the guilt. The regret. The love. All of it written across his face, pouring from his eyes. You didn’t need him to say it. Not yet.

Chan didn’t let go of you, not even for a second as he gently pulled you inside the dorm, quietly shutting the door behind you. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you’d vanish again if there was even a moment of space between you.

Neither of you said anything as he led you down the hall to his room.The dorm was hushed and dark, lit only by the soft glow from the streetlights outside the windows. It felt strange to be here again, after nearly over a month away. But being beside him… it felt like breathing after drowning.

His door clicked shut behind you, and only then did his grip loosen, just enough to guide you to sit down on the edge of his bed. But you didn’t sit. You stayed glued to him, your arms still around his torso, face still buried in the fabric of his hoodie. His scent, faint cologne and warmth hit you like a wave, and your chest ached all over again. You never thought you’d be here again, holding him like this.

“I wanna see your face,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

You shook your head without lifting it. “I probably look disgusting. I’ve been crying since… I don’t even know when.”

A soft laugh escaped him. Tired. Breathless. Real.

And something about the sound, that warm, familiar laugh that you hadn’t heard in weeks broke through the wall of shame and sadness wrapped around you. You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes still puffy, nose a little red, and gave him a half-hearted smack on the chest.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you whispered, but your lips were twitching like they wanted to smile.

“There you are,” he said softly, cupping your cheek. “God, I missed your face.”

Your throat tightened, and your smile faded. He saw it. Felt the shift. And his hand moved from your cheek to hold yours, threading your fingers together with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

And then… the silence shifted.

You could feel it before he spoke. The heaviness in his breath. The way he didn’t meet your eyes right away.

“I owe you an explanation,” he murmured. “A real one. Not that… bullshit I gave you before.”

You nodded slowly, your voice barely audible. “I needed one.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “I know.”

There was a long pause, like he was trying to find the right way to say something that could never be said right. But eventually, he just let it out.

“I overheard Hyunjin… telling Minho that he was in love with you.”

The words landed like a slow, sinking weight in the pit of your stomach.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear it,” he continued. “It was late. I was walking past one of the practice rooms. The door was cracked open. And then… I heard your name.”

You felt your heart pounding in your ears.

“He said he didn’t want to feel that way. That he hated himself for it. But he said he loved you. And I—I couldn’t un-hear it. I tried to pretend like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t change anything, but…”

“But it did,” you whispered.

Chan nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah. It did. I started seeing it everywhere after that. The way he looked at you. The way he lingered. I don't even think he realized it half the time. And I hated it, hated that it made me doubt everything we had.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“I thought… maybe he was better for you. I mean, I’m always busy. I’m tired all the time. I get stuck in my own head. You deserve someone who can give you everything without the weight. Someone who doesn’t drag you through their own mess.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Chan…”

“I didn’t break up with you because I stopped loving you,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “I left because I thought I was protecting you. From tension between the three of us. From the guilt. From seeing Hyunjin hurting every time we were in the same room.”

Your breath caught. “You gave me up for him?”

“I gave you up for both of you,” he admitted, voice cracking. “I thought it was the selfless thing to do. I thought… I thought I could live with it, if it meant you could be happy.”

You were quiet for a long moment. The room felt impossibly still.

Then, slowly, you whispered, “I didn’t want anyone else.”

Chan closed his eyes, like the words hurt. “I know. And I’m so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I just ended up hurting you. And myself. And probably him too.”

You reached up, touching his face gently. “You idiot.”

He opened his eyes again, surprised.

“You’re my person, Chan. I didn’t want better. I wanted you. I waited every day, thinking maybe you’d come back. Wondering what I did wrong. And the whole time, you were just… what? Sacrificing us for something I never even wanted?”

His voice cracked as he whispered, “I know. I know. I messed up. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve trusted you with the truth instead of making the choice for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t born of heartbreak. This time, they came from the overwhelming relief of finally being seen, being heard, being held by the person who had never really stopped loving you.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered.

“I never even tried to,” he whispered back.

He pulled you into him again, this time slower, gentler, like he was holding something sacred. His arms wrapped around you, and your fingers curled into his hoodie again, your face pressed to his chest. And you stayed there, for a long time. Quiet. Close. Healing, slowly, in the shared silence of two people who had been broken apart, only to find each other again in the wreckage.

And for the first time in weeks, Chan’s chest didn’t feel heavy.

It felt whole.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

What would the first years be like after 10 years?

What comes after Ever After?

You’ve seen Ace around on TV, but it’s the first time in a while you’ve gotten to see him in-person again. He’s become a jack-of-all-trades entertainer, host of his own variety show, stand-up comedian known for his cruel honesty, and master of magicless magic tricks. There’s not a day where you don’t see his annoyingly bright smile lighting up TV screens.

You’d think that 10 years would have made Ace a little more responsible and mature… Nope. He’s still a sunny and laidback kind of guy, but his sense of humor is still every bit as mean as it was back then, and he won’t hesitate to greet you with a familiar quip. Ace claims he’s “young at heart!” and “still a sparkling youth~!”

The fame has given him a bit of an ego and enhanced his vanity. Ace gloats about his connections in the show biz (did you know he interviewed THE Vil Schoenheit the other day?) and dresses in expensive brands.

He was bratty back then, but now he’s got carefree playboy vibes 😭 The kind of guy that laughs easily, that you feel comfortable talking to—but also the kind of guy that’s hard to pin down himself. Ace is nothing if not charmingly noncommittal in the tasks he sets out on.

When it comes down to it, Ace is loyal to the bitter end. He still has your number and regularly talks with you and Deuce, even pouting and whining if he goes a few days without a response. Ace insists he only does it because he “can’t forget the little people”, but you know it’s just a bluff.

It’s been a long journey for Deuce, but he has at long last achieved his dream of becoming a magic marshal! He’s a policeman in an elite force that tackles magical crimes (though he started off his career as a mere meter maid). He wears his badge proudly and stands a little straighter whenever it is on display.

Not much of an asset during investigations, but you bet your ass that Deuce is always up for chasing, cornering, and cuffing criminals! He's the muscle of his squadron, but also the heart of the group and the only guy willing to play good cop.

He prefers to patrol on his magical wheel as opposed to a police car. Deuce finds it so much speedier—and plus, he gets a rush of adrenaline whenever he’s revving up that engine and chasing down bad guys. If you want a ride, all you have to do is ask! Your old buddy would be more than happy to give you a lift. (He pulls over to help little old ladies cross the street.)

His earnest and hard-working nature have made him popular with the local mothers and grandmothers, who keep trying to gift him free food or trying to introduce him to their single relatives. The local delinquents also look up to him, affectionately calling Deuce their aniki. (On his days off, Deuce goes into schools to talk about his job and how he turned his life around, trying to serve as a good role model in his community.)

He carries around a photo of his mom and another photo featuring you, him, Grim, and Ace in his wallet. Deuce is in the habit so that he’s always got a piece of his beloved family and friends with him. They’re his good luck charms, and he credits them for his success in the force.

Jack is a personal trainer and coach! After his time at NRC, he was inspired by his upperclassmen and wanted to become the kind of person that’s able to support others in their growth, the very same way his own senpai did for him. Jack wants to continue that cycle for the next generation!

He has a reputation for being the “scary looking instructor with a heart of gold”. It takes his clients a while to get used to his face, but he supports them relentlessly and his results are definitely undeniable. Jack works with people of all ages—from kids to the elderly—and instills in them an eagerness to stay active. Some of the athletes Jack works with even went on the compete internationally!

His moral compass is still going strong. Jack actually tries to introduce a new value every month (like “valor”, “compassion”, “honesty”, etc.), incorporates it into training, and encourages his clients to take the time to reflect on what that value means and how they can practice it in their own lives. In this way, Jack not only strengthens their bodies but also enriches their minds and characters.

He maintains a lot of the habits formed around NRC, including going to bed at 10 pm on the dot and waking up at exactly 6 am every day for a protein-packed breakfast and a morning jog. More recently, Jack has added smiling practice and tail control to his regiment. He wants to be more approachable and to get a leash on that telltale wag that gives away his true feelings.

In spite of his best efforts, Jack visibly perks when he’s praised. The walls around his heart have relaxed a bit with time, and he has left the door open to let others in. He plays on adult team sports in his free time, or jogs and lifts weights with a partner spotting him, then they grab a bite together after. A good workout demands good company too, right? You should join him sometime!

He has settled back home in Harveston and helps out with the Felmier apple business! More specifically, Epel is the magical botanist of the family. He concocts various enchanted fertilizers and potions to help produce be at its best or to make the work easier for his village’s aging population.

Epel makes the long treks with his granny to the closest city to Harveston in order to sell his family’s products. (Travel by broomstick is faster than bike!) He hawks their goods like a real pro, his hollering reaching several blocks down. And if anyone gives his granny trouble, he’ll be there to give’m a good time whoopin’!

Thanks to Vil’s training and advice, Epel’s pretty comfortable in his own skin. He knows how to best weaponize his looks to get in an unfair blow in a fight and to make the most sales at the market. A fake smile, a little giggle, and he’s got his enemies disarmed and swooning, customers lining up for blocks, etc.

Unfortunately, he never got that growth spurt he was hoping for, and nor has he bulked up much. Epel's not exactly happy about the circumstances, but he tries to take care of himself in his own ways. For example, it may not be practical to stop and reapply sunscreen every 2 hours at the peak of apple-picking season, but he's got a wide-brimmed sunhat and gloves for the occasion!

His manners are impeccable! ... Well, given the right context. Epel knows when the common tongue is more appropriate (say, for a sale or speaking with tourists), but for friends, he'll bust out his warm and hearty hometown dialect. It's his way of letting you know he sees you as an important part of his family! Come, come! He’ll happily welcome you into his home and feed you to your heart’s content.

Meet the new Chief of Cybersecurity at S.T.Y.X.! Ortho works closely with his older brother (who has assumed the mantle of director from their father) and provides the highest levels of protection possible for their facilities. Along with overseeing security, he also vets and grants clearance to visitors to the Island of Woe.

He looks completely different thanks to his new and improved Cerberus Gear, specially designed to resemble the form of an adult! Combined with 10 years’ worth of knowledge and experience, Ortho has grown up mentally too, so he feels that he fills out this new gear quite well.

He’s accompanied wherever he goes by KB-RS01 and KB-RS02! Ortho has formally adopted them as his canine companions (humans would call them “pets”), but they also help him with surveillance as extra pairs of eyes and get paid in head pats.

He has mastered the art of imitating emotions and can now even synthesize others’ voices! Ortho uses these capabilities to play the occasional prank on the S.T.Y.X. researchers—it keeps the job interesting, and the employees love him for being a fun boss, the one spot of sunshine in the Island of Woe.

His protective functions have been upgraded! Check out this enhanced power laser beam, and all of his new gadgets and gizmos and extra attachments. He’s a one man army, so don’t cross him!

Sebek has achieved full knighthood and serves as one of Malleus’s right hand men. Along with his fellow knight, Silver, they protect Briar Valley and the noble Draconia bloodline. (Baur apparently cried at the knighting ceremony, but will deny it if you ask.)

Gone are the days where he would parade around shouting, “HUMAN!!” and belittling non-fae. Well… Okay, he still acts arrogantly, but there’s significantly less arrogance on the basis of race. Oh, he’ll still grouse, but he’ll also shout at you to aim for greater heights—he knows you’re capable of more than this.

Even though Sebek continues to respect Malleus a great deal, Sebek’s no longer so naive as to idolize his liege. Malleus is fallible and probe to straying into the darkness. Sebek sees that now. And when that happens… his loyal knight will be there with a firm hand and a thunderous voice to direct him back on his path.

He has developed a deeper appreciation for his human father, but won’t openly voice his affections out of embarrassment. Some would call this tsundere behavior— Instead, Sebek will (lovingly?) nitpick and find convenient excuses to help him out when applicable.

Still trains and reads diligently! In fact, Sebek has started a new record keeping initiative back home. That way, the people of Briar Valley can write down history, read it, learn from it, and keep from repeating the mistakes of their ancestors. He has also taken it upon himself to bring in reading materials from beyond Briar Valley to share with the youths of the nation. Sebek hopes that by spreading this knowledge, the next generation will open their hearts and minds to other cultures and races.

[betweenstorms]

Part One of Where We Part Roses Are Red (next chapter) (WWP chapters) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Before he was Ghost, he was Simon Riley.

A quiet boy with eyes too old for his young face, always watching, always listening—

—always alone.

You had known him for as long as you could remember.

He was the lanky boy next door, the one with too much burden in his eyes, the one who never talked about the bruises or the shouting that came from his house at night. Even as kids, there was something about him that set him apart, something that made you want to protect him, even though he never let you. But you’d always notice the new bruises on his arms, the way his hazel eyes would darken whenever Tommy, his younger brother dragged him into trouble and the way he seemed to flinch at loud noises, at sudden movements.

Tommy Riley was loud, rude, and as wild as a storm untethered.

He was a real troublemaker, you never trusted his cruel grin and his rude words, never felt safe near the sharp edges of his temper. He thrived on chaos, a force of destruction that couldn’t be tamed, while Simon stood in his shadow, as if he lived solely as an apology—for his brother’s recklessness, for his family’s dysfunctionality and even for his own existence.

You were the neighbour’s only child, the one who never quite understood why Simon kept so much distance between you.

Something about him tugged at you—a quiet pull that made you want to reach into the cold and offer him the warmth of your world. You felt a strange protectiveness over him, as if it was your duty as someone older than him, some unspoken responsibility you carried without question. Through your school years, you kept watch over him, whether he knew it or not. When the students mocked him you were there, standing up for him, silencing the cruel whispers, even when it cost you friendships. There were many disturbing rumours about the Rileys, but you shut them down, defending a boy who never asked for it, who seemed more annoyed by your efforts than grateful.

You weren’t friends, after all, not really.

He never showed any sign that he wanted your help. But still, you couldn’t stop yourself. Something deep inside told you it was the right thing to do, even if Simon would never see it.

However, your parents, like most of the neighbourhood, kept their distance from the Rileys. It wasn’t something openly discussed, only whispered behind cupped hands at the local market, murmured in the pews of the church, or exchanged in knowing glances at school gates. Yet those looks exchanged between the adults made it clear—people didn’t want to get involved. The Rileys were trouble, everyone said, and it was best to leave them to their own devices.

You were forbidden from playing with Simon or Tommy, even though they were the only children near your age on the street.

It was a rule you didn’t quite understand as a kid but followed anyway, wishing things could be different. You were young then, far too young and innocent to grasp the weight of the shadows that lingered in the Riley household.

You didn’t know why Mr. Riley’s shouts echoed through the night, why Mrs. Riley wore bruises like secret confessions beneath her smile, why Simon’s silence felt heavy, like a wound too deep to heal. Their world felt so different from yours, a place of suffering you couldn’t quite touch. But as the years slipped by, as childhood faded into adolescence, the picture began to sharpen. With it, your protectiveness over Simon deepened, as the reality of what his father was doing became impossible to ignore. Understanding bloomed where innocence once was, and with it, the weight of knowing.

You couldn’t fathom how your parents, with their kind hearts and warm smiles, could do nothing.

How they could turn their backs on Mrs. Riley, her frail form draped in sorrow, and her two children, who so clearly needed help. You didn’t understand why they never returned Mrs. Riley’s weak greetings, why they closed themselves off from her suffering. It baffled you how they could step over Tommy, sprawled on their porch, drunk or worse, as if he were just another mess to be swept away.

But what haunted you most was their indifference to Simon—the boy your age, thin as a whisper, burdened with bruises no child should carry. How could they look at him and not see? How could they not feel the silent plea in his eyes? Where was their empathy for a child, for a boy who wore his misery like a second skin?

Oh, Simon.

His hazel eyes stayed with you, always, like shadows that linger long after the sun sets. There was something far too ancient in them, like he’d seen too much for someone who hadn’t yet grown into his own skin. They held a weariness that made you wonder what horrors had carved their marks so deeply into him. The whispers followed him everywhere, rumours circling like vultures over carrion. You didn’t know where they came from, Tommy’s careless tongue, or maybe the other nosy students who relished the cruelty of gossip, but they stained everything, leaving you wondering what was real.

You heard that Mr. Riley brought all kinds of dangerous animals into their home, taunting Simon with them, forcing him to kiss a snake, like it was some twisted game, some kind of sick power move. And then there were the stories of his father dragging him to those grim concerts, where violence blurred into spectacle.

They said he’d made Simon laugh at the overdose of a prostitute, made him witness things no child should ever see. You didn’t know if it was all true, but it didn’t matter. The shadow of those stories lingered over him, heavy and unshakable, and you could see it in the way the boy carried himself, in the haunted quiet of his presence.

There was a summer day, thick with heat and sorrow, that still clung to you like a forgotten song.

You were only nineteen that July, on the cusp of leaving behind the life you knew, ready to escape to the vastness of London and its promise of university, independence, and everything adulthood might hold. It was one of those warm, languid August evenings, where the sky blushed pink and gold, and the air was alive with the buzz of cicadas and the scent of overripe grass. You were out with your dear friends from high school, celebrating the end of an era. There was laughter, careless and sweet, the kind that only comes after a few too many drinks. A can of cheap beer was cradled in your hand as you leaned back in the passenger seat of your friend’s car, music pulsing around you like a heartbeat as you drove aimlessly through the familiar streets of your suburban neighbourhood.

The night felt like a farewell, a last taste of youth before everything shifted into the unknown. You giggled at something absurd, head dizzy and spinning, when suddenly, through the haze of the moment, you saw him.

Simon Riley.

There was something achingly bittersweet in seeing him there, swallowed by the dusk, his figure hunched as always.

Something inside you shifted, a strange ache that mingled with the buzz of the celebration—a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow that you couldn’t quite place. The guilt of childhoods lived on parallel tracks, always near, but never close enough.

Maybe it was the booze loosening your thoughts, making everything softer and hazier, or maybe it was the looming departure that made everything feel both fleeting and too permanent at once.

“Slow down,” you blurted out, your voice almost drowned out by the music. Your friend gave you a puzzled look, but complied, easing the car to a crawl. 

Simon walked on, dull eyes cast down like he had grown used to the world pretending not to see him.

“Riley,” you called out, your voice weak and unsure. “Fancy a ride?”

Your friends hissed, their voices sharp with confusion and disbelief. “What are you doin’?” one of them asked, eyes wide in the rearview mirror. “Girl, you’re mental!” another laughed, but their words were just background noise to you.

Your gaze stayed locked on Simon Riley, unwavering, even as embarrassment burned at the back of your neck.

For a moment, it felt as though time stretched impossibly thin, the space between you and him suspended in something fragile and delicate. And then, slowly, Simon stopped.

He furrowed his brows when he recognized you, the corners of his lips tightening in that way that told you he was already annoyed.

You flashed him a drunken smile, but it was crooked, empty, a weak imitation of your usual confidence. You leaned your chin on your palm, trying to ignore the sudden flood of emotions rising in your chest. You studied him, trying to find traces of the boy you once knew under the young man he’d become.

“So?” You asked, feeling exposed, a little too vulnerable under his gaze. Embarrassment and sadness twined together like vines around your ribs, squeezing tightly.

Simon’s response was cold, clipped, dismissive.

“Don’t need a ride.”

His voice was deeper, rougher than you remembered, gruff with the weight of years that had passed since you last spoke. Had it really been that long? Long enough that you had forgotten what he even sounded like?

“Oh, you sure? We're headin’ that way anyway,” you hummed, trying to keep your tone light, though something in you was desperate, like this fleeting encounter needed to mean more than it did. But Simon just scoffed, a sound that cut through the night like a blade.

He turned away, resuming his walk down the pavement.

Your friends erupted into giggles, snickering at the awkwardness of the situation, their teasing only deepening the strange ache in your chest. But you tuned them out. With a sigh, you made up your mind. Fueled by guilt, nostalgia, and a bit of reckless drunkenness, you reached for the door handle.

“See y'all tomorrow,” you muttered, stepping out of the car before any of them could protest. One of your friends called, but you didn’t look back and didn't offer any explanation.

Without another thought, you hurried after Simon, your footsteps quickening as if you could somehow close the long years of distance in a single stride.

He didn’t stop for you.

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge you as you caught up, breathing rapidly, walking beside him. Meanwhile, the car pulled away, loud music fading into the distance, leaving you two in suffocating silence. His head was bent low, gaze fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet, but you kept your eyes on him—on his broad shoulders that seemed too tense compared to yours.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of you spoke.

The night pressed down on you, the air too warm for comfort. Your face was flushed, whether from the alcohol coursing through your veins or the awkwardness of trailing after Simon, you couldn’t be sure. Each step felt heavier than the last, the distance between you palpable even though you two were side by side.

It was hard to keep your balance, the world around you tilting ever so slightly with each step. You stumbled once, your foot catching the edge of the pavement, and cursed under your breath as you regained your footing. You could have sworn you heard Simon sigh, a quiet, annoyed sound, barely more than a breath, but it stung nonetheless.

“So,” you chuckled, desperate to fill the growing silence. Your voice sounded too loud, too false against the quiet of the neighbourhood. “Workin’ late, huh? Mum told me you got a job at the butcher’s. The one near the market, right?”

Simon didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed ahead. For a fleeting second, you thought that he might ignore you entirely. But then, in that low, gravelly tone, he muttered, “Yeah. S’what I do.”

His response was clipped, offering no room for conversation, but you pressed on. “Must be rough, that. The long shifts, I mean. Can’t be easy workin’ with knives and saws all day.”

Simon glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable in the dim glow of the streetlights.

“It pays the bills,” he muttered, his voice flat. There was no hint of the boy you once knew, just a hardened young man who had learned long ago not to rely on anyone.

The conversation died again, leaving only the sound of your footsteps against the pavement. You swallowed hard, guilt rising again like a tide, mingling with the familiar ache of melancholy that always seemed to creep in when you thought of him.

Simon Riley had always been on the edge of your life, a shadow lingering just out of reach. You had never really known him, not truly. He was a figure cast in half-light, always present but never close enough to collide with. You had always watched him from afar, tried to stand up for him when the world became too cruel, but what had any of it meant? He never asked for your help, never even hinted that he needed it. So why bother now?

Simon hadn’t asked for your company—he never had.

And now, standing next to him, you felt that distance more acutely than ever. His silence was loud, louder than anything he could have said, and it left you feeling small, foolish.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the cracked pavement, the distant hum of the city the only sound filling the void. The warm summer night, which had felt so light and carefree only moments ago, now seemed oppressive, weighing down on your shoulders like an invisible burden. Before you could open your mouth to say something uncomfortable again, Simon’s voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with irritation.

“You don’t need to do this.”

You blinked, the alcohol making your thoughts slow to catch up. “Do what?”

Simon glanced at you, his hazel eyes dark and distant, a flicker of something hard lingering just beneath the surface.

“This,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Pity. Guilt. Or whatever it is that’s makin’ you follow me right now.”

Pity? Guilt? That wasn’t what this was—was it? No, of course not. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t here out of some misguided sense of obligation. But the look on his face stopped you. It was a look of exhaustion, of someone who had heard this all before, someone who had learned not to trust the intentions of others.

“I’m not—”

“I know you’re leavin’,” Simon murmured, his tone dry. “Heard your folks talkin’ about it. You’re off to London, right? So, whatever this is, don’t bother.”

The embarrassment burned hot and heavy in your chest, spreading to your cheeks and ears.

“Look, I’m not tryin’ to—”

Simon shook his head, his expression hardening. “Don’t. I don’t need your bloody charity, alright? I mean it. I don’t need your… whatever the fuck this is.”

The words struck you like a fist to the chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

You halted in your tracks, and to your surprise, he did the same. The space between you felt heavier now, like it carried the weight of all the years that had passed, thick with everything unsaid. You bit down on your lower lip, your gaze lifting slowly, hesitantly, to meet his.

He towered over you now, though once you’d been the taller one. Despite the age gap, despite the fact that you were older than him, Simon seemed like someone who had long since outgrown you, both physically and mentally.

Funny, how time had stretched and twisted between you both, long enough to turn everything unfamiliar. It had been so long, too long, hadn’t it? Since you’d last spoken to him properly. Long enough that you couldn’t quite place when the shift had happened, when Simon had become a stranger to you, a distant figure in your memory rather than the boy next door.

“I don’t wanna leave like this,” you whispered, dropping your gaze to your feet, your voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves in the warm night air. Your hands itched with nervous energy, and you scratched your elbow, trying to anchor yourself. “I know we weren’t exactly friends, but that doesn’t mean I never cared. About you, I mean. And I—” you paused, the words tangling on your tongue, too clumsy, too inadequate for the heaviness in your chest. “But you’re right. It doesn’t matter now.”

Simon sighed again.

He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes like he was too tired for this, too tired for you. The way he looked at you, it was like you were the one out of place, like he was the older one, the wiser one. There was something in his gaze that cut deeper than any words ever could, something that said he didn’t know what to do with you. Not now, not then, maybe not ever.

For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared, as if deciding whether it was even worth responding.

“The only advice I can give you,” he said, each word deliberate, like he was choosing them with care, “is to live your life. ‘Cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. And if we’re lucky, we’ll never have to think about each other ever again.”

The deadpan delivery should’ve stung, should’ve hurt more than it did, instead, you found yourself chuckling softly, soft and bitter at the same time. The absurdity of it, of this whole encounter, made you want to cry and laugh in equal measure. Somehow, he’d managed to diffuse the tension in the most Simon way possible.

But still, it felt like it had always been there, hadn’t it? Unsaid words, missed chances, a history that never was.

You looked up at him, your lips twitching into a small, fragile smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Is that your idea of a pep talk?” you said, trying to make light of the ache that had settled deep in your bones.

Simon tilted his head slightly, watching you with those unreadable hazel eyes. “Not really my strong suit, is it?” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

“No, not at all.”

He looked at you, his eyes still guarded, as though he was searching for something in your expression that he couldn’t quite find. Yet he didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. Didn’t return the smile either. Instead, he shrugged with a kind of finality that made your heart sink.

Simon nodded towards the road ahead.

“It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”

The offer was simple, but it carried an underlying meaning, like it was both a farewell and an acknowledgment that, despite everything, you had once meant something to him, even if only in passing.

There was something about his detachment, his unwillingness to engage with the past, that hurt more than you expected. Maybe you had wanted some closure, some understanding from him, a sign that what you felt wasn’t one-sided all these years. But Simon wasn’t offering that. He wasn’t offering anything at all.

You didn’t argue.

You didn’t even protest that you were fine on your own, that you didn’t need his protection. Instead, you forced a weak smile onto your face and started walking, hoping the darkness would hide the tears pricking at your eyes. The sound of your footsteps seemed louder now, echoing against the stillness of the night, as if you were both walking away from something you couldn’t quite name.

“Y’know, not too long ago, I used to walk you home after church on Sundays. When your mum went to the market. Remember?”

Simon didn’t say anything.

You thought maybe he hadn’t heard you, but then he hummed, a low, almost noncommittal sound. He wasn’t the boy who needed walking home anymore, and you weren’t the one who could offer him safety.

The walk was silent.

But what had you expected, really? That he’d thank you for some half-hearted attempt at connection after all these years? That he’d open up, that there would be a cathartic moment where you’d both acknowledge the traumatic childhood you shared with him and walk away with some semblance of peace?

Still, it was strange, walking side by side with someone who felt like a stranger, yet also someone you had known your entire life.

The short walk to your parents' house felt longer than it should have. As you approached the familiar gate, the scent of roses hit you, your mother’s prized bush blooming full and red next to the fence.

Simon stopped just outside your childhood home, as if some invisible boundary had been set between him and you. His eyes glanced at the rose bush, then back at you, his expression unreadable, that same distant mask he had worn for years.

“Thanks for walkin’ me home,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to lower it. It wasn’t likely that your parents would be waiting behind the curtains, watching this uncomfortable farewell.

They never cared much for Simon anyway.

His face was shadowed by the dim light that illuminated the porch, but you could see his hazel eyes flicker as they scanned your features, taking you in like he was committing this moment to memory. And for a fleeting second, it was as if you weren’t standing on the cusp of goodbye, as if you were still those two awkward kids, stuck in a world neither of you could quite escape.

You did the same. Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his face, his sandy blonde hair, his broad shoulders, the faint stubble along his jawline that he hadn’t had when you last saw him. There was something fragile about this moment, a shared understanding that neither of you would speak of, but it was there all the same.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before you could let the fear of rejection stop you, you took a step forward and wrapped your arms around him. The contact was sudden, your body instinctively pulling him into a hug that neither of you expected.

It was an impulsive decision, a desperate, clumsy attempt to offer some comfort, to bridge the gap between the boy you once knew and the man standing before you. You pulled him into you, your blushed face pressing against his hard chest. For a heartbeat, he froze, stiff beneath your touch, and you immediately regretted it.

You didn’t know why you did it.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the lingering guilt, the sense that you had never done enough, never said enough. But as soon as you felt the warmth of his body against yours, the solidness of him, you realised your mistake. This wasn’t the kind of goodbye Simon wanted. You pulled away quickly, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, your heart racing.

“Take care, Si,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t dare look at his face to gauge his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel, practically fleeing up the path to your front door, leaving him standing there beneath the roses—roses that were as red as your cheeks, blooming in the quiet of the night.

Where We Part Chapters

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Hear me out

Batsis baking something for them just because shes bored but shes horrible at baking (or she would just sabotage it idk put some peppers on the cake)would they just eat it?

Yandere Batfamily x reader

The kitchen smelled like war. Not the type fought with fists and weapons but the kind fought with flour, sugar, and an oven’s unrelenting heat. You stood in the middle of the chaos, apron smeared with batter and the counter coated in the powdered remnants of your efforts. You weren’t a baker—hell, you barely knew how to fry an egg—but boredom had a cruel way of twisting your decisions.

So here you were, baking for the people who had stolen you away under the guise of "family."

Not that you called them that.

Still, the silence of the manor grated on your nerves, and after hours of sulking and dodging their hovering presence, you thought, Why not? Maybe the mess would annoy them. Maybe the smell would be enough to break through their obsession-induced fog and remind them you weren’t playing along with their delusions.

The cupcakes you pulled from the oven looked… edible. Kind of. Half were lopsided, and a few were slightly charred. You dumped a ridiculous amount of frosting on top in an attempt to salvage them, but the end result was a tray of pastel blobs with vaguely cake-like shapes.

“Perfect,” you muttered sarcastically, swiping frosting from the counter with a finger.

Before you could second-guess your plan, the sound of footsteps approached. Slow, calculated. Bruce. You didn’t need to see him to know it was him—the weight of his presence filled the room like a stormcloud.

“Baking?” His voice was calm, laced with a hint of curiosity that made your skin crawl.

“Yeah,” you replied shortly, not looking at him. You started stacking the cupcakes onto a plate, pretending you didn’t care that he was watching. “Got bored.”

Bruce stepped closer, the faint rustle of his coat as deliberate as everything else he did. You hated how easily he could unsettle you. “It’s nice to see you trying something new,” he said, his tone gentle—fatherly, even.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the plate and shoving it toward him. “Here. You can have them.”

Bruce took the plate without hesitation, his gloved hands looking out of place against the childish swirls of frosting. “Thank you,” he said, as though you’d gifted him something precious. “The others will appreciate this.”

As if summoned, the rest of the Batfamily began to trickle in.

Dick was the first to arrive, his easy smile faltering only slightly when he saw the cupcakes. “Did you make these, [Name]?” he asked, grabbing one before you could answer.

“Yep,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. “Don’t expect much.”

He took a bite. For a moment, his face betrayed nothing, but then his expression twisted into something that could only be described as polite horror. “Wow,” he managed, forcing a swallow. “These are… unique.”

Jason snorted as he sauntered in, the smell having lured him from whatever dark corner he’d been brooding in. “What’s this?” he asked, swiping a cupcake from the plate Bruce held. “Looks like someone murdered a unicorn.”

“Eat it and find out,” you snapped.

Jason raised an eyebrow but took a bite anyway. His reaction was less subtle than Dick’s—he gagged dramatically, spitting the mouthful into a napkin. “What the hell, kid? Did you put salt instead of sugar?”

“I don’t know, maybe!” you shot back, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Tim appeared next, looking bleary-eyed and clutching a mug of coffee. He grabbed a cupcake without a word and took a bite. His eyes widened slightly, and he coughed. “Is this… is this cinnamon?”

“Possibly.”

“Cinnamon and… garlic?”

You frowned. “I didn’t put garlic in there.”

Damian was the last to enter, his nose wrinkling at the plate as though it offended him on a personal level. “What is this monstrosity?” he asked, glaring at the cupcakes.

“Dessert,” you said dryly. “Take it or leave it.”

To your surprise, he picked one up, inspecting it like it was a puzzle he intended to solve. He took a cautious bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Tolerable,” he declared, setting the half-eaten cupcake down with a disdainful sniff.

“See? Tolerable,” you said, pointing at Damian as though his judgment absolved you.

Jason groaned. “Tolerable isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”

Bruce, who hadn’t taken a bite yet, finally broke his silence. “It’s the effort that matters,” he said, his gaze settling on you with unnerving intensity.

You glared back at him, hating the way he spoke as though you’d done this out of love rather than sheer boredom. “Don’t read into it,” you said sharply. “It’s not like I had anything better to do.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the faint smile tugging at his lips told you he didn’t believe you.

Despite the disaster your cupcakes turned out to be, they ate them—or tried to. Even Jason, after some grumbling, finished his. Maybe they thought it would please you. Maybe it was another way to force their twisted idea of “family” on you.

Or maybe, you realized with a pang of unease, they just couldn’t say no to you.

The thought was more unsettling than anything else.

[jq37]

Aelwyn is sixteen and preparing for midterms at Hudol. Uniform pressed and starched, head full of incantations and spell components. She doesn't mean to bump into Adaine and get orange juice all over her shirt but today isn't the day she's going to start showing weakness.

"You know, you really should watch we're you're going," she says archly, playing off the clumsy mistake as a purposeful jab.

Playing it off a bit too well because, the next thing she knows, Adaine is flipping her off and a bolt of queasy looking, green energy is coming towards her. Ray of Sickness. And she can't spare the spell slot for Counterspell because she needs it for her exams.

"You little bitch!" Aelwyn says once she's emptied the contents of her stomach down the front of her shirt.

"Good luck with your exams," Adaine says sweetly.

Aelwyn is eighteen and the oldest, mangiest cat she's ever seen in her life has just vomited on her shoes.

"My," she says, casting a shield spell around her ankles to stop the cat from clawing at them. "You weren't kidding. He is a little bastard, isn't he?"

The shelter volunteer looks mortified. "Oh, gods! I am so sorry. I tried to warn you--I mean, not that I'm blaming you but--"

"No, it's alright. I did ask you to show me stragglers."

The shelter worker gestures to another pen on the other side of the room. "I can show you the kittens we just got in or there are some very well behaved older cats as well if you'd--"

But Aelwyn cuts her off, scooping up the old cat--though she holds him at arm's length for now, just to be safe. "No need. I haven't changed my mind. I'll take this one." She looks at the tag on his collar. "Hector."

Aelwyn is three and, as of a month ago, no longer the youngest Abernant.

She's had baby dolls in the past but never a baby sister and this is exciting new territory. She's full of questions. When is she going to be able to walk? When is she going to be able to talk? When will she be old enough to have lembas bread instead of formula?

Her parents seem less fascinated by the new addition to the family than she is but her mother is amused when she slaps away the hand of a colleague of her father's who tried to touch Adaine before sanitizing his hands, standing between the much larger man and her sister.

"So defensive. Perhaps she'll be an abjurer."

When Aelwyn asks what that is, her mother says that it's a kind of magical protector and she likes that a lot. That sounds like a good thing to be.

At night, Adaine cries. Except, she doesn't hear it because the mobile above her crib is etched with runes that cast the Silence spell.

"But what if she gets hurt?" Aelwyn asks.

Her father brushes her off. That's what the Unseen Servants are for. But she thinks that's what an abjurer might be for too and even though she isn't one yet, that doesn't mean she can't start practicing.

So, every night, Aelwyn waits until her parents have put Adaine down for bed and then tiptoes into her room. She checks to see if Adaine is silently wailing and if she is (and even sometimes if she isn't) she presses her face between the bars of the crib and sticks her little hand over Adaine's face.

"Don't cry," she says, even though the Silence spell mutes her words as completely as the tears. "Mum said I'm an abjurer. Nothing will get you. Don't cry, baby."

Adaine grabs her hand with impressive grip strength for something so small and, within a few minutes, she's trancing peacefully.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her sister is off to save the world again. This time from a Night Yorb--whatever that is.

It feels cruel that Adaine should have to go risk her life again so soon after she just almost died--not almost died, she did die before being raised by her cleric.

She wants to come with, to help in some way. Surely she could be helpful--last quest they brought Gilear for Helio's sake!

But Adaine doesn't ask her and she can't bring herself to say the words she needs to have the conversation she wants. So, instead, she lightly whaps Adaine on the shoulder with her spellbook as she's packing for the quest.

"I know you haven't done much studying lately what with your grades being based on how many hobgoblins you kill or whatever ridiculous system Aguefort has cooked up," Adaine rolls her eyes at that, "But if you don't mind a little cram session before you leave tomorrow, I can show you how to cast Teleport like I said. Might help you stay a touch less dead on your quest."

Her tone is light but her eyes betray her: Please, please, please don't die again.

Adaine's expression softens but then she scoffs, playing her half of their game. "I don't know what a Hudol dropout who's been in jail for the past year is gonna teach me but do your best."

Aelwyn is seven and her father is cross with her.

"Really Aelwyn," he says and even though they're talking via crystal she can feel the frost of his glare. "You thought it was appropriate to call me at work for no good reason? How many times have I told you and your sister to not bother me while I'm working."

She hates the word bother. She doesn't want to be a bother. She tries very hard not to be. Maybe she just didn't explain herself well enough.

"I know, father. But Addy got really scared and panicky on the playground. She was breathing really hard and--"

Her father makes a noise of disgust. "I don't have time for this. She is in primary school now. Stop coddling her. And her name is Adaine, not Addy. Please speak properly. I'm raising you better than that."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

Aelwyn is eighteen and most of the claw marks on her arms have healed, which is nice. On her lap asleep is Hector who has apparently decided he likes her enough to use her as a radiator but not enough to submit to medical treatment without using her arms as a scratching post.

"You little heat vampire," she says as she slides her thumb across the screen of her crystal, searching for a video that will help her out. Eventually she finds one that looks promising and she calls it up.

On the screen, a halfling is standing next to a cat who is actively shredding her sweater with its claws. "You're going to be tempted to use some kind of a shield spell when applying the ointment," says the halfling. "But cats can smell abjuration magic and they don't love it. You won't get close enough to do the job. Isn't that right my darling?"

In response, her cat hacks up a hairball.

"Darling indeed," she says under her breath.

But even laced with sarcasm, the word is sweeter against her tongue than she anticipated.

She sinks her hand into Hector's fur and scratches his back for a few moments before tentatively speaking aloud. "Sleeping well, my darling?"

Hector says nothing--he's asleep and a cat. But warmth blooms in Aelwyn's chest--more than enough to make up for what Hector is leeching from her.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her father has just given her the most horrible command she's ever received in her life--and she's counting being made to sink a ship full of people in that calculation.

She knows her father doesn't expect her to delicately extricate the knowledge he needs from Adaine's mind. He expects her to get it at all costs. To ransack and pillage the memories if necessary with no heed of the consequences on her psyche. He'd probably prefer it that way--the more broken Adaine is, the easier it will be to mold her into a version of herself that is more useful to him.

Aelwyn is usually a smooth talker and a convincing liar but now, she stumbles all over her words, babbling out a stream of deflections and pleas as her heart squeezes tighter and tighter in her chest until she can't hold back the truth that she's been suppressing for years anymore.

"Adaine's just…she's a baby."

Aelwyn is eighteen and her apartment is full of cats.

She's always thought that the phrase, "One thing led to another" was a bit of a cop out--clearly there were key steps between point A and point B being glossed over--but in this case, there is truly no better way for her to articulate how she went from zero cats to ten cats in such a short amount of time.

She's sure that if she was still living with Jawbone, he'd have something to say about it but that's exactly why she isn't currently living with Jawbone.

She portions out food for all of the cats, saving Hector for last because he likes to eat curled up next to her.

"My darling baby boy," she says, lifting him onto the couch with her because the jump up is a bit much for him and his old bones. She kisses him on the top of the head and then pulls out her crystal. She scrolls mindlessly for a bit before checking her messages despite the fact that there's conspicuously no notifications.

Not that she has many people to expect texts from but she hasn't heard from Adaine in a few weeks and it's unsettling. When they weren't getting along, they were still living under the same roof. She was able to keep tabs on her, more or less. Now, they're closer than they've been in ages but barely talking.

I'm the older sister, I suppose, Aelwyn thinks. I should take the initiative.

She pets Hector with one hand and drafts a message with another: Are you alive, bitch?

She's about to press send but then she frowns and deletes the draft. After a few moments of thought, she taps out a new message: Can't believe I'm gonna say this. Miss my little sister. Everything all right?

Aelwyn is seventeen--though she doesn't feel like it.

Her mind is telling her that she's sixteen and that she was just been broken out of a jail cell in Solace but Adaine is telling her that she's just been broken out of an entirely different prison after being tortured for months even though she doesn't remember any of that.

But her body feels frail and Adaine says she's been in her mind which means she must have used the hard reset.

She's suddenly feeling very vulnerable--not because of the disorientation or the of the levels of exhaustion she can feel weighing on her like leaden chains. No, it's because of the fact that Adaine using the reset means that she must have read the treacle-y note that she left there for her to find.

It was just an insurance policy, she tells herself. There was wisdom to buttering up your savior to make sure she'd do what you needed her to do.

She manages to mostly believe it. But the small, truthful part of herself that knows how deeply she meant the words is so uncomfortable that she antagonizes Adaine until she's annoyed enough to hit her with a spell, sending her into blissful unconsciousness.

Aelwyn is nineteen and she's going to kill her mother.

Well, not alone of course. Adaine deserves the kill at least as much as she does if not more. It'll be a group effort.

It's a strange mix--the cold fury at her mother mixed with the warmth she feels for her sister, sitting across the table from her. She summons a flame to her palm, a preview of what their mother has waiting for her. She watches Adaine's eyes harden with resolve and she sees the face of her baby sister, left to wail alone silently for hours, soothed by her presence. "Let's get her."

"Yes, my dear," she says, the endearment coming freely as if this has always been their dynamic. "We'll get her."

But there will be time for that later. Right now, it's time for ice cream and seeing Adaine so content in such a simple pleasure causes the warmth in her to surge so suddenly that it would be startling if it wasn't so pleasant. The urge to voice it is so powerful that she doesn't know that would have been able to stop it at any point in life, let alone now.

"I hope we get to eat ice cream and cast magic forever," she says, words that would have been impossible for her to say one short year ago and impossible not to say now.

And, to her delight, Adaine agrees.

[deikshen]

Well, he (user: HeavenlyPillar666) is just a guy who only reads a webnovel out of boredom after his martial arts classes and finds himself unfortunately trapped- the plot is uninteresting in the first instance, the descriptions are long and absurd (SERIOUSLY, FIVE PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A DAMN PLANT? TEN PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A MONSTER? More action scenes than dialogue!? Who the hell is that IcedBlueBeast and why the hell does he insist on making everything SO DENSE AND SLOW?), but... one of his characters? DEFINITELY HIS FAVORITE CHARACTER IN THAT HORRIBLE WORLD. HIS MISUNDERSTOOD BLORBO. HIS BELOVED.

In a summary not summarized, a story about two twin brothers who were separated at birth, and both found their way to cultivation world in different ways. Reunited first like disciples and then Peak Lords of different peaks of the same sect, suddenly, the brother who remained with his wealthy family - Shen Yuan - was seen as something of a villain for having had kind and lovely parents, a home and an education, always portrayed as the spoiled rich kid who bought his way into the Sect, while the REAL SCUM VILLAIN ACCORDING TO HEAVENLYPILLAR666, that bitch Shen Jiu who was stolen from his family and raised as a slave and then on the streets, ended with basically a harem of peak lords, fanning himself with his fourth-rate victim role.

And the rest of that pathetic novel it's just... shit full of dramas, betrayal and eternal descriptions being an ode to finding the hundreds of ways in which Shen Yuan's inherent kindness was misinterpreted as manipulation, judged and accused of wanting to do something bad just because he comes from a rich and well-off background.

And how it should be fair after all that gaslighting and psychological torture, Shen Yuan finally agree with them!

Crack under the pressure and the mistreatment of everyone, he just decide that if everyone thought he was a villain, then he was one!!

Allying with the demons first as an informant spy and then rising to power among the court, he ended up being something like a emperor-demonic cultivator eager for revenge and proving that no matter where he came from, he would show them what he was capable of! If the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect believed that a powerful cultivator was only forged through hard work and suffering, look at him now!

So all that good revenge plot would go to shit with Shen Yuan start to fucking monsters in scenes that were almost fade to black despite the deep descriptions and CHEMISTRY between the passionate Shen Yuan and the mythical creatures to have more power for the revenge that never seemed to come... To end with a completely unsatisfying shitty ending in which Shen Yuan gave up his revenge for filial love and the power of forgiveness, giving his own life to save his fucking damnit brother's life!

Where was the cruel revenge?! The taking over of the world?! HeavenlyPillar666 is RAGING, more than anyone else in all those damn comments!! Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel!!!!!

...

Yea, the user HeavenlyPillar666 shouldn't have said that while choking on his damn glass of water. It's not that he thinks he could die by drowning in a glass of water, LITERALLY. That's ridiculous. It's the height of ridiculousness.

But now he is dead, and he has transmigrated into one of Shen Yuan's less filial disciples who would ultimately be the person who would hurt him the most when he turned his back on him, after having been practically raised and adored by Shen Yuan, this damn disciple who always treating his Shizun with contempt and disdain knowing his invented reputation, but despite that, he was so dear to Shen Yuan who more than once was capable of putting himself at risk for him...

No, nothing like that!! No more of that trash!!! Shen Yuan deserves MORE, and the one who now is Luo Binghe is going to make sure Shen Yuan has all of it. A happy ending, a filial disciple, someone to count on, someone to stand up for him when no one else will. Someone by his side when he decides to destroy the cultivation world, someone to HELP HIM DO IT AND GET REVENGE ON ALL THOSE ASSHOLES SONS OF A B-

If only that fucking System would stop yelling at him for being OOC. Luo Binghe already knows!!! Fuck you System!! He's not going to respond that rudely to his Shizun, he is a beautiful little sun, what's wrong with you!?

[batsandbirdbrains]

I need Bruce trying to gentle parent Dick as a child. Like maybe Bruce isn’t exactly a good parent but tries. When Dick starts throwing massive tantrums, he just puts Dick in an empty room for time out. This does not stop Dick as he ends up destroying the room despite nothing being in it. When Dick does something Bruce doesn’t approve of, Bruce just says softly “Don’t do that.” Dick does it again. Like I need him trying and failing. Nothing he does works. Then Dick decides to turn that gentle parenting back on Bruce. No whenever Bruce makes him mad, he puts Bruce in a time-out room. Whenever Bruce is being dumb, he just gives him a pout and says “Don’t do that.” Bruce actually does his best to listen to Dick because he thinks it might foster trust or encourage Dick to follow along when Bruce does it to him. It doesn’t really work. Dick still doesn’t listen and now Bruce is being parented by the child he’s supposed to be raising. The only plus is that it calms down Dick’s more violent urges because instead of destroying shit he just sends Bruce away.

Then Dick gets shot, and something in Bruce snaps. There is no more gentle parenting, no more kind words or soft punishments. He needs to make Dick listen, and if that means hurting him, then so be it. He loses sight of the fact that Dick is still a kid, an incredibly traumatized one at that. He still lets Dick parent him, although he’s more snappy about it. Dick stops being soft with him, too, instead telling him harshly to get to bed, threatening to sic Alfred on him, or screaming in his face about how he’s the worst. Somehow they’ve fallen into this horrible dynamic and neither of them know how to get out of it. Dick blames himself for being such a troubled kid, and though Bruce never says it, Dick knows he blames him too. So Dick leaves.

Eventually, over the years their family grows, but Bruce’s softness never really comes back. He’s meaner, more controlling, even downright cruel at times. And one day when the entire batfam is arguing with him over how unreasonable he is, one them snaps and says “Jesus, B, who turned you into such a fucking asshole?” and before Bruce can even think about it, he responds “Dick did.” He closes his mouth in shock, face going ashen while everyone else freezes. The words cut straight into Dick’s heart. He replies with the only words he can think of at the moment “Don’t do that.” He meant for the words to be cold, confident. Instead they came out soft, chiding and pained. Before anyone can say anything else, Bruce turns on his heel and leaves. They all try to follow him to argue more but then stare, confused, as he walks into an empty room, locking the door behind him. He doesn’t come out for a long time.

🥺 rip out my fucking heart why don’t you, damn.

But now I’m just thinking of the scenario with Bruce saying Dick turned him into an asshole, and the whole room freezes.

Jason didn’t expect an actual answer. Tim and Damian thought Bruce would have just chided Jason for his language. Dick thought a Bruce was just going to keep yelling.

But then the way he says, “Dick did” without even thinking about it, without hesitation, it shocks everyone.

And Dick feels like he wants to cry, because sure, he knew he was a pretty fucked up kid. He was troubled. Traumatized. A problem child. But Bruce for the most part had been so patient when he was little. And when Bruce started being an asshole after Dick got shot, it wasn’t like Dick couldn’t fight right back. It was almost like a game, sometimes. But Dick has always felt so guilty about it, because Bruce had been so soft spoken and patient and nice, and then Dick went and fucked him up. Dick ruined him. It’s all Dick’s fault.

Dick has always had that thought in the back of his mind. But he’s never had any real proof that Bruce felt the same.

Now he does. And Dick’s chest feels hollow as he stares at a horrified looking Bruce.

All Dick can manage to say is a soft, desperate, “Don’t do that,” just like Bruce always tried to use with him, before he started using yelling as his go-to response.

Then Bruce turns without saying anything and walks right into an empty room, and Dick feels like he’s going to throw up. He turns too, towards his bike, and he ignores the way his siblings are calling after him. He turns off his comms and rides home, going way too fast, feeling the wind whip around him, and tears blurring his vision until he blinks them away.

When he gets back to his Blüdhaven apartment, he slides in through the window and doesn’t even change out of his costume before he’s puking in the bathroom.

He silences his phone, turns in his security system, and then spends the next hour sitting under the water in his shower, spacing out until the water goes ice cold and he has to get out. Then he crawls into bed, pulls out Zitka from under the pillows to hug to his chest, and buries his head under his pillows. If he doesn’t pay attention to it, he can pretend he’s not still crying because of the guilt.

He stays like that for a long time, not moving. He falls asleep for a while, wakes up in a panic, rinse and repeat.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the next thing he knows, someone is sitting down on his bed next to him, laying a hesitant hand in his back. And he knows it’s Bruce, and it just makes him feel even worse.

“Go away,” he begs, the words muffled under his pillows.

“I didn’t mean it,” Bruce tries to tell him.

“Yes you did,” Dick says miserably. “And it’s true. I know it’s true, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

“It wasn’t you who made me an asshole,” Bruce says. “The situation-”

“Caused by me,” Dick argues.

“You were just a child, Dick.” Bruce sighs.

“A horrible, no good, rotten child!”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Bruce says firmly. “It’s not true, Dick. I don’t care what anyone says, you were not a rotten child. You were just a little boy. I was the adult, and I should have found other solutions that worked for you.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but he eventually moves out from under the pillows to curl up with his head in Bruce’s lap. Bruce plays with his hair, and the two of them stay quiet for a long time. Neither of them really knows what to say. They’re both still upset. And they’re both awful at dealing with their feelings.

The sadness and anger and guilt they’re feeling from this fight won’t be resolved. They won’t really talk about it. It won’t be talked about without someone else bringing it up, and that won’t happen for a while.

But for now, Bruce is going to comfort his son. And for now, Dick will let him.

[vervainandspritz]

LOVE YOU WITH MY EYES CLOSED

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Part one Part two Part three

Summary: At a young age Y/N was given away for marriage, years later the dust began to settle and her life caught a rhythm she stopped fighting. Is Tommy, the man she once knew too well, ready to play along and let her go once again?

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: depression, heartache, mental and physical abuse

A/N: Slow introduction, next chapter will pick up on pace. Enjoy

Coming back to Birmingham ignited more mixed feelings than Y/N expected it ever would. Pushing through the difficult changes back in the day caused her to stomach so much pain and.. distress at the inability to make her own choices. She thought there was nothing in her to cause fear anymore.

A weird kind of fear it was, this time. Looking out the window as the train plummeted through the fields, shaking and groaning under the weight of people all heading to the city she couldn't shake off. Four years passed so quickly, in a pace she didn't understand when she looked back at the first months of constant struggle she endured. Leaving everything behind. Becoming nothing more than a tool to life of.. prosperity for her family.

She fought it for so long, back then. Much to her father's misunderstanding, her unbreakable spirit made everything so much more difficult.

Yet eventually everything must come to an end though, in a reality where her value was tightly connected with how pretty she was, and how aesthetically pleasing she looked, hanging on the arm of a man she barely knew.

It was much easier to ignore from the distance, but the closer she got to Birmingham, more wounds began reopening, hurting and itching despite her neutral expression and unmoving figure.

One of his hands rested on her thigh, the other one holding a newspaper. The lack of communication was nothing short of normal between them. After all, when nobody was around, they didn't have to pretend as much. Nickolas Winterbourne, a man coming from a life where nothing ever ran out, where pantries were never empty and clothes never dirty. He existed in a controlled environment snuggly clothed in money at every corner, shielding him from any difficulties life planned to throw his way - unaffected by the simple disdain of modern times they happened to live in.

For what it was worth, Y/N considered herself lucky. He was… polite, usually gentle which was way more than she could have ever asked for from people in his social class. His hands were smooth, untainted by physical labour that he never had to do. His disposition contradicted his father's, a man purely self-absorbed and cruel with one purpose – wealth.

Y/N was grateful for the person he was deep down, even though he was forcing her into situations they could avoid, yet rarely violating her physically or mentally.

Nickolas was… indifferent. His demeanour calm, collected and bordering on bored most of the time. His eyes looked at her with a never ending patience and neutrality she grew to appreciate, after watching the way many of his brothers treated their own wives. She was lucky.

The mindset she worked so hard to build, throwing away the values she dreamed of as a little girl, the warm dreams of having a loving marriage with several kids, conversations that would seem to go on forever sprinkled with tender kisses on the forehead and warm touches that would warm her up on cold nights. She exchanged those hopes for expensive dresses and a mansion much too big for any amount of wood to warm. There were continual expensive dinners and meaningless conversations with people she wouldn't care to see ever again with fake seemingly polite smiles. These people never stopped beckoning for their service, acting like the simple action of pouring themselves tea was too much to burden their minds with.

So she was grateful, playing along with the quick pace of life they had. Dressing up quickly, perfecting the empty smile she got used to wearing on a daily basis.

“Be grateful, because you could have had it much worse” she mentally repeated to herself.

A soft squeeze of his hand tore her out of her thoughts, his brown eyes watching her patiently. He witnessed the difficulties she struggled with back then. So her silence rang louder than ever.

”We will spend two days in Birmingham and be back on our way. Tomorrow is the day of the gala, and the day after you will spend on your own matters.” He spoke quietly, reading the troubling emotions in her eyes. He always saw through the mask of neutrality he taught her how to wear like her second skin: a mutual understanding.

Her eyes slowly followed along the lines of his face, finally settling on holding eye contact. Slowly nodding, she covered his hand with her own before forcing out a small smile.

”Thank you” She responded, straightening her back before the train started slowing down before coming to a full stop.

Patting her thigh for the last time, he pulled away.

”Come on. It's time to go”

~~

After getting out of the train, Y/N watched how after stepping out her boots immediately covered in mud.

Some things never changed, she thought with a smile as the scent of smoke filled her nostrils.

”Christ” Nickolas muttered, his face twisting in disgust. Birmingham was nothing like the London they were used to, first expression of the city obnoxiously underwhelming for Winterbourne.

Standing by the road sign they waited for a moment before the designated car pulled up, halting by their feet as the driver opened the door, offering to help in packing the luggage.

Y/N seemed distraught, looking around as she immediately recognized the streets despite small differences and the fact she didn't leave even remotely close back then. A city centre it was, fair distance from Small Heath. A place she used to call home.

”Come on, get in the car” Nickolas whispered, noticing her distracted gaze, grabbing her arm lightly and nudging her towards the vehicle, bringing her out of memories thick like smoke. Looking at him she nodded, obediently getting inside before the car took them to the hotel.

One she had never been in before. This whole situation felt suffocating in ways so weird, she was barely able to look him in the eyes. Even as they moved to the building, getting all the formalities done she couldn't help but let her mind wander towards the ghosts of her past.

Loud, obnoxious laugh filled her head bringing a little smile on her red lips. One that definitely belonged to John, his eyes glimmering with mischief like most of the time. Through the eyes of imagination she saw Ada's long, dark hair she constantly complained about, sighing dramatically in a way that never ceased to make Y/N roll her eyes. Suffering from success, she used to call it, teasing her friend with whom she grew up so close.

A sound came to her ears as lift brought them to the right level, she moved seemingly on an autopilot when her husband fumbled with keys, looking for the right one.

As the door swung open she let out a silent sigh as she remembered. The memory she worked on suppressing so long caught up randomly, big, blue eyes surrounded by thick, dark eyelashes. Colour so dynamic, swiftly changing with the feeling simmering beneath his tough exterior, yet always so bright and clear when he looked at her. She felt like she saw him for the first time, despite it being nothing but her exterior shell shattering at the unwanted memories flooding back in.

Suddenly, she felt out of breath and barely an hour after checking into the hotel, she was in bed facing away from Nickolas. The wall she put up between them nearing the height of one he tried to shatter after getting to know the girl. She seemed so small as she lay on her side, every inch of her body hidden under covers. Hair scattered on the pillow, keeping his gaze away from her features.

They just got here, and he was already losing, Nickolas thought, before remembering the small detail that could shatter his reality if ease if looked into.

”Goodnight” He whispered, pressing a kiss onto her shoulder before turning away and giving her space as the lights went out.

It was only so long he could bend reality to his will, he thought, before closing his eyes and allowing Morpheus' embrace to swallow him up.

In contrast to him, Y/N didn't fall asleep once. The unknown anticipation swirled around in her stomach, pushing her even further away from the man sleeping by her side. Something was coming, and she knew it.

~~

”Do you really trust what you're saying?” Her voice came to his ears, quieter, less confident than usually she'd speak to him.

Leaning forward on his arms, he let his head drop in defeat for a moment before lifting him up. Strong, unyielding gaze meeting her worried, slightly anxious eyes.

Her position in the family and in company made her learn how to deal with emotions on her own for years.. which was never an issue. Woman could only be so vulnerable after raising that many kids and protecting them from the disgusting reality with her fragile hands and soul on her shoulder. But she managed.

So the rare vulnerability she displayed that evening, looking in her nephew's eyes was nothing short of special. The string of responsibility connecting them in ways none of his siblings would understand.

Staring blankly for a moment, he ended up nodding.

”I know, Polly.” He spoke up, his voice heavy with exhaustion and the fear he tried to bury somewhere between his ribs, to never be seen again. But it was there, alive as ever, making his heart thump in an unnatural rhythm. Reminding him of one of survival. Desperate attempts to stick to life even when the dirty earth in the tunnels tried to swallow him alive.

”You need to trust me when I say things will go back to normal. I waited for long enough.” His voice came out sharper than he'd like it to. Blue eyes soothing the damage his voice has done and Polly understood.

Being a witness to the struggles he faced on daily, responsibilities piling on him like layers of clothing, giving no space to grieve the loss of someone who was never supposed to be gone.

…and so he didn't. Instead building an empire on his bitterness and pain, trusting that… whatever was up there would provide if it was meant to be.

That day for once in his life Thomas wanted to pray.

~~

“You need to pick up your pace, Y/N. We can't afford to be late to such an event.” Nickolas snapped, his usually calm and collected demeanour dishevelled with stress as he watched time ticking away on his watch.

She didn't sleep, almost at all. Putting on the mask was more difficult than usual, having to layer the makeup on her tired face, exhausted eyes. The years of struggles managed to catch up in the nine hours she spent on trying to fall asleep. Dreamless nights and loveless days connected with the anticipation in her stomach making it impossible to close her eyes.

”What will they think of us if we show up late, Y/N?” He shot once again watching her movements with his chin higher than he usually carried.

In moments of distress Y/N saw his father in him, usually perfectly hidden away lack of spine showing through the wounds of what the perfect life did to him. Minor inconvenience making him furious.

”Put on your jacket and smoke a cigarette, Nickolas. By the time you're done I will be waiting.” She responded in a neutral way, already taught to not feed into his bitterness in such situations. Not because he was right, but rather to avoid making him cranky as he would surely ruin her already difficult evening.

Watching her with contempt for a moment, he let out a heavy breath before stepping away.

”Five minutes or you will walk there. I'm not going to be late because of your irresponsibility.” His voice faded with the distance growing between them.

Y/N sighed looking at her reflection.

A man that was never supposed to be a husband.

All eyes were on them as soon as they arrived. Y/N smiled, nodding along to the people she saw for the first time as they spoke to Nickolas. She was to not speak unless spoken to, Mr. Winterbourne taught her four years ago. Smile, look pretty and watch your husband. Be attentive and elegant at all times.

Entering the event took them about fifteen minutes with all the pleasantries Nick kept giving away to his associates. Deep down she hated it. The constant need to pretend, not a single movement one of her own.

”Mr. Winterbourne!” A voice came from behind their back as they walked into the main room. An older man with jet-black hair approached quickly, his arm wrapped around the waist of his wife. Glancing at her, they exchanged a joyful look before standing right by Y/N. “Long time no see” His voice was low, but not threatening. Something about the tall and broad man was inviting, friendly.

”Indeed, it's been a long while.” Nick responded, straightening his back before greeting the older woman, getting a hold of her hand gently and kissing the temple. ”How is life treating you, Sir?” His tone mannered and calm, just like always whenever he was in a public eye. After getting a response, he began talking about the details of the gala before the woman suddenly interrupted him.

”...and who is this beautiful woman?” She spoke completely relaxed to which Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. If she interrupted her husband or any man he was currently talking to in such a manner, she'd get severely punished if not slapped at the spot. Nicholas raised his eyebrow but quickly put on a collected exterior again.

”This is my wife, Y/N” He introduced her, slightly embarrassed that he forgot to do so in the first place. What would they think of him? The older man reflected, kissing her temple with a smile and his wife took her hand in her own.

”Oh, I see” She said, looking at the ring on her finger. ”Absolutely beautiful, how about we get something to drink while men talk about the important matters?” She suggested light-heartedly, winking at her husband who chuckled, shaking his head before giving a simple nod.

”Great idea. I will find you in just a few moments, Precious.”

The way their interactions took place made Y/N truly shocked, she's never seen such behaviour among people in their class before. Were people of Birmingham different than them?

Waiting for his approval obediently Y/N only moved when he gave her a stern nod, clearly not pleased with his own performance, yet he would never admit it.

His behaviour was different this time, she could clearly see it. He was more emotional in the wrong way, every little detail making him visibly angry.

”I’m Meredith” The seemingly fourty year old woman stated, glancing at Y/N sideways. ”You seem to love these kind of events, don't you?” She joked, seeing the way Y/N’s smile dropped as soon as they turned away from their husbands. Internally she panicked hearing the elegant woman's remark, her eyes widening with fear. ”Oh, no worries. We're on the same page… besides. They serve really good drinks, so soon enough it will be bearable.” The tone of her voice was light and amusing as she gave Y/N a little shove. Her demeanor was relaxed and open, matching her husband's which was… refreshing.

”Better get to it then” She mustered a smile in response.

To be fair, time did start passing faster as they settled by the table, slowly sipping on tasteful drinks and talking in a way that allowed Y/N feel much less comfortable than she was at first. A breath of fresh air.

”We’re local. My husband, Christopher, is the owner of several businesses passed down through the family. That's how he knows Winterbournes.” She explained eventually before leaning in closer. ”He doesn't get along well with your father in law. Tradition and peace are the only things keeping them tied together.”

Y/N listened carefully, appreciating that after a couple drinks Meredith's tongue got a bit loose. Usually she'd never hear a single detail about her husband's business or family. She wasn't family by blood, so her access to information was very restricted.

Getting lost in her thoughts again she zoned out for a second before Nickolas’ voice came to her ear from close proximity.

”This is my wife, Y/N Winterbourne.” He introduced her and it took a second to stand up, smooth out her dress before her eyes met the guests.

…and just for a second, her heart stopped, mouth slightly parting as she met the blue gaze she dreamed of for so many years.

”May we dance, Mrs. Winterbourne?” Thomas Shelby asked, standing side to side with her husband. Slightly shorter yet visibly towering over him.

For once she forgot her manners, not able to tear her eyes away from him as she gave a quick nod and without another word, he grabbed her hand pulling her towards the dance floor among other couples. Completely stiff and frozen, her vocal chords were not cooperating as she was on the verge of a panic attack.

His hands grabbed her own, setting them on his shoulders as he pulled her closer.

”Breathe” He said quietly in a husky tone as his scent almost made her faint.

[2b4st4r]

Unveiled Strength

Whitebeard pirates x F! reader

Words: 3,314

Summary: This story follows Y/N, a young woman rescued by the Whitebeard Pirates two weeks prior from a life of servitude under a corrupt ruler. Despite her efforts to prove her worth by diligently helping the crew, she faces constant underestimation due to her frail appearance.

Warnings: violence, minor injuries, implied abuse/cruelty, undermining, and use of y/n.

Requests open

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───

The roar of the ocean was a constant lullaby, a comforting rumble beneath your hammock. Two weeks. Two weeks since the Whitebeard Pirates pulled you from the clutches of him and his tyrannical rule. You could still taste the ash and salt on your tongue, the metallic tang of fear and despair. The air on that island had been thick with it, a suffocating blanket woven from the screams of the innocent and the leering laughter of the corrupt. You could still hear it, a phantom echo of shattered hope.

You remembered the day with chilling clarity. The way the sun had beat down, mercilessly illuminating the suffering. You, a nobody, a cog in his cruel machine, had been preparing for another day of forced labor when the earth-shattering tremor hit. It wasn't an earthquake; it was something far grander, far more terrifying, and ultimately, far more liberating. Then, the silhouette of the Moby Dick loomed against the horizon, a monstrous white whale carving through the waves. Panic had seized the island, but for you, it was a flicker of something new—a desperate, fragile hope.

What happened next was a blur of chaos and power. Whitebeard himself, a titan among men, had stepped onto the shores, his very presence an act of rebellion against the tyranny that had festered there for so long. You’d seen him, a fleeting glimpse of a man whose eyes held a depth of compassion that belied his fearsome reputation. And then, he’d looked at you. Just you. A scrawny, terrified kid with nothing to offer but a lifetime of subjugation. Why? Why you, out of all the suffering souls on that island? He hadn't known your strength, hadn't seen the fire that smoldered beneath your broken exterior. Yet, he'd extended a hand, a silent invitation to join his family.

Now, swinging gently with the rhythm of the Grand Line, you traced the scar on your wrist, a physical reminder of the life you’d left behind. Two weeks. And still, the wonder of it all hadn't faded. You were on the Moby Dick, surrounded by men who called each other family, under the protection of the strongest man in the world. But the question remained, a persistent whisper in your mind: Why had he chosen you?

You hadn't wasted a single moment in the two weeks since joining the Whitebeard Pirates. Every day was a relentless pursuit of proving your worth, a silent plea to justify Whitebeard's inexplicable kindness. Despite the lingering aches from your previous life, you threw yourself into every task imaginable on the Moby Dick.

You'd become a familiar, if slightly harried, presence in the galley, chopping vegetables with Thatch and learning the secrets of pirate cuisine. He'd shown you the ropes, his easy laughter a stark contrast to the grim silence you’d grown up with. When the inevitable scuffles broke out, or an unfortunate soul got a bit too ambitious during a training session, you were in the medical wing, assisting Marco. He was calm and steady, his phoenix flames a constant fascination. You’d fetch supplies, hold bandages, and observe, absorbing everything like a sponge.

Beyond those specific roles, you’d worked your fingers raw, swabbing decks until they gleamed, hauling crates heavier than you were, and mending torn sails. You’d offered help for anything and everything, a small shadow moving diligently about the massive ship.

The crew, initially wary, had gradually warmed to your quiet determination. You’d found yourself laughing more in these two weeks than in your entire life before. Ace, with his boundless energy and easy grin, felt like the brother you never had. Izou's sharp wit and surprising patience had made him another confidante. Even Marco, usually so reserved, had started offering you small, knowing smiles. You were becoming a part of their chaotic, boisterous family.

One blustery afternoon, you were meticulously polishing a cannon, your reflection wavering in the brass, when a deep voice rumbled behind you. "Still trying to work yourself to the bone, little one?"

You straightened, turning to see Whitebeard himself, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over you. His usual calm expression was softened by a hint of amusement.

"Just trying to earn my keep, Oyaji," you replied, the honorific feeling more natural with each passing day.

He chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "You think you need to prove something to me, Y/N?"

"A little," you admitted, your gaze flicking back down to the cannon. "But for the most part, I'm still just working. Haven't exactly gotten my piece yet." You buffed a stubborn smudge, the metal cool beneath your fingertips. It wasn't just about feeling like you deserved to be here; it was a deep-seated need to contribute, to not be a burden. The memories of your old life, of being forced to toil without reward or recognition, still stung.

Whitebeard's booming laughter filled the air again. "Your piece, you say? You think this family works on shares, little brat?" He clapped a massive hand on your shoulder, the weight surprisingly gentle. "You're here. That's your piece. You're one of us now. Don't you understand that?"

You did, intellectually. The crew’s camaraderie, their easy acceptance…it was unlike anything you’d ever known. But the ingrained habit of having to earn your place was hard to shake.

"I know, Oyaji," you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "But I can do more than just chores."

Whitebeard’s gaze sharpened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

Before you could answer, memories flickered through your mind, vivid and frustrating. You remembered the first time a nearby pirate ship had dared to approach the Moby Dick. The adrenaline had surged, a primal urge to fight rising within you. You’d grabbed a discarded cutlass, eager to defend your new family, only for a burly crewmate to gently but firmly take it from your hand. "Easy there, kid. Let the big boys handle this. You stay safe below deck." His intentions were good, you knew, but the dismissal had stung.

Another time, during a particularly rough storm, ropes had snapped, threatening to send a stack of barrels crashing across the deck. Without thinking, you’d lunged forward, your frame bracing against the tumbling weight. The strain had been immense, your muscles screaming, but you’d held them steady just long enough for others to secure them. Instead of praise, you’d received worried glances. "Careful, Y/N! You almost got hurt. Leave the heavy lifting to us."

Even in training sessions, when you’d tentatively asked if you could join, you'd been met with similar responses. "Maybe when you've got a bit more meat on your bones, kid," Ace had said with a friendly nudge, completely unaware of the coiled strength beneath your seemingly frail exterior. They saw a survivor, someone to be protected, not a fighter. They couldn't fathom the raw power that had been a secret your entire life, a strength so unnatural it had always set you apart, even on the island of suffering. People had whispered, called you a freak. You'd learned to hide it, to appear weaker than you were, to avoid the fear and suspicion in their eyes. Now, it was a different kind of frustration – the inability to show your family what you could truly do.

"I can do more than just chores," you reiterated, a touch more firmly this time. You were about to elaborate, to finally try and explain the truth of your strength, when a piercing cry echoed across the deck.

"Ambush!"

The shout ripped through the calm afternoon, instantly dissolving the easy atmosphere. The crew, who moments before had been laughing and going about their duties, sprang into action with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic thump of hurried footsteps vibrated beneath your feet.

Whitebeard's gaze, which had been fixed on you, snapped towards the disturbance. His relaxed posture vanished, replaced by an aura of immense power. "Sounds like someone's gotten a little too close to my family," he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous.

Before you could even process the sudden shift, Thatch appeared at your side, his normally jovial face set in a grim line. "Y/N, get below deck! It's a quick one, looks like a few small fry trying their luck." He gave you a gentle shove towards the nearest hatch, his eyes scanning the horizon.

You hesitated, torn between the ingrained habit of obedience and the burning desire to prove yourself. This was it—a real fight. Your chance to show them. But then Marco landed beside you in a flash of blue flames, his expression serious. "He's right, Y/N. This isn't the time for heroics. We need you safe." He gestured pointedly towards the hatch.

Another boom resonated through the ship, closer this time, followed by the clang of metal against metal. The battle had begun. You watched as figures, too small to discern clearly, swarmed towards the Moby Dick. Your fists clenched, an unfamiliar thrill mingled with frustration coursing through your veins. They still saw you as fragile. They still saw you as someone to be protected.

Rage, hot and unfamiliar, surged through you. Again? Even now, with actual danger bearing down on them, they still saw you as a fragile thing to be protected. You weren’t going below deck. Not this time.

You watched Thatch and Marco move away, engaging the approaching pirates, their backs to you. This was your chance. You moved, not towards the hatch, but towards the nearest skirmish, a small, determined shadow amidst the chaos.

The deck was a maelstrom of clanging steel, shouted orders, and the desperate cries of the attacking pirates. You dodged a wild swing, your eyes scanning for an opening, for a way to contribute. A particularly large attacker, wielding a heavy metal pipe, lunged past a distracted Ace. He was heading straight for a group of injured Whitebeard pirates near the mast.

Without thinking, you intercepted him. He turned, surprised to find a small figure blocking his path. His eyes widened slightly before narrowing into a sneer. With a grunt, he swung the pipe down, aiming for your head.

You didn't even have time to react. The pipe connected with a sickening ding.

The sound echoed unnaturally loud across the deck, cutting through the din of battle. Every head that wasn't already engaged in a fight snapped towards the noise. Ace, who had just turned to face a different opponent, whipped his head around, his eyes wide with horror. "Y/N!" he roared, starting to move towards you.

Your head snapped down with the impact, a sharp wince escaping your lips. The world tilted for a split second, a dull ache throbbing where the pipe had hit. But then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. No darkness, no stars, no dizzying disorientation. Just a lingering sensation, like a bell still ringing somewhere in your skull.

You slowly lifted your head. The pirate stood before you, pipe still raised, a look of bewildered shock on his face. Your eyes, usually so wary, now blazed with a cold, terrifying fury. A low, guttural growl, primal and untamed, ripped from your throat. It was the sound of years of suppression, of being underestimated, finally breaking free.

Before he could even register what was happening, your fist connected with his face. There was a sickening crack, like a dry branch snapping underfoot. The pirate didn't just fall; he shot backward, a human projectile, his body slamming into the Moby Dick's sturdy bulkhead with a resounding thud. He crumpled to the deck, unconscious, a mangled mess.

Silence, stark and absolute, descended upon the immediate area of the deck. Every Whitebeard pirate within sight, every enemy pirate, froze. All eyes were on you.

You slowly turned, your gaze sweeping across the stunned faces of the Whitebeard pirates. A low, throbbing ache resonated in your fist where it had connected with the pirate’s jaw, but the satisfaction bubbling within you dwarfed any discomfort. You rubbed your knuckles, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing on your lips.

"Stupid pirate," you muttered, just loud enough for those closest to hear. Then you met their gazes, one by one. There was no longer pity, no concern, just a mixture of shock, awe, and something akin to utter disbelief.

"What in the...?" Thatch was the first to speak, his eyes wide as he stared from the crumpled pirate to your seemingly uninjured form.

"A ding?" Ace finally managed to stammer, his jaw practically on the deck. "It sounded like... metal!"

Marco, ever the stoic, simply raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise in his normally calm eyes. Even Whitebeard, from his vantage point, was staring, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mustache.

You crossed your arms over your chest, the smugness you’d been trying to suppress bubbling to the surface. "I have thick skin," you stated, your voice calm despite the roaring adrenaline. It was an understatement, of course. It was more than just thick skin; it was a resilience that defied explanation, a strength that had been your silent burden and now, finally, your undeniable truth.

The battle, which had momentarily stalled, slowly began to pick up again, but the atmosphere had irrevocably changed. Every Whitebeard pirate who had witnessed your display now fought with a renewed ferocity, their eyes occasionally darting back to you, as if to confirm what they had just seen. The attackers, however, seemed to hesitate, a newfound terror creeping into their ranks as whispers of the "ding" and the "unbreakable kid" spread like wildfire.

The stunned silence lasted only a moment before the battle roared back to life, but this time, you weren't on the sidelines. You were in the thick of it, a whirlwind of unexpected power. The earlier frustration had ignited a furious determination, and now, with the weight of years of underestimation finally shed, you fought with a terrifying freedom.

Each punch you threw was a cannonball of raw force. You moved with a primal grace, your seemingly delicate frame belying the sheer destructive power emanating from your fists. One pirate, foolish enough to try and grapple with you, found his ribs cracking under your grip before he was sent flying into a cluster of his bewildered comrades. Another attempted to block your strike with his sword, only for the blade to bend and shatter, the force of your blow sending him sprawling.

"Holy hell!" Ace yelled, narrowly dodging a returning enemy only to watch you casually backhand another, who sailed through the air before splashing into the sea. "She's... she's got the strength of a giant!"

He wasn't wrong. You were strong, unnaturally so. It wasn't a devil fruit, not some learned technique. It was simply… you. And it showed in every devastating impact. When one of your wild swings missed its mark, meant for a pirate who had ducked just in time, your fist connected with the Moby Dick's sturdy wooden hull with a sickening thump. The massive ship shuddered, a deep groan echoing through the deck, and a noticeable, jagged crater formed where your knuckles had met the wood.

"Y/N! Watch the ship, you little monster!" Thatch bellowed, half-awe, half-exasperation. He’d just cleaved through two enemies, but his eyes were glued to the developing divot in their beloved vessel.

Marco, typically unflappable, had to actively dodge a pirate you'd inadvertently sent hurtling his way. He just stared, a flicker of something close to bewilderment in his phoenix eyes. "Where in the name of the sea did that come from, yoi?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Even Whitebeard, observing from his vantage point, let out a deep, booming laugh that resonated across the chaotic deck. It wasn't a laugh of surprise, but of profound satisfaction, as if he'd known this secret all along. His chosen one, the one he’d saved without knowing her strength, was revealing a power that would shock the world.

The battle ended swiftly after that. The attacking pirates, utterly demoralized by your unexpected ferocity and the sheer destructive power you wielded, broke formation and fled in terror, leaving behind only their unconscious comrades.

The Aftermath

The battle was over. The air still hummed with residual tension, but the frantic energy of combat slowly bled away, replaced by a strange, almost reverent silence. The deck, usually a canvas of bustling activity, now held scattered pirate weapons, overturned barrels, and the unconscious forms of the attackers, looking pitifully small against the backdrop of the Moby Dick. But all eyes weren't on the debris; they were on you.

You stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving slightly, the adrenaline beginning its slow, delightful fade. Your knuckles throbbed, a familiar ache, but there wasn't a mark on your head where the pipe had struck, only a faint, reddish imprint on your skin. You felt… light. Unburdened. The secret you had carried for so long, the strength you'd hidden, was finally out in the open.

Ace was the first to approach, his usual boisterous grin replaced by an expression of dumbfounded awe. He walked a slow circle around you, as if you were some newly discovered, wondrous creature. "Y/N," he said, his voice unusually quiet, "what… what was that? You just… dinged that guy's pipe. And then you sent him flying like a rubber ball!" He gestured wildly towards the crumpled pirate still slumped against the bulkhead, then back to you. "And that hole in the deck! Did you just punch a hole in the Moby Dick?" His eyes were wide with a mixture of disbelief and pure, unadulterated excitement.

Thatch came over next, shaking his head, a bewildered laugh escaping him. He knelt down, poking the dent in the ship's hull with a cautious finger. "That's… that's not normal, kid," he murmured, looking from the impressive damage to your still-flushed face. "We've got guys with Devil Fruits, but even they don't usually just… do that. And you've been helping me chop vegetables all this time!" A look of mock betrayal crossed his face, quickly replaced by genuine admiration. "You really are a little monster, aren't you?"

Marco landed softly beside you, his eyes still holding that curious, analytical glint. He reached out, his finger gently tracing the faint red mark on your temple. "No concussion, yoi," he observed, his voice calm, but a hint of wonder beneath it. "And that impact… remarkable. You don't have a Devil Fruit, do you?" It wasn't a question of accusation, but of genuine scientific curiosity.

You met his gaze, a small, proud smile finally breaking through. "No," you confirmed, your voice a little raspy from the adrenaline. "Just… me."

A ripple went through the rest of the crew. Whispers turned into excited chatter. "Did you see that?" "She broke his pipe!" "And that hole in the deck!" Some were looking at you with a new wariness, but most were simply brimming with an astonished respect. The quiet, helpful newcomer they'd been protecting was, in fact, a force of nature.

From his command perch, Whitebeard watched, a broad, knowing smile gracing his lips. He finally raised his sake cup in a silent toast, his eyes fixed on you. "You finally showed them, little brat," he rumbled, loud enough for those closest to him to hear. "I knew there was more to you."

The realization dawned on you then, a warm, overwhelming wave. He hadn't known how strong you were, not precisely, but he'd sensed something. He'd seen past your frail appearance, past the fear and the trauma, and had offered you a home because he saw potential, because he saw you. The question that had gnawed at you for two weeks—why had he chosen you?—was finally answered. He hadn't needed you to prove your worth. He'd simply given you the chance to be.

Masterlist

[sirfrogsworth]

(In reference to this post)

I'm going to be honest, this kind of attitude concerns me.

I've been going over my past lately. I'm writing something about my relationship with my brother. And I found a letter I never sent him.

Here is an excerpt.

-----------------------

I was not a good brother to you.

I took you for granted and was an ungrateful jerk. You used to do so much to help me. You did all kinds of manual labor because my stupid failing body could not. You built me things. You helped me fix things. You drove me places I needed to be. When I first got sick at college you came to Kansas City and scooped me up and brought me back home.

I remember one Christmas you even went back to the family gathering and stuck up for me. They didn't understand how sick I was and you explained it to them. I never told you how much that meant to me. I should have hugged you and thanked you profusely on the spot. You believed me even when some doctors refused to. And you used that big heart of yours to defend me.

That was an amazing act of courage. Find that same courage now. Stand up for Mom & Dad. Stand up for yourself. Put your foot down and fix this.

It took me way too long to figure it out, but it is my regret of being a bad brother that helped me realize why you don't like my humor. Why you are one of the very few people I can't make laugh. It's because I used that humor at your expense. I made fun of you. I teased you the same way those betraying bastard fake friends did in high school. At the time, I probably thought my jokes were harmless fun. But I'm sure you felt they were cruel and hurtful. We are such different people and I had a hard time understanding you. I used humor as a weapon to highlight our differences. I have no excuse. I have no justification for being a jerk to you.

All I can do is say I am sorry. Truly and deeply sorry.

-----------------------

I didn't send that letter because he was too far gone. His wife read every email and text and I had no way of getting through to just him.

My brother used to be a much better person than me. I often failed to be the good person I thought I was. I didn't realize I was being hurtful at the time. And I didn't do this to just him. I thought I was just making jokes. It was not "pretty easy" for me to realize that. It took years of growing and hindsight.

He used to be nothing but good behaviors all the way down.

And I struggled to limit my bad behaviors.

I was bullied in grade school and realized that if you are funny, people don't bully you anymore. So my brain thought I needed to make people laugh at all times. And it didn't matter if my jokes were at someone else's expense.

Bad behaviors are often easy. They can be tempting. They can require less effort. They can have greater rewards. And sometimes they can protect you. They can be a defense mechanism. Your brain trying to avoid trauma. "I'll hurt someone first so no one hurts me."

There is a reason so many people struggle to be good all the time.

Good behavior requires constant vigilance. You can't do a certain number of good things and then just call yourself a good person. And you can't just not do bad things either. A good person isn't necessarily just "not being evil to other people." That is neutral, at best.

I've learned that being a good person isn't something you just are. It is an ongoing choice. You have to maintain it. You have to actively keep it going. You have to consistently choose good behaviors and limit the bad.

And we all choose bad behaviors from time to time.

Don't kid yourself.

If you know the story of my brother, he let bad behaviors win. He let someone influence him to abuse and neglect his own family. He did it because he was traumatized. He was humiliated by a girl in high school. She said she was his girlfriend. She let him take her to prom. Then she wrote a one-act play called "Prom Nightmare" and performed it in front of the entire school. He was a laughing stock to 2000 classmates.

He is terrified of being alone but he is also terrified that any romantic partner is faking their affections. So obedience is his tool to prevent that. He will do anything his partner instructs to make sure her affection is real. His unmanaged trauma has run amok and led him to dark choices to keep his relationship intact at any cost.

He was such a good person. And now he is not. He has the potential. He is so good with his daughter. He is capable of good behaviors. And I think that is why it upsets and angers me so much. I can still see what he could be.

If you want to see people as just good and bad, that's up to you. I can't do it anymore. I think humans are too complicated. And I worry about getting complacent. I need to check in on my ratio of good to bad behaviors constantly. It would be too easy to say I am a good person and not think about it again.

I mean, sure, I don't kick puppies. I don't taunt the elderly. I don't assault random strangers.

Being good is easy!

Right?

[evenyvn]

All You ; part 05

Idol!San x SingleMom!Reader

Summary : torn between his career and his love life after the backlash he got when his relationship exposed by the media—san fight for both of them, will he win this fight? or will he let go—to protect his career and loved ones?

Cw : she/her reader, sfw, hurt with comfort, angst to fluff, third person POV, ateez cameo, desperate san, reader has a daughter, strangers to lovers, established relationship, mention of disp*tch, paparazzis, harrassment on social media and toxic netizens, LOTS of tears (mostly from san). please give san a hug 😞

honestly idk if i like this chapter or not, it's kinda messy.. but it's our first angst on the series and also our last part of this series (bohoo🍅) don't worry there'll be an epilogue tho (wohooo!), i'm warning you guys ☝san is super desperate in here.

prev — masterlist — epilogue

Dating in secret had its own kind of thrill, especially when the moments were soft, hidden, and full of stolen glances. San and YN had been seeing each other quietly for a few months, slipping into the comfort of familiarity.

San still visited the restaurant often, sometimes helping out in the kitchen or spending hours listening to Hana’s endless stories about school. When the three were together, they felt like a family—imperfect, a little unconventional, but full of heart.

Hana have never been happier, Y/N's heart clenched when she saw the two of her most loved people interact with big smiles on both of their faces.

The woman think about all of those times where Hana often asked where's her dad went—how one of those days she will came home from school, a solemn expression on her usually bright little face as the kids at her school made fun of her for only having one parent.

In all of those years, Y/N begin to try dating once again—not for herself—but for Hana. But it never last for long, until San.

He barge in into her life and her heart like he owns it, and he does.

But of course, sooner or later, secrets have a way of unraveling.

One crisp morning, Dispatch did what Dispatch does best. Photos of San walking hand-in-hand with Y/N, smiling brightly at Hana, were splashed across news outlets. Even when the pictures were blurry and San's features hidden by the mask and sunglasses he wore, people are quick to identified the idol—making the internet exploded.

Fans were split. The media, however, was merciless. The idea of a beloved idol dating, much less dating a normal person and a single mom—was never heard before. Speculation turned cruel. Rumors spun. And soon, angry mobs camped outside the restaurant, cameras flashing through windows, making it unsafe for both YN and Hana.

San’s company confirmed the relationship. The official statement was short but clear: "Choi San is currently in a relationship. We ask for fans’ understanding and respect for the privacy of the people involved."

The backlash was swift. Y/N feared for Hana’s safety more than her own. She sent her daughter to the countryside to stay with her grandmother, away from the mess.

And then, one quiet evening—after a week of relentless paparazzis chasing after her, merciless, and degrading words on social media—she showed up at San’s apartment.

San greeted her with his usual radiant smile a giddy feeling bloom everytime he see the woman, but it faltered the moment he saw her solemn expression.

"We need to talk," she said, her voice lack of the usual warmth that San adored so much, only indifference and seriousness making the younger man's heart dropped to the ground.

Inside, she sat him down. "We should break up," she whispered—straight to the point, eyes everywhere but the man in front of her.

San blinked, stunned. "What? No. Noona, why would you—?"

"This isn’t fair to you, San. Your career—"

"My career means nothing without you in it," he interrupted, desperation cracking through his voice. "You think I care about what people said more than keeping you and Hana safe? I will fix this. Just... please don’t give up on us."

"San- this could not be fixed, there's nothing to fix after all! nothing is broken, it's just- too risky, have you seen those hurtful words thrown upon you?? it will risk your entire career that you worked so hard for!" She heaved a sigh—trying to calm herself as she realized San flinched at her sudden outburst.

"It's best for us to part ways, for you and for me—my family and Hana." Her voice is gentler now—a quiet sniffle from the man echoes through the quiet room, Y/N could feel her heart tightened at the sound, but she refuses to relent—thinking it's the only way to make things right as before.

"We should end this and we'll be back to our normal life, the life before we met, the life before all of this madness."

"But i don't want to live in that life again- i don't think i could, noona." Y/N flinched as she feel San moving closer to her, hands finding her owns, wrapping it firmly with desperation as he kneels between her legs.

"Please... i will try for us, i will do anything to protect us, i promise you i will make things right just—just don't give up on this, don't give up on us"

The woman think for a bit, now staring at the eyes of the man who's kneeling between her legs in front of her—the eyes that she adored so much. There's fear, desperation, and determination on those glassy eyes making Y/N's serious facade falter slightly.

She sigh as her hands move slowly, cupping San's face gently. "Okay. We’ll try. But if it ever gets worse, and there’s no more way out, you have to promise me you’ll let go."

San’s tears spilled as the sniffle grows louder, and he kissed her hands, before leaning up to kiss her cheeks, her forehead. "I promise. I’ll fight. I’ll fight for us." finally—he kissed her lips to seal his promise.

True to his word, San fought harder than he ever had. He went to meeting after meeting with his company. His band members backed him up completely—because they’d seen how happy Y/N and Hana made him.

The conference room felt colder than usual, with heavy silence hanging over the executives and managers sitting across from him.

"Choi San," the head of PR started, adjusting her glasses with a tight frown, "you are aware of the...magnitude of the scandal you’ve caused, aren’t you?"

"It's not a scandal," San said firmly, fists clenched on his lap under the table. "I'm in a relationship. I'm not ashamed of it."

Another manager scoffed quietly. "The public is brutal. You know how it looks—even though our company doesn't have a dating ban but this—an idol, dating a single mother? With a child? It'll look so bad for your image as an idol." San’s jaw tightened. He forced his voice to stay even. "I understand the risks. But I’m not backing down."

An older executive sighed heavily, leaning forward. "We’re asking you to reconsider. End it quietly. Release a statement saying it’s over—that it was a misunderstanding." San felt something in him snap. He stood up, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape.

"No."

The room went deadly still.

San’s voice shook, but not from fear—from anger. "I won't abandon them just because it's easier. I love her. I love her daughter. If you want me to leave ATEEZ, then say it to my face right now." There was a stunned silence. Even the higher-ups didn't expect San to be so defiant. Before anyone could respond, the door swung open.

Hongjoong marched in, face grim. "If you kick him out, you can kick me out too."

"Me too," Seonghwa said, stepping inside a second later.

Then Yunho, Mingi, Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Jongho, one after the other, entered the room.

One of the managers paled. "What is this—?"

"It's called defending our rights," Yunho said, voice like steel.

"You can't pick and choose when we’re family," Mingi added. "San's happiness is our happiness."

"Yeah, 8 makes 1 team. Not 7 or less," Jongho said flatly, arms crossed.

"And frankly," Seonghwa added softly but firmly, "if our company can't protect the ones we love, then maybe it doesn’t deserve us."

San felt tears sting his eyes—overwhelmed by the support he hadn't even asked for, but received anyway.

The executives whispered among themselves, thrown off by the group's unified stance. They hadn’t expected ATEEZ to burst into the room.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the PR head spoke again, quieter this time. "We can’t afford a mass scandal," she said. "We’ll...reframe the narrative."

"And?" San pressed, still tense.

"We'll release a statement confirming the relationship and ask for privacy. We'll also add a warning—any harassment toward you, Y/N, or her daughter will have legal consequences."

San’s legs almost buckled in relief, his heartbeat increase as he feel a sudden wave of relief through his body. "Thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance." He bowed deeply, voice cracking.

Hongjoong clapped a firm hand on San’s back. "We’ll handle this together," he murmured.

His band members knew this wasn’t a fling. This was San’s peace, San's family—and they will protect his peace as he did for them, because he is their family, and his family are theirs too.

Eventually after a long hard weeks, sleepless nights for both San and Y/N who's been avoiding crowds and relentless paparazzis who won't stop pestering her or her family, and after a careful consideration—the company finally released a stronger statement to the public : not only would they protect San and Y/N’s relationship, they would pursue legal action against anyone who crossed the line.

San ran through familiar streets, hiding his face under a black cap, sunglasses, and a mask. Passing by a few people, he navigate through the street easily—like he could walk these roads blindfolded by now.

He stopped at the familiar corner, panting. The small family restaurant stood quiet—no customers, no reporters. Just a locked door amd shut windows.

But he knew she was in there. It was her home, after all.

He circled around to the back of the restaurant, finding the back door and knocked a few times. "Love? It’s me, please open the door" he said voice a bit loud with desperation.

Footsteps. His heartbeat quicken. Then the door creaked open—not YN, but an unfamiliar older woman. San's face fell into a disappointment.

"If you're here to ask some more nonsense, just go home! You kids need to learn some decency!" she barked loudly with a huge frown on her face.

San fumbled with his mask and glasses, revealing his face. "I-it’s me. Choi San. I'm here for Y/N—I have good news."

Recognition dawned on the woman’s face. Her scowl softened. "Oh! You’re San? Come in, quickly. It’s not safe to talk out here." She ushered the young man quickly as San sighs in relief.

She led him into the cozy living room of the small house. "She’s been quiet. Sad. But I know she misses you, even if she won’t say it." The woman say gently with a hint of pity and worry in her voice.

San's heart dropped at her words, he really wished he could hold her in all of those time, comforting her and just be by her side—but he knows he couldn't, not for a while as he promised to make things right.

There she was—Y/N, sitting on the couch, a book in her hand. Back turned away from him. San's breath hitched and he swallowed. "Noona?"

She turned at the voice, eyes wide—the book on her hand dropped to the side as she stand slowly "San? What are you—"

Before she could finish, he crossed the room and embraced her tightly. She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around him.

"I did it. We did it," he whispered, voice cracking. Tears begins to flow from his face as the man sobbed softly on his love's shoulder.

She inhaled slowly, processing his words. "We- we did?"

He pulled back, only slightly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. Still holding her with one arm as if she would be gone the second he let go of her—then he showed her the screen.

It was the company’s recent statement. Clear and strong: protection, privacy, and legal action for harassment. They were safe now.

Her eyes glistened. She looked up at him—at his tired eyes, dark circles evident on his handsome face—tear-streaked cheeks, and that smile that had never stopped loving her.

"Oh, Sannie… you really meant it."

He nodded eagerly, sniffling as he leaned into her touch. He missed this—he missed her. All of those restless nights were finally payed off, he can finally have his career and his loved ones safe.

The couple stayed there, wrapped in each other, as the warmth returned.

The tide slowly began to turn.

Supportive fans outshone the haters. And a few weeks after—the restaurant reopened, quieter but peaceful. Y/N was safer, and Hana could return. The little girl couldn't be more ecstatic when she can finally see San and her mom again, running into Y/N's arms with joyful tears after been separated from her mom for a long time.

And finally—love, after all, had won. And this time, they wouldn’t let it go.

literally the whole chapter : "we'll use the power of friendship" ahh chapter

taglist : @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @flambychan @iwuberic @kirilunimimi @thedistractedwriter @d3kstar @rosydipity @jilxxasu @dumplingsyum @hexsannie @dalsuwaha @lveegsoi @silver-hwaberry @mouthfullobats @satans-arse-crack @pixie0627 @yothangie @moonlitarcade @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @emilysecresy @ateezaddict24 @xh01bri @flylis @mimiisbetter @angie-316 @lyracarvahall @xeirisarax @lvfleur @amazingpersonever @starl0stt @hongjoongs-soon-military-wif @makeawitchoutofme @ac1b1tcvh @queenofdumbfuckery @satsuri3su @sannidokki @cup1dhwa

taglist are closed!

divider by @.adornedwithlight | likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated♡

[revelboo]

Since we’re sharing pets now I have 2 and they’re both horrible and evil (I love them to death)

The fat cat is Hera and the pathetic dog is Millie and they’re my babies (they hate everyone) ❤️

Yk who also hates everyone? Es soundwave

*smoothly requests more of him*

🤣 sure! I still have so many of these to go through and it’s helping distract me from my attempt to lighten my brown hair a tiny bit (I got distracted and left the dye in way too long and greatly underestimated how much red was naturally in my hair and it’s either laugh or cry now)

Son Of A Gun Pt 11

ES Soundwave x Reader

• “What’s he like? Rumble?” You don’t really want to talk to him, but working in silence aside from him snapping orders at you is wearing at you. You thought about asking Frenzy and Lazerbeak, but since they don’t seem to know Soundwave is trying to fix the other cassette, it might be too cruel to ask them. The pain might still be too fresh. Know they feel it, they’ve been talking to you before and in the middle of a story, would hesitate, misstepping. About to mention their brother.

• “Don’t pretend you care,” he growls, servos curling into a fist and you ignore him. Doesn’t know what you’re playing at, but you don’t actually care. Probably looking for a way to hurt him. To get him to let down his defenses. Conniving little creature just like all of your kind, like the one who lured Megatron into betraying them all.

• Jaw working, you take a deep breath. Know he’s trying to pick a fight and you’re not going to give him the satisfaction. Or maybe he’s still hurting, too. “We don’t have to be enemies.” If the cassettes are like big, anger issues daddy’s kids, then he has to be grieving still, desperate to do everything he can for his kid. He’s a jerk, but you’re positive he loves them.

• “We’re not friends or allies,” he counters, smacking a hand on the workbench to make you drop a tool. Taking a vicious delight when your fingers tremble slightly when you bend to pick it up. Doesn’t want or need your pity. You’re nothing. An insignificant little stray Lazerbeak harassed him into keeping. “You’re expendable.”

• “He looks kind of like Frenzy,” you say, hearing him growl a warning and ignoring it. “I bet he was a musician, too.” Why can’t you stop talking? Have a tendency to babble when you’re scared and he’s terrifying all the time, but common sense is screaming at you to shut up. “Why instruments? Did you guys have a little family band?” And he lunges to send you backpedaling to avoid his servos when he grabs for you.

• Why won’t you just shut up? Furious, he tries to catch you and you go stumbling back. Sees your eyes widen as your foot finds nothing but air, the shock on your face as your pitch backwards. Will you die from this height? Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Of you die, he doesn’t have to put up with the cruel blasphemy of taking care of an enemy. So why is he moving, throwing himself against the work bench, reaching and servos catching you before you hit?

Previous