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khuzena · 2 days ago

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The Perfect Notation

𐙚 PAIRING: Phainon/gn!Reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelines—curious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much he’s learning—not just math, but you.

𐙚 C.W: Depression, Academic pressure, Kinda happy ending, Angst

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!

𐙚 W.C: 8.5k

Anaxa didn’t even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.

“Top rank. Regional champion. You,” he said, sharp and almost lazy. “Congratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Don’t embarrass us.”

There was a scattered beat of applause from the others—half-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didn’t respect you. They did. But you’d won too many times already. You didn’t smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set you’d brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasn’t them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.

Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if you’d look up. You didn’t. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.

He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usual—lined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadn’t finished sketching.

"You’re incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.

You didn’t glance over. Just mumbled, “There’s still nationals.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. “I didn’t study to impress people.”

“Good,” he said. “Because then I’d be very, very out of my league.”

That got him a brief exhale—almost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention

He was. He really was.

"You’re still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.

“Number theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And… including linear programming with edge cases. I’m trying to account for unusual variables.”

“You make that sound fun.”

“It is.”

There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didn’t change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itself—maybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didn’t. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.

But he was trying. You didn’t know that. Maybe it was better that way.

Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. You’d let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didn’t know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solution—mapping it emotionally, too.

There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didn’t even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you weren’t constantly carrying the pressure of being everyone’s expectation.

He wasn’t sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something he’d seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most people’s words.

Phainon didn’t tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of course—he always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being “math fucked” and “losing brain cells over logic gates.” Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, “You don’t like math. You like them.”

Phainon hadn’t denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, “What’s the difference if I’m learning for the right reason?”

Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the library’s farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the page—he couldn’t tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light.

You didn’t startle. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says who?”

“You’re not even in the nationals roster.”

“I’m studying vicariously,” he offered, flashing a grin.

You gave a small sigh, but didn’t ask him to leave.

He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realized—probably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. He’d memorized the palette without trying.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, still focused on your work.

“Do what?”

“Follow me around. Pretend this is your thing.”

He hesitated. The grin faded a little.

“I’m not pretending,” he said finally.

You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.

“I don’t care about the numbers the way you do,” he admitted. “But I care about why they matter to you. And... that’s worth trying to understand.”

That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.

He wished he could explain it better. That he wasn’t trying to win anything. He wasn’t chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.

“...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,” you said, almost too low to hear. “Like I didn’t matter outside of that.”

“You do.”

You blinked at him.

“I notice you even when you’re not solving anything,” he added, a little softer.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you weren’t sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadn’t expected honesty to be part of the equation.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.

“Try this one,” you said. “I’ll walk you through it.”

And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.

He didn’t solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didn’t correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, “Closer.”

Closer. He could live with that

Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.

Phainon noticed it gradually—first the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.

He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didn’t even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.

He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Hadn’t meant to hover. But you were so deep into it—into your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constants—that he didn’t dare step inside.

That evening, Mydei said, “They’re going to burn out.”

Phainon looked up from the practice sheet he’d half-filled with mistakes. He hadn’t realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.

“I know,” Phainon muttered. “I just don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything.”

“You’re not,” Mydei said, and went back to his own book.

Still, he couldn’t shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didn’t trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.

The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always ordered—plain, warm, no sugar. He didn’t write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didn’t, that was okay too. He left it anyway.

You didn’t acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didn’t throw it away.

That counted.

By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changed—slouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didn’t even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.

Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasn’t subtle, but you weren’t paying attention. He always saw when you were working through something—something with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.

It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Just—you can breathe, you know. You don’t have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.

Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didn’t say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.

The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didn’t bother pretending he liked it anymore—he’d moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems you’d solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didn’t.

He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the left—not right, never right—and frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.

He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didn’t want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.

Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accident—or maybe it wasn’t an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.

He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasn’t a big deal.

He kept that page.

Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said, handing you a dry napkin.

You took it. “Didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“You okay?”

“I have to finish the integration methods tonight. That’s the only thing I keep slipping on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You didn’t answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote something—he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.

“Can I sit?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didn’t mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.

“Closer,” you said.

He felt warmer after that.

Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.

You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didn’t say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.

Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadn’t been there yesterday. It wasn’t dramatic—just off. And that was enough.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice light.

“I’m fine,” you said, and that would’ve been the end of it, if you hadn’t swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blink’s worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.

“You’ve sneezed three times,” he added. “Statistically, that’s a pattern.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.

“I don’t have time to get sick,” you mumbled.

Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. “Pretty sure your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.”

He saw it—the falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesn’t touch and focus can’t compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.

You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadn’t collapsed already.

“Let’s go out,” he said suddenly.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Come on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. There’s a convenience store two blocks down.”

“I have to review,” you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.

“You’ve been reviewing for seven straight hours.”

“Exactly.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I am—scientifically—concerned.”

You stared at him. Not offended, not irritated—just confused, like you didn’t understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didn’t. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadn’t.

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “I’m not in the mood to hang out.”

“It’s not hanging out. It’s tactical energy recovery.”

You raised a brow.

“I’ll buy you a snack,” he offered. “Any one.”

That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasn’t constantly calculating would say.

“I’m not changing out of this,” you said, gesturing to your hoodie.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.

The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps weren’t fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.

“Your nose is pink,” he said gently.

“So is yours,” you shot back.

That made him laugh, surprised. “Wow. You do have a bite.”

You sniffled again. Didn’t reply. But you didn’t walk away either.

The convenience store’s lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.

“You like those jelly cups, right?” he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.

You didn’t answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.

“Get two,” he said. “You can pretend I earned it.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surface—confusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasn’t sure.

“I feel kind of hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

“You’ve probably got a mild fever,” he said. “Here.”

He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didn’t move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didn’t. Just warm. Human.

You were, indeed, running warm.

He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.

You looked off to the side. “I should be reviewing.”

“You can review tomorrow.”

You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.

He walked toward the checkout. You didn’t stop him.

He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orange—late afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.

“Just one night,” he said. “Don’t solve anything tonight. Don’t even open a notebook. Just... recharge.”

You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.

“You act like you’re not smart,” you said.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You figure me out fast,” you added, quieter. “That’s not easy.”

He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. “I study you more than math.”

You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ruin it.

You didn’t either.

That night, when you got back to the study room, you didn’t open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.

One night off.

The table’s surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than ±0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.

(your messy notes)

x₁ + 0.6x₂ + 1.4x₃ = 42, where 8 ≤ x₁ ≤ 14, x₂ ≤ 2x₁, x₃ ≥ x₂ – 3.

You’d written that down ten minutes ago and hadn’t spoken since.

Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.

You’d stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.

He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.

“You want to test boundary values?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “What’s the point? It’s unstable no matter where x₁ lands.”

“It stabilizes at x₁ = 10,” he said. “If x₂ = 18 and x₃ = 15, the equation balances at—”

You were already writing it.

10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15) = 10 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 41.8

He saw your jaw twitch.

“Too low,” you muttered. “It needs 42 exactly.”

“Try rounding x₂ up to 20.”

You scribbled again.

x₁ = 10, x₂ = 20, x₃ = 17 → 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8

“Too high.”

You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.

Phainon didn’t speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired again—he could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.

He looked back at the numbers. “Hm… Try interpolating? Let’s find x₂ that fits given x₁ fixed at 11, I think.”

You hesitated.

He nudged the pencil toward you. You didn’t take it.

“What’s the point if I’m just guessing?” you muttered.

He sat straighter.

“Hey,” he said, more level now. “You don’t guess. That’s not what you do.”

“I used to not guess,” you said. “Now I’m just throwing numbers until it fits. That’s not solving, that’s flailing.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but it was the most emotion you’d shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.

Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. “You’re still solving. You just don’t trust yourself when it’s slower.”

“I don’t have time to be slow.”

That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.

He didn’t. Not directly.

Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrong—but to try what you wouldn’t let yourself do. Try without crumbling.

x₁ = 11 x₂ = 17 x₃ = 14 11 + 0.6(17) + 1.4(14) = 11 + 10.2 + 19.6 = 40.8

Closer.

“Try x₂ = 18,” you muttered suddenly.

He adjusted.

x₂ = 18 → 0.6(18) = 10.8 x₃ = 15 → 1.4(15) = 21.0 Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 42.8

“Over,” you said. “Lower x₃ to 14.5.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re allowing floats now?”

“It never said integers only.”

Phainon adjusted again, writing as you dictated.

x₃ = 14.5 → 1.4(14.5) = 20.3 11 + 10.8 + 20.3 = 42.1

“Almost.”

You took the pencil from him. This time, your hand didn’t shake.

x₃ = 14.2 → 1.4(14.2) = 19.88 Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 19.88 = 41.68

“No,” you whispered. “Too low again.”

He watched the way your brows furrowed. Not in frustration—but focus. Like the real you was re-emerging, inch by inch, from a long, silent retreat.

You scribbled one more:

x₃ = 14.4 → 1.4(14.4) = 20.16 Total = 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Phainon leaned closer. “That’s within the error margin.”

“±0.05,” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “That’s close enough.”

The tension in your jaw didn’t release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you weren’t wrong.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “That was a good solve.”

You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.

Phainon didn’t push the moment further. He didn’t say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at you—not expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.

He’d watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragile—just quieter. And he hadn’t realized, until now, how carefully he’d started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadn’t slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.

He hadn’t meant to notice so much.

But he had.

And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didn’t know how to look away.

You finally broke the silence. “I haven’t studied properly in days.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

You stared at the solution again.

“You going to tell me I’m screwing up?” you asked.

He thought about it. Then: “No. You already know when you are.”

You looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was.

Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didn’t move, didn’t speak. He waited.

As you reached the door, you paused.

Then you left.

And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation you’d both earned.

The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.

The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and you’d already seen the structure before—maybe two sets ago, maybe last year’s regional finals. But your hands weren’t moving.

Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.

Nothing stuck.

Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noise—like reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.

The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.

You couldn’t even start.

Someone knocked.

You didn’t look.

The knock came again—softer this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Don’t,” you said, not even loud.

There was a pause.

“I’m just—”

“I said don’t.”

A beat.

Then footsteps.

Not retreating.

He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didn’t want to draw attention. You didn’t turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched too long. You hated it.

“You think showing up is helpful right now?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.

Blank. Just grid lines.

You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.

Your jaw locked.

“Go home, Phainon.”

Still nothing.

“You think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?” You laughed, hollow. “If you’re waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, don’t bother.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what?”

Nothing.

He just stood there, behind your shoulder.

You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want eye contact. I don’t want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isn’t.”

“I know.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you said, still not looking. “How everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?”

“That wasn’t—”

“I let myself breathe, and now I can’t focus. I’m sitting here and I can’t even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.”

Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.

And you meant it.

Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.

For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d made it clear you wouldn’t hear it.

You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.

You didn’t sit. Just held it like it would matter.

Phainon hadn’t left yet.

You said, with your back turned, “I’ll delete your messages if you send any tonight.”

Silence.

And finally—finally—you heard him step back.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

No goodbyes. No dramatics.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you weren’t seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasn’t the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.

The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.

Then started solving.

Because that’s all you had left.

The bus ride was too quiet.

You’d brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didn’t open it.

Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.

You didn’t hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.

You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.

You were in the front row this time.

Not that it mattered much.

You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didn’t notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.

You said “thank you” without making eye contact.

Then it started.

Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.

And felt nothing.

It was combinatorics—one of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.

You read the same paragraph twice.

Then a third time.

The logic was familiar. The numbers weren’t. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.

You looked at the clock.

You’d spent nine minutes on the first item.

You flipped to number two. Then three.

Then back again.

The room was silent—pages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.

Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.

It wasn’t even wrong.

You just couldn’t focus.

Your stomach churned.

By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You weren’t writing fluidly anymore. You weren’t even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.

Problem four was geometry.

It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape you’d usually smirk at.

Now it made your head throb.

Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didn’t apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.

Thirty-five minutes gone.

Only two questions answered—poorly.

You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadn’t noticed.

You looked around.

Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.

You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.

One step.

You just had to think.

Just had to trust your training.

Just had to—

Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.

You closed your eyes.

This isn’t me.

That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t already spiraled.

You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. You’d lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.

Now you couldn’t even lift your head.

You wanted to quit.

Not the competition—just the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.

You looked back at the clock.

Fifty-eight minutes left.

You hadn't solved more than two problems.

Your hands shook.

You flipped to the next page anyway. You didn’t want to—your body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldn’t come.

You wrote a line. Crossed it out.

Wrote a second. Scratched over it.

You felt your chest tighten.

This is a joke.

You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.

It didn’t matter how slow.

You weren’t going to leave it blank.

Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knew—knew—you’d fumble this set, you couldn’t walk out knowing you hadn’t tried.

So you solved.

Not well.

Not fast.

And then, the announcement came four hours later.

They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates

You didn’t move.

You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.

You already knew.

The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediately—cyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.

You’d known before they even collected your paper.

You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.

But you hadn’t notated your base step.

You skipped it.

You proved the process but didn’t state the root value.

No mark.

You lost five points for that.

Five points.

You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.

The margin between first and second place?

Five.

Your name was there. Clear as day.

National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100

People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few weren’t. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how you’d "sat still for too long" during the first page.

First place had 96.

Third had 89.

You didn’t respond.

You’d never placed second before.

You read the number again.

Ninety-one.

Not once.

Not since the beginning.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying.

You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they weren’t fully yours.

You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydei’s. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didn’t turn.

Phainon stopped beside you.

He didn’t say anything.

You didn’t either.

For a moment, the results just... existed between you.

It should’ve been perfect.

That one line.

That one symbol.

That one stupid omission.

The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution they’d print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadn’t been harsh. Just consistent.

You exhaled, slow.

“You already knew?” Phainon asked, voice low.

You nodded.

“I left it blank.”

“You didn’t leave it blank.”

“I left it unanchored.”

Silence.

You didn’t want consolation. Not even from him.

Because this wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a failure.

It was worse.

It was that knife’s edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you can’t even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.

Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.

You didn’t move.

Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.

Phainon stayed with you.

Still silent.

It wasn’t a terrible ending.

You still placed.

You still qualified.

But when you finally walked outside—medal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your back—the world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.

You’d done almost everything right.

Except the part that counted.

You didn’t wait for the team photo.

You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destination—just motion. Just away.

Someone called your name. You didn’t turn.

You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.

“Wait—” Phainon’s voice, breath catching.

You didn’t.

You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.

He caught up anyway.

Of course he did.

“Can you—can you just stop for a second?”

You did.

But not for him.

You stopped because your legs were shaking.

You spun around.

“What.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

You didn’t wait.

“No, really. What do you want, Phainon?” you snapped. “To say it’s okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?”

His expression shifted. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Because I don’t want to hear it.”

You stepped closer.

“I don’t want your version of understanding. I don’t want your... your weird quiet ‘I’m here’ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?”

He didn’t move. Just stared.

“I want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.”

Your hands were shaking. “I missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? It’s mechanical. It’s an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.”

Phainon said nothing.

You hated that.

You hated that he still wouldn’t argue.

“You knew,” you accused, voice low. “You saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.”

“I tried—”

“You watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasn’t in the right state, and you still didn’t stop me from spiraling.”

“I wasn’t going to control you.”

“Maybe you should have!”

It echoed off the buildings.

You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldn’t fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.

“I don’t lose,” you whispered. “I don’t.”

Phainon’s brows knit. “It’s one mistake.”

“To you.”

“Not just to me.”

“Well, I’m not you!” you snapped, voice cracking.

Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.

“Do you know what they’ll say?” you asked bitterly. “That I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I don’t know. Socializing.”

Phainon flinched. Barely.

Your breath caught.

And then, softer: “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.

“I was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because I’m gifted, not because I’m smart—because I fucking worked for it.”

Phainon’s voice came quiet.

“You still did.”

“Don’t,” you warned.

You weren’t ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.

You didn’t want him to understand.

You wanted him gone.

So you said the one thing you knew would stick:

“I can’t stand being around you right now.”

He froze.

You didn’t take it back.

You turned.

You walked.

And this time, he didn’t follow.

It had been a week. Maybe longer.

You didn’t care. You didn’t count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadn’t looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didn’t open the window. Didn’t answer your messages. You couldn’t. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.

You didn’t deserve to hold it.

You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problem—the same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldn’t solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.

You hated that memory now.

You ran through it again.

You hated how close you’d been.

You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say “it needs 42 exactly” out loud—and still blanked.

x₁ = 11, x₂ = 18, x₃ = 14.4 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Almost.

You wanted to punch something.

But you didn’t. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.

Your door creaked.

You didn’t look.

You already knew who it was. He kept doing this now—once a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didn’t say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didn’t have to scream.

But this time was different.

Phainon didn’t leave.

He sat beside you.

Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He sat—right there—on the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you weren’t halfway to a breakdown, like he wasn’t the last person you wanted to see right now.

You didn’t tell him to go.

You just snapped.

“I fucking had it.”

Your voice cracked on the first word. You didn’t care.

“I solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.”

He didn’t speak.

“I said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?”

You stared at the paper.

“You know what I got in Nationals?” You didn’t wait. “A time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and then—then I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.”

Your throat clenched.

“I missed five points. Five points I could’ve solved in my sleep.”

The pencil snapped in your hand.

You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.

“I don’t get second place. I don’t choke. I don’t choke. I was the kind of person who didn’t choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.”

You bit your lip.

“And I blew it. Over one question I’d already seen.”

The silence pressed against your ears.

“I ruined it.”

Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.

Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.

“I hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.”

Your voice dropped.

“I hate that it’s me.”

You felt your chest cave in a little—like air was too much to take in.

“And I can’t stop going over it. I can’t stop. My brain won’t shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.”

You let the pencil fall.

“I lost. I lost. And I can’t even scream because I don’t want anyone to hear how broken I sound.”

The tears came hot. You didn’t wipe them.

You closed your eyes. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning anymore.”

Then—

Warmth.

Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.

Phainon pulled you in.

No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid I’m here for you monologue.

Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided you’d had enough and finally let you collapse.

Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.

You wanted to scream again.

You didn’t.

You just stayed there, held in a silence you didn’t know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:

“…I’m still solving it.”

And he said nothing.

Just held you tighter.

You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.

You’d seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. You’d memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.

And yet you’d missed it.

Your finger hovered over the line again:

x₁ = 10.3, x₂ = 18.6, x₃ = 14.7 10.3 + 11.16 + 20.58 = 42.04

Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.

You swallowed.

This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.

Not the kind of problem written in a book.

The kind of problem that defined your life.

You didn’t say anything at first. What was there to say?

That he used your notation?

That he probably went through your old scratch paper?

That he even wrote like you now—left margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?

That the one thing you hadn’t gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth something—he solved it in your language?

You pressed your palm to your face.

The tears didn’t come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.

You weren’t angry at him.

You were angry that it still mattered this much.

He said nothing.

You finally spoke.

“…You used my margin system.”

A pause.

Then, low and hoarse: “It made the most sense.”

Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.

“I gave up on this.” You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. “And you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have to perform in front of a panel,” he said.

You bit your lip.

“I still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.”

Silence.

“I don’t choke,” you muttered again, voice smaller.

Phainon didn’t argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.

You hated how quiet he was being.

You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.

You hated how real it made everything feel.

“I thought I could… I don’t know. Rebuild it,” you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. “Like if I solved this, just this one… if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.”

He glanced down.

“I didn’t solve it for that,” he said quietly. “I just… kept seeing you staring at it.”

You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.

“It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not.”

Your voice cracked. “It is. It’s one number. A decimal shift. And it’s been clawing at me like—like the loss means I’m less. Like if I didn’t get it, I don’t deserve anything I had before.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Everyone says I’m gifted. That I was made for this. That I was ‘born for precision.’ But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?”

He turned his head, just slightly.

“You.”

You froze.

Phainon’s voice didn’t waver. “You did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.”

You didn’t move.

He continued, gently:

“And you’re still you.”

That pierced deeper than any sympathy would’ve.

Because it wasn’t comfort.

It was truth.

You looked at him for the first time.

He didn’t look triumphant.

He looked exhausted.

Like he’d carried the weight of that number for days—not because it was hard, but because you were.

Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.

You didn’t realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.

You set it down.

“I still lost,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

The tears stung again.

“I hate that I care so much.”

He didn’t respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.

You glanced down at the scratch again.

There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasn’t yours. Solved by someone who wasn’t onstage. Who wasn’t panicking. Who hadn’t been trained for this the way you had.

“I was supposed to be better,” you muttered. “Than them. Than this.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Than me?”

You looked away.

“No,” you admitted. “Than myself.”

The words fell flat, bare, real.

You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.

“That’s the score I needed.”

“It is,” he said softly.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.

Your chest still felt tight.

But not crushed.

You weren’t okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.

And for the first time in over a week, you weren’t reciting the question in your head. You weren’t counting factors on your fingers. You weren’t spiraling through iterations.

You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.

Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldn’t.

Beside someone who didn’t offer forgiveness, because they knew you weren’t asking for it.

Phainon shifted, about to speak—

—but didn’t.

You reached forward.

Picked up the paper.

Folded it once.

Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.

A reminder.

A truth.

The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.

a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr fluff #honkai star rail angst #honkai star rail x you #hsr angst #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon fluff #phainon #hsr headcanons #honkai star rail phainon #hsr

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dexantnaomi-askblog · 2 days ago

Note

Hallooo !! Can I req GN!Reader like Illumina x Forsaken Killers? (platonic ones for CK (and Jason) ^^= (or remove them if you don't feel like it)) Im not sure if I skipped past your character limit req, but if I did, could you do 1x1x1x1, Noli, and Azure ? Thankz u!!!

Wowie i don't think i have a character limit, I'm also having problems on what is gender netrual and who/what is illumina so this took longer than i expected, keep in mind this might be ooc since i don't know who to write killers alot

1x1x1x1/Noli/Azure x reader (All Separate)

Reader is gender netrual ig!(dk what that is im sorry)

!Reader is a survivor since i'm lazy to write killer!reader rn!

1x1x1x1 (aka one to the power of four) (He/They)

He finds you amusing, in a loving way actually

He likes how you destroys everything facing you verbally and scaring off survivors without doing anything, even tho if you don't mean to

Well yes you have stun them multipul times per round but hey! Sometimes he let's you get away with it

But yet they hates you, but why? He hates you because you make him feel something else. You make their chest tight whenever he looks at you and if you stare at them for even just a second his heartbeat rises up to the maximum

Well he has mixed feeling so you can't really blame him

He usually leaves you for last for some reason, but that doesn't mean he'll spare you. When you ask him why he spares you they just replies with a "I want to fight you", yeah you clock his ass in a minute but they find it attractive for some reason

He also likes the way you dress, and they also likes your sword to the point he almost stole them like alot of times

He doesn't trust you with any of the survivors, espically that stinky Shedletsky. They will absoultly decapitate his entire body parts off if he ever get close to you during rounds

Noli (He/him)

Well damn he finds you very attractive for some reason

I mean- you can cut slash everything in your path and even accidently scaring some of the survivors

He somewhat finds it a bit annoying that you keeps a serious face almost all the time, but it makes you hotter i guess

Well once you stun him a bit too hard to the point hes stuck for ten seconds, and i don't think he cared anyway since holy shit you got him to love you more

Sighs and who taugh him how to stalk people because he stalks you during rounds, AND he always leaves you for last

Like damn you will look around trying to figure out where the hell is that music coming from while he would giggle to himself

He somewhat likes the way you dress, it makes you hotter. He also likes your wings. He tried touching them once, and you ended up flinching like a cat and stun him hard. (He stills finds it hot for some reason)

He is still a annoying ahh soundboard tho, your point of veiw to him. He doesn't care and tried flirting with you (Didn't go so well)

He doesn't really care of the other survivors get close you, but if they touch you or flirt with you (Which will probably not happen) ohhh boy they getting chased the entire round until they die

He wouldn't mind if 007n7 gets close to you tho, though Noli will give a warning glare to him

Becareful if your close to him tho he can get a bit freaky sometimes

Azure (He/They)

Well... I think you know how this goes

He some what have trust issue due to some... things happen in the pass but whenever they look at you they can't help but stare at you affectionly

He really like how tough you are, manage to cut slash anything and maybe even scaring some of the survivors off

They also like your looks, your clolthes, your wings and your horns. Basically he like you in general. He really wants to touch your horns but really doesn't want to get stun by you so they just... watches you from the shadows

Ohhhhh he doesn't trust you with two time, they ain't letting you becoming the next sacrfice for a third life for that greedy front-stabbing ex (Even though it may not even happen due to your serious demenor) If two times get close to you, say goodbye to him for the rest of the round cus he's dead

They would always leave you for last for some reason, you don't know why, but he does

Sometimes you find their tentacle wrapped around your waist or leg, you ask them why? He will shruge and not let you go unless you threaten them by slicing his tentacle off (Which always works)

But you'll get used to it eventually

Big sighs, i could have finished this if it wasn't for my mother who wants me to go out early for school and this took wayyy longer than i wanted since i have to do tons of research on how to write a plighting char (Damn it took me an hour to find out), but this is fun to write ^q^

Want a request? Right here!

#forsaken x reader #forsaken #forsaken roblox #roblox forsaken #1x1x1x1 x reader #forsaken x you #forsaken x y/n #noli x reader #azure x reader #answered #answerd ask!#^q^

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changingplumbob · 22 hours ago

Text

Second Round - Day Nine (3PO) 2 of 2

@lostinsixam, @igglemouse, @simstagramsomeone, @daedriyth, @ashubii, @simscici - Sim creators and co-writers

Results based on charisma skill level

Callie (1.50)

Kennedy (1.64)

Kay (1.99)

Jerrica (2.65) - Wins the date

Abigail (3.13)

Lara (3.55) - Bonus points

Kennedy: Can't say I'm surprised, but it sure was fun dressin' up and modelin! Maybe I'll do it some more...

Kay: Aw damn, well I still had fun with this. I hope Deanna still liked how I looked *blushes*

Callie: Ah well, I did try my best!

Kennedy: I really liked your outfit Callie

Kay: I'm surprised you didn't win Kennedy, your outfit was breathtaking

Kennedy: Aww, shucks *blushes*

Devin: Since Lara and Abigail already had dates, that makes you our default winner of the challenge Jerrica

Jerrica: *smiles* So I get the date

Devin: *nods*

Jerrica: Not only did I win, I feel like a character from a fantasy book. I could maybe put forth the effort for this more often

Devin: It is a lot of fun!

Lara: ME?? SERIOUSLY?? Whoa, I was really surprised! Did you see the other participants? They were amazing! I’m so happy I managed to stand out in this challenge. And you came second!

Abby: I did not expect this, but I am, for once, feeling really happy. No sad moodlet can bring me down right now!

Lara: I'm glad you've had a better round

Abby: I suppose we'll have to wait for the commencement ceremony to find out for sure

Jerrica thinks, and chooses to visit the cafe for her date with Deanna.

Deanna: Your costume was beautiful

Jerrica: *smiles* Thank you

Deanna: So secret sea creature... do you think you're mostly lucky or unlucky?

Jerrica: I would consider myself pretty lucky. Despite my lazy nature I've accomplished a lot in life. I have a great family, I have great friends, and I feel like I get to do what I love writing freelance.

Deanna: I'm glad you've found what you enjoy. What's the luckiest thing that's happened to you?

Jerrica: The luckiest thing though would be the fact that someone picked up my application and I ended up here.

Deanna: *blushes* I feel pretty lucky right now to

Deanna: Can we get deep for a bit? My family believe in the watcher but I know not everyone does. Do you believe in fate, you know, destiny? Or do you think we're all at the mercy of some watcher?

Jerrica: I feel like we are in the mercy of some watcher in a way. I feel like sometimes I am a character in someone elses book, just waiting on the pages to turn

Deanna: I know what that feels like

Jerrica: Sometimes things almost feel fated but is it fate? Or is it just decisions leading us here?... Ok that felt way too philisophical for me

Deanna: *chuckling* Writers think deep thoughts

Jerrica: *smiles* I suppose it's good to know that I can

Deanna: Say you can live anywhere. Where would you live?

Jerrica: I love Windenberg!

Deanna: Oh yeah? Luna and her family are from there. What do you like about it?

Jerrica: The weather is nice and cool, there's so many cute cafes and restaurants and even neat historical sites to visit. Even if I tend to be a homebody I feel like it would be a nice place to put down roots

Deanna: It's a romantic place

Jerrica: *smiles* Exactly

Deanna: I have to say I like being in Tartosa because it's close to my family. I could be persuaded to move if it was to somewhere stable, not constant packing and unpacking

Jerrica: I may have preferences but I have no strong ties to any particular world. Even Jerrod had talked about setting up his yoga practice in Mt Komorebi before he had signed up for Simply Lilac, so I would have had to travel anyways

Deanna: I'm the same, being more connected to people than places

Jerrica: *smiles* I enjoy the beaches of Tartosa as well and you would be happy so I could compromise

Deanna: I have heard good things about Windenburg though

Jerrica: From Luna?

Deanna: *grins* From you just now

Jerrica: *laughs* I should have realised that

When everyone is back at the villa it's time to work on their skills. While some challenges are more up to luck, there are some that are influenced a lot by skill. This is the last chance they have to study before the group day challenge, and the next round if they advance.

Lara and Abigail both choose to work on their commedy skill. While Lara scours the internet Abby buries herself in a joke book. Why did the ostrich cross the road? Callie turns to her mirror and works on her charisma. It's likely just low because of her socially awkward trait, she can improve. Jerrica practices something else in the mirror, research and debate! Kay chooses to sharpen up her logical pursuits while Kennedy goes for the soft approach, nectar making!

Devin: What are you making?

Deanna: Gumbo... I hope

Devin: How did the date go with Jerrica? You were smitten last round

Deanna: *grins* I like her a lot. I don't know, maybe I'm just off my game this round because I worry I didn't make it to gold level

Devin: Contestants could be having nerves as well

Deanna: So long as they haven't all given up on me

As it's the groups last day together before the group challenge, final dates, and commencement ceremony, we again head to the spa. Reece (Deanna's best friend) welcomes everyone and escorts them to the meditation area in the back garden. There he leads a guided meditation

Reece: Close your eyes and become aware of your breathing... picture a place that makes you feel calm. It might be the beach, the woods, behind a beloved screen or in front of one...

Reece: Repeat to yourself after me... my worth remains no matter what others may think of me

The meditation session concludes and the women take time to stretch themselves awake.

Jerrica: Thanks for that Reece

Reece: You're welcome

Kennedy: You can make a career out of this?

Reece: We'll see. I really like living in Moonwood Mill but... not a lot of we- people, want to focus on their zen there yet

After yoga it's time for dinner, grilled by Deanna herself. The group moves to the picnic area.

Deanna: So I attempted to make some Gumbo

Callie: Smells delicious

Lara: *eating intensely*

Kay: How did you and Reece meet?

Deanna: Oh we've been friends forever

Reece: When we were toddlers we lived a block over from each other. And our older sisters are best friends. And my sister and her brother actually

Kennedy: The friendship is in the family then?

Deanna: Although... Emi and Carson...

Reece: Yeah I don't blame her, Carson is a loser. Now official because he was on the most losing team in history of Total Drama Sims

Kay: I'm sure he loves you mentioning it

Reece shrugged and ate while Lara took time to blow Deanna a kiss, right in front of Callie, just to make sure she was calmer. No slaps! Abigail meanwhile had decided she wanted to go have her dinner on the edge of the fountain at the front of the spa...

When the food is finished the group get to experience the main reason for the spa trip - a chance to relax and let go of stress or tension from the competition.

Everyone gets a face mask! Some get massages, some steam in the spa and other relax in the massage chairs. Autonomy is set to full and Deanna always starts in the massage chairs, since those relaxing in the spa normally start chatting pretty quickly.

Kay: I hope the group challenge is something nice. I'd really like a date

Lara: Are you worried for your position?

Kay: A little, I don't excell at standing out in crowds like you do

Lara: You're super nice Kay, that comes across

...

Jerrica: Maybe I should try fantasy next

Abby: It's a lot of fun, I won't speak against it

Jerrica: It's just... so... much... work

Abby: *laughing*

Deanna removes her face mask feeling refreshed. Since Abby and Jerrica are content relaxing she walks around for a bit. She decides not to disturb the sauna and checks downstairs. Kennedy and Callie are loving their massages though so back upstairs she goes.

Deanna: Hi! Could I please have a drink

Bartender: What will it be

Deanna: Hmm.. surprise me?

It would appear everyone is too relaxed for talking at the end of the day. I can't blame them, socializing takes energy. Oh Jerrica does go downstairs! Not to talk to Kennedy and Callie, but to get a glass of milk to go drink outside beside Reece. Should we tell her his opinions don't do anything at this stage?

#sims 4 #the sims #simblr #my sims #ts4 #active simblr #DatingDeanna #DatingDeannaRound2

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thattimdrakeguy · 19 hours ago

Text

Some REALLY Good Examples of Some GREAT Character Writing, and Even ART!

Hi, if you follow my blog, you'll notice I already posted some of these panels. Sadly, I was comparing them to another ongoing comic book series adjacent to this series that had some triggering elements in it.

I'm not joking, you'll actually learn a great lesson in writing from this post. You'll just have to trust me on this.

And I wanted more people to be able to see how much I adore this kind of writing, and to help, maybe even inspire other upcoming writers or amateurs how to do something right, instead of sitting on my butt complaining and pointing out when people don't do something right.

What we have here is a set-up.

This may seem obvious, but you'd be surprise how many writers, especially professional current writers avoid the things that make this good. It's only three panels, but they're excellent, both in writing, and art.

First thing I want you to take notice of is the unique voice Tim has here. Now it's not unique like Yoda is unique, but you wouldn't write Batman to talk like this, or Damian Wayne, or Cassandra Cain, or even Dick Grayson who talks in more ordinary fashion as well.

It's a very boyish and almost dorky tone to it. Very youthful, and anxious with a dash of confidence. It's very specific to the character of Tim. So in a well-written comic, if you didn't see who was talking, you'd still be able to tell who was talking.

It's hard to see this nowadays, because, well, people are lazy and write everyone the same way.

Second thing I want to point out is the art, that's Tim Drake.

Obvious statement I assume. But notice how you can recognize instantly without worry how that's Tim Drake? I don't even let you see his costume here, you see a cape and mask. But yet odds are you still could tell that's Tim Drake.

This is why I go on and on about character appearances so much. It adds a lot when you can immediately recognize a character. That is specifically Tim's nose (look back to his origin story to see what i mean, it's a button nose very similar to this one), with Tim's babyface, with Tim's middle part, and Tim's small stature.

Now, both the writing, and art can only belong to Tim. STRENGTHENING how identifiable he is as an individual.

This is amazing work, because easy identification makes a character stand out more. And the more a character stands out, the more recognizable they are. And the more recognizable the better, because that means the reader is more likely to have an attachment to them! Which is fantastic, because now they have a new thing they love, and if you're writing it, you get money from their love! How wonderful!

I put this here to break up the text, and because it's another great Tim moment, and shows some of the build up to the set-up I talked about. Also shows how you can keep the fun up by including elements of your characters personality in the process! The more you can do it the better! Just think of Indiana Jones, and he's totally different from Tim Drake.

(This is why I'll yell into the void about how auctioning off Tim's traits to other Robins has been such a faulty thing that does none of them any good. Now people will be constantly confused in art as to who is who, because no one's unique anymore. It's a lottery if Tim himself will even look like himself, because thanks to some bad writers and talented--but misguided artists I'll say (because they are talented) gave some of Tim's physical traits to Damian. Which I'm sure is ridiculous to you too if you've read enough of these characters, and become aware how they're sort of purposely the exact opposite of one another, made all the more weird because they're also betraying what Damian's meant to look like. So nobody even gains anything. Others will wonder what the F I'm talking about. But you'll just have to trust me on this. This comic came out before Damian even debuted for crying out loud. You really can't argue against what I'm saying.)

But point three: THE CHARACTER WORK--

Basic good character work is putting a character in a position to show off either their personality traits, or skill traits. And what makes this in particular, a really good example is because it's also in a suspense/action scene, the best kind of action scene.

He's stuck in a hard place and as a reader, you're wondering how he's gonna get out of it! That's tricky for a comic book!

Made all the more suspenseful when this is the next page

So you don't even get to cheat and flip ahead right away to see what's going on!

And the fun part is, when you look back at the page before... the answer is right there in front of you. Go back to the set-up at the top of the post. It's not in the foreground, Tim is so you're focused on him more so, but in front of him clearly highlighted by doorway...is the answer, and you might miss that on your first go.

So when you see this--

FOUR PAGES AFTER, may I add. It skips to a whole subplot in between to keep the tension up.

You'll go back to see how Tim got this clever plan of his, and you can see that you could figure it out on your own too!

It's engaging the audience! And making them interact with the comic! It's magnificent! And super simple too.

And as character work, not just writing, the best part is it highlights one of Tim's biggest strengths, how clever he is.

This isn't Teen Titans (2003) coming out at the same time, randomly making him a super genius out of no where, because they weren't clever in their own right to think of character worthy stuff like this.

It's just using the established character to give you a great moment, that you'll have fond memories of and want to reread again.

Which is ultimately one of the main goals of any writer, comic or not!

I mean look at plucky young dweeb Timothy Wayne here. He seems pleased with all of it.

With any luck, I hope you've learned something from this post, and I hope you've also had/will have a good day. <3

Remember, anybody can write--well, almost anybody. But what makes a good writer, is someone that can look deep in themselves and find some creativity and wit to add to their tale.

A weak writer has to overcompensate and odds are will leave an unsatisfactory or even lousy taste in people's mouths.

So don't always think big!

'Cause sometimes it's the small, that makes things truly great!

#Tim Drake #Robin #DC Comics #Bat-Family #Batfamily

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tryingtofindmycomputer · 10 hours ago

Text

I'm too lazy to finish my wips but I'll let them free otherwise who know how long I would keep them as my skeletons in the closet (they're coming out, they're gay ur honor)

The prompt I came up with is that Shen Yuan plays a dating simulator based on PIDW but for girls and ends up transmigrated in it. (End game ship is scumcum cuz they're my little miaw miaws.)

Yes, Shen Yuan knows! The absolute embarrassment of a righteous cultivator setting that the original novel was, with thousands of beauties to be lost in the flowerbed, is being advertised as a dating sim?! Towards girls?? Unthinkable!

Shen Yuan doesn't see the appeal and wonders if whoever agreed with this was high off their kite! He bought the game anyways.

Don't get him wrong, he's not a masochist. He just wanted to see if he could find out more about the characters between all of the horrendous plot holes.

Who was he kidding? Himself! That absolute trash novel gave birth to the trashiest game ever! No contest for first place when you hold all of the seats at the podium of the horrorlympics.

Shen Yuan tried to find out more about each character because the novel was just a lake of red herrings, even if it still wasn't finished, but all of the cultivators ended up getting killed by Luo Binghe by the time he got even remotely close to romance between any of them.

At first he was okay with it since it was the stallion protagonist conquering his destiny and marrying his destined wife but there were only so many routes you could finish with Luo Binghe without it looking like lazy writing. This monstrosity was the same as the novel! Started out with good plot but ended up making him regret ever thinking the author of the book behind this game could be anything but a suck-up to perverts!

Yue Qingyuan? Dead. Wei Qingwei? Dead. Gongyi Xiao? Dead(??). Ming Fan? Dead. Liu Qingge? Dead... Well, that wasn't Binghe's fault. Shang Qinghua? Dead... That one also wasn't quite Binghe's fault. Mu Qingfang? Who even knows! Alive somewhere despite his sect being literally massacred. Shen Qingqiu? Dead, maybe?? In this point in time?? But he deserved it!

Oh! Don't even mention how he couldn't choose to be a guy! They didn't give him a choice, the hacks!! The beauty (read: amoeba) he was playing always ends up married to that bride snatcher, Luo Binghe!

And there are soooo many papapa scenes! The quality is not even good, where the fuck did all of the budget go except to animate papapa? Who did they even pay? They were scammed! Robbed! Swindled! Shen Yuan is sure people don't bend like that! The moment those scenes appeared? Literal jumpscare.

Shen Yuan found out last minute the game did not have a censoring feature so he was assaulted by Luo Binghe's heavenly pillar. You couldn't imagine the horror in his face at realizing that would enter someone's body. He was beginning to understand why Binghe's wives started to lose their iq the more time they spent in the harem. No space for them when they had to accommodate that thing! Some of them daily too! What are these proportions? Not human and shouldn't be justifiable, absolute bullshit! It's bigger than his forearm!!

The only thing that they did right is commissioning the original artist of the novel and merch to draw the backgrounds and character pictures when they're not... moving. The NPGs basically.

Who even is this fan service directed to?? Whoever tries to watch this will get turned off by the sheer amount of weird illogical poses and unnecessary ads littered everywhere. Sell-offs! Also, how is she, meaning his character, not at a gynecologist or something similar?!

Anyways, after trying all possible routes unfortunately leading to Luo Binghe, he has found a special character! Shen Yuan had found you could date Shen Qingqiu, the scum villain who deserves to be castrated.

Shen Yuan had just started Shen Jiu's love route by becoming a Qing Jing disciple (because why not, it's not real life) but he is sure the guy deserved at least some of the torture he got. Shen Yuan can't even keep count of the amount of times the guy has gotten on his nerves. May that bastard walk on guqins barefoot until he repents!

The game was wrong here too! They characterized him wrong, the antagonist did not even try anything with his character even though Shen Yuan had upgraded all of his beauty's stats to literal succubus-charm-your-pants-off.

He doesn't understand why the scum villain isn't jumping him when his beauty is at blows-your-socks-off levels, he thought the guy was perving on his students but whoever made this game probably didn't read some parts of PIDW or was a scum apologist. Divine retribution to whoever wrote this excuse of a game storyline. Ah, my script!

Probably one of those hare-brained people Shen Yuan wrote whole essays to, scathing them and the villain who should be castrated. The story that is barely found between all of the bad papapa was, after all, to show Luo Binghe's rise to power and inflicting justice against his past bullies and scum shizun! They gave him a ticket to becoming an invincible protag, he gives them a ticket to get their lives ruined. Easy logic.

Shen Yuan kept ranting in his head, too furious to notice the snack he had gotten for himself had already long ago expired.

He ate his pork bun too angrily, too stiff and yet still cursing out the novel and disgustingly named author, and didn't notice until it was too late how his healthy body couldn't take such abuse.

"Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel, dumbfuck game!"

These were the last word Shen Yuan could curse before he died.

Who would have thought a strong young man of a wealthy family would die this way after spending so much money on a specific stallion novel. At least he did before the dating game became the one mostly draining his bank account. Even so, it was not even out of natural causes like his own body failing on its own out of old age. No, it just had to be because he didn't notice what he was eating!

Shen Yuan was too angry he felt he could come back from the dead only to haunt the authors of the game, but especially give Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky a heart attack. He would make sure to haunt that hack writer's dreams even if it's the last thing he does.

Into the darkness he went, he couldn't feel anything. He couldn't see anything.

Then, a sudden but clear noise came from somewhere inside the void.

[ Activation code: 'Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel, dumbfuck game'. Automatically triggering system. ]

Shen Yuan looked around but could not find where the ai-like voice was coming from. 'System? Like a-'

[ We welcome your entrance into the system. This system is based on the developing concept of 'You can you up, no can no BB'. We hope to provide you with the best experience. It is our sincere hope that during the course of your experience, you can achieve what you desired. To transform a piece of stupid writing in accordance to your wishes into a high-end, impressive, and high-grade classic work (of porn). We pray for your happiness. ]

Amidst the dizziness, Shen Yuan could hear someone, a voice, close to him. It was asking, "...–Shidi! Can you hear me? —

(that's all I have)

#jiuyuan #svsss #the scum villain's self saving system #shen yuan #shen jiu #fanfic #rough draft #i will stand by the fact shen yuan was healthy #(i say as everyone else who headcanons him sick for angst drags me into an asylum)

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slamncram · 3 days ago

Text

you hear me realize - 2.6k words - Stavier

Well, it's been a few years since I wrote (and posted!) fic for any fandom, but @andlatitude and I recently rewatched Narcos... And then started rewatching it again. And are about to start rewatching it... again. One thing led to another, and, honestly, who was I to refuse when the motivation to write came surging back? Starting off with this little bit of stupid, yearning men - but there will absolutely be more to come. Got the bug, now. Theoretically, I cannot be stopped. (Also, teeechnically I'm waiting until tomorrow to post the second part of this on ao3, but I'm just going to put the whole bit here, because I'm feeling both giving and lazy! So... Enjoy!)

also on ao3

______________

Maybe the heat was getting to him.

That, he knew, was a stretch as far as an explanation went. Steve Murphy had been living, working, and hunting down drug dealers, in Miami, for Christsakes. Heat was something he could handle. It didn’t make him crazy. Hell, Bogotá was usually cooler than Miami on any given day. Medellin? That was basically business as usual.

But, if he lied to himself long enough, maybe it could explain things. He just needed to be able to turn a blind eye and ignore the truth he was all too familiar with, and blaming the heat gave him the ability to do just that, if only to himself.

Surely assigning the heat, some other, outside factor, to this would work. It was only because everything was new, and he was still settling. Colombia was a foreign country, where he didn’t know anyone, really, outside the embassy staff, and any touchstone he could get outside of the apartment he and Connie had moved into, any person that he felt a connection with, of course he was going to get attached.

Maybe he was just reading too much into it. That would be the best scenario.

“You all right?”

“Hm?”

It was an altogether useless response, and Steve knew it. He could see the way Javier Peña’s eyebrows furrowed just slightly as he stood just inside the door to their office, fresh mug of coffee in hand, and knew that he, too, wasn’t sold on that. It wasn’t like Steve to not be on it.

“Ah, yeah, yeah, just…” Steve shrugged, waved a hand. Sitting forward at his desk he turned back to face it, staring down at the photos he’d been looking at, before.

Before Javi had gotten up, walked away, and made Steve start hoping that the completely familiar heat in this country, mixed with being a fish out of water, was just getting to him. It was telling, to him at least, that he hadn’t flipped away from the photo on the very top of the stack since Javi had left their office, minutes ago.

Unlikely that Javi would have been looking that closely, though. The photos Steve developed weren’t usually his concern until Steve started waving them under his nose.

“Thinking.”

“Huh.”

Glancing up, Steve could tell that Javi was aware there was more to it than that. ‘Thinking’ was hardly an explanation from Steve, and he knew that already, even though they’d only been working together a few weeks.

To his credit, though, he didn’t push it.

And Steve liked that, about Javi. He pushed it when he needed to. Right now, he didn’t need to.

Neither of them needed him to do that.

“Well, don’t do too much of that, yeah? You might—“

“—hurt myself? Yeah, Javi, I’ve never heard that joke before.”

It was hard to look away from the grin that broke out on Javi’s face, but Steve did, flipping him off as he went back to what he’d been working on. That only made Javi’s laugh, when it came, a little louder, as he went to his own desk again.

Thankfully, he sat down and shut up, and let Steve focus.

Focus was something that was getting harder these days, too, and he knew he shouldn’t ignore it. Sure, he was driven, and he was motivated. He wanted to catch and deal with these son of a bitch narcos just as badly as he had when he’d first landed in Bogotá.

But, that didn’t change that sometimes, some nights, hell, some days, focus seemed to enjoy going in and out like a bad radio signal. He couldn’t get a handle on it, and maybe that was because he was spending countless hours with the person that was causing the issue.

Admitting that, though, admitting that maybe it wasn’t just fish out of water syndrome, felt dangerous, because Steve knew that meant he needed to look another diagnosis in the mouth and stop pretending.

Give up on the illusion that there wasn’t a hint of obsession lurking in the corners of all of this.

Obsession was a hell of a thing. Steve couldn’t afford to let it creep in, but he could tell, despite his best efforts, it was. Admittedly, maybe his best efforts weren’t much, but they were something. Day after day, slowly, but surely, he could feel it settling in, making itself more comfortable and, in the process, making him less so.

It was different from the obsession to nail these assholes, too. That was like someone had dangled a perfectly cooked steak in front of him and he was a starving dog. This was…

Steve glanced at Javi, settled back in at his desk, then back down at the photos.

This wasn’t unlike that.

It was just something he hadn’t really thought about in a while. Since his early twenties, at least. And not like this.

That was then. This was now, and this was Colombia and the goddamn cartels and there was way too much on his plate to be getting distracted.

Distracted by the sound of Javi moving, shifting papers, opening drawers, digging a paper clip out of a cup on the edge of his desk, flipping a folder closed. Distracted by the sound of him pulling in a breath, the kind that preceded words.

Steve knew the sound of his name – any damn part of his name – passing those lips too damn well, already.

“Murphy.”

There it was.

Looking up again, Steve made eye contact with Javi. How long had he been watching him? He’d been over there, working, filing, and yet, somehow, Steve felt like he’d been caught. Not that he was giving anything away. He hadn’t been sitting over here with his Javier Peña-related personal concerns written all over his face.

Probably.

It felt like he could’ve been, though, with the way Javi was looking him over. That simmering heat under Steve’s skin flared for a few long seconds, daring him to do something stupid, to say something fucking stupid, before he reigned it in and shoved it away. Ignoring it, again.

In general, ignoring it was not going as well as he’d hoped. He needed to get better at that.

“You want to get a drink tonight? Unless something good happens in the next two hours, I’d call today a bust. A bust calls for a drink or three.”

Say no.

Would be easy.

He had excuses.

“Sure.”

Javi’s smile was reason enough to have not said no. Confident, assured, clearly pleased as he sat back in his chair, the wooden frame creaking under his relaxed weight. Probably, he had expected Steve to say no, but, here they were, and Steve would be an idiot to pretend there wasn’t a part of him that was intrigued to see that Javi seemed pleased with that easy, unloaded ‘sure’.

“Don’t got any other plans. Might as well work on getting even more sick of you.”

Javi snorted, shaking his head and glancing towards their office door. Steve pretended not to be watching his profile, taking in the sight of his smile from this angle, before Javi turned back, leaning forward again. Back to business now that their evening plans were made. Easy as that.

“Funny. That’s the whole reason I asked you in the first place.”

That, Steve thought idly, might actually be as big of a lie as the one Steve himself had just told.

But time would be the judge of that.

_____

Javier Peña was not a man who was prone to being driven to distraction.

Oh, there were probably those who would say otherwise. People who didn’t agree with some of his methods, assuming that he was going all on nothing butdistraction, and leaving nothing to motivation or garden variety investigation. He was fine with letting those people have their interpretations.

It didn’t get in the way of him doing his job.

If he was being honest, this didn’t get in the way of him doing his job, either.

If anything, it was a bit of added incentive to show up every day, and it had been a while since Javi had thought he could ever need or want something like that.

He was no stranger to it, of course. Steve Murphy, awful Spanish speaker, brilliant DEA agent that he was, wasn’t the first man that Javi had looked at and thought something beyond the usual ‘yep, that sure is another man’. It was old news, really. Happened now and then, and life went on.

But what Steve was, however, was the first man in a while that got under Javi’s skin in a way he hadn’t planned for. A partner, someone to track down the narcos and their sicarios with, that was what he’d bargained for.

What he’d gotten, he couldn’t entirely put his finger on. He liked Steve. More than he should. Liked his drawl and his stupid polo shirts, and the way he held a cigarette between his fingers. Liked his smile and his affinity for good whiskey, and the fact that he’d fallen into sync with Javi so easily, because he refusednotto be in it with both feet.

Maybe that was what made this such a problem. Lately.

It hadn’t been at the start, but gradually, over the course of pouring over tips, and following leads, and sitting in cold cars waiting for late night informants, a problem had formed, and Javi wasn’t sure what to do about it, now.

Spending hours on hours together, in cars and on the streets and in this office, though, that wasn’t helping him keep his head clear. Under the guise of reading over what he’d just put down with his typewriter, Javi watched Steve.

Driven to distraction, caught up in the way his fingers slid between the photos he was checking, callused fingertips flicking at the edges while he squinted at them.

Maybe coffee at this hour wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“Be back.”

Javi stood up, moving around his desk, heading for the door.

Before he pulled it open, he could make out the shape of Steve’s silhouette in the glass, his head turned, eyes watching Javi without a word as he left.

That.

That was why this was becoming more of a problem.

Javier Peña was not a stupid man. He knew when a woman was looking at him like she wanted him, and he knew when she was doing that because he was paying for the illusion of it. He knew when men were looking at him with annoyance, or envy, or amazement.

The way Steve Murphy looked at him…

He couldn’t place that. Sometimes it was nothing, but other times he had a bad feeling that his distraction was running away with him.

At top speed.

It was insane to get to thinking about things like that, anyway. Steve Murphy was a straight man, had to be. A straight married man, and Javi was fairly sure there were a lot of things said in a whole lot of moral codes about things like that. It might not have been the sort of thing he, personally, felt he needed to adhere rigidly to, but there was no pretending that a lot of people did, and he liked Connie.

All this he turned over in his head as he poured hot black coffee into a mug, ignoring the chatter of voices around him, other embassy staff coming and going from this room. They all had their own issues to worry about, and so did he.

Which was why he really shouldn’t be letting his mind wheel away from him, agonizing over Steve fucking Murphy.

Leaving the coffee machine with only a mug for himself felt like a victory, in that sense. He wasn’t bringing Steve coffee, wasn’t thinking about him at all. Like all distractions, this one would eventually fade, and Javier could get back to focusing completely on work when he was at work.

It was a funny joke for him to tell himself, he thought, as he stepped back into their office to find Steve much the way he’d left him, staring, unseeing, at a spot on the wall to the left of the door, side of one of his fingers brushing back and forth across his lower lip. His other hand had drifted, forearm braced on his thigh, wrist limp, fingers dangling by his knee. The universal position for being lost in thought, but a quick glance at the photos on the desk top showed that he hadn’t flipped through them since Javi had left.

“You all right?”

Steve’s ‘hm?’ in response, that quiet, questioning sound, like he really hadn’t heard Javi, said it all. Frowning slightly, Javi waited for him to expand on that, telling himself that Steve had absolutely not looked caught for a second.

“Ah, yeah, yeah, just...”

A shrug, a wave of the hand, that southern drawl trailing off as Steve sat forward again and seemed to realize that he’d left the photos waiting, unexamined, unchanged.

Maybe that was just Javi’s interpretation.

“Thinking.”

“Huh.”

That was an easy one to pick up. Steve had left himself wide open, and Javi chose to focus on that, over the way Steve looked, questioning and a little cautious, maybe, when he looked up again, meeting Javi’s eyes.

“Well, don’t do too much of that, yeah? You might—”

Javi had seen Steve’s expression change, watched the way the smile crept in at the corner of his mouth, before he cut him off with, “—hurt myself? Yeah, Javi, I never heard that joke before.”

Easy. Simple. In sync.

Javi grinned, letting himself laugh when Steve flipped him off. Dropping back into his own desk chair, he set down his coffee mug and glanced over the paper still sitting trapped in the typewriter, just waiting for him to retrieve it, stamp it and file it away to land on someone else’s desk for review.

Getting back to work was the easiest thing, now, so he did, doing all of that and loading more into the folder as he did, other reports, other documents. Steve had left a stack of photos on his desk, earlier, and he slid a paperclip on to them, adding them in and closing the folder.

“Murphy.”

The sound of his own voice almost surprised him, the name having come out before he’d actually decided to interrupt his partner’s work. Ignoring the obvious distraction had lasted all of ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

He was getting better.

Looking Steve over, his relaxed posture, the open buttons at the collar of his shirt, the way his watch glinted in the shitty lighting above them, he had to congratulate himself. Anything better than five minutes had to be considered a win, at this point.

“You want to get a drink tonight? Unless something good happens in the next two hours, I’d call today a bust. A bust calls for a drink or three.”

For a long second, Javi thought there was a good chance Steve was going to say no. He had plans, he needed to go home, he was tired, anything. It would have all been understandable, and legitimate, and, really, Javi had no leg to stand on, asking for any more of Steve’s time.

“Sure.”

Pretending not to like that answer wasn’t in the cards, no matter how much Javi had told himself he wasn’t going to dislike any answer he got. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled as Steve continued.

“Don’t got any other plans.”

Interesting.

“Might as well work on getting even more sick of you.”

Javi snorted, shaking his head and looking towards their office door. If he looked too amused, was someone going to show up, there, and call him on it?

“Funny.”

Looking back at Steve, Javi raised an eyebrow, leaning forward again to focus on his work.

“That’s the whole reason I asked you, in the first place.”

Things would get easier, eventually. Javi was sure of that.

But, for now, he’d take the minor difficulties in stride.

What else was he supposed to do?

#stavier #steve murphy #javier peña #javier x steve #narcos #fic by me #listen I got to eaaaase into it before I go full bore on this #but the full bore is coming #and also I just like messing around in the minds of idiot men #just kiss already etc etc etc

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shiyorin · 2 years ago

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I just read your summer flash fic and I love it. It's basically every anime summer vacation arc like you said lol. And it got me thinking about primarch x reader in dating sim but it's event summer vacation. And maybe we'll have sex on the ocean lmao.

Thank you. Honestly I didn't think of that. But stop give me new idea (I like it) and welcome to the....

Primarchs dating sim (but it's a summer vacation event and definitely not dating sim)

You had no idea how you had gotten roped into this ridiculous outing. One moment you had been escorting the Regent to an important meeting, the next you were being ushered onto a ship bound for some "paradise world."

And now, you are still not sure how you'd ended up here, on this so-called "vacation". The Emperor and Malcador had decided the heroes of the Great Crusade deserved a respite. And your duty required you remain at Malcador's side. So here you were, clad in the "swimsuit" as Malcador had called it (You had protested, but Malcador had insisted, commenting that the sun deserved to gaze upon your radiance.) while wearing an enormous sunhat and lounging under an umbrella.

You sighed, adjusting your sunglasses as you stared out at the seemingly endless expanse of beach and turquoise sea. Sparkling white sands stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with luxuriant palm trees swaying in the tropical breeze.

And of course, there were the Primarchs. All of them, lounging about in various states of undress as they enjoyed this paradise world. Even the Emperor himself was present, reclining regally upon an ornate beach chair.

Truly a sight to behold.

You snorted to yourself. A day off, indeed. More like a day of torture for you. You hated the sun beating down, reddening your skin. Hated the sand that got everywhere, clinging irritatingly. Hated the saltwater touching your skin. The whole enterprise seemed utterly absurd.

You had scowled, but duty is duty. Now you lay beneath the shade of your umbrella, watching with surreptitious glances as the others splashed in the surf, swam in the cerulean waves or lounged upon the beach. And keeping a watchful eye on Malcador. The old man was snoring peacefully, oblivious to the antics of the Emperor and his sons.

A gush of water indicated one of the primarchs had been thrown into the sea. They tussled and laughed like young giants, heedless of the damage their play could cause. The Emperor watched with a smile, still radiating power and majesty even in this casual state.

You crossed your arms, glaring at the sea. Malcador mumbled something in his sleep, rolling onto his side. You grunted, briefly contemplating pulling the umbrella down on top of him.

You sighed again. The sun beat down relentlessly, heating the already-warm sands while waves crashed in a never-ending din. You longed for the cool silence of the Librarium, of pouring over ancient tomes in dim shadows. This place felt strange, unwelcoming.

After a time, Malcador opened his eyes and noticed your state. "Enjoying yourself, my child?"

You raised an eyebrow at him over your sunglasses. "You know I don't like such frivolities, my Lord."

Malcador chuckled. "All work and no play, eh? Even I agree a break is well-deserved now and then."

You scoffed. "Breaks such as sand in uncomfortable places, bothersome insects, and skin burnt lobster-red by sun?"

Malcador laughed at that. "You do have a way with words, my sharp-tongued child. But tell me, what do you think of them?" He gestured to where the Primarchs continued their aquatic battle.

Despite herself, Your eyes were drawn to them. Even splashing in the surf, their dignified aura remained. They threw back his head and laughed, droplets of water glistening on wide shoulders and chiseled form.

You heard Malcador's knowing chuckle beside you. "Ah, so even you appreciates true excellence, it seems."

You sighed. "They are... warriors."

Malcador patted your shoulder. "Take care, my child. Even the greatest works do not guard against a kind word, or smile from someone like you."

With that cryptic statement, Malcador stood up and wandered off to join the Emperor.

You gazed out at the beach once more. The Primarchs continued their play, drawing ever closer to where you sat. As one approached, he paused. You and his eyes met. You lifted a hand in the smallest of waves. After a moment, he smiled and waved in return.

You smiled, turning your face up to the hated sun's warmth. You still hate this place but maybe it's not too bad.

[CHOOSE YOUR ROUTE]

#shiyorin's answer #wh40crack.#reader insert #lol #romantic stuff in 40k #Choose your route #Maybe I will write more if I'm not too lazy

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a-most-beloved-fool · 6 months ago

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Kira has a nightmare, one night when she's staying at the O'Brien's. Miles and Keiko, sleeping in the other room, don't hear her get up - but Molly does.

And Molly, being clever and kind, knows exactly what to do when someone has a nightmare. (Or, at least, she knows what her parents always do for her.) So she sits Kira down and brings her a glass of warm milk, and sits by her side as she drinks it.

Then, she takes Kira by the hand and leads her - to her parents bedroom. "I always sleep with mommy and daddy after a nightmare," she explains, when Kira stops outside the door. "It helps! Mommy chases the scary things away. And Daddy is warm."

"Molly," Kira says quietly, a little embarrassed, "I don't think your parents want me in their bed. Even if I did have a nightmare."

"No, they won't mind!" Molly assures.

Then, of course, Miles wakes up.

"Molly?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, but Miss Kira did!"

And now Keiko's awake, too, sitting up and saying, "Nerys? Are you alright?"

Mortified, Kira says, "Yes, I'm fine, I was just - on my way back to bed. Molly brought me here. I'm - sorry for waking you. I'll just be-"

"You can stay, if you want," Miles offers.

Kira doesn't quite think she heard him right. "What?"

"You can sleep here, if you think it might help," Keiko says.

"Or even if you don't!" Miles adds.

Kira opens her mouth, then closes it again. "I, uh-"

Keiko gets up, and takes Kira, gently, by the hand. Her palm is soft, Kira can't help but notice.

"Brr, it's freezing out here!" Keiko says, tugging Kira along. "You'd better get in before you catch your death of cold. Miles is practically a furnace, so you'll be nice and warm with us."

"And, Molly, you'd best go back to bed, too. You've got school in the morning," Miles says, as Keiko bundles Kira into the bed between them.

As Molly makes her way out, Keiko swings a lazy arm over Kira's back. "Sleep," she hums. "We'll be here in the morning."

Kira, feeling warm and cared for and more than a little overwhelmed, does.

#tbh molly may be a bit too old for this to be fully in character at this point #UNLESS she knows Exactly what she's doing and is simply Plotting to get her parents to kiss their crush #also i don't remember if molly is still saying 'mommy' and 'daddy' at that point? we might just not see her talk much at all #i think molly's like. um. 9? maybe? at that point which means that i'm for sure writing her too young #or maybe not. idk. i don't know enough about kids to write them well lmao. i'm tryin my best. what are “children”.#does this count as a ficlet? maybe. idk. it's not my real writing style but i guess it's still a ficlet.#anyways this is a free fic idea if anyone wants to do it more justice #since i don't think i'll ever flesh it out and save it from my Lazy Tumblr Post writing style #star trek #ds9 #star trek deep space nine #kira nerys #keiko o'brien #miles o'brien #molly o'brien #the o'brien polycule #kira x miles x keiko #is there a good tag for this ship? an accepted ship name? tell me if it exists because i do not know it

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somegrumpynerd · 8 months ago

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Do you guys wanna see a thing I tried writing? It's pretty unfinished and I don't think I will finish it but it was fun to play with and it might be okay as a lil snippet! I also have like no energy for drawing right now but I wanna post something lol

(The context is Cross and Killer are alone on a mission in some unspecified au when Killer goes stage 3)

“Killer?”

Cross looked over when he got no response, half expecting Killer to have wandered off in some direction as he did on these longer jobs. His loyalty to Nightmare was often at war with his attention span in the field, and you could expect a job to take longer if it was anywhere a cat was liable to appear.

What he didn’t expect was to catch sight of Killer’s wildly fluctuating soul glinting in the reflection of the knife that was coming right for him.

Cross managed to lunge back just in time for the knife to arc downwards into the snow in his place. Its wielder slowly turned his head, tracking the path to where Cross was now. His empty eye sockets gushed with more ooze than usual, stare somehow colder than the ice he was now shaking from his blade.

“Killer…” Cross began, trying to keep his tone steady and authoritative like a warning. He was ever hopeful that this was some stupid game Killer was playing out of boredom, but that hope died as he watched some of the black goop begin to drip out of the corner of the other’s mouth.

That only happened when he went stage 3.

Shit.

Cross felt his soul drop. He’d never dealt with Killer like this alone, usually they handled him as a team if Nightmare wasn’t there to take over. In the time it would take him to look down at his phone to call for help there would probably be a knife in his head.

This was fine. He could handle it. He always had more training and stamina than Killer anyway, he just had to play keepaway with his life long enough to go home with it.

Killer teleported in front of him, something that caught Cross off guard. In his right mind, Killer almost never seemed to use his magic in fights unless he wanted to fuck around with the other.

[Put the fight part here idk pretend there was a really cool fight, it was so cool, you loved it]

Cross felt his soul drop again, but this time the rest of his body followed. Killer was using his gravity magic to hold him to the ground, and was shambling towards him ready to finish things. Cross struggled for a moment to see if he could fight his way out of the magic’s hold, but to no avail. He was pinned as his assailant now stood threateningly over him, knife raised. In a flash of desperation, he reached out both hands and grabbed Killer’s ankles, quickly moving his head to one side as a bone attack pierced up out of the snow and struck the other in the jaw.

It wasn’t his strongest attack, but it was enough to knock Killer backwards and stun him. As Cross felt his soul being released from the other’s magic, he quickly scrambled forward and sat on Killer’s chest as he lay sprawled out in the snow, pinning his arms down on either side of his head as he began to come back around. His face was leaking so much determination from every crevice that at that point it was hard to make out an expression under it all, but Cross could tell he was frustrated as he felt the rumble of bone attacks beginning to rise up out of the snow around them.

He followed suit, carefully forming a line of his own bone attacks closely around them to act as a barrier. He could feel Killer’s attacks bouncing off of his, each hit more desperate and frantic than the last like an animal clawing at the sides of its cage. He felt some magic encircling his soul again, but this time trying to raise him up rather than push him down. It was weaker than before, whether because Killer’s attention was split with still launching bone attacks or because he was beginning to tire out, but Cross managed to fight against it and stay put.

“Killer!” he barked, leaning over the other’s face. “That’s enough. You’re not going anywhere until you pull yourself together!”

The gravity magic seemed to cease at his shout, so Cross continued in the fervent hope that he was getting through to him.

“We’ll stay here all night if that’s what it takes, but I’m reporting back to Nightmare when this is over and I’m not leaving without you! Do you hear me?! I don’t care if I have to bring you back hogtied over my shoulder, I’m not gonna hurt you and I’m not gonna let you kill me!”

He didn’t realise he’d been shouting until the clinking and scraping of bone attacks had slowed and stopped altogether, and it was just the sound of his promise echoing off the bones and snow surrounding them.

And the strange gurgling sound coming from below him.

He opened his eyes again in confusion and stared down at the skeleton weakly fighting against his grasp, determination pooling and soaking into the snow from every gap in his skull. It took a second longer than he’d like to admit for Cross to realise that sound was Killer choking on it.

His bone attacks shrunk back into the ground and he shot backwards, landing ungracefully on his backside with a little curse. He hurried to pull Killer up and help him lean forward, swatting his back as he retched and spat the toxic goop up onto the ground where they’d just fought.

It was never an elegant dismount from these things, they’d found there was just no dignified way to get out a ribcage worth of black ooze. After a minute of heaving and gasping, Killer finally got a hold of himself and started glancing frantically around.

“Where’s Dust??” he managed to choke out with the urgency of a parent who’d lost their child. It always seemed to be the first thing on his mind when he came to from one of these episodes, Cross was never really sure why since any other time it seemed like they hated each other.

“He’s at home,” Cross assured, pressing one hand to Killer’s spine for support. “It’s just us, we were on a mission.”

He could see now that Killer’s soul had calmed down from the pulsating mass of spikes it was a few minutes ago and become somewhat soul shaped, still twitching nervously but a far calmer sight than before. That was a good sign that the attack was over. He wondered how much control Killer had over it, since he’d definitely seen it turn that way without having to go through a fight to the death first, but it was rare.

Cross flinched as he felt Killer grab him again, though this time instead of kicking him in the ribs he simply held on for dear life. That was another clear sign, after he was done puking up whatever goop had built up he usually cried for a while.

It was odd, especially the first few times, to see someone who always seemed so disconnected and unphased have a sobbing breakdown after trying to kill you.

“Hey,” Cross said, voice hushed as he wrapped his arms around the skeleton trembling in his lap. “It’s okay… you’re okay…”

Cross had never been the best at comforting words, but he knew Killer just needed someone to cling to while he got a hold of himself, and he was content to be that for a little while. Especially after being thrown around so much, his aching bones were more than happy for an excuse to sit in the snow for a bit. He could feel Killer’s soul being pressed against his chest as he wept silently into Cross’s shoulder, the fear and regret seemed to be radiating from it like smoke from a smothered flame.

He wondered idly if this was what Nightmare could feel all the time.

...

He also wondered just how hard it was going to be to get these black stains out of his jacket again once he pried Killer's face off of it.

#UTDR #UTMV #Cross Sans #Killer Sans #I don't think I need a writing tag cause I don't think I'll do it a whole lot #I also don't have a name for this or anything it was just kinda for funsies #I think the original plan was to have it be like. seeing the whole process of Killer's stage 3 attacks through Cross #And like my hcs on how it goes #And there's still some of that in there like him having extra goop during it and being super guilty and emotional afterwards #But also I got lazy with the rest lol #I don't think it's too bad but writing still feels weird to me cause I don't do it that much #Working on a different writy boy that I'm passionate about though so maybe hopefully there will be more! :D #Killer and Cross won't be in it though. sorry lads #Oh shit I need to wash my hair for work actually okay see you in a bit!!

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mono-socke · 8 months ago

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part 2 to the trans fips story, this time ft. zeke and rhun

Zeke starrte perplex auf deren Fund, welchen dey gerade gemacht hat, im Bad des jüngsten der Brüder. Warum hatte er…?

Nachdem Klaus dey über mehrere Tagen hinweg so gut wie stündlich genervt hatte, dey sollte doch bitte mal nach Fips schauen, da dieser ihm seit einiger Zeit nicht mehr auf jegliche Art geantwortet hat, hatte Zeke schlussendlich nachgegeben.

Zwar hatte dey absolut keinerlei Interesse, was denn schon wieder für ein Streit zwischen deren Brüdern abging, da es dey auch nicht wirklich etwas anging, und hatte erst versucht Klaus zu überzeugen doch selber vorbeizuschauen, jedoch war dieser, laut eigener Aussage, zu sehr im Weihnachtsstress um sich Zeit dafür zu nehmen, und Rhun war ebenfalls zu beschäftigt, weshalb Zeke nun dazu verdonnert wurde.

Fauler Sack. So besorgt war er dann wieder auch nicht, was?

Eigentlich hätte Zeke auch nie zugestimmt, da dey normalerweise Besseres zu tun hatte, aber nach einer unnötig langen Diskussion gab dey schließlich nach. Warum auch die Zeit mit Klaus’ Dickköpfigkeit verschwenden? Es brachte doch eh nichts.

Genervt machte Zeke sich also spät in der Nacht auf den Weg zu dem jüngsten der Brüder. Wonach sollte dey überhaupt schauen? Ob Fips noch lebt? Bock darauf, ihn auszuquetschen, warum er sich nicht meldet, hatte Zeke jetzt nicht unbedingt. War schließlich auch nicht deren Angelegenheit. Dey selbst hatte sich in all den Jahren vielleicht ein oder zwei Mal bei Fips gemeldet, ihr Kontakt miteinander war schon immer etwas brüchig.

Dass Klaus sich regelmäßig bei ihm meldete, war für Zeke keine wirklich große Überraschung. Immerhin bekam dey selbst öfters Nachrichten von den Älteren. Und, ganz ehrlich, wenn Fips einfach aus Genervtheit nicht mehr antwortete, hätte Zeke ihn auch gut verstehen können.

Als dey bei Fips ankamen, lag dieser schon im Bett am Schlafen. Wenig verwunderlich, da es schon extrem spät in der Nacht war. Zeke beobachtete ihn eine kurze Zeit lang beim Schlafen, fragte sich erneut wonach dey überhaupt suchte, bevor dey mit den Schultern zuckte und den Raum verließ.

Jep. Lebt noch. Job erledigt.

Da Zeke ohnehin den langen Weg schon für sinnlos fand, dachte dey sich, dey könnte sich zumindest noch etwas zu essen mitnehmen. Jetzt, wo Zeke schon hier war. Damit es sich zumindest etwas lohnen würde.

Zu deren Enttäuschung, jedoch nicht Überraschung, war der Großteil, den dey fand einfach nur Karotten. Karotten und Instant Ramen. Was auch sonst? Wenig begeistert von den ganzen Möhren, begann Zeke die Regale nach etwas brauchbarem zu durchsuchen, passte dabei jedoch nicht ganz auf wo dey hingriff und ließ versehentlich ein paar Eier auf den Küchenboden fallen. Scheiße.

Das war jetzt nicht so geplant.

Fips hatte einiges an Chaos in seinem Haus, zumindest in letzter Zeit, da er noch nie unbedingt Meister der Ordnung war, und Zeke bezweifelte, es würde groß auffallen, wenn dey einfach wieder gegangen wären, jedoch wollte dey mal kein komplett rücksichtsloser Idiot sein. Zudem war es ja deren eigener Müll, und wenigsten den könnte Zeke schon wegräumen. Ausnahmsweise.

Also sah dey sich um, diesmal auf der Suche nach Tüchern zum aufwischen, doch etwas wie eine Küchenrolle fand dey nicht. Leicht genervt ging Zeke ins Bad, um dort die Suche nach Papiertüchern fortzusetzen. Doch erneut, Fehlanzeige.

Hatte der Typ denn ernsthaft nichts da? Kann doch nicht sein.

Auf die Idee, einfach Toilettenpapier zu nutzen, kam Zeke in dem Moment nicht, weshalb dey begann, jegliche Schubladen im Bad zu öffnen. Wirklich viel war in ihnen nicht, und der meiste Krimskrams weckte auch kein großes Interesse in deren. An einem anderen Tag hätte Zeke vielleicht aus Neugier sich alles genauer angeschaut, um möglicherweise etwas zum drüber lustig machen zu finden. Aber momentan war Zeke nur danach, einfach wieder zu verschwinden.

Eine Sache weckte jedoch schlussendlich doch deren Aufmerksamkeit. In einer der untersten Schubladen war nämlich im Grunde genommen nichts, außer einer Sache. Verbände. Und zwar einige.

Was? Wofür zum Teufel würde Fips denn Verbände brauchen? Geschweige denn, gleich so viele?

Wenn er sich irgendwie verletzt, konnte er sich doch wieder heilen? Komisch.

Sollte dey aber erstmal nicht weiter kümmern. War, immernoch, nicht deren Angelegenheit, weshalb Zeke extrem froh war, endlich Taschentücher zu finden, die Eier vom Boden zu wischen und abzuhauen.

----

Im Nachhinein schienen die ganzen Verbände Zeke doch etwas mehr zu verunsichern, als dey gerne zugegeben hätte. Denn gerade mal am nächsten Tag fing dey erneut an, den Sinn dieser zu hinterfragen.

Waren sie nur aus Prinzip da? Als Vorsichtsmaßnahme? Falls doch mal etwas passieren sollte?

Aber warum dann gleich so viele, als würde Fips sie regelrecht lagern. Als würde er sie regelmäßig brauchen und benutzen. Aber wofür?

Hatte er Verletzungen? Woher denn? Dey bezweifelte, dass es etwas in Fips’ Leben gab, von dem dieser lang anhaltende Verletzungen davontrug. Noch mal, wenn er verletzt war, konnte er sich doch selbst heilen.

Natürlich machte Zeke sich keine Sorgen oder so. Warum sollte dey auch? Vorallem nicht um Fips. Als ob. Und selbst wenn, was natürlich niemals der Fall sein wird, würde Zeke es nicht laut aussprechen.

Dass dey in der darauffolgenden Woche ab und zu nachts vorbeikam, war selbstverständlich ebenfalls rein zufällig. Nur um sicherzugehen, dass Fips gescheit schläft, und um deren Job zu erledigen. Reine Routine. Nicht um nach offensichtlichen, potenziellen Verletzungen oder Wunden zu schauen, die Fips möglicherweise haben könnte.

Welche er übrigens nicht hatte. Und das, obwohl der Verband trotzdem von Besuch zu Besuch weniger zu werden schien.

Was Zeke natürlich auch nur rein zufällig aufgefallen ist. Und nicht, weil dey jedes mal absichtlich nachsah. Das wäre ja absurd. Warum sollte es dey auch interessieren? Sorgen machte sich Zeke sicher nicht. Mm. Absolut nicht.

Das dey wenige Tage später Rhun einen Besuch abstatteten hatte ebenfalls nichts damit zu tun. Zeke wollte einfach nur mal wieder mit xier plaudern, wie es denn so bei Rhun läuft und wie es xier geht und so. Dass Fips dabei als Thema aufkam war zwar wirklich nicht geplant gewesen, doch lehnte Zeke es auch nicht ab.

Neben den üblichen kleinen Sticheleien und Witzen, erwähnte dey ganz nebenbei etwas über die Verbände die dey gefunden hatte, was von Rhun jedoch nicht ganz so lässig abgewunken wurde.

“Bandagen? Für welchen Zweck denn?”

Zeke zuckte nur mit den Schultern.

“Seh ich aus, als hätte ich ‘ne Ahnung? Was weiß ich denn, was der Hase wieder anstellt.”

Rhun rollte mit den Augen und schwieg für einen Moment, doch an xiers Gesichtsausdruck konnte Zeke erkennen, dass xier gerade ungefähr hundert mögliche Antworten durchging.

“Hat er irgendwelche Verletzungen?” fragte Minty plötzlich, und erst dann realisierten die beiden Brüder, dass sie scheinbar schon länger bei ihnen stand und mitgehört hat. Rhun starrte sie kurz grimmig an, als wollte xier ihr mitteilen, dass sie sich nicht einmischen sollte, schüttelte danach aber leicht den Kopf.

Minty ließ sich nicht von dem Blick abschrecken, sondern blieb weiter standhaft neben den beiden Wächtern stehen und überlegte wohl ebenfalls.

“Ist er trans?”

Zeke und Rhun tauschten beide sofort einen raschen, verwirrten Blick aus.

Ja, war er. Aber Minty konnte nichts davon wissen. Woher denn? Es war eins der Themen, die so gut wie nie thematisiert wurden, geschweige denn, vor anderen Leuten. Und die paar Male, die Fips sie getroffen hat, war es unwahrscheinlich, dass sie es von ihm weiß. Fips hatte es noch nie jemandem von sich aus erzählt, außer seinen Brüdern. Damals, im Kloster noch.

Und vorallem, warum spricht sie das ausgerechnet jetzt an? Weiß sie etwas darüber? Hatte sie eine Vermutung?

“Warum fragst du?” hakte Rhun nach und blickte sie an mit reiner Kuriosität und Neugier, allerdings auch mit leichtem Zögern. Misstrauen schon fast.

“Naja, viele Transmänner benutzen Verbände, um sie sich um die Brust zu wickeln. Damit diese flach wirkt. Ist aber extrem gefährlich,” erklärte Minty, ignorierte Rhuns Augen die sie immer noch durchbohrten und entweder tat sie nur so als bemerkte sie die Reaktionen der anderen nicht, oder sie bekam die ernsthafte Verwirrung wirklich nicht mit.

“Was weißt du darüber?” fragte Rhun erneut, diesmal schon etwas drängender. Als hätte das Wort ‘gefährlich’ etwas in xier ausgelöst, eine ganz neue Stufe der Neugier, allerdings war auch kaum merklich Sorge in xiers Blick. Zumindest soweit Zeke es beurteilen konnte.

Minty wirkte ein wenig perplex, woher denn dieses plötzliche Interesse von der Zahnfee kam, gab ihre Antwort jedoch relativ schnell. “Äh, also, wenn die Verbände zu eng sind, können sie einem das Atem erschweren oder sogar blockieren. Und die Haut an sich wird anfälliger für blaue Flecken oder Infektionen im schlimmsten Fall. Außerdem kann es sein, dass-”

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt hörte Zeke ihr schon nicht mehr zu. Dieses rücksichtslose Verhalten klang extrem nach Fips. Einfach zu handeln, ohne sich groß Gedanken über die Konsequenzen zu machen. Typisch.

Und obwohl Zeke gerne so getan hätte, als wäre es dey egal und einfach das Thema zu wechseln, konnte dey nicht leugnen, dass irgendein merkwürdiges Gefühl in deren aufkam. Warum würde Fips so etwas machen? Dass er häufiger unüberlegte und spontane Entscheidungen traf, die im Nachhinein extrem rücksichtslos waren, war nichts Neues.

Aber das war nicht unüberlegt. Wenn man den regelrechten Vorrat an Verbänden bedenkt, könnte man meinen, dass Fips das geplant haben muss, dass er das voll und ganz absichtlich tat.

Aber wieso? Warum würde er denn freiwillig seinen Körper so beschädigen? Und das auch noch wissentlich?

Zeke schüttelte den Kopf. Sollte Gedanken wollte dey gar nicht haben. Sollte Fips doch machen, was er will. Wird schon sehen, was er davon hat. Rhun schien ebenfalls in Gedanken versunken zu sein, da xier mehrfach von Minty gerufen werden musste, um auf sie zu reagieren.

“Zahnfee? Alles okay bei dir?”

Xier starrte sie für wenige Augenblicke wieder intensiv an, bevor Minty aufgefordert wurde, sich wieder um ihre Aufgaben zu kümmern, wobei sie natürlich schnell gehorchte und verschwand. Sobald sie wieder allein standen, beziehungsweise saßen in Zekes Fall, murmelte Rhun, “Ich muss mit ihm sprechen.”

Obwohl Zeke sich relativ sicher war, dass xier mehr mit sich selbst geredet hat, antwortete dey trotzdem. “Ach was. Um den Hasen musste dir doch keine Sorgen machen. Wer sagt denn, dass das was deine Helferin gesagt hat, überhaupt eintrifft?”

“Ob es der Fall ist oder nicht, die Möglichkeit besteht dennoch. Und wenn da wirklich etwas dran ist, bedeutet das nichts Gutes.”

Zeke rollte nur mit den Augen und ließ sich etwas weiter im Sessel zurücklehnen, was von deren Bruder mit einem weiteren, grimmigen Blick kommentiert wurde.

“Selbst wenn, der kann sich doch selbst heilen. Wo ist das Problem?”

“Das Problem, mein lieber Bruder, ist warum Fips das überhaupt macht. Es muss ja einen Grund geben. Nicht mal er ist so rücksichtslos.”

Den Witz der Zeke auf der Zunge lag, dass er vielleicht heimlich Masochist geworden ist, brachte dey lieber nicht. Einen Streit mit Rhun wollte dey jetzt nicht unbedingt erreichen.

“Ugh… Okayyyy. Was hast du vor?”

----

Als Fips aufwachte mitten in der Nacht, war es um ihn herum noch dunkel, bis auf das leichte Mondlicht, das durch eins der Fenster schien. Warum genau war er aufgewacht? Ausgeschlafen war er sicher nicht, da er sich vor gerade mal zwei oder drei Stunden hingelegt hatte. Es war auch nicht so, als hätte er einen Alptraum gehabt, der ihn vom Schlafen abhielt.

Es fühlte sich an, als hätte ihn etwas, oder jemand, absichtlich aus dem Schlaf gerissen.

Zwar wollte Fips einfach nur sich umdrehen und weiterschlafen, doch als er leise Geräusche, die wie Schritte klangen, knapp neben ihm hörte, öffnete er vorsichtig die Augen. Es war gerade so hell, dass seine Augen sich so gut wie direkt an die Helligkeit gewöhnten.

Das Erste was er sah, war das Gesicht eines seiner Brüder.

Zeke?!

“Was zum Fick?!”

Fips rutschte schnell weg von deren, und wäre Zeke nicht von sich aus direkt weg gesprungen, hätte Fips dey wahrscheinlich aus Reflex geschlagen.

“Dir auch guten Morgen,” meinte Zeke gelassen, wartete nicht einmal auf die Reaktion des Anderen bevor dey die Türklinke unterdrückte um die Tür zu öffnen.

“Was zum Teufel machst du hier?!” schrie Fips ihn fast an, immer noch verdattert und verwirrt. Seine Frage wurde gekonnt ignoriert, als Zeke sich schon bereit machte zu gehen. “Bin nur der Weck-Service. Viel Spaß euch,” antwortete dey, wobei der letzte Satz wohl an jemanden gerichtet war, der sich noch außerhalb von Fips' Sichtfeld befand.

Bevor er etwas erwidern konnte, war Zeke bereits verschwunden, und um die ganze Situation noch komischer zu machen, tauchte Rhun an deren Stelle auf.

“Und was machst du jetzt hier? Wollt ihr mich verarschen?” Langsam wurde Fips genervt. War das alles ein Traum? Schlief er noch? Was wollten die beiden denn jetzt von ihm? Dass Klaus ab und zu mal vorbeikam, ohne jeglichen Grund oder Ankündigung, war er schon gewohnt. Aber die zwei? Die meldeten sich doch sonst nie bei ihm.

“Auch schön dich wieder zu sehen,” sagte Rhun in kompletter Gelassenheit, und stellte sich neben das Bett, um den Anderen besser betrachten zu können.

Fips rollte nur mit den Augen. “Wenn das irgend ‘ne blöde Verarsche sein soll, hab ich da jetzt echt keinen Bock drauf.”

“Keine Verarsche. Keine Tricks. Ich wollte mit dir reden,” stellte Rhun fest, und bevor Fips widersprechen konnte holte xier etwas hinter xiers Rücken hervor. Verbände.

Wo zum Teufel hatte xier die her?? War xier seine Sachen durchgegangen? Was wollte xier damit? Oh fuck. Hatte Rhun etwas mitbekommen? Bitte nicht. Xier konnte doch eh nicht wissen, wofür er sie brauchte. Dann wiederum, was sollte er xier denn sagen? Wenn Rhun den Vorrat gesehen hat, wird xier ihm definitiv Fragen stellen. Oh Gott, nein.

Auch wenn Fips nichts sagte, um sein Erstaunen und seine Überraschung so gut es geht zu verbergen, konnte Rhun trotzdem die Bedeutung seiner geweiteten Augen deuten. Etwas so gut für seinen Geschmack. Rhun gab ihm einige Momente, um selbst ein Gespräch anzufangen oder eine Erklärung abzuliefern, an welchen Fips jedoch offensichtlich kein Interesse hatte.

“Wofür brauchst du die Bandagen?” fragte xier ruhig.

Fips gab seinem Brüder die erste Antwort die ihm einfiel, die auch einigermaßen logisch klang. “Wofür braucht man denn Bandagen? Schon mal was von Schnitten oder Prellungen gehört?”

“Ausgerechnet du brauchst doch dafür keine Verbände. Und wir wissen beide, dass du lieber Wunden durch Magie heilst, statt sie natürlich verheilen zu lassen.”

Shit. Hatte xier recht.

“Ja und? Ne Notation kann nie schaden,” versuchte Fips abzuwinken. Leider ohne großen Erfolg.

“Ich bezweifle, dass ein halbes Dutzend an Verbandsrollen als ‘Notration’ zählt.” Rhun hob leicht eine Augenbraue, wechselte aber schnell zurück zu einem neutralen Gesichtsausdruck. Fips beruhigen tat dies allerdings nicht.

“Warum juckt dich das überhaupt? Kümmer dich doch um deinen eigenen Kram,” kam von ihm zurück und er verschränkte die Arme, seinen Kopf lehnte er an die Wand hinter sich.

“Fips, ich frage dich das nicht, um dich zu ärgern. Ich möchte nur sichergehen, dass du keinen Mist anstellst. Sag mir bitte, warum du diese Bandagen brauchst.”

“Geht dich ‘n Scheißdreck an.”

Rhun starrte ihn nur böse an, was als Reaktion mehr als reichte.

Für eine Weile weigerte Fips sich zu antworten und saß nur stillschweigend da. Warum zum Teufel mussten seine Brüder ihn um diese Uhrzeit schon auf die Nerven gehen. Basierend auf Rhuns erwartungsvollen Blick, wusste xier doch eh schon, was xier hören wollte. Warum sollte Fips es dann noch aussprechen? Als wollte xier ihn foltern…

“Aus… privaten Gründen,” murmelte er irgendwann, und seine Augen wandte sich ab von Rhun, nicht mehr fähig xiers Blicks standzuhalten. Und erneut ein Zeichen, wie schwach er doch eigentlich war. Hatte er denn vor überhaupt irgendwas keine Angst?!

“Haben diese ‘privaten Gründe’ rein zufällig etwas mit dem Abflachen deiner Brust zu tun?” fragte xier nach und Fips hätte xier gerne geschlagen. Warum fragte Rhun ihn überhaupt?

“Wenn du's eh schon weißt, frag doch nicht nach.”

“Ich möchte deine Bestätigung hören, um keine unnötigen Vermutungen aufzustellen.”

Mit zusammen gebissenen Zähnen und eng gekreuzten Armen gab Fips eventuell nach. Wenn auch extrem widerwillig und nicht im gewünschten Wortlaut.

“Und wenn's so wäre? Warum interessiert's dich?”

Rhuns Blick wurde sofort sanfter, und hätte Fips hingeschaut, hätte er möglicherweise sogar Anzeichen von Sorge erkannt.

“Warum sollte es mich nicht interessieren? Du bist immer noch mein Bruder und ich möchte nicht, dass du dich selbst diesen Schmerzen unterziehst,” fing xier an zu erklären.

“Mir geht's gut, keine Sorge,” wies Fips xier schroff zurück und warf endlich mal die Decke von seinem Körper, da es langsam warm wurde. Ob wegen der Temperatur oder aus in ihm brennender Scham, konnte er nicht definieren.

Rhun setzte sich langsam ans Ende seines Bettes, um Fips genügend Platz zu lassen und ihm trotzdem vorsichtig näher zu kommen. “Hat dir schon mal jemand gesagt, dass du kein guter Lügner bist?”

Normalerweise hätte der leicht amüsierte Ton seines Bruders Fips ebenfalls zum Schmunzeln gebracht, aber in dem Moment war ihm einfach nicht danach. Er wollte über dieses Thema nicht reden. Weder mit Rhun, noch mit irgendwem anders. Und der Fakt, dass Rhun auch noch so interessiert tat, machte es nicht besser. Die hatten sich doch noch nie für ihn groß interessiert, warum jetzt auf einmal?

“Musst nicht einen auf möchtegern besorgt machen, mir geht's wirklich okay.”

Doch Rhun blieb standhaft, und je länger xier ihn so intensiv ansah, desto mehr kam Fips das Gefühl, dass Rhuns Sorge möglicherweise doch echt sein könnte.

“Geht es dir wirklich gut? Wenn alles in Ordnung wäre, würdest du nicht willentlich leiden,” stellte Rhun fest, und setzte xiers Erklärung fort, nachdem Fips’ Gesichtsausdruck leicht verwirrt wurde. “Deinen Rippen und Lungen geht es sicherlich nicht gut, mit wie viel Druck du auf sie ausübst.”

“Mir passiert schon nichts, ich trag schon keine heftigen Schäden davon.”

“Dass du dich selber heilen kannst, weiß ich. Was ich nicht weiß ist, warum du dass überhaupt machst.”

Fips rollte erneut mit den Augen, der Drang, sich diesem Gespräch zu entziehen, hatte ihn nicht verlassen, war aber nicht mehr ganz so präsent. Seine Priorität war gerade, Rhun abzuwimmeln, um seine Ruhe zu bekommen.

“Was glaubst du, warum ich als Mann meine Brüste verdecken will?" fragte er nach, eine Spur Ironie in seiner Stimme, als wäre die Beantwortung dieser Frage so oder so unnötig und offensichtlich.

“Deswegen musst du dich allerdings nicht rund um die Uhr mit diesen schädlichen Methoden quälen. Zu lange die Verbände zu tragen ist extrem schädlich, außerdem gibt es ohnehin bessere Optionen.”

Fips traute seiner Stimme nicht, nicht zu brechen, weshalb er erneut nur schwieg. Aus welchem Grund auch immer, schien der Gedanke an seinen Körper allein, ihm schon zuschaffen zu machen. War ja klar, dass Rhun da keinerlei Mitgefühl oder Empathie hat.

Verhätschelt oder bemitleidet zu werden, wollte Fips erst recht nicht, aber diese komplette Emotionslosigkeit und Ignoranz fühlte sich einfach nur nach Abweisung an. Als wäre es xier scheißegal. Dass xier mehr auf Logik als auf Gefühle fokussiert war, war ihm ja bekannt. Schließlich war das schon immer so. Und dennoch wirkte es in diesem Moment besonders kalt.

Entweder das, oder Fips selbst war zu emotional. Konnte natürlich auch gut möglich sein. Ein weiterer Aspekt, den Fips an sich nicht leiden konnte, war, dass er seine Gefühle oft nicht so unter Kontrolle hatte, wie er es gerne hätte. Aber auch dafür schien er zu schwach zu sein. Konnte er denn irgendwas?

Und obwohl er jegliche Andeutungen von Tränen direkt weg geblinzelt hat, in dem Moment, in dem seine Augen anfingen zu brennen, schien Rhun doch irgendwie etwas bemerkt zu haben. Xiers Stimme wurde sanfter als zuvor, fast vorsichtig.

“Fips, wenn dir das so zu schaffen macht, hättest du uns Bescheid sagen sollen.”

“Wieso? Damit ihr euch drüber lustig machen könnt? Ne danke,” blaffte er xier angespannt an.

“Das hätten wir nicht getan. Nicht bei so einem ernsten Thema.”

Natürlich wusste Rhun auch, dass dieses Gerede eher Wunschdenken als der Realität entsprach, da Zeke sich herzlich wenig kümmerte, wann Witze und Kommentare angebracht sind und wann nicht. Allerdings wusste Rhun auch, dass es zumindest von xiers Seite aus, ein ehrliches Geständnis war.

Nach ein paar weiteren Minuten, die in drückender Stille vergingen, forderte Rhun xiers jüngsten Bruder auf, “Komm. Nimm bitte die Verbände ab.”

“Wieso sollte ich?” kam von Fips zurück.

“Deine Rippen haben eine Pause verdient. Und wenn du sie nicht abnimmst, nehm ich sie dir eigenhändig ab.”

Allein, dass Rhun ihm diese ‘Drohung’ machte, zeigte, dass xier es ernst meinte. Und xier würde nicht davor zurückscheuen, die eben genannten Worten in die Tat umzusetzen, so viel war sicher.

Fips seufzte, gab sich aber geschlagen. Überraschend schnell, für seine Verhältnisse. Auf einen Streit hatte er keine Lust. Dafür war er dann doch noch zu müde.

“...Guck weg,” murmelte er nur, achtete genau darauf, dass Rhun auch ja wegsah, bevor er sich die Verbände langsam abnahm. Und Rhun hatte Recht, sein Brustkorb fühlte sich tatsächlich direkt besser an. Kam wohl davon, diesen unzählige Jahre am Stück durchgehend viel zu eng zusammen zu schnüren.

Rhun war mindestens genauso perplex wie Fips selbst, über die Geschwindigkeit seines Einverständnisses, war aber respektvoll und schaute mit nach unten gerichtetem Blick auf xiers eigene Schuhe, bis keinerlei Bewegung mehr von Fips bemerkbar war.

Und tatsächlich hatte er den Verband abgenommen. Der lag nämlich nun vor ihm auf der Decke und wurde mit Verachtung von ihm angestarrt. Wenn Blicke töten könnten, wäre der jetzt definitiv tot, obwohl es nur ein Gegenstand war. Fips Blick hätte alles und jeden umgebracht, so sicher war Rhun sich.

Bevor Fips auf dumme Ideen kommen konnte, nahm xier die Bandagen schnell an sich und stopfte sie in eine von xiers Taschen.

“Besser?”

“Mh.”

Körperlich war es eine Art Erleichterung, klar. Allein seine Atemwege waren freier und er konnte sich auch um einiges leichter bewegen. Aber gleichzeitig spürte Fips jetzt auch wieder dieses ätzende Gewicht an seiner Brust, das er seit Jahrhunderten verabscheut.

Rhun meinte es nur gut, und das wusste er auch. Aber das hieß nicht, dass er sich nicht unwohl fühlte. In seinen Augen wirkte seine Brust so viel bemerkbarer und Fips hätte sich am liebsten unter der Decke versteckt, um nicht von irgendwem gesehen zu werden.

“Falls es dich glücklich macht, in meinen Augen wirst du immer mein Bruder sein. Egal wie du aussiehst,” versuchte Rhun ihn aufzumuntern. Und dieses Mal schien es zu wirken, denn irgendwie schafften es diese Worte, ein Lächeln auf Fips’ Lippen zu bringen. Mehr als das Wort ‘Danke’ stumm zu formen, brachte sein Mund allerdings nicht heraus.

“Trotzdem bitte ich dich, mehr Rücksicht auf deinen Körper zu nehmen. Diese Verbände sind sowieso schädlich, den ganzen Tag damit herumzulaufen ist keine gute Idee. Wenn du reden willst, kannst du immer zu mir kommen. Wenn ich aber nochmal mitbekomme, dass du diese Dinger nicht rechtzeitig abnimmst, sorg ich persönlich dafür, dass du's bereust. Oder ich hetze Klaus auf dich.”

Kurzzeitig war Fips davon überzeugt gewesen, wenn Rhun und Zeke schon da sind, wäre Klaus auch keine Überraschung mehr. Allerdings war er nicht da, was Fips daraufhin deutete, dass ihm überhaupt nicht Bescheid gesagt wurde. Wahrscheinlich wollte Rhun in Ruhe mit ihm sprechen, und Klaus war jetzt nicht unbedingt die Ruhe in Person.

“Ich pass schon auf,” antwortete Fips, und obwohl seine Stimmlage nach wie vor leicht genervt klang, verriet seine Körpersprache, dass er nicht mehr ernsthaft genervt war. Nur, dass er dieses Gespräch ungern weiterführen wollte, was Rhun jedoch einigermaßen verstehen konnte.

----

Als Zeke deren irgendwann zu ihnen ins Schlafzimmer gesellt und prompt auf Fips’ Bett fallen gelassen hatte, legte dey einen Arm um Fips’ Schultern um ihn zu deren zu ziehen und ihm grob die Haare zu verwuscheln. Zwar waren deren Handlungen nicht gerade sanft, aber ausnahmsweise auch mal nicht von Hass oder Sticheleien getrieben.

“Na, kleiner Bruder?”

Fips versuchte relativ schnell sich aus Zekes Griff zu befreien, welcher ihn aber nicht losließ und einfach näher zog.

“Was für ‘kleiner’? Ich bin größer als du,” gab er dey als Antwort.

“Ja und? Ich bin älter.”

Zeke war schon immer stolz gewesen, diese paar Minuten älter zu sein als Fips. Somit war dey nämlich nicht ganz der Jüngste. Der kleinste von allen fünf war dey trotzdem.

“Ne Nervensäge, das bist du.”

“Tja. Immerhin bin ich der Einzige von uns, der eine Frau hat.”

“Wie viel du der gezahlt hast, das die bei dir bleibt, ist mir immer noch rätselhaft…”

Als er das halb beleidigte Gesicht seines Bruders sah, konnte Fips nicht anders, als zu grinsen.

“Hey!”

29 notes · View notes

busterbby · 25 days ago

Text

— cliché romantic tropes.

fluff. gn!reader. ichiro, jiro.

Note : think of these as hcs except.. longer. lol. or maybe mini scenarios more like. regradless, please enjoy! maybe I'll write more of this if I have the time or the ideas :')

— Ichiro as best friend’s older brother.

You and Jiro are a match made in heaven — or a match made in hell, as Saburo would say. Two peas in a pod: dumbasses that like to wreck havoc, laughing way too loud and taking the piss out of Sabu, or really, procrastinating on your homework together.

But of all the times you’ve come over the Yamada household, you’ve quickly found yourself falling for Ichiro.

He’s always oh so sweet when it comes to you. Of course, he’s always kind, lovable, everything you’d want a big brother to be — that’s just his demeanor: inviting and warm, a good heart in his chest, head on his shoulders. He’s responsible, a little bit awkward, and just.. Jiro’s big brother.

And you’re a guest, so you know he’s only being polite, when he smiles at you sweet. when he tries to land a joke and it’s a bust. when he small talks your favorite animes with you. He’s only being nice to his little brother’s friend and trying to make things less awkward, at least, that’s what you’ve said.

but..

It’s his deep, warm laugh. messy dark hair. colorful eyes that seem to glisten like jewels even in the dim kitchen lights.

It’s the way he always seems to make your favorite meal when you’re over for lunch (and always makes sure to make extras, just for you); how he always ruffles your hair, like you’re a part of them. Well, you are, Ichiro grins so boyishly handsome. Y’know, their home is yours and all — you’re always welcome!

Even when you know he’s just being polite, you can’t help but fall for him, heart first over your mind, even as much as it says that this is all a bad idea.

“I heard you did well on this exam!”

Oh.. he knows. your heart flutters sweet. You can’t help but wonder — did Jiro tell him? Did he let Ichiro know that you’re a good student and studied hard for this exam?? There’s a thickness you swallow — you hope so.

His grin warms you all the way up, even as it gets warmer outside with each passing day; well, he’s warmer than any sunshine, surely, as cliche as that seems. and his deep voice scratches your heart just right. It’s a little difficult, too, swallowing the butterflies back down, especially when they tickle all the way down your throat to your gut.

“It’d be great if you could tutor Jiro too,” he jokes. maybe teach Jiro how to be a good student too. and his laughs are always just so big and warm as they fill the room, even when small — you can feel them vibrate even in your heart.

He’s joking, but honestly, you’d do it in a heartbeat.

and.. his hair ruffles are always the best. his hand feels so heavy on your head, but comfortingly so. you wonder when he began to ruffle the head of Jiro’s friends — or maybe it’s just because it’s you (definitely so). but either way, your heart leaps all the way to your throat, and it’s much too big to swallow back down.

It’s silly, you know, but you hope he can’t hear the rush of your heart.. or see the little hearts in your eyes, the ones that pop off you too.

You’d never want to ruin your friendship with Jiro. he’s your good friend — best friend — and you really cherish that connection to heart. but.

but unfortunately, his brother is hot. and cute. and a heartthrob. and all the other adjectives you’d find in the dictionary or in a shoujo crush (or in your heart) to describe the perfect man.

and unfortunately Jiro is dense. super dense. He doesn’t seem to think it’s weird how you’re always in a daze when his older brother is around, or how you ask one too many questions about whether Ichiro will be there when you come over — why would that matter? weird, he shrugs it off.

He can’t sense the fact that you’re head-over-heels for aniki, even when there’s little hearts floating above you whenever Ichi is around, even when there’s a big flashing sign that reads ‘head over heels’ or perhaps ‘lovesick fool’. even if there’s a clear Cupid’s arrow stuck to your chest as you walk around, right where your heart lay.

(so dense, in fact, that Saburo picks up on it just from walking past the two of you. It’s hard to miss the eyes you make whenever Ichiro is in the room; it’s not like you’re trying not to look at him anyway, he sighs).

so for now, it’s.. baby steps. You’ll cherish the little touches Ichiro gives and his handsome smiles that flutter your heart, and you’ll keep the secret crossed to your heart. It’s enough, for now, when he grins at you and speaks kind words. It’s enough to gaze at him from the kitchen table, daydreaming about what it’d be like to date Jiro’s older brother — the Ichiro Yamada.

Perhaps it's better for you to get studying for the next exam rather than appreciate his back — a skip of your heart beat. Maybe then, Ichiro will ruffle your hair again.

(though unknowingly, perhaps Ichiro too is beating himself up inside for thinking his little brother’s best friend is a little too cute. for being an absolute weirdo, for the way his heart flutters around you. for the way he hopes Jiro brings you around a bit more frequently)

— Jiro as sharing an umbrella in the rain.

Jiro shouldn’t have forgotten his umbrella today. or yesterday, for that matter. It’s always set aside right by the front door so that he wouldn’t forget — since Jiro tends to be a forgetful fuck. He’s bound to get a cold at this rate, if he keeps wearing his drenched clothes and booking it home in the rain.

But when you offer to share your umbrella, well, he couldn’t quite refuse; his heart wouldn’t let him, no.

I mean, here was his crush, offering to walk him home. sharing an umbrella. It was the very scene — the very dream — he could only ever imagine with you as he reads his shoujo. walking underneath the rain, sharing an umbrella and holding hands; then maybe, when he drops you off back at home, Jiro could share a kiss with you underneath the umbrella too..

Shit. He’s already got himself acting; that’s so uncool of him, Jiro groans, turning the other ( warm ) cheek to hide himself and his beating heart. so dirty too.. thinking of such perverse scenes when you’re right here besides him.

The very scenes he could only imagine with you when he’s reading his guilty pleasure, shoujo.

Your shoulders barely touch, yet Jiro jumps at the slightest graze. it’s probably something he’s only imagined — he only thinks you’ve touched him, just barely. or maybe this whole thing is just messing with his head. but man. You’re so close — his heart skips, cheeks flush warm, and Jiro looks to the side.

You can't hear how his heart is racing right now, right?

The two of you don’t talk much though Jiro wants to say something. anything. He needs to act all suave and cool, all unbothered, like all those male leads that everyone falls for — he wants to be that for you.

He’s always been a loud mouth, and that’s still true since Jiro only ever wants to talk to you and about you; but, when the two of you are alone like this.. well, the words just seem too thick to spit out. His tongue is too heavy, spit too viscous as he swallows the butterflies and his pride.

(He wants to throw up — though if he did, maybe it’d all just be butterflies or rose petals instead.)

He’s much too chicken, has very much cold feet, to even say ‘hi’ in a normal, not shaky voice and not make it obvious to the entire class that he’s head-over-heels. but Jiro also can't hide a secret; his friends have most certainly teased him about how he's always sneaking one too many glances at you throughout school.

If you were the subject, surely Jiro would be passing by now, they snort. and.. hey! Jiro vehemently denied, as red and flustered as he got, which doesn't entirely help his case. that.. may be true. but still!

and maybe it's hard to think (though when does he ever) of what to say because you're just so warm. The warmth exudes off of you: warmer than the summer sunshine, or warmer than how his cheeks feel whenever he gets punched in the face or hit with a soccer ball. He feels hot, actually. or maybe that’s just the way his face (embarrassingly) burns. Jiro groans; man, that’s so uncool too..

He should be the one sweeping you off your feet, just like those shoujo male leads; but instead, it’s the complete opposite turn. you’re the one leading his heart astray.

and with the shake of his heart too, the handle of the umbrella wobbles ajar in his hand (such a light thing..). He almost lets it go to blow away in the wind, though Jiro grabs it in the nick of time.

“s, sorry..”

though you giggle, and fuck — that’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard. His ears tickle, heart too.

He almost lets go of the umbrella again.

“It’s fine.”

well.. he is not. Jiro wishes he wore his cap today so that he could hide his face or the red tips of his ears. They won't stop replaying your laugh. though he’d play the fool a thousand times if it meant to hear you like that (though he’s always a fool, as he’s been told numerous times by Saburo).

and he walks right by the side of the road, so that you wouldn’t get drenched as the cars pass through. and Jiro tilts the umbrella a little more towards you. His shoulder is going to be drenched by the time he gets home ; it’s such a tiny umbrella that can barely fit the two of you, but well, Jiro refuses to let you get soaked. If it was between the two of you, he’d gladly get that cold. (maybe you’d also come visit him then too..)

Jiro clutches at his chest, right atop where his heart lay. ah man, dammit. it’s beating too fast; This really is so uncool. He can't speak, can't even hold the umbrella upright so that you wouldn't get drenched, can't even look you in the eye. but..

He loves this feeling oh so much. He loves getting to think of this as walking you home; it's romantic. much too romantic for just classmates walking home after school. Jiro steals a glance from the corner of his eye, still much too flustered when his heart does a double skip again; is your heart beating this fast too..?

He hopes so, as Jiro thickly gulps. but even if not, Jiro still cherishes this moment to heart. You'll still be important to him, no matter what.

Maybe next time, if he remembers, Jiro will make sure to forget his umbrella again. and maybe, you'll offer him to share an umbrella and walk through the rain again too..

#hypmic x reader #ichiro yamada x reader #jiro yamada x reader #fluff #gender neutral reader #saburo my boy i am so sorry #i'm constantly in a cycle of always leaving him out lol #but not to say i don't love him!! i love sabu he deserves much more love 🥺#and i want to spread that love!! ..just. when i'm not lazy or anything..#lol i always end up writing them in order so by the time i finish jiro and ichi i'm just. gone.#also unfortunately this is prob gonna be my last writing post for a bit (cries)#gotta get on that grind.. derm and micro haven't been going too well #anyway requests /are/ open. even if i won't get to them right away #need something to keep me going while i grind y'know. gotta have something to look forward to #also. maybe i'll do this same concept with sabu and the other ghost vers. later on hm.#(gotta think of cliches first though lmao)

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