#and if you know who can survive what she does...

[azure-enechelon]

I love you Acele: the organized crime refugee, survivor of violence, always on party drugs, the teenage girl hanging out with adult men because there's no better option, who makes weird conceptual sound art even after her boyfriend sells most of her equipment, who gets screamed at by a cop and decides to give him therapy, who somehow still thinks people are sweet.

I love you Cindy: the homeless artist squatting in the coalroom, who does massive street art challenging the occupation, belongs to a famously violent gang but likes people too much to go around stabbing most of them, and terrorizes the rich lady into leaving her block.

I love you Soona: the antisocial programmer, who loses her job and her dream and dedicates herself to finding out why, worries about the unemployed writers, moves her professional-grade computer into a busted-up old church to run science experiments, who lets the homeless ravers move into the church with her so she can use their sound equipment, who makes the ravers listen to her thoughts about elves.

I love you Billie: the working-class woman with an alcoholic husband, who shrugs off intrusive questions and accepts a hug for the sake of the working class, who tells the weird intrusive cop that he isn't a fuckupatoo after all, who sewed a blue lining into her husband's ratty old jacket to keep him warm.

I love you Lilienne: the single mom who survives selling fish to rich people she'll never see, who carries a sword around, who sees a cop that reminds her of her dead alcoholic husband and takes the time to be kind to him when she doesn't have to be.

I love you Isobel: the old washerwoman who has stayed when all her children and neighbors have left, who takes in the drifters and strays who pass through the village, who won't give them up to the cops even when they find a bullet in her spare room, who calls the cop a dark omen but also lets him stay for free.

I love you Elizabeth: the local girl who went off the law school and came back a firebreathing socialist, who can stop the head of the local gang in his tracks just by saying his name, who never concedes an inch to the cops, who will try to reason with armed mercenaries and put her life on the line to protect her people. Who will run the union one day if she lives.

I love you Neha: the dicemaker who bounced back from the death of her first dream, who makes dice into art objects (the cursed die!!!), who remembers all the failed businesses and weirdos, who knows how precarious the world can be, but moved into the most cursed building in Martenaise and made a corner of it into somewhere cozy, sunlight, and safe.

I love you women of Martenaise: you live in the ruins, one of the worst neighborhoods in an occupied city, the beachhead that no one ever bothered to rebuild. You live in grinding poverty, where every government and school of thought has failed even more than they have in the rest of the city. You refuse to let Harry intimidate you, but (some of) you help him anyway—not because he's a cop, but because he's a man who has hit rock bottom, and you all know what that's like. Some of you fight for causes and some of you make art and some of you care for your families, and all of you give what little you can spare to make your community just a little bit better.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Eighteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, silverstone 2021, racing injuries, detailed description of a panic attack, angsty as heck

Notes — Uh....... welcome to the Silverstone chapter (im sorry)

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Silverstone) 

In the days leading up to Silverstone, Lando filmed a video for Quadrant. Amelia sat just out of shot, watching the gameplay unfold with a grin that said, this is ridiculous, and I’m having the best time watching you all make fools of yourselves. When Lando stacked it and landed awkwardly on his arm, she was there in an instant, fussing over him.

A small portion of the clip made it into the final edit. Her on her knees, laughing, while Lando pouted dramatically, waving his arm around like it was much a more dramatic injury than just a scratch. It was lighthearted, sweet. 

Everyone went crazy for it. 

—

WhatsApp — 2021 F1 Groupchat

Lando N. Quick question. does anyone have any spare gloves?

Valtteri B. Like... racing gloves?

Lando N. Nah, just regular gloves. Leather, ideally.

George R. I’ve got some driving gloves in my car.

Pierre G. Of course you do.

George R. What’s that supposed to mean?

Pierre G. Nothing, nothing.

Lando N. Can you bring them to me? Amelia’s a bit icky about touch today, thought gloves might help. We’re heading to the track now and I couldn’t find any at my parents' place.

George R. Yeah, I’ll give them to Will.

Lando N. 👍

—

It wasn’t a stim. It wasn’t a meltdown.

It was just… discomfort.

She sighed in relief as Lando slid the brown leather gloves onto her hands. She swallowed, wiggling her fingers and letting the tension bleed from her shoulders.

The leather was soft and probably expensive, considering the gloves were George’s.

Lando squeezed her hands. “Better?”

She nodded, smiling. “They match my boots.” She held her gloved hands next to her knees, where her brown riding-style boots reached.

He snorted, laughing softly. “I don’t think George planned that, but I’m glad you feel fashionable, baby.”

Amelia glanced over her shoulder. Daniel wandered over, wiggling his eyebrows. “Excited for your home races, mate?” The question was aimed at Lando.

Amelia watched Lando, noticing how his face shifted; something complicated, something soft, but also guarded.

“Yeah. Just want to do well,” he shrugged, his smile a little too tight.

She frowned, instinctively leaning in. “You will.”

His smile flickered, uncertain. “I hope so.”

—

Max didn’t ask about the gloves. He just wrapped his arm around her shoulder and dragged her into his driver’s room, ignoring her confused protests.

He slammed the door, sat on the cabin bed, and stared at her.

She hovered, uncertain, glancing at the door before looking back at him. “Um…”

“I want to tell her the truth,” he said, eventually.

She stared at him for a beat, trying to decode his words, and then, slowly, her eyes widened. “You— I thought you told her months ago! Are you serious?” She choked out.

Max winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. I know I should’ve done it sooner, okay? But I�� I didn’t want to spoil it…”

Her anger flared, a sick heat bubbling in her stomach. “I told you to tell her the truth. That I’d hate to be lied to like that. And you carried on?” She was trembling. “So…. What. She still has no idea? About you, about all of this?”

He lowered his gaze, shame written across his face.

Amelia took a deep breath, stepping back. “I can’t even look at you. How could you—” She choked, nauseous, thinking of the girl who had no idea she was about to be dragged into this mess. “Has she told you she loves you?”

He was silent.

She let out a pained sound, high-pitched and sharp. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. Just… pass your thoughts on the car after practice to GP, yeah?”

Then she turned and walked out, her body coiled tight, her mind a storm.

—

She stormed through the garage, ignoring the stares from the engineers, and found Lando, her dad, and Daniel standing together.

Her dad spotted her first, eyes going wide. “Hey, honey. Everything okay?”

She shook her head. “I need to hit something.”

All three pairs of eyes turned to her.

Her dad sighed, glancing around. This wasn’t new. It had mostly happened during puberty. She’d always been hard to anger, but when it did happen, she needed an outlet.

“We’ve got some old tire blankets we can pile up. Should be soft enough.”

She nodded, her gaze distant.

He instructed a mechanic to start gathering the blankets in the back of the garage, away from the cameras and spectators.

Lando cupped her face, bending to meet her eyes. “You okay? What happened?”

“Max is an asshole,” she spat.

He blinked, shocked, before stepping back and nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go help with the tire blankets.” He hurried off.

She looked at Daniel.

He shrugged, making a face. “Max is an asshole sometimes, isn’t he?”

She nodded, jaw tight.

Then, out of sight of everyone, she took her frustration out on the tire blankets.

— 

Max won the sprint race, setting his brakes on fire on the grid in order to boost the temperature in his front tires and give him a better start. It was risky, but it paid off, and he won. That took precedence over the extra work he’d given the garage crew overnight.

Another haul of points in their fight against Lewis.

Amelia didn’t have it in her to celebrate. She forced a smile for GP, nodded at Christian, but stepped away from the pit wall and headed straight to the back of Max’s garage, where Jos was sitting.

“Did you know about her? His girlfriend?” Jos asked. “I assume you did.”

Amelia stared at a spot of engine oil on the wall. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to push for more, but she stood up and walked away before he could.

Lando finished P5. He fought with her childhood hero on track and came out ahead. For that, he deserved her attention.

— 

She found Mark Webber just before the F2 feature race, holding a folded white envelope. She passed it to him as discreetly as possible, careful of the cameras and prying eyes around them.

He took it, glanced at it, and raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “Let him open it when—if—things go wrong. It’s a good offer. The best he’ll get.” She’d made sure of that. She wasn’t about to let him slip through the cracks if Otmar did what she suspected he might do.

Mark studied her for a moment. “You made this happen?”

She nodded.

“Come on, kid,” he said, after a beat, gesturing ahead. “I’m sure Oscar would love a chat before he has to get in the car.”

She blinked, then grinned. “Do you think he’ll mind if I look at his steering set-up? I’m so curious—”

—

Lando drove them from the track to the hotel. She liked his car. All sleek, black lines and a polished interior that looked like something out of a magazine.

“Is this your dream car?” she asked, curiosity in her voice.

It was nearly ten, the sky darkening, and Lando had one hand on the steering wheel and the other casually draped over her inner thigh. She’d swapped out her team kit after the sprint for his favourite skirt, keeping it casual but elegant for the evening’s media events. Daniel had made him do a shoeey on the main stage. 

“No.” He shook his head, glancing at her with a playful look in his eyes. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why?” She raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

“I’ve always wanted a Jolly.”

She blinked, momentarily stunned. “A— A Fiat Jolly?”

He nodded, his grin widening.

She couldn’t help but smirk. “A Jolly? That’s your dream car?”

Lando shot her a mock glare from the corner of his eye. “Baby…”

“Sorry, sorry!” she laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “I just— I wasn’t expecting that.”

He shook his head, exasperated but still smiling, his eyes warm with amusement. “I’ll get one, baby, and I’ll force you to let me drive it everywhere.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll be able to match all of my outfits to it,” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

Lando rolled his eyes.

— 

Max and Pietra were waiting for them in the hotel lobby the next morning. Amelia squeezed Lando’s hand as they approached, giving him a fond glance before skipping over to Pietra, who greeted her with a bright smile and a glance of appreciation.

“That dress is gorgeous!” Pietra remarked, her eyes lighting up.

Amelia smiled, twirling a little. “Thanks. It’s my favourite. Oscar De La Renta. I can wear it on the pit wall as long as I throw on a team jacket.” As they walked through the lobby, Amelia leaned in, lowering her voice just enough so the guys wouldn’t overhear. “He won’t say it, but Lando thinks it’s a lucky dress. Pushed me into wearing it today.”

Pietra smiled knowingly.

“Baby!” Lando’s voice called from behind them.

Amelia turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Yeah?”

“You got your iPad?” he asked, him and Max now caught up to them.

Amelia patted her bag, feeling the familiar weight. “Got it.”

“Good. Keep a close eye on it today, yeah? Group chat’s a bit tense at the moment.”

She frowned. “What’s my iPad got to do with your group chat?”

He shrugged. She narrowed her eyes at him. He kissed her. 

— 

Everyone could feel the tension between her and Max.

She sat in the strategy meeting, arms crossed, her focus locked on the data sheets in front of her. The only time she spoke was to correct a mistake or suggest a differential, her tone cool and efficient. Max, however, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, the weight of whatever was unspoken between them hanging heavy in the air.

When the meeting ended, she walked with GP to the garage, discussing overcorrection and heat cycles. 

She managed to avoid Max entirely. 

But just before the cars were due to leave the garages to line up on the grid, Jos found her. He was calm, but there was something demanding in his expression. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you,” he said quietly, eyes hard. “But I need you to put it aside and focus. This is an important race. He needs to win.”

Her response was a sharp nod, her jaw set. Without a word, she walked over to Max’s car. She leaned into the cockpit, eyes meeting his through the visor. The surprise in his eyes at the sight of her was fleeting; she knew he hadn’t expected it. She didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“If you don’t tell her by next weekend,” she said, voice low but firm, “I’ll find her and tell her myself.” Then, before he could react, she kissed the cheek of his helmet. Her voice softened, almost a whisper. “Win it, broer.”

Straightening up, she glanced at the mechanics; her unspoken signal to let him go. She turned back to Jos, who watched her with quiet approval. He gave a small nod, and she walked away. 

— 

She rarely walked the grid while the cars were setting up, but something about this year pulled her there. She found Lando under his umbrella, shielded from the sun, sipping from his bottle.

His eyes lit up when he saw her. She kissed his cheek, adjusting his fireproofs. “Be safe, do well. Love you.”

He pulled her in for one last kiss before she moved on. She glanced at the cars, each a blur of metal and energy; smiled at the mechanics, and shared a quick squeeze with Fernando. Finally, she caught Max’s eye. He stared at her for a long moment, before offering a small smile.

“Ah, Amelia Brown!”

She spun around, coming face-to-face with Martin Brundle.

Well aware of the camera, she forced a smile through the nerves. “Hi! How are you?” she asked, deliberately avoiding the lens.

“Good, good! So, we saw you give Lando a good luck kiss. Think McLaren’s got a good shot at scoring double points again today?”

“I hope everyone does well today,” she replied, only a slight tremble in her voice, “but of course, I hope Max comes out on top.”

He laughed, somewhat distractedly, giving her a quick nod before leading the cameraman away.

She glanced back at Lando. He was watching her with a proud, warm smile.

Her cheeks flushed, and she turned, head down, walking off the grid toward the pit wall.

— 

GP settled beside her a few minutes later, handing her a comms clip. She gave it a cursive glance before she slid it into her ear and tugged her defenders on over the top.

“Makes it easier, huh?” he said through the comms, voice quiet and crackly, no need to shout through the defenders like usual.

She smiled. “You’re smart.”

“Coming from you?” He let out a long breath. “That’s the highest of compliments.”

She giggled softly, turning her focus to the screens in front of them.

Her stomach was already in knots, but that was nothing new; it always was during the formation lap. The calm before the storm. Her gaze bounced between Lando and Max, just as it always did, and not for the first time, she wished she had two sets of eyes.

They lined up on the grid. She chewed on her bottom lip, head tilted as she kept an eye on the tyre temps on Max’s car.

He hadn’t set them alight this time. Improvement.

Five lights. Four, three, two.

Lights out.

Max led from Lewis through the first corner. Her fingers fisted into the hem of her dress.

And then—

And then.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Max ahead. Lewis closing. A slipstream through Copse.

Contact.

Suddenly Amelia was on her feet, hand clamped over her mouth.

She sucked in a shaky breath, barely hearing the roar of shouting from the garage, the pit wall, the radios. Yelling. Chaos. Outrage.

GP spoke into his earpiece — calm, measured. “Max? Max, come on. Talk to me.”

Her stomach dropped. He kept repeating his name, firm but steady, and she heard every word. The comm was still in her ear.

Someone’s hands landed on her arms; steadying her, holding her upright. She didn’t look, didn’t need to. Everything else faded.

She begged silently. Prayed. She didn’t know who she was praying to… she didn’t care.

“Red flag!” someone shouted. Or maybe whispered. Everything was warped and sharp all at once.

She blinked. Jos appeared in front of her, speaking, his lips moved but she couldn’t hear him. Just the ringing.

And then—

“He’s moving! Max is getting out of the car!”

The breath punched out of her. Her lip wobbled. Her knees gave a little.

“Fuck,” she whispered, broken and small.

He pulled her into him, arms wrapped tight. Unshakable. Steady.

She sucked in a sharp breath against his shoulder.

— 

They showed her on the main feed.

A cutaway from Max’s crash, the Red Bull pit wall — GP calm and collected, Christian furious, and Amelia… utterly devastated.

She tore her eyes away from the monitor and stared at the floor. She was in the medical wing now, waiting.

51G’s.

A brutal shunt. Career-ending, for some.

Not for Max.

Him climbing out of the car unassisted had been a statement. A declaration. He was still in control. Still standing.

She looked up when Jos stepped out of the examination room. He gave her a nod, then gestured for her to go in.

She entered, and stopped cold.

Max sat on the bed, bruised but upright. Alive.

Her breath hitched. Tears welled instantly.

“Zusje,” he sighed.

She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her arms around him. Not too tight, she didn’t want to hurt him, but close enough to feel his heart beating, his lungs working, the warmth of him. Real.

He stroked her head, let her cry it out.

When she finally pulled away, lip trembling, eyes darting, he asked, “What did you do?”

So she told him.

Panic in her voice, regret tangled in every word. She’d thought about it, imagined how she’d feel if it were Lando in that crash and no one had reached out. How small and useless and broken she’d feel.

Max’s eyes darkened.

“You called her?” he demanded, already reaching for her phone. “How did you even—”

“It’s too late,” she said quietly. “She’s already on her way.”

Max froze.

“I’m not sorry,” Amelia added, steady now. “If I were her, I’d want to know.”

— 

She barely made it to Lando before he climbed back into the car for the restart.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck. His arms wrapped tight around her, lifting her off the ground with the force of his hold. “I love you so much. Please be safe. Please, Lando.”

He pulled back just enough to make her meet his eyes, steady and sure. The eye-contact made her squirm, but it was important. “I’ll always come back to you, baby. Always.”

She let out a shaky breath, a small, high-pitched sound caught between panic and relief, and hugged him once more before his engineers pulled him away.

Pietra hesitated beside her, hands hovering, then dove forward, wrapping Amelia in a hug despite the warnings both Max and Lando had given her.

“You looked so scared,” she said gently, in Portuguese.

Amelia nodded. Didn’t pull away. Let herself be held. Over Pietra’s shoulder, she locked eyes with Max. He looked concerned, like he was ready to intervene, to pry them apart, but Amelia just sniffled and pressed her face into Pietra’s shoulder.

It was nice to have a friend. 

— 

“Amelia—”

She ducked her head, jaw tight, eyes hard, and turned on her heel without hesitation.

Her heart stuttered, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was angry… furious, really. He’d carried on, celebrated the win like he hadn’t just sent his rival spinning into a tyre wall. Accident or not, it didn’t sit right in her gut.

And maybe it wasn’t fair.

But Lewis had ignored her before, in Austria.

Now, it was her turn.

— 

@/verstappie11 seeing amelia so scared after the crash was scarier than the actual crash. like can somebody hold her please!!!!!!! i never thought i’d be so happy to see jos verstappen lmao

@/pitwallprincess no bc the way the broadcast CUT to Amelia literally holding back tears while GP is stone-faced and Christian is raging… a genuine greek tragedy 

@/helmetcamwhore wait why did Amelia look like she was about to sprint to max’s car herself 😭 give her a hug pls omg

@/softlandon4ever it’s the way Lando dropped everything to hug her before the restart… like. weeping. actual soulmates.

@/mercmafia She said “I hope Max comes out on top” on the GRID and then he COLLIDES with Lewis in lap 1??? nah idc what y’all say she’s the problem.

@/tifosislut69 Amelia Brown crying on live TV was not on my bingo card today. she looked DEVASTATED. get this woman a therapist now!

@/chequedflagged I get that she's emotional but Amelia being all cold to lewis post-race in the paddock was giving bad vibes… 

@/gp2engine not everyone’s fave stem girlie Amelia Brown walking past Lewis like he doesn’t exist post-race. SHE’S MAD MAD

@/papayapixels watching Amelia literally fold into Pietra’s arms while Lando’s pulled away by engineers… god this garage has SEEN things today

NEXT CHAPTER

[sparkplug02]

It’s also showcasing the reality of trying and failing to do something. Why do you need survivors? Why do you need people to keep going and carry on? Because they learned the lessons. Other people paid the price for those lessons, but if you don’t remember them and factor them into your next try, you’ll make he same mistakes, you won’t move forward, and you won’t be better.

IF Haymitch had died in the arena when he meant to, IF Plutarch and Mags and Wiress and Beetee hadn’t gone through the terrible things that mutilated them to what we know them to be in the original trilogy, we don’t have their expertise to rely on. Not just because they’d be dead, but because Snow was actively and successfully rewriting the story to leave out those details. If they hadn’t survived, who would have been able to recount the truth? Probably no one.

Yes, that doesn’t make the mutilation itself good or ‘worth it.’ I know that, and I know Snow tortured them and none of that was necessary or right.

So you know that when Snow told Plutarch that the new Quarter Quell would reap tributes of victors, he started gambling with the idea that this could be a new chance to break the machine. He needs Beetee. He’s broken the arena twice, and they need it a third and final time. Learn from the mistakes of the past, figure out how to make it unsalvageable. Give him the biggest bomb you can think of and all the tools to make it happen.

He needs Wiress. Wiress, who’s smart enough to figure out the machine of the arena and who has a gut good enough to guide her to safety. Wiress, who can’t communicate properly and who has been hurt beyond sanity, but who is still in there enough to help. She does. It takes a while for everyone else to catch on, but she figures it out first.

He needs Mags. Mags who has seen two Quarter Quells to date. Mags who helped him with the rebellion for a long time since and who knows how these things end and what it takes for the rebellion to keep going. She either needs to be a mentor or a tribute, but she ends up being both in a way. She is an archive, she has the memory. A shame she can’t tell those memories anymore, but they’re still there and they’re still valuable and she can protect these young tributes far better inside the arena than outside.

He needs Haymitch. Haymitch, who lost everything AND himself during the last quarter quell, the last big plan to break the machine. He failed, but not completely. Haymitch showed them just how adept Snow was at twisting the story, at hiding the rot within. The rebellion all but killed him, but Plutarch needs him back. He was the face of rebellion, he was the Songbird and the Snake before Katniss and Peeta fell into that mantle. He learned the lessons they will need the hard way.

I’m willing to bet it was a damn miracle that Plutarch got Haymitch on board for Catching Fire. He has these two little ducklings that he cares about whether he wants to or not, and Plutarch is asking him to risk them and himself all over again for a plan that failed the last time it was enacted. He agrees, we know that, but Katniss doesn’t ever know about the rebellion until afterwards, and I’m don’t think Peeta does either.

I’m guessing that was Haymitch’s idea. After having all the pressure on him during his Quarter Quell, he’s not willing to put that on either Katniss or Peeta. They are both smart enough and stubborn enough to say the right things and play the part without realizing their role in all this. They want the Quell to end regardless of their knowledge of a greater rebellion. Haymitch steps in as the buffer between them and Plutarch because they trust Haymitch and he knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch. PLUTARCH knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch.

…actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know that Plutarch would have been able to convince Haymitch. Not after last time. He’s not willing to put those kids through that. He spent so much time trying to protect them from it, I’m not sure he would cave unless he didn’t have a choice.

Was Peeta’s name ever in the bowl for the reaping of the Quell? Could Plutarch have pulled that string to get Haymitch’s name in the bowl twice?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is they learned from those failures and the failed rebellions were just as important as the successful ones because they wouldn’t have been possible without the lessons learned from past attempts.

SotR is a realisation. A realisation that the rebellion didn’t start with Katniss. That all the people we see supporting her or helping her have all been wanting to fight but they’ve been failing. That there weren’t merely “rumours” of a revolution but there were many active plans playing out and failing.

It’s a reminder that the perfect Hunger Games we saw in the first hg book was an illusion because we had Katniss as our narrator. We didn’t have Haymitch, hell, we didn’t even have someone like Peeta because these people played the games. Katniss didn’t.

Katniss was introduced to us as a mad, simple, naive girl who literally only survived because of others. She didn’t know how much her taking Prim’s place mattered because she didn’t realise what it meant to everyone who came before her. To everyone who had heard rumours of how the last District 12 victor actually fought his games. No, Katniss had just kept her head down, hunting and providing for her family.

See, she grew up way before the Games got to her. She’d already lived through her dad’s death and watched it destroy her once lively mom. Haymitch didn’t have to go through that. Lucy Gray didn’t have to go through that. They were both angry, yes, but at the Capitol. Katniss? She was first and foremost angry at her mom. At her dad. She knew who was to blame but she had too much to do and deal with to think about that. She was already jaded in a way that the Games couldn’t touch.

Peeta? He was Haymitch. He knew what he was getting into and realised he was just on a chess board with no control. So, he adapted. He played the knight, the rook, the king, the pawn. Katniss? She just… did. Changing directions, not playing the piece she was assigned because she didn’t realise that’s what was going on. Remember her surprise at the crown twisting into two after the Games?? She was so oblivious. Until Catching Fire where everything caught up to her. Where everything so many other people had been waiting and working for caught up to her.

SotR is a history book. Rewritten and edited and published as a piece of fact. SotR is a mirror and it’s a reflection of what actually happens vs what ends up being shown. SotR is the playbook of those in control of any and every kind of media that we come in touch with. SotR is a wake up call and I truly don’t know how many will see it as such.

[suuuupernovaaa]

healer

Summary: Joel survives.

Warnings/tags: fluff, age gap, jackson joel, HEA always

MASTERLIST

Fuck. Shit. Christ. There’s blood everywhere. She shot him. She shot him, fuck, right in the leg.

I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. I don’t know which. That bitch, that menacing little bitch, is prancing around and yapping, she won’t shut the fuck up.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

She doesn’t know I have a gun.

I’m not quick or stealthy but no one seems to be paying attention to me - all eyes are on Joel.

On Joel. Bleeding on the floor. Joel, in pain. Joel, suffering.

I shoot the man right in front of me first, quickly, giving it little thought, and turn the gun to her next. Quickly. Through the shoulder and she goes down, then another through the neck.

Two. I’ve killed two people today.

Joel is suffering. Joel is bleeding. Joel is staring at me as chaos erupts in the room.

Six Months Later

Joel sits on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand, rocking back and forth in his chair as the sun rises.

It’s going to be a warm day, he can feel it already. It eases the aches in his muscles, especially his knees, when it’s warm like this.

She emerges from the house, holding her own cup of coffee, dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt, the same outfit she fell asleep in the night before.

She places a kiss on his forehead and sits next to him in a matching chair. She looks beautiful this morning. Her beauty is the quiet kind, that sneaks up on you, and then overwhelms you. It’s not just her face and her body, it’s her voice and her gentleness. The way she cares for those around her, especially Joel and Ellie. The way she’s so thoughtful and always kind, so worried about how people are feeling. There aren’t many people like her left, not how.

Six months later and she still has nightmares about the killings. Even in this world, nearly 35 years old, she’d never killed. She’d never wanted to, not until it came to saving him.

She did it then without so much as a second thought, and Joel lies awake at night thinking about it.

He knows she does too. He tries to soothe the ache with words, but sometimes they aren’t enough.

She smiles over at him. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

He takes a sip of his coffee and looks out at the orange sky. “You, darlin’. As usual.”

She laughs and reaches over for his hand, gripping it so tightly. He knows her nightmares aren’t just about the lives she took. They’re about losing him, too. He still doesn’t understand why she loves him so much, but he’s stopped trying to figure it out.

“I had a nightmare,” she tells him, her smile cracking a little.

He clears his throat, then sets his coffee down. Joel pats his lap. “Come tell me,” he says.

She obliges, moving from her chair to the safety of his lap and arms, and rests her head on his shoulder as she talks.

She’s such a small thing, light as a feather, he feels so driven to protect her and keep her safe. Sometimes it’s all he can think about.

The nightmare is different this time. He expects her to say she dreamed about that day, or about living without him, but this time, the nightmare was that he lived, but left anyway.

“Where the hell did I go?” Joel asks, and she cannot stop herself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t know! Probably to one of the many women in town who admire you,” she says teasingly, and he rolls his eyes behind his crooked glasses.

“Sweetheart, you’re the only one who wants my tired, old ass.”

She sits up and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“What I can’t figure out is why you want me at all,” he adds.

She shakes her head. “No more of that. You know why I love you. You know I’d do anything for you.”

He squeezes her tight, his arms around he waist, and she presses a kiss to his lips, gently at first, but as it often does, it deepens and grows urgent.

“Gross!”

They pull apart to see Ellie walking by the porch, her bag slung over her shoulders “Go inside, please.” But she waves as she jogs off, and Joel waves back.

“That’s a good idea,” his love says, looking back to him. “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you just how much you mean to me.”

He stands up, holding her in his arms like a bride, and walks towards the door.

“The day I say no to that, darlin’, is the day I truly die.”

[batsovergotham]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 13.7k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

The alarm goes off with a grating buzz that jerks you out of sleep like it’s mad at you for daring to rest. You groan and fumble for the snooze button, missing it the first time and smacking your phone halfway off your nightstand. Smooth. You let your hand hang off the edge of the bed for a second, listening to the quiet of the house. It’s always quiet in the mornings. Too quiet. Like the world’s still deciding if it wants to wake up yet. And if the world’s not ready, why should you be?

You stare up at the ceiling for a moment. Another day. Another eight hours of trying to keep your head down and pretend that the names don’t stick. You’re not exactly counting the days until senior year, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to the finish line. You just have to survive the rest of junior year first.

Eventually, you drag yourself out of bed. The floor’s freezing, and your hoodie from yesterday is crumpled on the chair, sleeves twisted, one cuff damp like it brushed something it shouldn’t have. You don’t remember how it ended up like that. Doesn’t matter. You grab your toothbrush and shuffle to the bathroom, blinking blearily at your own reflection. Your hair’s a mess. There's a weird crease on your cheek from your pillow. You look like someone who stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing a paper she should’ve started three days ago. Because you did.

By the time you get dressed, you’ve pulled on an oversized sweater that used to be gray but now kind of looks like it’s lived through the Dust Bowl. It's safe. Comfortable. You tug the sleeves down over your hands and hope they make you invisible enough to slide through the day.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like toast and cinnamon. Aunt May is already at the stove, wearing her fluffy pink robe and humming something low and old-timey under her breath. She’s got her “Good Morning Sunshine” mug in one hand and a spatula in the other, flipping something that might’ve once been pancakes.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” she calls over her shoulder when she hears you step in. “Sleep okay?”

You nod, already making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Yeah. Kinda.”

She glances at you. “That your ‘kinda’ voice or your ‘please don’t ask me anything else’ voice?”

You give her a tired smile. “Little bit of both.”

She clicks her tongue affectionately and turns back to her pancake carnage. “There’s peanut butter on the counter and jam in the fridge. Go wild.”

You grab both. “Oh yeah, this is definitely the rational choice.”

“That’s my girl,” she says, sliding a plate toward you.

You sit, spreading peanut butter on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone about to face a firing squad. May moves around the kitchen like she always does like she’s in charge of the weather in this house. Her presence fills every quiet space.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute, but you can feel her looking at you. Eventually, she breaks the silence with a soft, careful voice. “Everything alright at school?”

Your stomach tenses. You keep your eyes on your toast, trying to act casual. “Yeah. Why?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been quiet. Quieter than usual, I mean. And I noticed your hoodie yesterday. It looked like someone yanked on it pretty hard.”

You freeze. Just for a second. “Oh. Yeah, that was just... the locker door caught it.”

“Mm-hmm.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And what about the coffee stain on your bag? Looked like someone poured it on you, not like it just... slipped.”

You sigh, shoulders sagging a little. You really thought you were hiding it better.

“May-”

“Is someone giving you trouble?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

She sets her mug down and walks over to lean against the counter. Her gaze is steady, not pushy, just... worried. “Honey. You don’t have to minimize it. If someone’s bullying you-”

“They’re not bullying,” you cut in, not looking at her. “It’s just stupid stuff. Flash being Flash.”

Her expression tightens. “What kind of ‘stupid stuff’?”

“Um… he, like, calls me names and laughs at me in the hallway. And last week he, uh… took my Seance Dog comic and started reading it out loud. In front of everyone.”

May’s jaw clenches. “You tell anyone?”

You shake your head. “It’s not worth it. The teachers don’t really do anything. They act like it’s just normal guy behavior or whatever.”

“That is not normal,” she says, and there’s steel in her voice now. “It’s cruel. He’s humiliating you.”

You offer a weak shrug. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

She softens again, stepping forward and placing a warm hand on your shoulder. “Sweetheart, I know you’re tough. But that doesn’t mean you should have to be.”

There’s something in your throat now. Tight and hot. You just nod, because if you say anything, it’ll break.

And then, like a scene change in a movie, the low rumble of a sleek engine hums up outside. You both turn toward the window. There it is. The glossy black car pulling up like it just rolled off a commercial shoot. Windows tinted. Paint polished within an inch of its life.

Harry Osborn.

Right on time.

“Guess that’s my ride,” you mumble, standing a little too fast.

May raises a brow. “He’s chauffeuring you now?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. “He passes by anyway.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, clearly skeptical. “Harry’s a good boy. I’ve always liked him. You two have been thick as thieves since you were little. Just don’t forget to make room for other people too, sweetheart. It’s good to have more than one person in your corner.

You stop, backpack halfway on. “I know. He’s never made me feel like I had to be anyone else.”

“Tell me if anything else happens.” She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and her hand lingers on your cheek. “You’re special. You don’t need to change to fit in. Especially not for anyone who makes you feel small.”

You nod, throat dry. “I’ll be fine.”

You step outside, the cold biting through your sleeves. The car door pops open with a soft click and Harry leans over the console with a grin. He’s wearing sunglasses, despite the overcast sky, and his hair looks like it was styled by angels.

“Get in, loser,” he jokes. “Your chariot to misery has arrived.”

You laugh under your breath and slide into the passenger seat. “You know you’re insufferable, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, throwing the car into drive with one smooth motion. “It’s part of my charm.”

The car smells like money and overpriced cologne. Not in a bad way. In a Harry kind of way. The kind of way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t totally stick out like a sore thumb.

“Rough morning?” he asks, glancing sideways at you.

You nod, staring out the window. “Flash was doing his thing again.”

Harry sighs. “Want me to say something?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Seriously. I appreciate it, but... I need to handle it on my own.”

“Alright,” he says after a pause. “But if he lays a finger on you, I’m bringing the limo next time. Park it right in his locker.”

You smile, just a little. “You don’t have a limo.”

“Yet.”

You glance at him. His jaw’s a little tight. He’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s ready to go full Osborn if you gave the word. He always has been. Since kindergarten, when he gave you half his peanut butter sandwich because yours got stepped on.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quiet.

“For what?”

“For picking me up.”

Harry shrugs like it’s nothing. “Always will.”

And you believe him.

Even if you don’t believe a lot these days, you believe that.

His infamous Rolls Royce pulls into the school parking lot smooth and silent, the type of quiet that turns heads not because it’s spectacular, but because it’s out of place. Too slick for Manhattan. Too pricey to blend in. But Harry doesn’t appear to notice. Or care. He keeps one hand on the wheel, eyes straining slightly at the bleak morning light like he already wants the day over with.

You’re in the passenger seat, gripping your backpack on your lap, watching your breath fog up the glass. You don’t want to go in. You never do. But today it’s worse. Something about the weight in your chest. The way your stomach’s already tight and you haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.

“You okay?” Harry asks, voice subdued.

You nod, though you don’t look at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums, unconvinced. “You always say that.”

“I’m always tired.”

He twists the keys, and the engine turns off. The air between you goes motionless. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask the way other people might. He just sits there for a bit like he’s waiting for you to catch up to yourself.

“I’m walking with you,” he offers.

You gaze at him. “You always walk with me.”

“Right,” he replies, a half-smile developing. “Just reminding you I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

You exhale, shoulders drooping a little. “Thanks.”

The two of you stroll out into the cool morning air. The chill reaches you fast, wind nibbling at your ears and sneaking past the worn sleeves of your sweatshirt. You slide your hands inside your pockets. Harry doesn’t say anything. Just walks a bit slower, like he’s giving you time.

You’re nearly to the main entrance when you hear it.

“You guys are like a package deal, huh? Can’t say I missed the daily nerd parade.”

You freeze.

It’s like muscle memory. The second Flash Thompson’s voice strikes your ears, your whole body reacts, stomach tensing, breath catching, pulse surging.

He’s leaning up against one of the pillars at the front steps, arms crossed, a smirk already pasted on his face like it lives there. His tiny group, his girlfriend Liz and that boy from the lacrosse team you’ve never bothered to learn the name of, snicker behind him like background noise.

You don’t turn around. You don’t react. You’ve learnt it’s best not to. But Harry does. He stops walking. Slowly turns around.

Flash smirks, swaggering just enough for his friends to catch it.

“Didn’t know you were still dragging her around, Osborn. Thought even you would’ve upgraded by now.”

Harry doesn’t even glance up. “Didn’t know you still had teeth. Thought I took care of that in eighth grade.”

Flash’s grin falters for half a second. “You always this bitter, or is that just for me?” he throws back.

Harry finally looks at him, calm, steady, and annoyingly unbothered. “Just for you. Everyone else has the decency to stop peaking in freshman year.”

That throws Flash for a beat. But he heals swiftly.

“Relax,” he adds, waving in your way. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Four-Eyes here has been cosplaying as a walking encyclopedia since freshman year. Thought she’d be used to it by now.”

It’s hardly the worst he’s said. Not even close. But somehow it still lands. Right in your stomach. You gaze at the sidewalk. But Harry takes a step ahead. Not threatening. Not dramatic. 

“She's not hurting anyone. She's never spoken a damn word to you unless it was about returning your group project notes since you failed history class.”

Flash frowns.

“She’s everything you wish you were,” Harry goes on, voice calm but forceful. “And that pisses you off, doesn’t it? That no matter how loud you are, she’s still better. So you do what you always do, talk shit and hope no one notices how fucking pathetic that is.”

Flash straightens like he would say anything further, but Harry walks away before he can. His voice is flat as he mutters, “Let’s go,” and softly places his hand on your back, pulling you toward the doors.

You don’t look back. But you feel eyes on you the whole way.

The instant you’re inside, the cacophony of the corridor hits like a wall. Lockers smashing. Conversations overlapping. Shoes creaking against tile. You keep going, Harry alongside you, quiet.

Finally, you remark, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

You bite your lip. “It just... makes it worse, sometimes. When people think I can’t fight my own battles.”

He glances at you. “You can. That’s not why I stepped in.”

You don’t answer. Just slam your locker open a little too forcefully and start ripping out your books like they mistreated you.

Harry leans against the locker next to yours, hands still in his coat pockets. “He’s only brave when he knows he won’t get hit back. Real tough guy.”

You keep your eyes forward. “I’m not falling apart y’know.”

Harry gives a small shrug. “Didn’t say you were. Just saying he’s not exactly brave for picking the easy targets.”

You both hear it at the same time, Amber’s chuckle. Loud. Confident. The type of sound that’s designed to be heard.

You don’t mean to look. But you do. And there they are.

Mark Grayson and Amber Bennett, standing together just across the hall. She’s placed her hand on his shoulder, and he’s chuckling at something she said. It seems easy. Like it always does. Like something from a teen drama where the universe makes sense.

You swiftly turn back to your locker. Harry observes you.

“You like him,” he adds gently.

You don’t answer right away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He smiled at you last week.”

“It was a hallway smile, Harry. People smile in the hallway.”

He studies Mark for a beat, then glances back at you. “He smiled like he meant it.”

You give him a worn expression. “He’s with Amber.”

“And?”

“She’s... her. And I’m me.”

Harry’s silent for a long second. Then he says, “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means people like him go for people like her.” You shove a notepad inside your bag. “Not girls who read comics in the library during lunch.”

Harry moves, like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure whether he should. Eventually, he just adds, You’re better than you think. Like, by a lot.”

You gaze at him. He’s not smiling. Not teasing. He means it. And suddenly, like it’s choreographed, Mark glances over. His eyes connect with yours. He pauses. And he smiles. Not a fast, courteous glimpse. A genuine one. Soft. Quiet. Familiar. Like he remembers you. Like he sees you. Your chest does something bizarre. Warm and agonizing all at once.

Then Amber says something, and Mark turns back to her, and the moment’s done. You blink, attempting to assemble the fragments of whatever that was.

Harry talks again. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“I don’t even know what that was.”

He offers you a slight, knowing shrug. “It was something.”

The bell sounds overhead, harsh and too loud, disturbing whatever bizarre dream-space you were standing in. You both start going toward class. He doesn’t press. Just walks with you like he usually does. And for a second, just one, you think maybe that’s what counts more than anything Mark could say. Because Harry’s still here. Not for show. Not for sympathy. Just... here.

You make it to class without speaking anything else, only the sound of your shoes echoing along the tiled corridors. The two of you part up at the corner near the language wing, and you catch the way Harry looks back, just for a second, before entering into his own room.

You get into your seat at the back of the classroom just before the second bell sounds.

Mr. Langford is already making notes on the board. He doesn’t recognize anyone’s arrival. He doesn’t need to, he knows none of you are going to speak beyond a whisper until called on, and even then, only under duress. His whole class is a plodding march through great literature, and right now, you're halfway through The Great Gatsby, which you adore more than you care to admit.

You take your notebook out. You don’t open it yet. You’re still thinking about the look on Mark’s face. The smile. The way he’d held it for a second too long. It’s dumb. You shrug the notion out of your brain. He’s dating Amber. Everyone knows that. But he smiled. At you.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, but part of you is already keeping it. Pressing it like a withered flower between the pages of your brain.

The time drags. Your notes are nice, but you’re not really present. You keep staring at the clock. Every tick is a reminder that you’re going to have to go back out there. That the next class will bring more of the same, people pretending you’re not there, or worse, making sure you feel that you are.

When the bell eventually sounds, you’re the last one to rise up. You slip out into the hallway. It’s already filled again, bodies and bags and casual laughing that always seems louder when it’s not for you. You stick to the side, head down. It’s easier that way. Second period is Chemistry. You like Chemistry. It makes sense. It’s mathematics and logic and reactions that follow rules. Predictable. Safe.

You step in and Mark is there. Of course he is. Same seat, two rows over. He’s talking to someone, some guy from track, but when you walk in, his eyes shoot up. Just for a second. They land on you.

And there it is again. That look. He doesn’t smile this time, but he nods. Subtle. Like you’re in on something. You sit down and pretend your heart isn’t racing louder than your thoughts.

Class begins. You focus harder than normal. Take notes like your life relies on it. But the whole time, you can sense him. Not observing you, exactly, but aware of you. Like you’ve become a fixed spot on his radar and he continues checking to make sure you're still there.

When the bell sounds, you wait for most of the class to exit before gathering your belongings. You put your backpack over your shoulder and stroll into the hallway.

He’s waiting. Mark. He’s standing just to the side of the entrance like he’s tying his shoe, but he glances up as soon as you step out.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “I liked your answer. In class. About the bonding energy thing.”

You blink. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“It made more sense than how he explained it.”

You chuckle quietly. “That’s... not a high bar.”

Mark grins. It’s tiny. Nervous. “Still. I dunno… you just have this way of explaining stuff that actually makes it make sense.”

You didn’t even think he’d been paying attention.

Before you can think out what to say next, Amber’s voice rips through the hall from behind him. “Mark!”

He looks over his shoulder.

Then back at you.

“Anyway, uh…just wanted to say that,” he mutters.

You nod. “Thanks.”

And suddenly he’s gone, strolling down the hall toward her like nothing happened. You’re left standing there, your brain short-circuiting in real time.

The remainder of the day is a haze. You survive history. You nod through French. You avoid eye contact in the lunchroom and eat at your customary table in the corner, where the noise is muted and your book keeps you company. You don’t see Flash again, which helps. You don’t see Mark either, which shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

By the time the last bell sounds, your brain is fried. You push past the masses and hurry toward your locker, eager to collect your belongings and disappear. Harry’s already waiting there.

He’s slumped against the wall beside your locker, arms crossed, bag thrown lazily over one shoulder. “There you are.”

You blink. “You waited?”

He shrugs. “Figured we’d walk out together.”

You start spinning your combination. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

You glance over. He’s scrutinizing you, but not in a judgmental sense. Just... observing.

“You okay?” he says. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But this is a different kind.”

You shut your locker and sigh. “Mark talked to me after Chem.”

Harry blinks. “Wait. What?”

“He said he liked the way I explained bonding energy.”

“That’s it?”

You nod.

Harry analyzes you for another beat. Then, gently, “And it meant something. Didn’t it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. You both walk down the corridor toward the exit. The school’s quieter now, most of the students have spilled out onto the street, some loitering in front of the gym or huddling behind the bike racks.

Harry holds the door open for you without thinking. You step out, the air cooler now, the sun creeping lower behind the buildings.

“I know what it’s like,” Harry adds after a minute. “To want something and be afraid it’s going to disappear the second you reach for it.”

You gaze at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking forward, jaw clenched.

“It’s hard,” he continues. “Especially when you’re used to being ignored. Makes you doubt whether the moment ever happened at all.”

You stop walking. He does too.

You turn to face him. “You think I’m imagining it?”

He stares at you then. “No. I guess it terrified you.”

You exhale, breath fogging in front of you. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Harry transfers his weight. “He smiled at you again, didn’t he.”

You nod. “Not just a smile this time. He talked to me.”

“Then maybe it’s not nothing.”

You gaze down. “It feels like something.”

Harry’s voice sinks. “Then it is.”

He says that like it’s clear. Like the sky is blue. Like the sun will set. Like it’s just true. You stay there a minute longer, letting the stillness settle about you. For once, it’s not weighty. It’s warm. Comfortable.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t feel so invisible anymore.

You don’t know why Mark Grayson starts sitting closer in Chemistry. He was always more of a back-row type. The sort of person who coasted through class with a smile and just enough involvement to prevent from being called on. He had that easy, casual appeal people either wanted to date or secretly disliked.

And for a time, he sat with Amber Bennett. They were a thing. Everyone knew it. Until, suddenly, they weren’t. There was no fight. No drama. No whispered hallway repercussions. They just... stopped sitting together. She stopped waiting for him outside of class. He stopped checking his phone between intervals like he was expecting her to text. They passed each other once in the cafeteria. Didn’t even make eye contact.

That’s when you noticed the shift.

You’ve never talked much to Mark. Not beyond polite conversation, class projects, the odd little moment, him giving you a paper you dropped, you lending him a pen during a quiz. But you’ve spotted him. It’s hard not to. He’s the type of boy who sparkles without trying to. Who takes up space without needing to talk.

But recently, he’s quieter. Not sad, precisely. Just... turned inward. And you can connect to it. So when he begins sitting a row closer in Chem, you don’t doubt it. When he peeks at your notes mid-lecture, you shift the page over a bit without saying anything.

Mark hangs back after class, kind of pretending to check something in his bag but clearly waiting for you again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping over like it’s no big deal but clearly trying. “You’re good at this chem stuff, right? Like, actually understand it?”

You glance at him, surprised. “I guess? Why?”

He shrugs, gives a lopsided smile. “Because I’m not. At all. And if I bomb one more quiz, I think my GPA’s gonna file a restraining order.”

You laugh, and he brightens a little.

You nod. “Yeah. I get that.”

He hesitates. “Would it be weird if I asked for help sometime?”

“Not weird.”

He exhales, apparently relieved. “Cool.”

It becomes a thing. Not formal. Not consistent. But a thing. He finds you in the library after school. No announcement. No plans. He just... turns up. You glance up from your notebook and raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to go home yet.”

You don’t question it. You move your stuff to make room. He sits across from you and pulls out his Chemistry packet. And that’s how it starts.

Some days you study. Some days you don’t. Some days you speak about class, or ridiculous YouTube videos, or which teacher definitely needs a vacation. Other days he barely talks, and you both just sit there in the same silence , doing nothing at all.

And that’s alright. It’s never framed as anything more than that. Not a date. Not a secret. Just... a shared pause in an otherwise crazy week. You don’t know why he comes to you. But you don’t mind that he does.

One afternoon, he shows up to the library later than normal. His eyes are a touch red. Not like he’s been crying, just like he hasn’t slept.

He dumps his backpack on the floor and slumps onto the chair. “Hey.”

You glance up. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.”

You wait. He says nothing. Just stares at the edge of the table.

Then, out of nowhere. “You ever have those days where it all feels… weird? Like you’re there, but not really?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I have.”

He doesn’t say anything else. But he sits a bit straighter after that. You just think ‘He’s struggling with something.’ And that something hasn’t been called yet. And if he wants to talk about it, he will. Until then, you’re just... here.

One Thursday, he meets you outside class.

“Hey,” he says. “You doing anything after school?”

You pause. “No. Why?”

“Hey, there’s this place downtown, bookstore with a coffee shop in it. The comic section’s a disaster, total mess. Thought you might like it.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t know what I like.”

He grins. “You doodled Superman on your Chem notes last week.”

You flush. He grins wider.

“It’s not a date,” he adds hurriedly. “I just... didn’t want to go alone.”

You pretend your heart didn’t just do anything crazy.

“Okay,” you say. “Sure.”

It’s dusty and chaotic and comforting in that way that old shops often are. The shelves lean. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. The fragrance is coffee beans and cardboard and time.

You step in beside him. The clerk doesn’t glance up. You stroll toward the comics corner. It’s anarchy. Stacks of mismatched problems. Trade paperbacks from 10 years ago. A decrepit cardboard standee of Batman toppling over in the corner. He flips through a handful, bringing up one that seems like it escaped a flood.

“This is either cursed or a collectible.”

You snort. “Definitely both.”

He laughs. Really laughs. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen him do that. You end up getting tea. He gets the worst coffee of his life. You sit at the window, just watching the street as it grows dark.

“This place is weird,” he says.

“Yeah. I like it.”

You drink your tea. He taps his fingers on the table.

“Amber and I broke up.”

You blink. He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“It wasn’t bad. Just... not right anymore.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“She wanted more from me. And I couldn’t give it to her.”

He glances up.

“I don’t really know what I want right now. But being here’s easier.”

You don’t say anything. You just nod. And he appears to breathe a bit easier after that. On the walk back, you brush shoulders. Not on purpose. But he doesn’t draw away. You don’t either.

And even though it’s not a date, even though no one says anything they shouldn’t, you find yourself staring at him a bit longer than normal. And thinking what it would be like if it was.

You weren’t expecting Mark Grayson’s house to seem so normal.

It’s a two-story in the midst of a quiet neighborhood, the type of property where the porch is usually swept but the paint on the door is chipped toward the bottom. The grass is uneven in areas. The windchimes clink quietly in the air. It smells vaguely like laundry venting through the walls and someone’s concept of a home-cooked dinner.

You’re early.

Well, on time. But you feel early.

You tighten the strap of your bag, checking your phone again for the address Mark gave you. The text had been brief.

> want to study at my house friday?

No extra words. No emoji. Just that. You said yes. You even offered to bring food. He answered within minutes.

 > please yes i just have lousy granola bars and expired ramen

You don’t know what you anticipated. But this? This feels… silent. More domestic than you expected it would be.

Before you can knock, the door opens.

Mark appears at the doorway in sweatpants and a hoodie with the sleeves pressed up to his elbows. His hair looks like it’s still recuperating from a towel-dry, and he’s barefoot.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is warm. Tired. A little astonished.

You hold out a bag of gummy worms and chips. “Figured I’d bring the essentials.”

He steps aside, smiling. “A true lifesaver. Come on in.”

Inside, the house seems lived-in. There are images on the walls, family holidays, school portraits, one of Mark on his dad’s shoulders laughing like he was made of sunlight. The kitchen smells like tomato sauce and warmed leftovers. You follow him into the tiny hallway and into the kitchen, where he dumps his backpack with a faint thud upon the table.

“We can study here if that’s cool,” he offers. “My room’s a mess. Unless you want to sit on a pile of clothes and ungraded math homework.”

You grin and sink into the chair across from him. “I’ll take the table.”

He sits down with a sigh and opens a notepad. “I warned you, though. I’m going fail this test unless you do some type of academic CPR.”

“I’ll get the paddles.”

He chuckles, and it’s the first real one you’ve heard from him in a while. You’re halfway through a question concerning redox reactions when a voice calls out from another room.

“Mark?”

He glances toward the hall. “Kitchen!”

A moment later, a woman steps in, groceries in one hand, keys in the other. She freezes when she sees you, eyebrows rising for a second before her expression relaxes.

“Oh. Hello. I didn’t know we had company.”

You start to stand, but she waves you off.

“I’m Debbie,” she adds, shifting the bag on her hip. “You must be the Chem tutor.”

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry for dropping in.”

“Oh, you’re his tutor? Great. Maybe now he’ll bring home a test I don’t have to squint at to find the passing grade.”

“Mom,” Mark mutters.

Debbie offers you a wink. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here.”

A few minutes later, you hear footsteps again, heavier this time. Slower. Then, a fresh voice. Deep. Calm. Measured.

“Debbie?”

“In the kitchen,” she calls.

And then you see him. Mark’s dad. You’ve never met him before, yet something about the way he enters the room makes you straighten without thinking. He’s tall. Broad. The type of man that looks too enormous for the doorway he passes through.

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t scowl either. He merely glances at you. There’s a weight in his stare, quiet, but obvious. Mark stands. So do you.

“Dad, we’re in Chem together,” Mark says your name.

You offer your hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

He takes it. His grasp is solid but not crushing. His hand is warm and calloused. His voice is lower than Mark’s, smooth and unhurried. “Nolan.”

You nod. Something about him makes your palms sweat. He lingers for just a second longer than he should. Then nods and steps back.

And just like that, he’s gone. You sit down carefully. Mark exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You okay?” he says.

You blink. “Yeah. Your dad’s just... intense.”

Mark huffs a weary chuckle. “Yeah. He’s... a lot.”

You don’t Sk what Nolan does for a living. You recall Mark suggesting something vague once about novels or anything to do with writing. You didn’t press then, and you don’t now.

But still, something about the way Nolan stared at you remained buried in your ribs. You get back to studying.

Mark is better at this than he lets on. He’s not failing. He’s just exhausted. Distracted. He remembers half of the formulas and just needs someone to keep him from talking himself out of the appropriate solution.

You help. He listens. Mark glances at you for a long moment. Then he nods. “Thanks.”

You stay for another hour.

When you finally rise, your back’s hurting and your brain’s fried. But you’ve worked through all the review questions, and Mark says he’s going to score at least a B this time.

You follow him back to the entrance hallway. As you slide your shoes on, Debbie joins you at the door with a Tupperware container.

“Leftovers,” she replies, placing it gently in your hands. “Don’t argue.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome anytime.”

Mark opens the door for you. You go onto the porch, and that’s when you hear the voice again.

“Heading out?”

You turn.

Nolan stands near the steps, arms folded across his chest. His gaze finds yours with precise accuracy.

“Yes,” you answer, trying not to sound apprehensive. “Thank you for having me.”

He nods once. “Smart people ask the right questions.”

You freeze.

Then he says, “He’s stronger when he’s challenged. You seem to hold him to a standard… that’s good. He needs that.”

You attempt to grin. “Thanks.”

His expression doesn’t change. Then he turns and disappears back down the hall. You stare at Mark.

He shrugs. “That’s his version of approval.”

“Cold,” you say.

He snorts. “Yeah.”

You say farewell and walk back to your house, the Tupperware warm in your hands and your thoughts full of too many things.

You don’t anticipate much from Monday.

Just the usual. Half-slept eyelids, a sore shoulder from a too-heavy backpack, the lingering taste of coffee that went cold before the first bell. You don’t anticipate clarity, or elegance, or anything that is easy.

But you surely don’t anticipate him.

“You know, I always figured you were book smart, but I didn’t think you were that easy.”

Flash Thompson’s voice slices through the corridor like a dagger. You cringe, not because of what he says, but because of how loud he makes sure it is. You’re halfway to your locker. You don’t turn. Not at first.

You know the tone. The way his voice lifts just enough to encourage an audience. It’s not curiosity. It’s spectacle. Flash has been like this since middle school, loud, arrogant, always surrounding individuals he believes can’t or won’t bite back.

You don’t engage. That’s always been your rule. But this time? This time it’s not just a jab.

“You and Grayson, huh?” Flash continues, sauntering into view like he owns the floor. “So that’s all it takes to get you worked up? He says some chemistry crap and suddenly you’re all flushed and ready to play lab partner with your legs open?”

He grins.

The group surrounding you doesn’t laugh, exactly, but a few of them pause. Linger. He sees it. Doubles down.

“Practice quiz was just foreplay, huh?” he says, leaning one elbow on the locker next to yours. “Bet you were drooling over more than formulas the second he took out his binder.”

You say nothing. But your fingers are gripped around the spine of your notebook. He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey, no judgment,” he adds, faux-innocent. “We’ve all had those days. A little homework. A little extra credit. A little physics lesson, if you catch my drift.”

A few kids chuckle now. Not because it’s humorous. Because he’s loud. Because no one wants to be the next target. Flash tilts his head.

“You're really aiming low though, aren’t you?” he adds, eyes narrowing just enough to make your skin crawl. “Grayson? Seriously? I figured you for someone with standards.”

You start to close your locker. Fast. Hard. But Flash keeps going.

“Then again,” he continues, a little closer now, voice lowering just enough to make it personal, “maybe you’re not as hard to get as you pretend to be.”

That’s when the second voice cuts in. Quiet. Level. Sharp as a scalpel.

“Say that again.”

You don’t turn. You already know who it is. Mark’s voice isn’t loud. It’s not furious. But the weight of it freezes everyone around you in their tracks.

Flash straightens, nearly laughs. “Grayson. Wow, you really have great timing.”

Mark moves ahead, slow and controlled. His strap is still hanging across his back. His hands are in his jacket pockets. He looks peaceful. Too calm. You know that look.

You’ve seen it once or twice, when someone at lunch kicked a platter at the janitor. When a freshman made a joke about Eve behind her back. Mark doesn’t get loud. He just looks straight at people. And they typically shut up.

Not Flash.

Flash grins like he’s unbeatable. “Look, man, if she didn’t want people talking, maybe she shouldn’t be walking around like she’s got secrets. First she’s all quiet, then suddenly she’s at your house. What else are people meant to think?”

Mark doesn’t blink.

“You’re not ‘people.’ You’re just loud.”

Flash’s grin falters. Mark steps closer. And when he talks, it’s lower than before.

“Say one more word about her, and we’re done talking.”

There’s no arrogance in his voice. Just certainty. Flash stiffens, suddenly aware of how many people had gone still around them. Someone murmurs your name. Another mutters Mark’s.

“You threatening me?” Flash asks.

Mark’s upper lip twitches. “You’re not getting a second warning.”

Flash steps back. Not far. But enough.

He attempts to sneer. “Come on. We’re just messing around.”

“No,” Mark responds. “You’re messing around. And no one’s laughing.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t raise his voice. But everyone hears it. Flash glares. And then, eventually, he turns. Walks away. Quick. Too fast to be casual. Mark watches him leave. Then exhales. He turns to you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, stroking the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to, uh, make it a whole thing.”

You shake your head.

“No. That was... thank you.”

He offers a tiny nod. “He’s been a jerk for a while. Figured it was time someone said something.”

You bite your lip. “That was more than saying something.”

He shrugs. “He deserved it.”

You don’t disagree.

The remainder of the day goes in a haze. In Chemistry, Mark passes you a note. Not a dramatic one. Just a shred pulled from the corner of his worksheet.

> still on for thursday?

You scrawl back.

> if you bring food.

He writes.

> i’m starving. you bring food.

You repress a laugh. Later, as you gather up your things, he stays by the door. You fall in stride beside him without thinking.

“You good?” he says, sounding nonchalant now.

You gaze at him. “Yeah.”

He nods, like that’s all he needs. You go halfway down the hall before you halt.

“Mark?”

He glances at you, one brow arched.

You clear your throat. “You didn’t have to say anything. But... I’m happy you did.”

He grins. “Yeah, well. I’m not good at keeping quiet.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re literally always quiet in class.”

Mark smiles. “Exactly.”

And strangely, that makes perfect sense.

On Thursday, Mark opens the door barefoot, wearing a sweatshirt that definitely should’ve been retired a year ago and carrying a sleeve of Cheez-Its like it’s the most important thing he possesses.

“You’re early,” he adds, but there’s no bite to it.

“You said six.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You lift an eyebrow. “ I brought my notes. And gummy worms. That’s as emotionally accessible as I get.”

He grins, standing aside to let you enter. “Perfect. This way.”

The Grayson house smells like laundry detergent and something strangely Italian, tomato sauce again, maybe. You walk over a pair of sneakers at the entryway and follow Mark along the hallway to the kitchen, where a mound of opened mail and a set of mismatched tablecloths share room with an open binder and three broken pens.

He sweeps the pens away like he’s done this same gesture a hundred times.

“Alright,” he replies, dropping into a chair across from you. “Let’s save my GPA.”

You place your backpack down, unzip it, and bring out your folders. “Start with redox reactions?”

“Start with telling me what those are again.”

You blink.

“Kidding,” he says hastily. “Kinda.”

You toss him a pencil. “Then let’s go.”

You’re about half an hour into the study session when the temperature in the room shifts. It starts with the creak of the steps. Heavy footsteps. Not hurried, but thoughtful. Mark’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Then a low, unhurried voice fills the area.

“She’s here… again?”

The voice isn’t loud, yet it lands like a pin in the midst of the table. You glance up.

Mark’s father strides into the kitchen like a shadow filling the doorway. He’s tall, taller than any man has a right to be, and wide through the chest and shoulders. Today, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his beard groomed, his gaze unfathomable.

He doesn’t look at you. He stares at Mark.

Mark, without glancing up from the notes in front of him, adds tightly, “Dad.”

Nolan lifts his hands like he’s innocent. “What? Just noticing.”

You clear your throat. “Hi, Mr. Grayson.”

Nolan stares at you then, nodding. “Evening.”

He doesn’t grin. Doesn’t frown either. He just... is. There’s a pause. Then he wanders toward the fridge, opens it, gets a water bottle, and pauses there a bit too long before heading out again. Mark lets out a sigh as soon as the door slams closed behind him.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “He’s... always like that.”

You glance toward the door. “Did I do something?”

“No. God—no,” he says quickly. “He’s just weird when I bring people home. You didn’t do anything.”

You return to your notes, but the tone has transformed. The air feels tighter. Mark doesn’t make as many jokes after that. He’s concentrated, keen, eyes flitting from formula to formula like he’s trying to escape whatever’s seething just beneath the surface.

You try not to let it get to you. But it does.

Later, Debbie comes down from upstairs, pulling her hair up and murmuring faintly to herself. She’s got a warmth to her that makes the place feel more like a home again.

“Spaghetti’s on the stove,” she says. “If either of you need a break.”

Mark perked up instantly. “Do I have to do anything for it?”

“Just pretend like you haven’t been living on instant ramen and cereal.”

He grins, already standing. “I make no promises.”

You follow him into the kitchen, and soon you're eating microwaved spaghetti over your open notes, the kitchen warmer now, the strain of earlier starting to disappear.

Debbie circles around a few minutes later, observes the gummy worms spread between your pages, and raises a brow.

“I see the study snacks have become actual meal replacements.”

“She said it was brain fuel,” Mark explains.

“I stand by that,” you murmur between a mouthful of noodles.

Debbie laughs. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for real dinner next time. Though I make no promises regarding nutrition.”

You depart shortly after nine, spaghetti container in hand and your folder packed a bit tighter than before. Mark takes you to the door, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up against the cold.

“Hey,” he says as you approach the steps. “Thanks again. You’re seriously helping me not flunk this.”

“You’re welcome,” you remark, stepping down onto the porch.

Mark pauses at the doorway a second longer, then adds, “Text me when you get home?”

You nod. “I will.”

You’re halfway down the path when you hear another voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. It’s Debbie. She’s walked out onto the porch, arms crossed against the chill, a soft grin on her face.

“I figured I’d walk you out,” she says. “Mark can’t be trusted to remember simple things like jackets.”

You smile. “He’s consistent, at least.”

She laughs then her voice softens. “Thank you for coming. And for helping him.”

You blink. “Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, I like chemistry.”

“I can tell,” she says. “It’s nice. Seeing him around someone who gets it.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

She adds, softly, “Don’t let his dad get to you.”

You gaze toward the home. “I didn’t mean to-”

“He’s not... unfriendly,” Debbie continues, picking her words carefully. “Just not good with company. Especially when it’s not expected.”

You nod slowly.

“He’s used to things being a certain way,” she continues. “Schedules. Routines. And when something changes, even something small, it throws him off.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just provide a gentle, “Okay.”

Debbie studies you a minute more, then says, “It’s not about you.”

And somehow, that helps the tightness in your chest lessen just a little.

You smile. “Thanks.”

She returns it, then waves you off. “Get home safe.”

You go home beneath peaceful starlight and gentle streetlight, brain humming not with formulas, but with all that was nearly said.

You slip into a habit before you even know it.

Not everything at once. Not in some rom-com montage of coffee cups and falling leaves and gently blurred smiles over a shared textbook. It’s slower. Quieter. The type of pattern you don’t notice until you’re already inside it, like music playing under your skin.

Mondays and Thursdays become study nights. You don’t plan it. It just happens. He starts messaging you more. You start replying quicker. And somehow, every week, you find yourself back at the Graysons’ kitchen table, paper scattered between you, half-finished notes on ionic bonding and entropy, a shared bag of gummy worms laying half-eaten between your elbows.

You’re not sure when it stops being just about Chemistry.

Probably the third time you see him scribbling in the margins of your schoolwork. Stick figures in lab coats. A molecule shouting “HELP” in capital letters. One time, he sketches you wearing goggles and surrounded by flames, mumbling “I told you not to mix them.”

“You’re gonna get me killed in the Chem lab,” you warn him, holding the paper up.

“Not true,” Mark replies, flipping a page. “If we both go down, it’s technically a bonding experience.”

You throw a gummy worm at him. He catches it in his lips without glancing up.

His house never changes. It’s usually warm and lived-in, a touch messy around the edges. Debbie greets you every time with the same worn grin that indicates she’s seen too much and yet wants you to feel welcome.

Nolan doesn’t speak much.

Sometimes you hear him upstairs. Sometimes he passes past the kitchen and nods without speaking. But there’s always something in the air when he’s around. Not anger. Not tension. Just, expectation. Like every room he's in is a test.

Mark never reacts to it. Not openly. But you’ve observed how he gets silent as his dad's footsteps reach the landing. How his handwriting stiffens. How he stops cracking jokes till Nolan’s out of earshot.

You pretend not to notice. You think maybe that’s the right thing to do.

By week four, you’re used to his hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the way he chews his pencil while he’s thinking, the odd groan of exasperation when he gets something wrong that he should know.

“I swear I studied this,” he mutters one night, scrolling through his binder like it deceived him.

You glance at the question. “This is literally what we went over last time.”

“I know. I’m not saying I didn’t study. I’m saying the studying lied to me.”

You gaze at him.

Mark shrugs. “Textbooks have been out to get me since middle school.”

You huff a chuckle and start re-explaining the question.

He listens better now. Not only to you, but in class. You hear him actually address things now, still low-key, still playing it cool, but he’s trying.

You don’t say anything about that. But he sees you smiling once when he gets a question correct in Chem, and he doesn’t turn away.

There’s a week where you don’t come by because you’ve got a cold and your voice sounds like death.

He comes up at your locker with a package of lemon tea and a message written in the margins of an old worksheet.

‘hope ur not dead. drink this. if u fail chemistry i’m blaming ur immune system.’

You laugh so hard you have to lean on your locker. When you text him that night to say thanks, he just replies.

>i need u alive. not emotionally. academically.

You text back

> rude.

He sends a crying emoji and a photo of his notes with a large frowny emoticon painted on the page where he became confused about combustion responses.

> see what happens when u leave me unsupervised

It’s Thursday night when it happens.

You’re wrapping up your final practice quiz when you feel it, that little change in the air. The quiet that follows footsteps. You don’t hear them, not precisely. But you feel them.

Nolan arrives in the kitchen doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the two of you, your open notebooks, your heads close together, the tangle of pens and scratch paper across the table. Mark doesn’t look up.

“She’s here again,” Nolan adds, not quite shocked.

Mark still doesn’t look up. “She is.”

Nolan lifts a brow. “You two seeing each other now?”

You gaze up, surprised. “What-?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “No. We’re studying.”

Nolan hums. Not disapproving. Not amused. Just... noticing. Then he leaves. You see the door swing quietly behind him.

Mark finally exhales. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

You hesitate. “Did I make it weird?”

“No.” He glances at you. “If anyone did, it was him.”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding too strongly in your ears. You gaze down at your notes and circle the same number again.

Mark reaches over and nudges your elbow. “Hey.”

You gaze at him.

He’s frowning, soft, not serious. “Don’t let him make you feel out of place.”

You offer a feeble grin. “I just didn’t realize he thought I was around that much.”

Mark shrugs. “You’re not. We’re just the only ones who talk during dinner, so maybe it feels like more.”

He smiles at you. “Besides, I can only pass Chemistry if you’re here, so technically, your presence is a medical necessity.”

You laugh. It’s subtle, but real. Mark observes you for a second longer than required. Then, as usual, he looks away first. After dinner, Debbie finds you by the door as you’re putting on your jacket.

“I’m glad you’ve been around lately,” she replies quietly. “Mark doesn’t let a lot of people in.”

You hesitate, taken off-guard. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

She grins. “You wouldn’t. That’s the thing.”

She adjusts a frame on the wall. “You make it easy for him.”

You gaze toward the stairs.

“He doesn’t talk about school much,” she says. “But I’ve noticed he’s been… lighter lately. Whatever you’re doing, it’s helping.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you’re meant to. So you nod. And Debbie pats your arm, like she understands.

“Get home safe, alright?”

“I will.”

“And thank you.”

When you arrive home, Mark texts you.

> so how’d i do

You reply.

> you got 4/5 right on the last quiz which implies u are now legally allowed to make 1 chemistry pun every session use it wisely 

His reply is quick.

> oh don’t worry i’m saving it for something explosive

You gaze at your phone. And you laugh till your stomach hurts.

It starts like every other late afternoon.

The bell rings. You groan. Your Chem notes are a catastrophe. You can’t find your pencil bag. Your brain’s still whirling from the pop quiz you’re almost convinced broke international law.

And your locker? Your locker is the last boss. You’re elbow-deep in stuff, pulling out old assignments and crammed files like you’re on an ancient excavation, when the inevitable comes.

Everything collapses. Not dramatically. Just enough to be bothersome.

A notepad strikes your sneaker and breaks open. Your lunch container from two days ago (you swear you were going to bring it home) topples onto its side. A stack of papers flutters down like confetti to the floor.

You sigh. Loudly. Stare at the commotion with the detached tiredness of someone two seconds from just walking away and never returning.

“Need help?” a voice says behind you.

You don’t even turn. “Only if you want to lose all respect for me in the next thirty seconds.”

A beat.

Then a voice, closer, familiar.

“I’m pretty sure that happened around the time I saw you try to take notes with a dried-out highlighter.”

You freeze.

Then gaze up.

Mark is lounging against the locker next to yours, arms crossed, face way too casual for how fast your heart just shot into your throat. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His hair’s a touch disheveled. He’s smiling.

Too wide. Too deliberate. Like he’s attempting to act casual and failing at it.

“Hey,” he says again. “You doing something after school?”

You blink. Still half-bent into the debris of your locker, a wad of paper in one hand and your dignity pouring out the bottom.

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “You’re... frozen. Did I break you?”

You shake your head. “No—sorry. I just—what?”

He shrugs, attempting to play it off, but there’s a little shift in his stance. Like he’s trying not to hold his breath.

“Wanna get lunch with me after school?”

You stop moving. Totally. Completely.

You’re clutching a half-crushed notepad in one hand, a shattered pen in the other. You’re slumped at an angle that can only be characterized as terrible. And your brain, your wonderful, overworked brain, flatlines.

Mark observes you closely. Then clears his throat.

“Together,” he adds. “Like... as a date.”

You short-circuit. There is no other name for it. Your face warms up so rapidly it’s if someone set off a flare behind your eyes. You create a noise. It’s intended to be a word. It is not a word.

Mark, somehow, doesn’t bolt.

You look at him, really look at him, and he’s nervous. Still smiling, but softer now. The grin isn’t haughty. It’s optimistic. Hesitant, even. And it guts you a bit, how this guy who’s so brilliant at trying to be relaxed is plainly just as afraid as you are.

You clear your throat. Try to talk.

“Y-yeah,” you say, like someone flicked your language switch back on. “I mean. Yes. I love eating. And consuming. Things. Food.”

You want to drill a hole right through the flooring and into the Earth’s core. Mark stares. Then he laughs. Not a snort. Not a chuckle. A real laugh. Caught-off-guard, full-bodied, straight-from-the-stomach laughing that makes him lean against the locker a little like it physically hit him.

You die inside.

He straightens up, shaking his head. “That was great.”

“Please never repeat anything I just said.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he adds, smirking. “I’m gonna remember that forever.”

You cover your face with the shattered notepad. “I hate myself.”

“You love food and consuming things. That’s amazing. I couldn’t have written that if I tried.”

You groan. “You’re a menace.”

Mark just grins at you. “Cool.”

You lower the notepad carefully.

“Cool?” you repeat.

He nods. “Cool that you said yes.”

Your chest does something silly and fluttery.

You nod, suddenly bashful. “Yeah. Cool.”

There’s a pause. Neither of you move. The corridor is nearly empty now, only the sound of a faraway locker slamming, a teacher's voice booming down the hall.

Mark rocks on his heels. “I’ll text you?”

You nod again, far too fast.

He looked down at the mess at your feet. “Should I—help?”

You manage a chuckle. “God, no. You’ll never recover from the trauma.”

“Alright,” he replies, moving back. “I’ll let you fight with your paper demon alone.”

You watch him depart, your whole body still heated with surprise.

He goes about halfway down the corridor before turning back and saying, “Bring your appetite, okay? For... consuming things.”

You groan. “Stop.”

He winks. Then he’s gone. You gaze into your locker like it could offer you answers. Like maybe, somewhere behind all that confusion, you’ll discover the version of yourself that knows how to talk to men without sounding like she swallowed a dictionary and forgot how verbs operate.

But you don’t. You find an old granola bar. And for the first time that day, you smile so big your cheeks hurt. Because Mark Grayson just asked you out. And you said yes. Terribly. Awkwardly. But still, yes.

And now you’re here.

Standing outside a tiny café with a vintage Coca-Cola sign and a crooked chalkboard that says “We toast everything except our customers!”

Mark’s already waiting.

He’s leaning against the side of the building, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped like he didn’t even notice how good he looks. His hair’s a little messy, like he just was attacked by the wind, and when he sees you, he straightens up and smiles.

“Hey.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You make a weird little jazz-hand wave that was not pre-approved by your nervous system. “Hi.”

He grins, like he saw it, like he’s decided not to make fun of you for it, but definitely logged it for later.

“You good?” he asks, stepping forward to open the door for you.

“Yep. I mean, no. I mean—I’m good. Fine. Average. Not dying.”

He laughs, holds the door open wider. “That’s comforting.”

The café is warm and cluttered, filled with little two-top tables and posters from old black-and-white movies you’ve never heard of. Someone’s playing acoustic covers of emo songs through a tinny speaker. It smells like toast and burnt sugar and coffee.

Mark picks a booth by the window. You sit across from him and try to make your legs look normal under the table.

“So,” he says, tapping the table with two fingers. “Grilled cheese. Important business.”

You snort. “I like that we’re pretending this is about cheese and not the fact that we’re hanging out alone in public and there’s a 90% chance I’m going to say something stupid.”

Mark leans back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest, smirking.

“Please. You say stupid things all the time. That’s kind of your thing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he says, grinning like it’s not the first time someone’s called him that and like he’s very aware you just accidentally did.

Your brain blue-screens for a second. You just open the menu just to hide your face.

The tickets arrive like magic, folded slightly, edges worn from being tucked in his hoodie pocket, handed off like a secret right after you finished eating.

“You remembered,” you reply, glancing at the movie logo written across them, your fingertips touching his.

Mark shrugs, his countenance that typical blend of youthful casual and something that lives deeper in his chest. “Of course I did. It’s you.”

After lunch, the theater was bustling. Opening night groups crowd every seat and area, bursting with enthusiasm. Cosplayers pose for pictures at the concession counter. Someone brought a handcrafted replica of the main character’s shield. The room smells like butter and happiness. Your heart races rapidly for causes that have nothing to do with coffee or grilled cheese anymore.

You find your seats, center row, excellent view. Mark flops into his chair like he’d been there a hundred times, instantly shoving popcorn into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten all day.

He glances over as the previews start. “You nervous?”

“About a movie?”

“No,” he responds. “About spending two hours next to someone who won’t shut up during action scenes.”

You elbow him. “You’re lucky I like you.”

The words tumble out before you could catch them. He blinks once. You blink twice.

But he just grins around another handful of popcorn. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The lights darken. The movie starts. You forget about everything else.

Well, practically everything.

Halfway through, during the slow scene, the one when your favorite character finally says the thing they'd been holding back for three films, Mark moves in his seat. Just a bit.

He doesn't look at you at the start. Then he does.

“You know,” he adds, voice low, cautious not to disturb the full auditorium, “I don’t care about this stuff half as much as you do.”

Your lips open, but no words come. Not yet.

He keeps going. “But I’ve never had this much fun in a movie.”

You turn to him. The lights from the screen flash across his cheekbones, his lashes, the line of his mouth. You can feel the grin developing over your own lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He gazes at the screen again, but not for long.

“I don’t know—just… the way you get into things. It’s cool. Kind of hard not to notice.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time.

Instead, you murmur, “I’m a huge dork.”

Mark’s gaze moves back to yours. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you make me want to be a dork too.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t sure anything you say would come out correctly. So you smile instead, and the moment hangs there between you, suspended like the flicker of the projector beam overhead.

A minute passes. Then another.

You can hear the tension building back up in the film, music increasing, actors running, yelling. But you’re just half-listening. Your heartbeat is louder than the booms.

Mark shifts closer. Your fingertips brush against the armrest. And then that weight in your chest isn’t anxiety anymore, its gravity.

The kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t slow motion. It's simple. Mark leans in, and you meet him halfway, and his lips are warm and hesitant and genuine. You pause for just a second, because this is your first. And it’s Mark.

Your fingers grasp the edge of your hoodie, heart thudding. You can smell the salt of the popcorn, the faint whiff of the cologne he never wore enough of, the lingering sweetness of soda on his breath.

Then it was finished. And everything changed. You grin like a secret had finally been exposed. Neither of you utter a word. He clasps your hand in his, and you lay your head softly against his shoulder. The screen lights both of you up in bursts of gold and violet, action rushing forward like time hadn’t halted for you.

But it did. Just for a time. And as the credits play, and the audience begins to stir, and the lights creep slowly back into the room, your hand is still in his. And neither of you let go.

Outside, the theater goes silent. The post-show bustle is already diminishing, cosplayers posing beneath streetlamps, cars idle in the lot, people talking over favorite moments and final twists.

Mark escorts you toward the curb, your shoulders touching now and then. You feel weightless, like every stride is softer than it should be.

“That was amazing,” you remark.

He grins. “The movie?”

You pause, then shake your head. “All of it.”

Mark stops walking. You turn to face him.

He glances at you like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your smile.

“I meant it,” he adds gently. “I like this. I like being with you.”

Your throat goes dry. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hand squeezes yours. “You make everything feel less... complicated.”

You glance at him, heart thundering in your ears. “Even when I rant about side characters for twenty minutes?”

He grins. “Especially then.”

You laugh gently, and he leans in, brushing his lips on your temple. You aren’t sure how the night will end. Aren’t even sure what this was, what it means. But something started here. Something genuine. You’re not ready to go home.

You gaze at him. “You good?”

“Hm?” He glances over. “Yeah. Yeah, completely. I just…”

He trails off. Then clears his throat, like he’s trying to shake something loose.

You don’t press. Not yet. You’ve learned by now that Mark will talk when he’s ready, when he knows the words won’t come out all jumbled and sideways. And if they do, he’ll still mean every single one of them.

So you wait.

He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it the entire movie.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it.”

You raise a brow. “Say what?”

He stops walking and turns to face you. Under the theater’s flickering sign, he looks… anxious. But also, focused. Determined in a way that makes your heart jump.

“I like you,” he says. “I mean—I really like you.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“No, let me finish,” he adds, extending a hand. “I’ve been thinking about this since, like, the fourth week we started hanging out. Back when you helped me with Chem and I couldn’t figure out if you were a genius or just really patient.”

You snort gently. “I’m both.”

“I know,” he adds, beaming. “Which made things even worse, honestly. Because you were so calm about it. And you smiled at my dumb jokes, and you never made me feel like an idiot even when I was being one.”

You’re silent. Your heart is a jackhammer. You don’t interrupt.

Mark swallows. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—I want this. Us. Like, officially. You and me.”

And then, so quiet it scarcely registers.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hits like a weight. Not hefty. Not painful. Just… solid. Real. And horrifying in the greatest sense. You open your mouth. Then hesitate.

And before you can help it, the words are already out.

“What about Amber?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. He just nods, like he anticipated that.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he says. “We just… didn’t fit. I wanted it to work, but it felt like I was pretending. Like she needed me to be someone I’m not.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“But you…?” he continues. “You actually get me. Even when I screw things up. You still call me out, but… you see me. For real.”

You feel your cheeks flush.

“I’m not trying to rebound,” he adds hastily. “I’m not looking for comfort. I just… like being around you. I feel like I can breathe.”

You look at him, this kid with unkempt hair, calloused hands, worn eyes, and the sweetest heart you’ve ever seen somebody hide under sarcasm. And suddenly, it’s not a question anymore. It’s the easiest response you’ve ever given.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Mark blinks. And then a grin spreads over his face so rapidly you’re scared his cheeks could split.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it again.

You laugh. “Yeah.”

He does this ridiculous little fist pump, then tries to cover it up like he didn’t just do that.

You study him with narrowed eyes. “Did you just-”

“No,” he says. “Shut up.”

“You totally did.”

“You imagined it.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “God, you’re such a dork.”

He grins wider. “Your dork.”

And the words, simple, funny, sweet, make your chest ache in the best way.

You gaze at the group again. A few people are still lingering, the rush of post-movie enthusiasm still strong in the air. But you feel far distant from it. Wrapped in a bubble of him. Of this.

Mark squeezes your hand. “So... what now?”

You put your head against his shoulder. “Now you walk me home like the gentleman you’re pretending to be.”

He scoffs. “Hey. I’m a total gentleman. I only made one bad joke during the entire movie.”

“One that you said out loud,” you point out. “I saw your face during the rooftop scene.”

Mark coughs dramatically. “No comment.”

You nudge him. “Come on, gentleman. Let’s go.”

The walk is slow. He doesn't rush it, and neither do you. At one point, he lets go of your hand just long enough to theatrically throw his jacket over your shoulders like it’s a cape.

“I dub you Lady of Post-Credit Analysis,” he says seriously.

You curtsy, deadpan. “I accept this burden.”

He snorts. “God, we’re annoying.”

“Disgustingly so,” you agree.

But neither of you stops smiling. When you reach your front door, he stands there with his hands buried in his pockets, wobbling slightly on his feet.

You think he might kiss you again. You hope he will. But instead, he just stares at you like he’s still not certain this isn’t a dream. And when he finally speaks, it’s gentle. Unassuming.

“I’m really glad you said yes.”

You lean in. Rest your forehead on his.

“Me too.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it. He remains right there. With you.

Just a boy who makes you laugh till you can’t breathe, who kissed you like it meant something, who asked if you’d be his, not because he had to, not because it was easy, but because he wanted to.

You smile. He smiles back. And the darkness wraps around you both like a secret you never want to give up.

It had been a couple weeks.

Just long enough for your classmates to start getting used to the idea that Mark Grayson was dating you. Long enough that the first wide-eyed looks and whispered comments had cooled into low-grade curiosity and the occasional side-eye in the cafeteria. But not long enough for Flash Thompson to quit running his mouth.

If anything, he’d become worse.

The more genuine it grew between you and Mark, the more often others saw him waiting for you at your locker, brushing your fingers in the corridor, sneaking little kisses behind the science building, the more Flash believed he had something to prove.

You’re elbow-deep in your locker, trying to find the pen you swore you’d tossed in your bag this morning, when you hear it.

“Damn,” Flash says behind you. “Grayson not glued to you for once?”

You don’t turn around. You know that tone. And more than that, you know that voice.

He keeps chatting, nonchalant as ever. “Didn’t think he was allowed to let you out unsupervised.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You really, really don’t want to do this today. But Flash doesn’t need you to want it.

“I mean, maybe he figured it out,” he continues, voice lowering just enough that the kids around might not catch every word. “So he’s dating some girl who doesn’t even put out? What, you just stringing him along while he blue-balls through chemistry class?”

You freeze.

Flash chuckles behind you. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it. You’re all smiles and hand-holding and blushing like you’ve never even been kissed before. Mark’s probably pulling his hair out.”

You shut your locker, slowly. No slam. No theatrics. You turn to face him.

“Get away from me.”

He grins. “Relax. I’m just talking. Trying to find out what the hell Grayson sees in you. You’re not his type.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t know him.”

“I know guys like him,” Flash adds. “They don’t go for girls like you unless they think you’re easy or they feel sorry for you. Maybe both.”

Your throat gets constricted.

You keep your voice level. “You know what your problem is?”

Flash leans in. “Do tell.”

“You hate that he picked me. Not because I’m louder or hotter or whatever because I’m real. And he sees that. He’s not like you.”

Flash rolls his eyes. “Playing the long game, huh? You two waiting ‘til prom to finally get it in?”

You take a step forward. “I’d rather sleep with a trash can than let someone like you say another word to me.”

That stuns him for half a second. Then the grin comes back, sharper.

“You think you’re better than me?”

You stare him down. “I don’t think. I know.”

And that’s when the air changes. You don’t hear Mark walk up. You don’t need to. You sense him. Something in the atmosphere tightens. Like someone’s turned the volume down on everything but your own breathing.

Flash stares past you and all the blood drains from his face. Mark’s voice is calm. Too calm.

“Leave.”

Flash straightens. “What, you gonna cry about it? We’re just talking. I’m not touching her. I’m not doing anything.”

Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His fists clench at his sides.

“Come on, man. Seriously? What, you think you’re scary now ‘cause you finally hit a growth spurt? I didn’t touch her, alright? Not like you even own her or anything.”

Mark moves. It’s fast. No hesitation.

He takes Flash by the front of his jacket, spins, and pushes him against the lockers with a force that makes the whole row tremble. The metal dents around Flash’s shoulders.

People stop. Conversations freeze. You can hear someone speaking behind you, but you’re not listening.

You’re watching Mark. Watching the way his jaw tightens. The way his hands tremble. The way he’s not shouting. He’s focused. Mark leans in, voice low.

“You think you can talk about her like that and just walk away?”

Flash squirms. “You’re freaking out, man-”

“You know what I’ve been trying so hard to do?” Mark says. “I’ve been trying to stay calm. Trying not to make it worse. But you open your mouth, and all I wanna do is put you through a wall. You think I like this? You think I want to be the guy who hits first? I don’t. I hate it. But right now, I’d hate walking away even more.

Flash pales. “Dude—seriously-”

Mark pushes harder. Not by much. But enough that Flash winces. Enough that everyone watching realizes just how horribly this may go if Mark quits holding back.

You step forward. “Mark.”

He doesn’t look at you. But he hears you. His breathing slows. Just a bit.

“I should hit you,” he says. “I want to. You don’t deserve to walk away after what you said. I’m deciding if I let you.”

Flash swallows hard. Mark lets go. Flash crumples to the floor. No one moves to help him. Mark turns around, still shaking a bit. His eyes locate yours instantaneously.

“You okay?” he says, and suddenly, he’s just Mark again.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just grabs your hand. And leads you away. The corridor is still bustling behind you when he takes you into the rear stairs. Somewhere calm. Somewhere out of sight. He sits on the bottom step, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

You squat in front of him.

“Mark.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. You saw it.”

You sit alongside him, knees touching. “I saw you not do something you really wanted to.”

He doesn’t talk.

“I saw you make a choice.”

He exhales gently.

“I almost didn’t. I didn’t even see anything. Just heard what he said and—my head went blank. Like I lost how to think.”

You don’t say anything. Just sit with him.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are bloodshot. Not from tears. From stress.

"Sometimes I’m just... angry.” he replies quietly. "Most days I can laugh it off. Let it slide.”

His jaw tightens. "Not today."

You lay your hand on his. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me like this.”

“You think I don’t know who you are?”

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t.”

You meet his eyes. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates. Then sighs.

“I can’t. Not yet. But I will.”

You nod. “I’ll wait.”

His fingers curl around yours. And for the first time all day, you feel the strain leave his body, not all of it, but enough to allow him breathe.

“I was scared I was gonna hurt him,” he says.

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have. I wanted to.”

“You didn’t.”

He leans his forehead to yours.

"You make it easier to deal with everything." he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

“So let me.”

And you stay like that for a long time. Just breathing.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You gaze at your phone.

The words don’t make sense at first, Congratulations on Your Admission to Upstate University, but they’re there. Real. Centered on the screen like someone took the dream out of your mind and digitized it.

Your name is immediately beneath it. Not someone else’s. Yours. You reread the introductory paragraph three times. Then you scroll down and see it, bolded, highlighted, circled in your head even if not in the text.

‘Awarded: Full Academic Scholarship – Applied Sciences Program’

You don’t recall how your phone gets up across the room, or how your pillow ends up halfway off the bed. All you know is that your voice comes out as an incoherent squeak that develops into a scream. One loud, unfiltered, impossible-to-reel-back scream.

You launch yourself into a spin on your bed. You laugh so hard you can’t breathe. And then you do the only thing that makes sense.

You text Mark.

> DUDE

> I GOT IN UPSTATE U. SCIENCE SCHOLARSHIP.

> I’M GONNA VOMIT I’M SO EXCITED

The typing bubbles pop up instantly.

> WHAT WHAT BABE I GOT IN TOO WE’RE GOING WE’RE GOING TOGETHER SCREAMING

> I’M ACTUALLY SCREAMING

> LIKE RIGHT NOW

> MY MOM IS CONCERNED

> I’M CRYING

You snort. You snort so hard you choke, and then you’re sobbing too, because it’s just too much. You tap out a shaky reply.

> don’t make me emotional rn i’m still ugly crying and i haven’t brushed my hair

He calls instead.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath like he’s been running in place.

“Hi,” you say, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

“You got in.”

“You got in too.”

“I know. This is so ridiculous. We both got in. To Upstate. You got in on a scholarship.”

You can hear the astonishment in his voice, like he’s seeing you all over again for the first time.

You chuckle, soft and surprised. “I was convinced I was gonna get ghosted.”

“Please. You’re a genius.”

“Mark.”

“No, seriously. You made your science fair project out of scraps and made half our class cry during your presentation. If anyone deserves a scholarship, it’s you.”

You slump onto your back, looking at the ceiling. “It’s really happening, huh?”

“It’s happening.”

You can hear the grin in his voice.

“We’re gonna get out,” he adds. “Like, really out.”

“No more cafeteria fights. No more sharing lockers with the smell of expired milk. No more Flash.”

He snorts. “Oh, thank God. I really didn’t want to punch anyone else.”

“You say that like you didn’t almost vaporize him last time.”

"What? I didn’t even hit him. I just... moved him. With force."

You laugh. “Moved. With the power of a freight train.”

He quiets. Then. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you.”

You pause. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You never let yourself think you were good enough, but I always knew.”

Your heart catches. “Mark...”

"It wasn’t just the tutoring." A beat. "It was all of it. You stuck around when it would've been easier not to. Even when I disappeared, even when people talked. You stayed."

You blink swiftly. You sit up.

“You’ve been my anchor through all of this,” he says. “I didn’t even know I needed one. And now we get to keep going together.”

Your chest warms. It swells. And then, without thinking, without planning, you say it. “I love you.”

He freezes. You can sense it, even over the phone. But then he exhales. And says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of quiet. Then. “I love you too.”

You smile into the phone.

He laughs, giddy, breathless. “Holy shit, we’re those people now.”

“Gross.”

“So gross.”

“I’m gonna be insufferable.”

“I’m gonna print us matching sweatshirts.”

You groan. “Please don’t.”

“Too late. Mine already reads ‘Upstate U Girlfriend’ on it.”

“Mark.”

“It’s glitter vinyl.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

You sigh theatrically. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He chuckles, and the sound relaxes something deep inside you.

And then he replies, softly, “You wanna come over later?”

You nod, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

You hang up, heart full.

Later that evening, you find yourself in his room, both of you stretched out on the floor, surrounded by empty candy wrappers, Coke cans, and future ambitions that yet feel too enormous to fit in one room.

He leans back in his chair, flipping through the packet lazily.

"No dorms for you?"

"Nah," you say. "Staying at May and Ben’s. Close enough to commute."

Mark raises an eyebrow, grinning. "Guess that means I’ll have to come up with new excuses to see you.”

You hurl a gummy bear at his head. He dodges. And then he sobers.

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” he adds.

You blink. “What?”

“This—us. College is a lot. New people, new everything. And I don’t wanna screw it up. I don’t want us to drift.”

You scoot closer. Rest your chin on his shoulder.

“We won’t,” you say. “Not if we keep showing up for each other.”

Mark nods. But you can see he’s still thinking about it. You observe him for a minute, his face inclined toward the ceiling like he’s trying to remember it before it changes.

And then you murmur, “We’re gonna be okay.”

He glances at you. You smile. And he smiles back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii / @tr3nzit444s / @ketsuekiakane / @jiminie-08 / @thatwaspossesion / @xoyumiqls / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @marinefreaakk / @monaekelis / @woodle-isbae / @simping4l1fe / @wasitforrevenge

[echo-exco]

GRAAAAAH⁉️ HELP‼️ You wrote such a masterpiece, I'm already so HYPED for the next chapter ONG.

With the batfamily's personal agenda and inability to reach out, their past forever haunting them.

I imagine that the realization that their present, where they actively ( idk if intentionally ) ignore the reader, now "past", will haunt them forever.

Especially Bruce's reaction, his internal struggle with the fact that if he was just a little bit warmer, the chaos caused by the future villain who used to be under his roof, could've been prevented.

Question tho, how would they all eventually turn yandere? They seem to have all never interacted before, so I can't see them suddenly feeling the need to be there for the reader. Either it would be self-righteous beliefs or they'd just think she overreacted. ( bring in the angst LMAO )

— "BEEDALEAF." 🥬

Aww! Thank you so much! I’m really glad that what I wrote was good for you, the readers 😌 I also hope to bring the next chapter soon!

The batfam has their own problems and responsibilities to deal with. Even healer!reader is aware of that, which is why she tries to avoid bothering them with her needs, whether emotional, intellectual, educational, social, or even sometimes financial.

Healer!reader has always been able to take care of herself, with or without a family. What truly affects her is the fact that she can’t use her powers while in Gotham, out of fear that someone from the batfam might find out.

Now, no one in the batfam ever intended to ignore healer!reader on purpose. Some of them might even think they never ignored her. It’s just that everyone assumed she probably had something else to do—or they simply forgot about the requests and questions she had made.

Because, for better or worse, the batfam sees healer!reader as too… ordinary for the family.

Since no one knows (yet 😼) that healer!reader has extraordinary healing abilities, they genuinely believe she’s just the most normal and average daughter of Bruce Wayne.

As for Bruce, he’s definitely going to regret everything. Healer!reader’s future doesn’t look very warm or pleasant for anyone involved.

If only she had had a father, someone to remember, someone she could trust and feel safe with… would that have changed anything? Would she have stayed?

Does Bruce even know his own daughter?

I can’t say healer!reader will be a villain in the future, but she definitely won’t be a hero either. Just think of her as, quite literally, a “human machine made to save thousands of lives.” Of course, depending on your point of view, you could see healer!reader as either a villain or a hero…

As for how they’ll all eventually become yanderes… Well, I like to think the yandere instincts were already there, buried deep inside. They just needed a (massive) little push to finally activate.

Like I said before, they all believed healer!reader was just a very “normal” child for the family. No one ever bothered to look past that.

That’s partially why they kept their distance from her… as if they genuinely thought she’d be better off not getting involved in family matters. Because, to them, healer!reader is someone who hasn’t seen the worst of the world yet, someone who hasn’t been through anything truly traumatic.

They think she’s better off where she is. They believe that way she’ll be safe from everything bad.

And to be fair, healer!reader herself wouldn’t have let anyone dig too deep into who she really is.

She doesn’t want the batfam to know her. She just wants to leave Gotham and go back to the medical field with Masashi. Healer!reader wants to use her powers. Being in the mansion makes her feel restrained and useless. She doesn’t like being there.

She can endure the neglect— it’s something she’s always survived through. What she can’t handle is the thought of not knowing when she’ll be able to use her powers again.

So you can imagine what’ll happen in the future when the Batfam finally learns about healer!reader’s powers. That revelation is going to hit them hard—with guilt, with regret.

I can absolutely picture them noticing healer!reader’s disappearance and brushing it off as a typical tantrum from a child (even if they don’t understand why she’d act that way). But as time goes on and she gives no sign of life… well… that’s when the first alarms start to go off.

And of course, we still have to see Duke and how his presence will affect healer!reader.

Sorry if the response was a bit long. I just hope it cleared up all your doubts.

[basil-does-arttt]

HOLD ON I REALIZED I FORGOT TO POST THE STARLINGS HERE HAHSJAJSH (head in hands emoji)

BEHOLD!! RCF-SH-1 "Oizys'" STARLING CADRE!!! or, whats left of them. is it obvious yet this place is understaffed?? anyway- Yappage below!!

To preface, a bit of RCF Starling lore; RCF originally had two Starling dorms that were very much rivals with eachother. Following the facility's "incident" the two dorms were merged together, much to the dismay of dorm 2. now, onto yapping abt the individual Starlings; STAR-RCF002 "Aprikose" - The Cadre-leader for RCF's remaining Starlings, appointed by herself. - Outwardly a shining example of a Starling officer; Inwardly, a mess of self-doubt and self-worth issues. - Has a habit of taking out her frustrations on the rookie Starlings in the form of stun prods and batons.. - She currently is the direct subordinate (bodyguard, pretty much) to STCR-RCF001 "Waschbar". - Has a mark on her hip from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF004 "Mandarine". - A quiet and reserved Starling who admires Aprikose and looks up to her like an idol of sorts. These feelings are nothing more than simple admiration for a superior, however; Mandarine's heart is currently set on the ARAR that painted her chestplate. - Typically stationed patrolling somewhere in the factory level alongside Kirsche and Paprika. She loves when Gestalts will act out because then she has an excuse to slap them sideways. - Has a mark on her upper left shoulder from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF005 "Kugel" - ah, Kugel, my girlfaliure.... A Starling who tries her very best to seem like she knows what she's doing, but its so painfully obvious that she's just barely holding herself together. She thinks she's hot shit and has an ego to match, but it's all as fragile as a bubble. - Most often patrolling the hallways on one half of the facility while Wanze does the other side. - Originally, she was from dorm 1 alongside Wanze. - Has a mark on her inner-thigh from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF007 "Kirsche" -RCF's resident flirty heartthrob who wants absolutely nothing to do with anybody if she doesn't also get something out of it. So no cuddles here just for the sake of fluff.. - Can be found often around STCR-RCF008 "Gans" gossping with her. - On the rare occaisions she actually decides to do her job, she's stationed in the factory. Hates when the Gestalts act out bcs then she has to touch them. - Has a mark on her chestplate from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF009 "Zimt" - A near silent Starling most often found in the medical ward, stalking hallways and looking for problems to fix with a stun prod or a baton. - On the outside she's intimidating, partially thanks to her mask, but once you get to know her she's not as mean as she appears. - Wears the mask as a comfort-thing; neural pattern defects have made her much more socially anxious than any Starling should be. - The clip was given to her by one of the EULR nurses <3 - Has a mark on her stomach from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF010 "Paprika". - The "nice one", but she's not soft. She's a bit more lenient than her fellow Starlings but give her a reason to, and she will not hesitate to cave your face in with her fist. - Necklace was given to her by Wanze. She might have a big fat crush on Wanze..... but she would never admit that. (the matching hairstyles is 100% intentional.) - She's usually stationed inside the factory, patrolling, and giving Gestalts the stinkeye to get them back to work before Mandarine cracks their skulls open. - Has a mark on her back from a stun-prod as part of a Starling hazing ritual. STAR-RCF011 "Wanze" - The other surviving Starling from dorm 1 alongside Kugel. She's much more accepted into dorm 2 than Kugel is purely because she actually listens to Aprikose's orders. - Acts more like a soldier than a Starling, someone needs to tell her to loosen up a bit... - Typically patrolling the facility on the opposite side of Kugel. Her and Kugel don't get along very well.. - Has a mark on her neck from a stun-prod Not as part of a Starling hazing ritual this time, but from Kugel in a fit of rage (and an attempt to win Aprikose's favour.)

i hope yall like them :3

[nor-and-family]

*Have you ever tried sleeping in a tent?*

Have you ever lost everything in your life?

I wish I could tell anyone who says, "We feel for you," to truly experience the following:

Feel what it's like to sleep in a tent.

Or forget the tent—sleep in a single small room with *10 people* , half of them children.

That room is the changing room, the dining room, the bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen.

Sometimes, we even bathe the children in the same room.

There’s no privacy—just forget about it.

You don’t even get the chance to be alone in a room to change your clothes.

Yes, really. Change your clothes in front of everyone, then tell me how much you "feel for us."

Come and stand in line for the bathroom, especially in the morning—ten, twenty people ahead of you, ten, twenty behind.

When it’s finally your turn, hurry up—you can only do *one thing* .

Just one.

Use the bathroom, wash your face properly, or brush your teeth.

And believe me, you’ll save time if you go in with someone else and take turns, because guess what? *Privacy doesn’t exist.*

Oh, and wait—the bathroom usually has no water.

Figure it out inside.

Then come and tell me how much you "feel for us."

Try craving a meal—no matter how simple.

Or better yet, imagine your children asking you for a basic meal: a piece of bread, an egg, an apple.

And you *can’t* get it for them.

You *can’t* buy it even if you had all the money in the world, because money has lost its value.

You *can’t* buy it because you *don’t* have money.

You *can’t* buy it because there’s *nothing left to buy* .

Go months without fulfilling a craving. Then tell me how much you "feel for us."

Try sleeping in the same clothes, waking up in the same clothes, going out in the same clothes, eating in the same clothes—doing *everything* in the same clothes.

Why? Because *you’re lucky* if you have two sets of clothes.

And even luckier if you can afford new ones.

And if you do buy something, you’ll buy *children’s clothes for your daughter* , *men’s clothes for your wife* —because survival matters more than anything else.

Try freezing in the cold because you don’t have winter clothes, because you *can’t* find winter clothes. Then come and tell me how much you "feel for us."

Have you ever had your wife *pregnant during war* ?

Do you know what it’s like when she has to *give birth in the middle of the night or under bombing* ?

Try *taking your pregnant wife outside* .

Try *being pregnant during war* .

How does it feel?

Did you know that mothers have *lost their ability to produce milk* due to stress and lack of food?

Have you ever had a baby *born in a bathroom, a car, a street, or a tent* ?

Imagine if it were your *firstborn* .

Try *not finding a single outfit* for your newborn.

Try *not having diapers* .

Try *wrapping your newborn in a mattress cover or a prayer shawl* because you don’t even have a proper blanket.

Then tell me how much you "feel for us."

Have you ever *needed medicine but couldn’t find it* ?

@amygdalae @ankle-beez @dykesbat @aristotels @komsomolka @prisonhannibal @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @heritageposts @watermotif @stuckinapril @mavigator @lacecap @determinate-negation @deepspaceboytoy @paper-mario-wiki @kibumkim @socalgal @chilewithcarnage @ghelgheli @sayruq @rooh-afza @knownoshamc @the-awkward-reblobber @soft-sunbird @cockworkangels @dannyketch @cramenjoyer @oreobunn @fireyfobbitmedicine @muminshoom @thedigitalbard @timogsilangan @tboynut @wildfeather5002 @fancy-feast-official @honeytonedhottie @cheloneuniverse @roseillith @thelastharbinger @lady-shadow-and-darkness @lemke6669 @hello-from-the-night-archives @stalinistqueens @sar-soor @1tsny4nc4t @fairycandles @girlinafairytale-blog @cheaperimint @afro-elf @animentality

[whalesforhands]

what’s yours is mine (13/?)

previous masterlist next

pairing: geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru

You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.

What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse AU)

Sometimes, you wonder how nice it would be to be popular. You’d get surrounded by classmates fawning over you, get tons and tons of gifts every morning when you open your shoe locker and even get offered other people’s homework when you forget to do yours.

How nice it would be to be like Geto Suguru—

“You listening, (last name)?” A snap of her fingers brings your eyes back into focus, back to the current you who was supposed to be reading the excerpt on how denim overalls are back in style and how ‘to doll yourself up like a fairy!’.

Because being popular means reading the popular things too, right?

(But is this really what they read in their free time? It’s a bit… Not as glamorous as you thought. But to be fair, Suguru’s room is only filled with poetry books and light novels.)

“…I like the chocolate art.” You’re not lying. It does make it look extremely appetizing, extremely alike things you would want to receive this spring, because—

“Graduation’s coming! You gotta be a little bit more excited, (last name).” The smile on her face curves just a little more, twitches slightly at the corner of her lip as her eyes upturn with a little more excitability.

(She’s happier today. Maybe that’s why she keeps interrupting your thoughts before they can finish.)

“I am excited.”

“Then show a little more energy, (last name)!” She’s huffy about it, her tone a bit dismissive and the twinkle in her eye fading away as her smile fades into something more distant, something more neutral.

(Ah, she’s back to her usual self now.)

Maybe one day, you’ll be able to find a way to exorcise such things. Maybe one day, you’ll see her smile for real. Maybe one day, you’ll be a true hero.

But it won’t be now.

Mijou Kana was the girl you couldn’t save after all. So you can’t fault her, don’t blame her. Survival is a means to an end, and you respect those who make a the best of what they have.

(Because Saya-chan said that once.)

“Yay…?” This is excitement. Your excitement— Yet, it just hasn’t settled in quite yet. Who would’ve thought middle school would end… Just like that? In a snap of your fingers, in a blink of an eye, in a— Flutter of your eyelashes?

(This magazine is getting to your head.)

Nonetheless, it does feel weird to know you’re going to have to travel further than Akutami Elementary, past Gege Middle School and into some… Random highschool that you have yet to pick out.

“Futures are always uncertain, and the past is always behind! So enjoy the present that you have now!”

(Isn’t it because it’s just easier to forget about the current situation? Isn’t it just easier to live and let live—)

“(last name)? Are you even listening anymore?” There’s a snap of her fingers now, a look of passive aggravation and perplexed neutrality that was always about her expressions. Right. You need to focus on the present, focus on her; taking a peek at the magazine you were just reading and—

“Then what do you like in a person, Mijou-san?”

(You didn’t even know you were on this page. Is this a common topic among popular kids too?)

And for the first time, you think you’ve stunned her. At least, you think you did with the way she looked slightly taken aback, a sudden pink on her cheeks and her eyes widening by just that littlest fraction— To form an expression you’ve never seen her make.

“I-I guess...” She coughs into her hand as her eyes dart from side to side in a shifty manner, her shoulders sagging as she lowered her voice. “I’d want them to be romantic.”

——

Spring is approaching. You know it is— That’s why the sakura petals were beginning to pink, the air getting just that little bit warmer and the clouds don’t always swallow the sunlight’s rays.

Graduation dawns upon the near horizon as you stare up at the ceiling, at the warm orange lighting and the quietness of the whirring air conditioner.

“This doesn’t feel romantic at all.” Your face is blank as you chew on the chocolate in your mouth, sat in between Suguru’s legs as you lean back, your head against his chest and your eyes staring up at his chin.

In fact, you think it does feel quite… Sturdy? Quite like you were leaning against a living, breathing wall that smelled like lavender and citrus.

(You suppose all that martial arts training has given him quite the built physique. Saya-chan did say she preferred her partners to be active, maybe you kind of get her?)

It’s weird. A bit too strange in your opinion. Not uncomfortable by any means— But not comfortable in the romantic sense either… Not that you know what that is, but you’re beginning to think you’re a little too comfortable when it’s supposed to make your heart ‘flutter’, your stomach ‘swirling’ with ‘butterflies’ and your head dizzy with… Love?

(It does sound more like a disease than anything, but still… It was really easy to convince Suguru to help you out with this.)

You followed everything in that magazine Mijou-san had let you read, her eyes sparkling as they trail over the gushy words and cheeks ablaze with a rosy blush that you can’t help but find… Cute.

“Do you think… I could be like that too, one day?” There’s a look in her eye, shimmering with a feeling you don’t know, but one you want to acquaint yourself with if it got you all giddy like that.

How cute.

“Ah, what am I even saying…” She had a hand over her eyes now, as if she was hiding away and embarrassed. “You wouldn’t get it, right (last name)?”

You don’t. So you wonder… Would it be fun to be a maiden in love? To experience what the many girls in your class gush about their blossoming of their hearts and the swirls of unsteadiness in their chest?

Would it be?

“Mm… Maybe you’re not relaxed enough?” His arm is around your waist, dragging you close as you feel his forehead rest on your shoulder from behind, voice a sleepy drawl as strands of his now longer hair tickle your nape.

‘Entering his bedroom is a huge step forwards in terms of infiltrating your crush’s inner thoughts! (For legal purposes, breaking and entering is not condoned, and readers who write in who confess to such will be reported.)’

“I am relaxed when I’m with you, though.” Your hand plays with a strand of his hair that had fallen over your shoulder, your body going lax in his hold as you sit on his bed— Or would it be more accurate to say you’re practically sitting on him. “You consent to this, right?”

You hear a bit of sigh, the vibrations sending tingles down your spine and a bit of fuzz into your brain. “…yes. You’ve asked me that at least 3 times now.”

“Good.” And your shoulders slump once more as you both settle into the silence, letting you simmer in your own thoughts as you let yourself be held.

‘Cuddling (consensually) with your crush means you’ve got him lined, hooked and sinkered!’ Enjoy your relationship and make sure to verbally confirm your status as a couple! (Again, for legal purposes, even if he rejects you, please do not resort to violence.)’

“Suguru.”

“Hm?”

“Do you understand love?” It’s sudden and a bit of a rhetorical question, something a bit abstract and possibly impossible to answer.

(But you need to learn.)

The silence that follows after is one that just can’t be explained, much too unlike the comfort you both were sitting in just moments ago, with his fingers tapping against the back of your hand in thought as you hear him hum gently into your shoulder.

“Do you want me to?”

A question answered by another question. Funny, but it isn’t exactly what you’re looking for right now.

(But to be fair, it is an unfairly abstract question to ask your childhood best friend while sitting in his bedroom and making him feed you.)

There’s another chocolate lightly prodding at your mouth, nudging past your lips as you obediently open and chew, tongue lolling the remnant sweetness about as you reposition his lax arms to be more securely wrapped around your waist.

“Not if it’s too much.”

Geto Suguru doesn’t get it either, it seems.

——

They say graduation is the season of love, the season where the air changes and the petals fall into your hair and pollen just so happens to go into your nose as you desperately try to stop yourself from making a sound.

“U-Uhm…! Ieiri-san—!” Her hands cup over her chest, hair obscuring her face and the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly with every move makes you feel… Hopeful. Yearning. The type of feeling that makes you want to cheer them on from afar with loud yells telling them to ‘Get Married!’.

(What a cute girl.)

“Could y-you meet me under the tree behind the school later?” Stuttering, shy, sweet. So many words to describe the situation as you watch on with sparkly eyes and a thumping heart. “I really—“ A near choke on her words. “Really want to tell you something!”

(It’s love, after all.)

Maybe it’s not something for you to break down and understand, or something you can ‘get’ in a heartbeat or with a fluttering, pink gaze. But it might be something you can indulge in as much as possible, something you can marinate in, even if it’s not your own until you can possibly even hope to get even a semblance of ‘knowing’.

“(last name).” You perk up, only slightly startled when you hear the quiet voice from behind you. Familiar, but not enough for you to immediately recognize when taken by surprise.

(You’ve been spotted. Your castle has fallen. Your ship has sunk. So much for being a quiet bystander.)

“Are you… Watching Ieiri-san?” Ah. It’s… That guy.

…who is this again? The hair, the eyes, the shape of his nose and the curve of his shy, polite smile. You definitely know him, you’re pretty sure. You think for a bit, eyes flittering to his increasingly blushing face and to the floor, then back to eyes that seemed to be curious, seemed to be confused. Strong features, which means—

“Saeki-san.”

The smile that you get in return makes you feel kinda proud that you remembered the name of the guy sitting behind you in class.

“You remembered this time, huh?” His face is practically aglow with gentle happiness, such a contrast to his last name as you nod in reply, eyes trailing back to the girls you were, in fact, spying on. “Thanks, (last name)-san.”

(Or… Maybe you haven’t been discovered just yet. He’s always been nice… So honesty is the best policy, right? What would warrant a lie?)

“I’m not watching anyone, by the way.” A nod as you cross your arms at him, quick to act dismissive, quick to act coy. “That’s rude to assume.”

(To be fair, honesty is quite the hard feat. Especially when you’re trying to be inconspicuous.)

And from the corner of your eye, you see her mouth a few words, see her usual blank gaze stay transfixed on the shy girl before her.

“O-Oh, sorry then, (last n—).”

“Shh!” You hurriedly pull him closer, slapping his words away with a hand to his mouth, away from the hall, away from visible line of sight, away from the girl confessing her feelings for Ieiri Shoko by the sinks as the sunlight breathes gently into the sunny room.

(It’s a pretty scene.)

You feel a beating heart, rapidly increasing as you continue to watch in bated silence, your hands gripping tightly around his wrist and upon his face as you shush him and hold him close.

(There’s not much space behind this door. Especially if you don’t want to be seen or heard.)

She says words you can’t seem to transcribe in your awkward position, too strangely hidden away from sight to get a good read as you narrow your eyes and begin to pout.

(If only Saeki-san didn’t find you. How are you meant to learn about love like this?)

The girl only has her head lowered, an expression akin to a shy smile making your own heart tingle with a feeling unknown. Her head hung low, her hands to her face before you see her produce a pretty envelope with an even prettier stamp— One that matched the pretty shade of Shoko’s eyes.

Ieiri Shoko is… Yet to be confirmed. You think.

(“(l-last name)…!” His eyes are practically spinning and his face a burning red when the coast is finally clear, your failure to successfully eavesdrop evident as you pout at him, releasing his red form away from you.

Is he getting some sort of fever? It isn’t good to get sick so close to graduation.

“Sorry, Saeki-san. Get well soon.”

“…h-huh?”)

——

“These zodiac signs better be careful today!” Saya-chan’s face elegantly switches to one of worry, her shiny hair glittering under the studio lights. “It’s a day of uncertainties and paths that lead to more downfalls, so make sure to wear today’s lucky colour to help boost morale and luck!”

“This was Ito Saya, with today’s Astro~cast!”

“And then— I pummeled that thing into oblivion and finished the entire the game in only 68 hours!” With his bag tucked under his arm, sunglasses atop his head as he gives you a cheeky grin, having made you loop your arm around his as you were personally escorted by a certain someone through the school’s gate.

2 hours late, that is. And to your own graduations, at that.

7:58 AM. Your eyes blink once. And another time— Before flittering towards your calendar and back at your pajamas and the sunlight that was flittering through your curtains.

Suguru was— Ah.

“I won’t be able to walk with you to school tomorrow.” His eyes are sunken in apology, his brows slightly knitted as he frowns. “I’ve gotta go help set up for graduation tomorrow. Student council duties.” A sigh to cement his frustration.

“Sleep early and make it on time, okay? It starts at 9:00 AM.”

“I know, Suguru,” You pout at him from your window, wind puffing into your cheeks in annoyance as you see him laugh at you. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

(So much for that big talk.)

So you blink at your phone, at the 8 missed calls from Shoko, the 17 from Suguru and at the 3 mails from Satoru that you’ve yet to read… And your next few actions, you swore were by pure instinct as your fingers hurriedly tapped away at the buttons of your cellphone.

“Gojo Satoru speaking!”

And that’s how you got the Gojo Satoru to attend his graduation and come for the very last day of his middle school life… Because what would be his beginning if he wasn’t there for his ending?

(And would you even call it one? He missed so many days that you’re surprised anyone even remembered he was a student here.)

But you’re proven wrong again when he unlocks his shoe locker to reveal a mass of love letters streaming out, the spring breeze fluttering them about as flurries of pink, white, blue and red carry the varying scents of perfume and sweet flowers.

Spring really is here. You can tell just by the way Satoru had that almost never ending pile of love letters that he had accumulated— And with graduation, secret admirer after secret admirer had been using this final chance to confess their undying, hidden love for him.

(He’s well-loved. And he’s deserving of it, you think. Your Satoru is cute, is nice—)

“Tch. What a pain.” His former chipper tone turns into one of sour irritation, a sigh leaving his lips as he frowns at the letters piling at his feet.

(Ah.)

“Why? Want ‘em?” He’s cheeky as he tilts his head at you, his hand reaching into his locker to pick up one of the letters that was somehow stuffed deep inside, waving the frilly paper around without any conscience. “I can’t let ya eat any of the treats they give though. ‘S all cheap stuff that might’ve been contaminated or something.” A tap of his chin in thought before his grin shows his usual mischief.

“We can feed ‘em to Suguru. He’s gonna be all like ‘Satoru~ You can’t waste the—‘“

“But… They were made for you, Satoru.” Feelings upon feelings layered and made tangible on scented paper and flowery stickers, courage manifested into an ‘understanding’ of love pressed into ink.

“Uh huh. And?” Like he didn’t care— No, like it never mattered at all as you hear him drop his indoor shoes onto the ground, crushing and leaving an imprint on one of the many love letters, smudging the ink and stomping out its flowery aroma. “It’s not like I asked for them.”

He’s right. You can’t contest something like that. But is it unwarranted to want your feelings to reach someone through unspoken words and quiet letters? Is it intrusive to want to tell someone sweet feelings that want to be heard?

So you pick up the letters, gently, gingerly scooping up the ones that have scattered too far as Gojo Satoru— Huffs and decides to gruffly stuff the ones that he had unwittingly let fall to the floor— Off the dirty ground.

“I dunno why you care so much about these since ya know I never read ‘em,” You can practically hear the roll of his eyes. “But whatever. I don’t wanna get another lecture from Suguru, anyway.”

A pause just as his fingers brush against yours as you both reach for the same sakura covered envelope.

“But if you write me one, I’ll read it in its entirety for ya. My time is precious, you know?” There’s a hum in his words and a smugness about him as he stands once more, bringing you up with him when he envelops your hand in his.

“So why don’t ya pick the ones ya want me to read? I’ll do it just for you too.”

(How… Cruel.)

That’s when you realize— Past the headpat he was giving you, past the way he had slipped his sunglasses down to obscure his eyes and how he had so carelessly stepped on a pretty, laced letter that he managed to miss that you understand…

Gojo Satoru doesn’t get love at all.

——

“And so, as your principal, I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for completing your studies and graduating.” A clear of his throat as his glasses shine against the hall’s light. “Remember that this isn’t the end of the road, that you future Betas, Alphas and Omegas will face all sorts of hardship regardless of your secondary genders—“

Ieiri Shoko isn’t at all surprised to see you hurriedly scramble onto your seat behind her as you smooth down your skirt and brush down your hair.

“You’re early.” Her voice quietly reaches you, low and clearly unimpressed that you left her bored out of her mind for nearly an hour.

(Seriously, how could you leave her here all alone in this lame auditorium?)

“Sorry Shoko, I overslept…” You’re sheepish as your hands are together in apology, meeting the way she stared at you from the corner of her eye as you hear her sigh a whispered acceptance.

“You’re making it up to me later.”

She’s not facing you, not next to you. None of your childhood friends are, actually. Because they were seated in chairs situated at the very front of the crowd. Seats with a little bit more meaning compared to the ones behind them, a little bit more special.

(Suguru told you they were for financial sponsors of the school or strong academic achievers—)

“And of course your top scorers for the national examinations are as follows,” Another clear of his throat as he fixes his tie, the projector flashing names upon the screen.

Gojo Satoru (Who would’ve guessed?)

Geto Suguru (Of course.)

Saeki Shi—

“Let’s not forget that while your schoolmates have done very well, comparison is the thief of joy. You are all well-versed in your own talents.” Another genteel smile as the mic picks up his voice once more, his bald head reflecting the light within the hall as your principal addresses your cohort for the last time.

“I am very proud of all of you, and having the honour of being your principal as been a great joy.”

“Congratulations on your graduation!”

Maybe the cheers can’t drive away this bittersweet feeling, maybe the way the applause of the students can’t get rid of the way nostalgia was starting to course through you.

Because, is it really over? Just like that? Isn’t it a little too fast, a little too quick? You’ll miss studying in the school library, you’ll miss having lunch on the rooftop, you’ll miss looking at the principal’s shiny, bald head.

You think you’ll definitely miss middle school.

——

You lean against the wall, quietly watching as student after student stream out of the hall, past the recently renovated doorway and its fresh coat of paint as you wait— And wait even more.

Official sponsors and academic award recipients did have to stay back for a bit, after all. To collect shiny badges and gratitude-filled letters from the school board before they took a shiny picture to commemorate them.

(Of course. Your friends always were special.

“Wow. Must take a lot for a Gojo like yourself to appear.” It’s deadpan, just as unimpressed as ever before as you hear footsteps approaching your solitary seat.

“Why? An Ieiri like yourself not satisfied with my presence?” Haughty, and obviously not thrilled at her lazy smile and still eyes. “I thought you’d skip out.”

“Did you?” Playful, dismissive and mysterious. Your Ieiri Shoko really has a talent for getting on your snowy-haired friend’s nerves as his eye twitches and he crosses his arms.

“Oi, Suguru. Tell ‘er that I’m not buying you guys any more of those cig—“ He pauses. Abruptly. Not because he wanted to, but because the perfect honour student had not gently slapped his hand over his mouth, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a mark.

Ieiri Shoko sighs.

“It’s not like Suguru needs to tell me.” Her hand tucks a strand of her bangs back, something akin to a smug smirk on her face as she stops before you. “We’re all standing here after-all.”

“…?” You only tilt your head in confusion as you blink. Once, twice. “What does Satoru wanna tell you?”

“I dunno.” A shrug of her shoulders and her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Why don’t you finish what you were gonna sa—“

“Shoko wanted Satoru to clean up his dirty room.” Geto Suguru finally cuts in, his hand straining as Gojo Satoru tries to pry it off and his eyes upturned to fit into a smile you’re not familiar with. “It’s gotten so bad that Kimiko-san said she saw mold growing in it.”

(That is… Quite disgusting.)

Another smirk from the auburn-haired girl. “It is, isn’t it Geto? Absolutely~” A flick of her hair back. “Disgusting.”

A muffled, extremely red complaint as Infinity activates enough to push the cursed spirit manipulator back, to force him away enough to finally be able to defend himself as blue eyes hurriedly flicker to you, blushing red and hot tips of his ears.

“It’s not that—!”

“Ahh~ Can’t hear.” Her smile is dismissive as she closes her eyes and turns away. “I can’t hear anything at all~”

(They always have such funny conversations.)

“Suguru, your uniform’s broken.” It’s a sudden observation, a bad habit you have of scanning someone from head to toe. “Did it snag on something?”

“Saya-chan, have you ever received someone’s second button?”

Her dimples show as she laughs at the question, demurely covering her mouth as her eyes crinkle and her hair sways when she throws her head back.

“I haven’t, actually!”

And Gojo Satoru stalks out from behind, grumbling and obviously upset. “(name)! Hurry up and leave that bastard! We’re gonna go eat parfaits and celebrate by ourselves!”

“This bastard already agreed to pay for those damn parfaits, Satoru.” A huff from above you. “Or are you saying you wanna foot the bill this time?”

“I’m not saying no to either of you if I get to eat for free.” Shoko’s input.

“You rich, stingy idiots…” His fingers are tapping against his furrowed brows as the both of them return to their banter, one that you aren’t quite paying much attention to— Not when your most well put together friend is obviously having a ‘put together’ issue.

(You never thought this day would ever come.)

Then… Your fingers glide over your own uniform, sliding and nudging at the button second from the top, the one closest to your heart as you furrow your brows and tear out the thread that held it in place.

(A personal sacrifice to help your friend in need.)

“Then you can have mine.” You gently cup his hand in yours and plop it onto his now open palm. “You still have student council duties left to do, right?”

“I think I have a sewing kit in my bag that my Mama gave me a while back too.” In case of emergencies, in case of a torn skirt or loose button.

What you don’t see, in your help-driven, giddy excitement to finally be able to be the one taking care of Geto Suguru, was how his hand closed tightly over small gift, squeezing and holding it close, holding it well.

(Even if you don’t get it, even if you don’t understand… He’s okay with it.)

“Right.” A tilt of his head and that serene smile you’re becoming a little too used to that stops you momentarily in your happy rambling and mental train. “I’ll treasure it.”

(A little bit of a strange wording from him, but you’ll take it. Acts of heroism make you feel good, after all.)

——

Highschool applications are hard. Hard in the sense that you don’t exactly know where you want to go out of all the options presented to you, don’t know what the uncertain future will be. If you went with this option, would you regret the other?

If you chose a highschool that had fun extracurriculars but ugly uniforms, would you regret it? Do you even want the sailor seifuku? Or is neat looking one with a blazer cooler? Would choosing a school specifically for their uniform be too specific of a choice?

(It shouldn’t be this hard to choose just 1, right?)

Your grades aren’t… Bad. Just average. Maybe a little bit above it? Or maybe a little under. But they aren’t bad bad.

“Good job.” Mama looks absolutely exhausted as she settles in front of you, lighting the candle of the small cake she had baked in celebration of your graduation. “I’m so proud of you, and always will be.”

(That’s all that matters.)

But proudness won’t help you settle on a decision all on your lonesome so you’re seated on your bedroom’s floor, your face twisted in deep thought, pamphlets strewn all over— And Gojo Satoru’s head on your lap as he snores away.

“You should always ask when in doubt! Clearing the fog of uncertainty has always been my go-to, and you’ll be surprised by what you can achieve if—“ A pretty pause to show a prettier smile. Your Saya-chan is absolutely glowing today. “You just ask!”

“Satoru.” You pat at his cheek, only getting a quiet groan and no signs of awakening. You try again, this time poking at his cheek and watching the softness bounce back against your finger as you now start to pout at your sleeping friend.

“…I’ll call Suguru over if you don’t wake up.”

And there you have it, iridescent blues revealed to you much too fast, an angry pout mirroring your own reflected back at you.

“I’m mad at him—“ A much too tired yawn. “So don’t ya dare call ‘im…” He rubs at his eyes, tiredly blinking up at you as he relaxes once more. Onto your lap that had turned into his own personal pillow, of course.

(“What did you even stay up so late for, Satoru?”

You only get his silence, his hesitance to say anything. His shifty eyes make you confused, make you wonder if something bad had happened.

“…was lookin’ at a button.”

“Huh?”)

“Ya still on that—“ He yawns again, using his elbow to support him as he stretches his limbs out, sunglasses haphazardly thrown onto your tatami floors as you hear his muscles pop. “Application thing?”

“I don’t think I ever left it.” You smooth your hand down a particularly thick guidebook, the text staring back at you, undaunted and heavy on your mind.

You haven’t stopped reading ever since he got here, after all.

“I told ya not to worry ‘bout it.” He finally sits up— Only to move next to you and plop his lazy head onto your shoulder as you hear him take in a deep breath, his nose brushing against the skin of your neck as your chin shifts to better adjust to this new position.

“But I still have to choose, Satoru.”

It’s mandatory. Something to decide your fate— Not something you can roll a die for and call it a day.

Maybe you should’ve asked Suguru or Shoko instead… But would you even make it into a school for academically gifted or for the super rich that you’re pretty sure they would apply for?

How are you even certain that they’d pick those—

(“Just ask! And I promise you’ll get your ans—“)

“And didya even find any that you even like?” His voice is low, whispered because of his sleepiness as his arms now hug tight around your waist; as if you were a giant teddy bear for him to hold.

“No.”

“Thought so~”

(Hmph. Satoru can sound so mean sometimes.)

“Did you already pick yours, then?” You abandon the pamphlet to have your hand go up to stroke the fluffiness of white, scratching at his scalp and smoothing down the ends that were sticking up as he hums at your touch.

Cute.

(Mama really was right when she said good looks can make up for bad personalities sometimes. But you’re pretty sure this only applies to people named Gojo Satoru.)

“‘Course.” There’s a certain triumphant smugness about his words this time. “It’s a bit far, though.”

“How far?”

A contemplative hum as you feel his face snuggle into the crook of your neck, his fingers drumming against your waist lightly as he peeks up at you.

“Like Tokyo far.”

(Woah.)

“Wanna come with?”

previous masterlist next

[all-for-the-game-confessions]

A lot of people don’t actually like Andriel. Which isn’t to say that they hate it, but I see so many people upset that Nora said they wouldn’t get married or say ‘I love you’ and it’s like, did.. did we read the same books? Andrew’s whole character is ‘love’ (said like that because it sounds wrong. I mean it like ‘care’) behind a stone wall of silence. Like, he does care. Obviously. But he can’t stand the word ‘family’, you think he’s out here saying ‘I love you’? He’s not gentle or sappy. He can show restraint and be merciful, but he’s not going to coddle Neil. Neil has never been coddled, and he doesn’t need to be. They still care about each other and show affection. He doesn’t HAVE TO SAY IT. Neil KNOWS. He’s not insecure and friending for Andrew’s attention and affection. In Baltimore, he literally knows Andrew won’t leave without at least talking to him. They have ‘I hate you’, and keys, and a home, and ‘stay’. Neil gets that. He makes dumb decisions in accordance to survival, but Neil is incredibly smart, especially when it comes to understanding Andrew. Marriage has never meant anything to either of them— it didn’t matter to any of Andrew’s abusers if they were married, and he probably saw so many fights and divorces that marriage is as fake to him as everything. Neil’s mother, assumedly married to his father, was KILLED BY HER HUSBAND. MARRIAGE MEANS NOTHING TO THEM. “I LOVE YOU” HAS NEVER MEANT ANYTHING TO THEM BC ANYONE WHO HAS EVER SAID THAT TO THEM, IF IT WAS EVER SAID, HAS CAUSED THEM SOME FORM OF PAIN. ‘B-but if they say that, it means they healed!’ ACTING ACCORDING TO THE NORMAL STANDARDS OF A CONVENTIONAL RELATIONSHIP IS NOT THE BAR FOR HEALING. Which brings me to another thing,’w-what do you mean Andrew doesn’t heal?!’ It means he doesn’t act ‘normal’. He’s fundamentally not normal. Neither is Neil. Neither of them ‘heal’. They are not half as low as some people think, and they don’t have to smile or act like a sitcom couple for them to love each other. Andrew choked someone out with A BROKEN CLAVICLE BC THEY HURT NEIL, EVEN WITHOUT A PROMISE, BECAUSE HE CARES. Andrew still cares, Nora said he eventually finds himself being okay and even maybe having fun with Exy (of course taken with a grain of salt bc it’s not in the book it’s a post she made but still), Andrew goes to therapy and HUGS HIS BROTHER BEFORE THEY PART WAYS at the end of college. THEY ARE NOT AS LOW AS YOU THINK. If you are upset they do not meet a convention, you have completely missed the point. They are supposed to be UNCONVENTIONAL. They are NOT ‘NORMAL’ HUMAN BEINGS. One of the reasons I love them so much is because they’re not just your average couple. They feel like actual love, or at least magnetism/attraction, because they’re not in it trying to hit every milestone everyone else thinks they should have because they’re together.

Rant over. To each their own, but I love Andriel as the unglorious assholes they are.

.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hello, hello, hello, beautiful, gorgeous, divine

I love your story Marco nooo I love all your stories you are fantastic

I love you, please beg for something. Can you create a Marco the Phoenix story for y/n? Where y/n saves Thatch's life by stopping Teach's attack? Thatch was injured, but not seriously, losing the yami yami nomi. However, y/n was seriously injured protecting her nakama. Marco and Ace, his brother, are very worried. More so Marco 😏 Since the young woman wasn't waking up, When she regained consciousness, she played a joke on Marco for being so worried, Pretending not to recognize them 🤣 Later, Y/n spoke to Whitebeard, discussing the traitor and how dangerous he would become in the future. When she returned to Marco, she lay down next to him, thanking him for taking care of her all that time, and that even though she couldn't answer him, she always heard him calling her. Please, I implore you.

lmaoao this is funny i like it! dahaha u can support me through ko-fi, but please know that tips are never expected but always deeply appreciated! also I hope this is to ur liking!

Teach Tried It, I Survived It

After stopping Teach’s betrayal and nearly dying, you wake up in Marco’s arms—and decide that pranking him with fake amnesia is exactly what he deserves before finally falling into the comfort of home and love.

Marco the phoenix x reader

tags: slight angst, sfw, ooc, bl00d/v!olence, happy ending, betrayal,

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sun blazed high over the open sea, casting golden light across the deck of the Moby Dick. The battle was well underway — a scrappy band of pirates had made the monumental mistake of challenging the Whitebeard Pirates. Bad for them. Good for everyone else who needed a bit of exercise.

You ducked under a wild swing from some random enemy pirate, spun on your heel, and delivered a solid punch to his gut. He crumpled with a satisfying oof.

"Oi! Y/N!" Thatch shouted from a few feet away, grinning like a maniac, a strange fruit in his hand. "Check this out!"

You sliced another pirate across the side with your blade (nothing fatal, you were feeling merciful today) and jogged over.

"What did you find this time?" you asked, breathing hard, a spark of excitement lighting your eyes.

Ace clambered over a fallen mast to join you. "Yo, Thatch, whatcha got?"

Thatch held the thing out like it was a newborn kitten. The fruit was round and black with swirling violet patterns, almost like the night sky had been trapped inside it.

"I found something interesting," he said proudly.

Ace squinted. "Ohhh... is that a Devil Fruit?"

You leaned closer. "Looks like one. Wonder what it does."

Behind you, a presence stiffened. You glanced over your shoulder.

Teach — good ol' big, laughing Teach — was standing there, his usual grin stretched way too tight. His forehead was shiny with sweat despite the easy fight. When he noticed you looking, he barked out a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Heh! Devil Fruit, huh? Zehahaha! Who knows? Maybe it's a lame one, like making your farts turn into explosions!"

Ace snorted. "Wouldn't put it past the sea."

You shook your head, laughing, not noticing the way Teach’s hands clenched at his sides.

That night, the Moby Dick was peaceful. The waves lapped lazily against the hull. Most of the crew was sprawled across the deck or below, snoring, laughing, or drinking.

You had just curled up in your hammock when a strange noise cut through the stillness.

Scuffle.

You bolted upright, instincts screaming. Without a second thought, you grabbed your weapon and padded silently toward the sound.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

There, in the dim lantern light, was Teach — stabbing Thatch through the side.

"Teach?!" you gasped.

Thatch grunted, struggling, but Teach was too strong. His eyes were wild, desperate, like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, you leapt into action.

"THAT'S ENOUGH! TEACH! HOW DARE YOU!?" you roared, slamming into Teach with everything you had.

The two of you crashed into the deck. Your blade flashed; Teach snarled and swung a fist, and you met it with a grimace, blocking the worst of the blow. It was chaos — wood splintered under your feet as you battled, the sounds waking a few of the closer crewmates.

But Teach was slippery. He was fighting like a man who had nothing left to lose, and with one last shove, he pushed you back, making you stumble.

Your foot caught the edge of a broken beam, and before you could react, Teach's fist landed squarely on the side of your head. The world spun instantly, your vision going blurry as the impact sent you crashing to the ground.

“Y/N!” Thatch cried weakly from where he was still slumped, blood dripping from his side.

You blinked hard, trying to regain your senses. A searing pain throbbed in your head, and the edges of your vision blurred even further. You could barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears as your body felt like it was on fire.

Just as you tried to push yourself up, Teach took his chance, grabbing the mysterious fruit from Thatch’s weakening grip. His sinister laugh filled the night air as he turned and bolted into the shadows, vanishing before anyone could stop him.

You couldn’t chase him.

Your body was failing you.

With a grunt, you collapsed to the floor, dizziness consuming you. Your world tilted, everything spinning as blood pooled beneath you. The last thing you heard was the frantic sound of footsteps.

.

.

When you cracked your eyes open, it was to the blinding white of the infirmary ceiling. Everything hurts, your head hurts.

The room was filled with silence, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed. Marco sat slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed in exhausted vigilance. He hadn’t left your side in days — barely eating, barely sleeping. Even Ace, who was normally a ball of chaotic energy, was quieter than a graveyard at midnight, sitting against the wall and anxiously tossing a small ball between his hands.

Then, finally, the miracle happened.

You groaned.

Marco was upright so fast he nearly knocked over the chair. "Y/N?!"

Your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. Slowly, you turned your head, taking in the sight of Marco — disheveled, wide-eyed, hopeful — and Ace, who had shot to his feet, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

You blinked a few times. A mischievous thought bubbled up. You couldn't resist. Then you tilted your head in confusion.

"...Who are you?" you rasped, your voice hoarse from disuse.

The world froze.

Marco actually stumbled back a step, his mouth parting in horror. "W-What?"

Ace dropped the ball he'd been tossing — it hit the floor with a pathetic little bounce. "No way," he muttered, eyes wide as saucers.

You frowned, genuine confusion painted across your features. "Where am I? What happened? Are you... my doctors?"

Marco choked on air. "Doctors?! w-well, I am! but..." His voice cracked, his wings briefly puffing out in shock. "Y/N—it's me! It's Marco-yoi!"

You gave him a pitying, bewildered look, like he was some delusional lunatic. "I'm sorry, I... I don't know any 'Marco.'"

Ace ran a hand down his face, whispering to himself, "Oh my god, oh my god, Pops is gonna kill us."

Marco dropped to his knees by the bed, panic etched into every sharp line of his face. "Y/N, please, listen! It's me! You—you always called me 'birdbrain'! Remember? And Ace—he's the loud one! You always yell at him!-yoi"

You gave a tiny, skeptical squint at Ace. "He does look like he yells a lot," you mumbled thoughtfully.

Ace put a hand over his heart, wounded. "Hey!"

"Y/N..." Marco reached for your hand, his own trembling. "Please tell me you're joking."

You pulled your hand away, shrinking back against the pillows dramatically. "S-sir!, I don't even know you! Why are you touching me?!"

Ace looked between you and Marco, starting to sweat buckets. "She really doesn't remember us?! Oh my god—I'm not ready to raise someone! I can barely keep my plants alive!"

Marco paled. "Ace, this isn't about raising—"

"We'll have to teach her everything again!" Ace wailed. "How to walk! How to talk! Oh no—do you even remember how to eat?"

You blinked at him, deadpan. "I don't know... can you show me?"

Ace immediately picked up a banana from a nearby fruit basket and started dramatically demonstrating how to eat it, like some crazed tutorial video.

"First you PEEL it," he said loudly, yanking the peel down and waving it in your face. "Then you put the FOOD PART in your MOUTH—"

"Enough!" Marco barked, his voice cracking with desperation.

He turned back to you, gripping the edge of the mattress. His eyes were so blue and so full of heartbreak that you nearly cracked right there.

"Y/N..." he whispered, voice raw. "Even if you don't remember me... I'll stay with you. I'll protect you until you remember. I swear it."

Your throat tightened.

You stared at him for a long, tense moment.

Then you cracked a wicked smile.

"...Dumbass," you wheezed, voice croaky but full of teasing mischief. "Of course I remember you, pineapple head!"

The silence was so thick you could hear a pin drop.

Ace's banana hit the floor.

Marco stared at you, eyes wide, processing... and then, "WHAT?!"

You burst into a fit of raspy laughter, clutching your sides painfully. "Oh my god, the LOOK on your face—!" you cackled, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

"You little—!" Marco sputtered, half lunging at you and half hugging you at the same time.

"You should've seen yourselves!" you wheezed. "Ace was about to teach me how to chew!"

Ace pointed an accusing finger at you. "You gave me a heart attack, Y/N! I was ready to start teaching you object permanence!"

Marco collapsed onto the side of the bed, groaning into your blanket. "I can't believe you did that-yoi. I was ready to—!" His voice broke again.

You smiled softer now, reaching out and brushing his messy blond hair back from his face. "I'm sorry, Marco... couldn't resist. You were just too easy."

He lifted his head, cheeks flushed slightly, a trembling smile forming. "You're the worst," he said hoarsely, voice thick with relief.

"And you love me for it," you teased.

"...Yeah," he whispered back, no hesitation at all.

You blinked.

Your heart fluttered.

Ace, oblivious as usual, was still dramatically re-enacting how he was going to "re-educate" you with flashcards and alphabet songs in the background. You and Marco stared at each other, soft and quiet amidst the chaos, and for a moment, the world was right again.

You were safe. You were alive. You were home.

.

.

Later, once the fuss had died down (and Ace had finally been dragged off to sleep), you found yourself summoned to Whitebeard’s quarters.

The old man sat on his throne-like chair, the steady pulse of his IV a soft, constant background noise.

"You fought well, little one," Whitebeard said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. His gaze was heavy, serious. "But you were lucky."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully.

"Teach..." you began.

Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed.

"He was after that fruit," you said grimly. "It wasn’t random. He knew what it was. And if he went so far as to attack Thatch, his own crewmate..." You shook your head. "He's dangerous. More dangerous than we realized."

Whitebeard grunted, the sound low and displeased.

"A traitor among my sons," he murmured, anger flashing in his gaze. "We will hunt him down."

You hesitated. "He has the Yami Yami no Mi now. I don't know much about it, but I saw enough. That fruit... it's not normal. His power—"

"—Will be immense," Whitebeard finished.

You nodded grimly.

There was a long silence.

"You did well protecting your brother," Whitebeard said at last, his expression softening. "Rest now. Heal. We have a long road ahead."

You bowed again and left, heart heavy but determined.

When you returned to the infirmary, Marco was there, perched like a golden phoenix on the edge of the bed.

He looked up, immediately easing when he saw you.

"Hey, yoi," he said softly.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you limped over and, without asking, slid onto the bed beside him.

Marco froze, startled — and then melted, wrapping an arm carefully around your shoulders so you didn’t jostle your injuries.

For a while, you just lay there, breathing together.

Finally, you spoke, voice quiet against his chest.

"Thank you."

He tilted his head down, puzzled. "For what-yoi?"

"For staying," you murmured. "For talking to me even when I couldn’t answer. For calling me back."

Marco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"You heard me?" he whispered.

"Every word," you said, smiling faintly. "Even when I was somewhere dark... you were there."

Marco closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You scared me so bad," he whispered, voice raw. "I thought I'd lost you-yoi"

"You didn’t," you promised.

He kissed your forehead, the gentlest brush of lips, barely a touch.

"I’m not going anywhere," you said.

Marco smiled — a real one, full of love and hope and lingering fear.

"Good," he said, pulling you closer. "Because I’m not letting you out of my sight-yoi."

You chuckled softly, your heart full despite the pain.

"Guess you're stuck with me," you teased.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Marco said against your hair.

And for the first time since everything had gone to hell, you felt truly safe.

[tryandbehappy]

What Does June Actually Know About Nick And Why She Never Asked

It’s honestly kind of wild when you think about it. After everything they’ve been through (all the intimacy, trust, love) June never really asked Nick one simple question:

“Who are you, really? Tell me your story”

Season 1: “You’re an Eye?”

That was her only reaction when he admitted what he was. An Eye. A part of the surveillance state.

And then… she dropped it.

She never sat down and said, “Tell me what you’ve done. (or what you were part of/What you believe in)

And honestly, maybe she didn’t want to know.

Season 3: “He surved Gilead. We wouldn’t be here without him” (Serena)

Or the politician chick “He is not to be trusted”

June didn’t confront him after that. Never

Her own morality had already unraveled. She had killed, betrayed, survived. She knew what it meant to become someone you didn’t recognize. And maybe that’s why she chose not to judge him.

He still was the one who was there and always helped her survive.

Still the man who gave her the space to rage (I adore that scene in the car in 1x04)

And she needed it more than the clarity. I’m kinda fascinated by that fact to be honest.

She chose to protect the version of Nick she knew. The version who loved her, saved her, gave her pieces of freedom when she had none. Nick is still the man who gave her Fred.

She saw the way he looked at her, how he always came for her and did everything. That was real.

And maybe that’s why she looked the other way when he put took the title/stayed in Gilead/kinda built it

“There are good men everywhere. Even here. It’s just… complicated.”— June Osborne, Season 4

That’s who she clung to. Even if she knew there was more beneath it.

But we, as the audience, saw a little more than she did.

None of it was personal. It was efficient and controlled. Very often for his own safety. It doesn’t make him evil. But it doesn’t make him safe either.

But now something’s shifting. They started foreshadowing when her mother said: “He’s a Nazi. They all are.”

They’re deliberately playing with our emotions by that (and goddamn interviews).

They’ve always framed Nick as the dark horse but only off-screen. On screen, he’s consistently shown as good, protective, deeply feeling. What they’re doing now is building emotional whiplash: showing him at his most devoted, then planting seeds of doubt 😱

Not because he’s actually a villain but because drama needs tension. We’re meant to feel nervous (and actually I do). But it’s important to remember: within the story itself, Nick has always been the one who saves quietly, not destroys.

But for the first time, we can feel it. The illusion (?) might crack.

There might be a moment where Nick does something she can’t ignore (god I hope not). A decision that makes her see not just what he is but what he’s capable of.

The writers would be like “see??? you’ve all been blind!!!Haha. And June too. He’s too sweet and handsome and you’ve been ignoring the facts. He can love deeply and be evil”

And maybe she’ll feel betrayed.

Maybe she’ll say, “I didn’t know who you were.”

But here’s the thing - we did. We saw him protect, mourn the previous handmaid, break, and fall apart silently over and over.

We saw him risk everything for June. And many other good things I’m too tired to name.

So if the show suddenly decides Nick was a villain all along it’s not just lazy.

It’s a betrayal of everything we’ve watched. Let’s hope they won’ go there.

[maxdibert]

Wow, you made me realize how isolated Lily really was - in fics they always give her this big group of girl friends: Marlene, Mary, Dorcas, Pandora, sometimes even Molly? (Do this people think? Did she have Bill when she was 10 or what?) - it makes you forget she didn’t have a single real friend after breaking her friendship with Severus - all her friends were James's buddies.

I may be wrong, but not a single character told Harry "I was friends with your mother (not James and Lily, just Lily), let me tell you about her" (It was always about James and about how amazing he was, or about what great popular couple they were).

The people she seemed to talk to after school were her neighbor (Bathilda Bagshot), James's friends and some order members that seemed to be just acquaintances not real friends and many died in the war, her parents were dead and her sister hated her, if she divorced James his friends would ignore her too - outside of Severus and Harry, she was completely alone in the world.

How did this seemingly popular girl finish school without a single friend?

A fic about the what if she survived the war and realized how much she willingly lost and how isolated she became because of James and her own decisions would be interesting.

For me, it's just another inconsistency in the plot. I mean, you’re supposed to have been one of the most popular people in your year, and generally considered a "catch" by the boys, yet your son knows hundreds of people who can tell him about his father, and not a single one who can speak to him about you? The only person through whom your son can learn anything about your childhood and adolescence beyond your husband is your childhood friend whom you stopped speaking to at the age of fifteen?? How does that make any sense?

I get that Rowling wanted to keep Lily shrouded in mystery for the sake of the plot twist and all that, but it wasn’t necessary for her to literally not have a single bloody friend throughout the entire timeline of the books. She could easily have introduced someone from the first Order who simply never knew about her connection with Snape, for instance. Or someone from school who just never mentioned him because they drifted apart when they were fifteen. To me, it makes absolutely no sense — and the worst part is that the two people who actually tell Harry anything about Lily (Severus and Petunia) are precisely the two whose relationship with her reached a point of no return because of James’s shitty behaviour. Yes, those relationships were already damaged beforehand, but it’s James’s arrogant, bullying, classist attitude that ultimately blows them apart. So the only two people who truly knew Lily from childhood and grew up with her — the only ones who could offer real insight — are people whose final falling out with her was triggered by her future husband. It just seems so, so problematic to me.

And then there’s that whole thing about your only close circle being your partner’s circle? That you can’t be socially independent of him because his friends are now your friends? But the truth is, they’re his friends first — the stronger bond is with him. Honestly, there are so many red flags, it’s unbelievable, and people romanticise it. I don’t know. It’s just terrible.

[c4ttheart]

how to survive a hurricane !

falling in love isn't about changing for someone. it's about learning to weather them. or, nagi seishiro is a houseplant, and you are a walking natural disaster.

nagi x gn!reader, mini series. reader is quite emotional & clumsy. italics r used for dramatic purposes. lowercase is not intended but i cba to turn autocaps on 😛 1.4k wc.

prev. • masterlist. • next.

1. Secure your foundation. (Hold on to who you are.)

“I presume you know why you’re here, yes ?” the counselor asks as you squirm in your seat, relentless under her gaze. you nod, although quite shyly, and she repeats the motion with a lot more assurance than you, urging you to go on. 

“It’s about the gardening club, is it not ?” you ask, nibbling on the inside of your cheek. she lets out a small smile in return, and you look away. you do not need her pity. 

The room you sit in is dim, even though large windows occupy two out of the four white walls, and you can see the students having lunch on the quad a few stories down. Since the ceiling lamp is turned off and her back is facing one of the only sources of natural light in the cramped space, the counselor’s face is darker than it should be, and she seems tired, almost older. The floor is padded with worn down carpet, indents of high heels and coffee stains visible. There are wooden cupboards and storage cabinets behind her, similar to the desk she leans on, and you know they are empty, because Hakuho High doesn’t have much to offer. She takes off her rectangle glasses and looks at you again. “I really appreciate all the effort you’ve put into organizing it, and I can tell it means a lot to you. Unfortunately, according to school policy, a club needs to have at least three active members to stay officially recognized. Right now, your club doesn’t meet that requirement, having only two members, yourself included, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to continue it as an official club for now.”

you nod unsurely. “And, as you may know, since you are a first year, school clubs are mandatory, so I thought we could use this session to find you a new club,” she continues, as she cleans the lenses of her glasses with a pale pink handkerchief, “How about-”

“What if I find another member ? for the gardening club, I mean. I’m sorry. For interrupting.” you cut her off, although your gaze immediately redirects itself to the ground out of shame. The counselor blinks, slowly, as if she was bewildered by your question. 

“Well, hypothetically, if you did get a third member to join, then we would be able to officially recognise it as a club. Although, it is hypothetical, because the motion to dismiss it has already been set. You’d need to find said third party before the end of classes today.” 

You gulp. She does not pause longer than needed, already continuing the meaningless flickers of her wrist on the mouse of her computer to scroll through the list of existing, official clubs at Hakuho. “How about a sports club ? Or art, maybe. We have poetry and theatre as well,” she goes on, but you drown her words out. She simply does not understand the importance of the gardening club. She does not know of the countless lunch hours spent with Shijiki, the other member and your best (and probably only) friend, in the greenhouse, the trouble you had put yourself through just for your work to be dismissed. She did not understand the safe place it represented, or the memories it held. She probably did not care either. 

However, her words pull you out of your trance. “So, what do you think ? Do any of these speak to you ?” You blink back the tears that are threatening to spill, and let out a meek ‘i’m not sure.’ 

She sighs in response, placing her glasses back in front of her eyes. “Well, what do you like to do ?” 

“Um, tending to plants. Planting seeds. Gardening.” You answer after a few seconds, but she only sighs louder. “Right. But apart from that ?” Her voice does not carry that concealed pity and kindness anymore, only annoyance. 

“I, uhm, I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

The room falls silent again. You don’t like it here anymore. The walls are closer now, the carpet dirtier, and your seat seems itchier than it was before you first sat down. Your legs ache, urge to stretch, to leave and your fingers have curled so deep into your palm you’re afraid they might draw blood. You wish you could just get up, scream at her fatigued face and cry, but instead your foot bounces up and down, quickly, repetitively, until the tap tap tap of your shoe against the carpet is the only thing that can be heard. 

“Well then, how would you describe yourself ? I’m sure at least one of these clubs here is searching for a profile like yours.” She asks, a faux smile plastered on her face, the crookedness of her teeth worsening your unease. 

If you were to ask Shijiki, she would describe you as a reckless person, perhaps. Or maybe a stupid one. Tap tap tap.  Scratch that, she would probably say careless, because of how much money you had spent renovating the old shed on the far right of the courtyard, which was now doomed to become nothing but an empty shed again. Not a greenhouse. Not a safe place. Just another hidden area for students to make out. Tap tap tap. Other people would say obnoxious. Loud. Hyperactive. Tap tap tap. But your teachers always reprimand you for being too quiet, they encourage you to participate more, to pay attention. Tap tap tap. How would the counselor describe you ? Distant ? Indecisive ? Or, 

“Clumsy.” is the adjective you finally settle for, and you watch as the counselor's brow lifts in something akin to amusement. “You would describe yourself as… Clumsy ?” 

“Yes. When I was seven, I broke my mother’s favourite vase after she had instructed me to be careful around it several times. She got mad, of course, so I spent the night trying to fix the broken pieces with superglue. I think that resumes what type of person I am.” The counselor does not answer. She just stares at you, perplexed. “Ah. I guess you could add ‘oversharer’ to the list.” you joke, although she does not seem amused anymore. You do not tell her about how your classmates whisper when they think you cannot hear, how they call you ‘a walking disaster’ or ‘a catastrophe waiting to happen’.

“Right. We’ll go over this tomorrow, it seems our time is up for today.” Is what she decides  to answer and even though you should be grateful for the opportunity to finally leave, you can’t help but feel uneasy. That dismissal is nothing good, it makes you feel a special type of distress in your stomach, one that makes your eyes water. You nod in response. 

“Could you please tell the next student to come in ?” she asks politely, repositioning her glasses on her oily nose. You hum, but you do not look at her. The weight of the world is suddenly crashing down upon you, and it feels even more real now that you’re standing up. You leave, quietly, and spot a student right next to the door. He is crouched down, his white hair obscuring his face and his phone in his hand. You know that mop of limbs, the one that sits in the back of class, asleep half of the time. Somehow, you’re not really surprised he’s here as well, because Nagi putting effort into something like a club doesn’t feel quite right. 

“Nagi, the counselor is waiting for you.” You speak softly, like one would to a child because Nagi is the embodiment of an infant and because you’re afraid your voice will crack if you raise it ever so slightly. “Oh.” he replies as he gets up, but he does not thank you. He does not look back at you either, but you don’t really care, the only thing on your mind being how you will break the news to Shijiki. She won’t be half as devastated as you, that’s for sure, but she’ll still be sad because she knows how much the gardening club meant to you. A sigh leaves your lips, and silently, you make your way back to the small shed on the far right of the courtyard, where you know Shijiki will be waiting for you with both of your lunches and tissues. You inhale, deeply, and bring your sleeve up to your eye to absorb whatever droplets of disappointment have formed. However, by doing so, you temporarily blind yourself, and run into a few hurried students. The force of the impact sends you to the floor, and that is when the dam finally breaks. Because you truly are clumsy. A disaster waiting to happen. 

i caved in so im publishing this before finishing chap 2 😓. starting school again on monday so updates r gonna take quite a while.

taglist : open ! ask to be added :3

@kalithulium @ihsoti @minlahzz @demiitria

[serra-says]

Fabian's journey in the Forest of the Nightmare King was by far the worst, in my opinion — and the only one that wasn't really 'character building' so much as plain old traumatisation. this is something I wanted to bring up a few times but haven't quite figured out how to articulate without spiraling into a 2k analysis. let's go.

the entire scene feels silly. we get Chungledown Bim, who's got a funny name and a funny tagline and is treated by the entire group as a joke. he swings through the trees with a to-go coffee — that's not the description of a fearsome foe. we get the sexy rat, whose creation was a joke to lure in Edgar (Zayn's familiar) and who kept being brought back for bits. it's 'funny' because Fabian hates it, and everyone laughs about the image of Fabian being scared of it.

despite obviously the rat's main 'thing' being its looks, that's not what Fabian was running from — it's the intentions, both the rat's and Bim's. the only way to break through the Forest of the Nightmare King is to give in to your greatest fear, and the way Fabian does it is by laying down on the ground and giving Chungledown Bim permission to "just shit and fuck and do whatever the fuck you want," telling the sexy rat to "fuck me or do whatever weird fuckin' shit'."

that's messed up. the other kids had to acknowledge their fears or consider their futures. Baron was a manifestation of Riz's fear to be different, of his desire to 'fit in' and be loved in the way society says you should be. Gorgug struggles with preconceptions that he's dumb and too big and that, as a barbarian, he is only capable of destruction. Fig faces down her lies and her struggle with sincerity and self-expression, Adaine faces her traumatic childhood and future as the Elven Oracle, and Kristen was absent for obvious reasons but even then later self-revived and converted a god.

Fabian grew up not having choices — his destiny was already laid out for him. he will tread in his father's footsteps. this entire adventure, for him, was the catalyst to the discovery that there was choice. that he is able to say no, to have opinions and express those and make decisions for himself. to become a dancer instead of a fighter. it's the discovery of consent.

it makes sense that his greatest fear would then be losing that. having felt the ability to make his own decisions and being forced, by the Forest, to give that up— to be pressured into giving consent when it's the last thing he wants to.

in the Nightmare King's Forest, there's acknowledgement, there's recognition, there's overcoming — all themes in the other Bad Kids' journeys that make sense. Gorgug learns confidence ("Anyways, my point is eventually I will solve problems that maybe smarter people can solve in a shorter amount of time."). Adaine admits to 'Nightmare Adaine' that even though she grew up feeling unlovable, she feels hope that she might be, now. Adaine learns hope.

Fig, instead of worrying over the fear that she isn't enough, says "I hope that [Ayda] finds something that I didn't know was there." it's the learning of trusting in yourself. Riz gives into his fear of missing clues, of not being useful, and instead takes care of himself. Riz learns self-care.

that's quite a difference from the journey Fabian's been on. after watching his entire worldview and perception of himself shatter on Leviathan and cautiously rediscovering faith in himself in Kei Lumennura, Fabian learnt autonomy. his Nightmare King Forest journey wasn't one of introspection, or insight. Fabian learnt autonomy, briefly, and went into the Forest only to get reinforced that it never mattered. consent under duress isn't consent.

to make it back home, to survive the forest and be of use to his friends — he needed to give up his autonomy and give Chungledown Bim and the sexy rat permission to do whatever they want with him. Fabian fears subjection and powerlessness, and the way the Forest goes about showing that is by forcing him to accept submitting to physical violation. Fabian discovers learned helplessness.

he doesn't want to talk about it, once the kids leave the Forest. Cassandra brings it up and the Bad Kids poke fun of Fabian seeing "just a rat". Fig conjures it. Fabian tries to stab it, tells them to stop. Fig puts it on his shoulders instead.

it's another reinforcement that, whatever choice Fabian makes, it doesn't matter. he asks Cassandra not to tell the others what he saw, and she says it anyway. one of his greatest fears was the sexy rat, and his friends laugh about it. he tells them to stop, to leave it, and instead they conjure it and make him face the very thing he narrowly escaped.

it's another day, another case of Fabian expressing distress, of acknowledging and letting his friends know that he's scared, and his friends make it into a joke and force him to confront it regardless. the Bad Kids go home, at the end of the day, having learnt things. having increased their stats.

Fabian increased his Wisdom. it's the stat for perception of the world around him, the stat for clarity of mind and inherent knowledge. Fabian's increases, because he's learnt something in the forest. unlike his friends, it was not something positive.

Fabian goes home, and resolves not to tell his friends about anything again — it's become apparent, and reinforced, and cemented again and again and again that they will not offer support. any vulnerability he shows, they poke sticks in. any fears, they laugh at. and his hard-won autonomy, his ability to make decisions and choices and a name for himself — that's useless, since there will always be something to push and push and push and put pressure onto him until he chooses the initial outcome, anyway.

consent and coercion and autonomy and compulsion and choice all lead to the same outcome — a lack of control over his desired outcome in a scenario. he is subject to the expectations others have. the only way out is to submit. it's a valuable lesson.

it's one he shouldn't have learned.

[theseinfernalangels]

A Dragon’s Appellation (Pt. 2)

(Or, what I think the girls’ dragons call their riders).

Imogen:

Glane adores Imogen and completely caught her off guard when she called her human Blossom. Imogen lowkey hated it at first; didn’t her dragon see that she was a super powerful and strong Marked cadet? Why would she nickname her after a flower, of all things? It wasn’t until later that Glane confessed that she looked deeper than normal into Imogen and saw that she missed being allowed to be soft sometimes. Imogen hasn’t had a chance to be less than a warrior ever since her mom and sister were taken into custody, and every so often, she looks back and wishes she could still just be someone’s little sister instead of fighting at the forefront of a revolution. It’s okay, though — Glane will always see her as a little Blossom.

Sloane:

To Thoirt, Sloane will always be her Little Rose — Prickly and sharp on the way up, until it inevitably blooms red at the top. Sloane nearly had a heart attack the first time Thoirt called her that, because coincidentally enough, that’s what her father called her whenever she was upset. Slowly, though, it became very comforting, and although she still thinks of Isaac Mairi whenever she sees roses, she automatically thinks of the Red Daggertail when it comes to anything else. Every rose has its thorns, yes, and so does Sloane — but she also has Thoirt, whom she sometimes affectionately refers to as a “strawberry,” since the resemblance is immaculate.

Rhiannon:

Rhiannon was just, “girl” to Feirge for a while, actually. Now, though, the playful Green calls her rider her Darling, and it’s not even ironic or mocking. Feirge, for all of her stubbornness and attitude, loves loves loves Rhiannon. During Threshing, the Green dragon was rather picky with who she wanted to bond with, and when she laid her eyes on Rhi, she knew almost immediately that she was perfect and had so many amazing qualities. Of course, she didn’t want to look like she was super impressed by a human of all things, so Feirge reduced her to “girl,” and when they became closer in spirit (and Rhiannon actually survived War Games), she became Feirge’s Darling.

Mira:

Teine has always referred to Mira as Lasair, which means flame. Every child of Lilith Sorrengail has a certain something within them, and for Mira, Teine saw pure, unquenched fire within her when they bonded. He saw her passion, strength, and ferocity — that undying flame that could never be put out, even if all the water from the Emerald Sea tried to drown it. Sometimes, when Mira is down in the dumps,  Teine will hum quietly in the back of her mind. She doesn’t know it, but it’s actually a lullaby for hatchlings and there’s no exact translation into Navarrian, but the closest thing it can get to is, “Sleep, Little Flame.”

Quinn:

Cruth was never really one for nicknames, but she found herself privately referring to her rider as her Sunbeam. I mean, take a look at Quinn and tell me you can’t guess why. Cruth has flown with five riders over the years, and none of them have been as positive and sweet as Quinn. During Threshing, after Cruth saw what was inside her, she flashed this giant smile that most dragons would assume to be a snarl, but Cruth just looked at her and went, “You really are just a pail full of sunlight, huh?” It sucks now, because now that Quinn is gone, Cruth is genuinely in the dark. Her little Sunbeam was taken from her — now what does she do?