#and they fall in love fast but both of them are all kinds of broken

[wvyik]

୭ ˚. ᰔ ILYSMIH. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: after giving birth, you are utterly exhausted but safe in dean’s arms, who’s the proudest, most supportive dad ever. through the haze of sleepless nights and overwhelming love, dean proves he’s got both your and baby’s back.

♯ warnings: mentions of childbirth and exhaustion (no graphic medical details, but some emotional rawness), emotional vulnerability & tearful moments, slow-building parenthood fluff, hints of postpartum struggle, focus on comfort, love, and care.

♯ notes: hi loves!! so please tell me im not the only one that’s borderline obsessed with kali uchis?? ilysmih is my favorite song on her recent album!! anywayzz hope this gives you all the warm fuzzies.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. Just the weight of everything crashing down once the room quieted, the pressure behind your eyes, the way your chest felt like it had been split open and filled with something too big to hold. There were voices. Nurses, footsteps, maybe even soft crying, and then nothing.

Then warmth.

Not the kind that blankets you, but the kind that feels alive. A palm brushing your forehead, calloused but careful. Fingers threading through your messy hair like you were something fragile. That’s what woke you. That, and his voice.

“Hey, mama.”

Dean’s voice wasn’t loud, it was barely there. Like if he spoke too hard, the moment would shatter. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t trying to hide it. He stood at the edge of the bed, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them, eyes locked on the tiny bundle resting on your chest.

He looked at you like he’d been struck. Like he’d seen a ghost and fallen in love with it.

“You— baby, you did it.”

You blinked slow, trying to pull yourself up on your elbows, but your body protested instantly. Everything ached. Your muscles, your head, even your teeth. Dean noticed immediately, rushing to your side and pressing a hand to your shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, don’t— don’t move. I got you. Just rest. Just breathe.”

And then he reached down; gently, reverently, and picked up the baby. Like it was holy. His hands were big around them, careful, sure. His breath caught in his throat the second he had them cradled against his chest.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god, look at you.”

There was a beat. The kind of silence that means everything. And then he laughed, low and breathless and a little broken. The kind of laugh you let out when you’re looking at something you never thought you’d get to hold.

“You made this,” he whispered, glancing at you like you were the moon. “You made this, sweetheart. Jesus.”

The baby made this tiny, sleepy noise, and Dean’s whole body curled in around them. Like instinct. Like it was the only thing his body knew how to do anymore. He sat on the edge of your bed, eyes wide and heart in his throat, and rocked the baby with a rhythm that was too natural to be learned.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to love something this fast,” he said, voice cracking. “Didn’t know it could hit like this.”

You were so tired. Every blink felt like it might be the last before sleep pulled you under again. But you didn’t want to miss a second. Not this. Not him.

Dean looked over at you, tears sliding down his cheeks like they didn’t even belong to him. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’re so fuckin’ brave. I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I swear to God I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know.”

He leaned over, kissed your temple. His lips stayed there for a while. Breathing you in. Like he needed proof this was real. Like if he let go, he might wake up in the Impala in some cheap motel parking lot, and this would all disappear.

Then he whispered something to the baby. Too quiet to catch. Just soft enough that you knew it was sacred.

When he sat back again, he started humming. Some old rock ballad you couldn’t place through the fog in your brain. He rocked the baby like it was muscle memory, smiling down like he’d just been given the world wrapped in hospital blankets.

“I’m your dad,” he told them, chuckling to himself. “I’m your dad, holy shit.” he looked back at you again, eyes soft, “And you’re their mama. The love of my life. My girl.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the hormones, or the rawness of it all, but you cried. Quietly. Just tears slipping out the sides of your eyes while you laid there, overwhelmed and in love and full of something you couldn’t name.

Dean didn’t panic. Didn’t freak. He just reached for your hand and kissed it like he’d do it a million times more. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We got you. Me and this little bean— we’re on night shift.”

You let your eyes fall shut, finally.

And the last thing you heard before sleep took you under was Dean Winchester singing your baby to sleep with a voice meant for backroads and lullabies.

The next morning feels like a dream dipped in gold. You’re not even sure what time it is. Could be noon, could be 4 AM, but you wake up to the sound of a soft knock, the rustle of flannel, and a baby’s breathy coo. Everything hurts less. Or maybe it still hurts, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not with the way Dean looks standing by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, holding your baby like he was made to.

He’s swaying again. Same slow rhythm. Same whisper-singing under his breath like he’s telling secrets only the two of them get to hear. The baby’s nestled against his chest, all tucked into a blanket that he probably rewrapped five times to get perfect. He looks down at them like he’s memorizing everything; the tiny lashes, the soft fists, the weird little way their nose scrunches when they yawn. And then he sees you.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” he says, voice soft like syrup. “We missed you.”

You blink at him, hazy and warm, and he crosses the room like he can’t stand being that far from you. He leans down and kisses your forehead like it’s instinct, like he’d do it every hour on the hour if you let him. He’s so gentle when he sits beside you, so proud it hurts to look at him.

“She smiled,” he whispers like it’s breaking news. “I mean, probably gas or something, but still. She smiled. And she’s got your nose. Totally. It’s not up for debate.”

Your heart folds in on itself. You let him pass the baby to you, watching the way his hands linger for a second longer than they need to. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t blame him.

And then, chaos, but the tiniest version of it. A nurse walks in with discharge forms. You’re cleared. You’re going home.

Dean’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. “We get to take her with us?” he asks, like she might still belong to the hospital. The nurse laughs. “She’s yours, dad.”

Dad.

That word hits him hard. You see it, the way he swallows it down, the way it echoes in his chest like thunder. He helps you dress, one hand always hovering at your back, as if the world might hurt you if he lets you go for a second.

And when it’s time to buckle the baby into the car seat, he hovers like he’s defusing a bomb. Arms crossed, pacing, muttering to himself. “Too tight? Is it too tight? Is her neck gonna snap? Holy shit, is this thing even safe?”

You have to gently lay a hand on his arm to stop him from spiraling. “Dean. She’s fine. You did good.”

He still insists on sitting in the backseat the whole drive home, one hand on the baby’s chest, the other gripping the side of the car seat like he could shield her from gravity itself. You’re driving— don’t ask how that happened, and he keeps glancing at you through the mirror like you’re some kind of divine miracle.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks every two minutes. “You need water? Food? A blanket? Jesus, I should’ve packed a cooler.”

Home is a safehouse two towns over. A small one. Quiet. Warm wood floors, soft lamps, the faint smell of sage and dust. Dean spent a week prepping it before the due date. Baby clothes folded into drawers, bottles lined up on the counter, a rocking chair in the corner that creaks with love.

He carries the baby in like she’s made of glass. You’re close behind, a little wobbly, but smiling. And the second you walk through the door, Dean exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hospital.

“We did it,” he says. His voice cracks again. “We fuckin’ did it.”

You collapse on the couch, baby in your arms, body tired and soul full. Dean disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a peanut butter sandwich cut into triangles. “Best I could do,” he shrugs, and sits beside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do exactly this.

You’re both quiet for a while. The baby’s breathing softens. The room is golden with early evening light. Dean reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re my whole world, y’know that?” he murmurs. “Both of you. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

And then, when the baby makes that tiny little noise again; that sleepy, airy half-laugh that sounds like she’s dreaming something sweet— Dean just loses it. Tears. No warning. Just full-on tears sliding down his cheeks as he laughs softly and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I didn’t know love could feel like this,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t know I could feel like this. But I’m never going back.”

You nod, eyes full. You’re never going back either.

You look down at your baby— your baby, and you still can’t believe it. That they’re real. That they came from you. That you carried them, made space in your body, let your bones shift and stretch just to bring them here.

And now they’re here. Tiny and perfect and loud in the most beautiful way.

You’re not the same. You know that. You’re not just you anymore. You’re someone’s home now. You’re the arms they’ll fall asleep in. The voice they’ll search for in a crowd. The one who’ll know every cry, every little sigh, every look on their face before they even learn how to talk.

It’s terrifying. And holy. And so gentle it makes your hands shake.

You think about the way Dean looked at you in the hospital. How he still looks at you, like you’re the sun. The way he calls you mama now, like it’s always belonged to you. Like it’s more than just a title, it’s sacred. He doesn’t say it casually. He says it like it’s a promise.

There are moments, especially in the quiet, where you just hold your baby against your chest and cry. Not because you’re sad. But because it’s all too big. Because your love doesn’t have words big enough. Because you’ll never be able to explain it— but you’ll spend your life showing it.

This is what love is. What it’s meant to be. Loud and soft all at once. A song only the three of you know.

You kiss the top of your baby’s head and whisper, “I love you so much it hurts.”

And you mean it.

You’ll always mean it.

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[seraphrelic]

⟡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ONLY IN THE SHADOWS — Anakin Skywalker x reader.

──────────────────────

SUMMARY: Two Jedi navigate the difficult the impossible line between loyalty and longing.

A/N: i was YEARNING for anakin angst for so long i took matters into my own hands </3 a little rushed n rough around the edges but let’s ignore that🤞

WARNINGS: heartbreak, forbidden love, public humiliation

──────────────────────

Whatever you were doing, it was dangerous, unthinkable, even. Something the Jedi code would’ve never allowed, not in a million years.

And yet, here you were with the infamous Skywalker, a last name recognisable within the entire galaxy, right in your bed. Your head was gently placed on his torso, hearing his heartbeat and the occasional rise of his chest.

The silence between you was peaceful, nothing was meant to be said, just the both of you here, in this moment, was enough.

A constant loop. The two of you, sneaking around, hiding, knowing this shouldn’t take place. You’d promise each other no more, yet those empty vows would be broken, over and over.

“Anakin?” Your voice hummed against his chest, causing his gaze to shift from the dimly lit corner of your room, back to the crown of your head, resting just beneath his chin.

He didn’t say anything, just hummed in response, awaiting to hear whatever was on your mind, what you had to say.

“Do you think-“ Trailing off, you tried to find the right words to form your thoughts, to make them sound meaningful.

“Do you think if we weren’t Jedi, we’d be able to live like this freely? No Jedi code, nothing to hold us back?”

Those words rung in his ears louder than any command the Council had ever given him, louder than duty, louder than reason.

He wanted to give you an honest answer, but he couldn’t. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. It was the kind of question that didn’t have a correct way to answer it.

As the stillness settled, you took Anakin’s silence as an answer to your quiet wondering.

Eventually, you allowed sleep to overtake you, muffling any thoughts still lingering in your mind about the Jedi, anything even merely connected to him.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The mornings always ended up cold, subconsciously reaching for the warmth you fell asleep with, only to be met with disappointment.

Same routine every time. The both of you would fall asleep, tangled in each other, to then open your eyes to an empty space, just a faint scent indicating his presence the night before.

It drilled a hole within you each time, even though you understood, you had to. Jedi weren’t meant to be this close, this deep in feelings, and yet you couldn’t brush it away.

With a sigh, you slipped your Jedi robes on, the hilt of your lightsaber sliding into the side of the uniform with a gentle click.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“Y/n!” A familiar voice called out, followed by Ahsoka who ran up to you in the hall, a smile painted across her face. „Where’ve you been?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, a little worried now. „Did something happen?”

„Well, there’s gonna be a mission soon. You’ll join me and my master,”

Joining Ahsoka with Anakin. Seemed like an interesting turn of events, not like you had any plans for today anyway.

A part of you felt a little nervous. You hadn’t seen him at all, then again, it was only the morning — he usually was busy at this time.

Boarding the ship was a fast process, per usual. Exceptionally quiet, maybe because everyone was still a little droopy, you hoped.

Anakin sat in the pilot seat, right next to you. His gaze was locked on avoiding any obstacles, but he could’ve said something, you thought.

Ahsoka was in the middle of you, cleaning up the hilt of her lightsaber. Perhaps the silence also bothered her as much as it bothered you.

„Is something the matter, Skywalker?” Upon hearing those words, his gaze instinctively drifted to your features. „No, why?” He answered, trying to dismiss any concerns you might’ve had.

He sounded calm, nothing that could’ve indicated anything otherwise, but it didn’t sound believable, not really.

It was always like this. Beneath the moonlight, his eyes had this certain look in them, as if you were the only person in the entire galaxy. Like only you mattered.

In the daytime, things were different, as expected. Playing the role of two Jedi, completing their duties with no strings attached. A cycle you had to endure.

And yet, sometimes you hoped it could’ve been different. It was a false hope, you were well aware, but nothing could’ve dulled the ache. The want in not needing to hide your feelings with the Jedi anymore.

Ahsoka glanced at the both of you, even though it was obvious she was pretending to not pay attention to the short conversation. Not that she suspected anything, though.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The mission went well. That’s what you would’ve said if not for the fact that you were attacked by bounty hunters, not like they stood a chance.

„Snips, stay put!” Anakin exclaimed, not even waiting for Ahsoka’s answer, currently in a battle with one of the enemies, occasionally glancing back at you.

Your lightsaber worked overtime, blocking every hit that went your way, the Jedi title in front of your name didn’t stand there for no reason. It was an indication of your training, growing strength over the years.

„Y/n, behind you!” Ahsoka raised her voice, only now noticing the bounty hunter creeping up, but it was too late.

All the others were fought off, but this specific one ended up slicing your shoulder, just a bit.

Anakin’s lightsaber seeped right through him shortly after, but missed catching your body to dull the pain appearing shortly.

Your teeth gritted against each other, brows scrunched together, wincing when your fingers brushed against the clothed wound.

„Kriff, just hold on!” Ahsoka hurriedly put her lightsaber away, the only thing you managed to remember before your vision started to blur and softly blacken.

Warmth. The sound of crackling fire humming in your ears, your eyesight becoming more vivid with each blink.

„She’s reckless.”

„Cut her some slack, she was just caught offguard,”

It was clear they were having a conversation, but a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it was about you? Sure, you could’ve stopped the bounty hunter in time, but a tragedy didn’t happen.

Your eyes closed shut as the pain in your upper shoulder appeared once more, your arms shaking just a bit as you sat up straight.

Eyes locking almost immediately with Anakin felt uncertain, like you weren’t even aware of what to expect from him.

Ahsoka shot you a warm, sympathetic smile. Clearly she was the one that bandaged you up. Anakin didn’t, his expression was the opposite, now that you were able to compare it to his Padawan.

„I’ll uhm—I’ll leave you to it,” Sensing the uneasy silence, the ship suddenly became very interesting, like it needed something to be checked, fixed, leaving the two of you alone.

„What was that?” His expression was unreadable, yet his words were laced with irritation, you could tell. „I’m sorry?”

„You really couldn’t fight him off? He could’ve brought an end to your life, and you don’t care?”

Your eyebrows scrunched together, trying to figure out where this was coming from. It’s not like the mission failed, so why was he overreacting?

„I was just surprised, is all.” You shot back, your tone becoming a little snarky now. Just the night before, he held you close to his chest, now this?

„You’re too reckless,” He replied, his voice sounding more annoyed.

With a forced laugh, you raised your eyebrows. „Oh, and you’re not? How many ships have you crashed from your thinking?”

„If you even think, that is. Sometimes it seems like you don’t.”

That was the last straw for Anakin. He shot you a glare you couldn’t quite decipher, watching his hand pinch the bridge of his nose.

The atmosphere was tense. It was evident he was upset, but was he really this riled up over a minor accident, or was it something else?

„Look, I don’t know what happened, but you can talk to me,” This time, your voice was a lot softer, wanting to figure out what exactly was bothering him.

„Just forget it, maybe Snips needs some help.” His words were harsh, cutting deeper than any wound could. He got up, the sound of his footsteps shortly disappearing.


That night, it was difficult to fall asleep. Your mind kept returning back to the conversation between you and the Jedi, trying to get a sense of understanding.

You knew he wasn’t asleep, even though he was a bit further than you. Tossing and turning was a clear sign of it.

Biting your lip, you tried to suppress any words that could’ve come out, but to no use.

„Ani?”

It came out muffled, almost like a whisper, careful enough to not wake up Ahsoka, but loud enough for Anakin, who was wide awake, to hear.

„Hm?” That sound startled you just slightly, but it was nice to hear him not pissed off by Maker knows what.

For a moment, you hesitated. What could you even say, come join me?

„My shoulder still hurts, could you check?”

That was the dumbest excuse you’ve ever said. It was obviously a way to get him next to you, to warm up the empty sleeping bag.

After a moment of silence, he finally turned around, locking eyes with yours. For a moment, you hoped that he was about to do what you asked for.

„Y’know we can’t, right? Not how things work,” Somehow, that was painful to hear. Almost like a rejection, even though he had a point.

„Right, yeah,” Your gaze drifted off of him to the ground. „Sorry, for asking—I mean,”

Normally, he would’ve offered you some other form of comfort. Like a smile, maybe whisper some sweet-nothings in your ear to help you sleep better.

„Get some sleep, hm?” His words were neutral, no emotions lingering. No smile attached, just the brief gaze at you before turning around, his back facing you now.

It stung. It really did. You weren’t sure what was going on, but there was definitely something lingering between the both of you.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Over the course of the next few days, it continued. Short glances, no more time spent together, nothing. Your shoulder wasn’t as sore anymore, but even that could take your mind off of Anakin.

It was selfish, you thought. He had his own duties, whether it was his own work or something to do with the clones, he couldn’t offer you all of his time.

But surely, a little wouldn’t hurt?

After your training with the younglings, you spotted a familiar, dark robe in the hallway, curls you would’ve recognised anywhere. Nobody was around, this was your chance.

„Anakin? Do you have a moment?” You watched him stiffen up, as if startled, but he wouldn’t show it too much. His back wasn’t facing you anymore, which was some sort of progress.

He didn’t speak, just simply waited for you to continue.

„I just, I wanted to ask if anything’s wrong, maybe we need to talk—„

„There’s nothing to talk about.”

What? Nothing to talk about when he’s been acting weird, treating you completely differently?

„No, I think there is. A lot, actually.” As he was about to turn away, your hand gripped his arm, careful to not let go.

Anakin was most likely about to say something, when suddenly Obi-Wan crossed the corner.

“Anakin, may I speak to you?” His voice was calm, almost as if he didn’t suspect a thing about what you two were talking about.

“Yes, Obi-Wan.” He replied, his voice monotone. He simply shared a quick glance with you, your grip subconsciously loosening.

Obi-wan’s gaze lingered on you, his expression a little puzzled. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Oh, not at all. He’s all yours,” The smile you gave him was forced. Of course, you weren’t upset with Kenobi, not at all, but he really could’ve chosen a different time.

They both paced the hallways in silence, before Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “You two are close,”

Anakin’s jaw tightened almost immediately, but his expression remained calm. “No, not really, She’s a good Jedi, is all.”

Obi-Wan nodded, pausing slightly. He gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking up.

“Do take care, Anakin. The line between closeness and attachment can be, imperceptible.”

Anakin’s eyes were unreadable, his gaze shifting from the floor to his former master. “I haven’t crossed it.”

Obi-Wan knew well. He was able to tell what his past apprentice was going through. By no means was Anakin a person easy to read.

From that point on, Anakin actively avoided you, at first it was pretty subtle. His presence was missed in rooms he’d usually be in, not a bit deal, you thought.

Anytime you stepped into a room, he’d always have an excuse up his sleeve to leave, which raised your suspicions.

The final blow was him walking past you, ignoring anything you did to grab his attention. That was a new low, especially from him.

Of course, deeper relationships with the Jedi were prohibited, both of you knew, but did you truly deserve to be treated like this?

Absolutely not. So you followed him, right down to the war room hallway, filled with Jedi and clones.

“Anakin—please!” In a flash of helplessness, you call out to him, causing heads to turn from all around, just not his. Not yet.

Your voice was low, trembling.

“You can’t keep doing this, I don’t even know what we are anymore—If we’re anything, if we ever were—“

Your words were cut off with Anakin turning around, a blank expression on his face. He didn’t even let you finish.

“General L/N,” He trails off, loud enough for the other Jedi to hear. “These kinds of..forbidden feelings are unacceptable within the Jedi code.”

The room was silent. Dead quiet. It’s like time was completely stopped.

Your breath stopped, lips slightly parted, eyebrows scrunched and eyes already filled with tears. You didn’t expect such humiliation.

“Is that really what it was to you?” Your voice shaky, trembling, but he didn’t react. Not one bit. He just turned around and walked away. Stiff, unreadable.

Leaving you in absolute pieces under a thousand, watchful eyes.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

[lionneee]

The Enemy

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English is not my first language, please be kind

Modern!MafiaBoss!Aemond x Ex!Fem!Reader

•Warnings: smut, taking of sexual themes, murder, non-con, knife play, mention of killing someone.•

“Yeah, baby —“ He breathed out as he moaned, looking down as you circled your hips against his cock. He slapped your ass and gripped your hips tightly, stopping your movements to start pointing into you from behind again, fast and hard, like he loves it.

“Baby — Yes, fuck me —“ You moaned as you arched your back, burying your face in the mattress.

“Fuck, baby —“ He growled as he squeezed your hips, his fingers digging in your skin as he thrusted faster, close to the end. You moaned louder as you started rubbing your clit, wanting to finish with him.

“Let me —“ He panted as he leaned down and slipped a hand between your legs, his fingers taking the place of yours, rubbing your clit furiously, making you aware of how close he really was.

“Fill me up —“ You moaned as you panted, trying to jerk your hips, moving them back to meet his thrusts.

“I’m going to, baby —“ He moaned as he moaned in your ear. “You’ll be fucking leaking -“ He moaned again, the image his words created in both your mind making you come on the spot.

You let yourself fall down on the mattress of his door room bed. 

Aemond sat back on his haunches, slipping carefully out of you, looking at his cum slowly leaking out of you.

You smile, satisfied as Aemond laid behind you, wrapping his arm around your middle, pulling you back against his chest as he smiled, kissing your shoulder sweetly.

“I love you so much.” He mumbled against your skin. You smiled even more as you caressed his arm with your hand.

“I love you too.” You hummed as you looked back at him, your lips joining immediately in a soft, slow kiss.

The room’s silence was broken by a harsh knock at the door, followed by Aemond’s sigh, a mix of amusement and annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll be quiet next time.” Aemond exclaimed, raising his head towards the door.

You chuckled as you heard a string of curses from outside.

Aemond’s room-neighbor had complained already about the volume you kept during sex, just like this time.

All of you knew this wasn't the last time he would be coming.

Your last years at college was almost to an an end, but you and Aemond planned to fuck in these dorms a few more times.

It was memories like that that kept Aemond going in the prison.

He missed his girl.

He had been completely inebriated by her since the first time she saw her. She was sweet, soft, caring and gentle, something he had barely known in his life.

She was also funny, a bit sassy and beautiful.

She was also the sister to his number one rival family.

After his father’s death, the business went all in his hand, his father knew he was the best for the inheritance.

But he didn’t care. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the mafia world, she wanted to stay out of it, and her brother was more than happy to let her.

It was just the two of them, her, and her brother Cregan, whose parents died in an accident during work.

Their relationship had to be a secret.

She knew her brother would have never allowed her to date him, and he had to keep his reputation solid and fearful.

She didn’t ask about his job, he didn’t tell her about it, they went on dates, they had sex, Gods, a lot of sex, and they just… lived their life.

That, until Cregan found out.

“You stay out of this!” Cregan shouted at her, as she sobbed, her back pressed against the wall of her house.

Cregan had a broken lip, his cheek was red, and probably there would have been a nasty bruise the day after. 

Both him and Aemond were painting as they stood in front of each other, looking at each other like lions ready to fight.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Aemond quickly scolded Cregan, taking a step towards her. Cregan pulled out a gun and pointed it to him.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t take another step.” He growled.

“Cregan no!” She sobbed desperately, her face red, her cheeks completely wet, her eyes full of pain. “Please I love him!” She was begging him.

“No! I let you live your life, I gave you everything, I protected you, took care of you! And this is how you repay me?!” His voice was louder than thunder, and his face was scary.

She had never seen her brother like that, so furious.

“I didn’t choose to love him!” She sobbed back, her voice strained and weak.

“I don’t care! I don’t fucking care, you’re coming with me.” Cregan said as he grabbed her wrist, tugging her towards himself, his gun still pointing at Aemond, but he didn’t care.

Aemond took another step forward, but then Cregan raised his gun from his chest to his head, his eyes on him, his expression pure coldness.

She screamed and squirmed in the arms of her brother, trying desperately to reach for the gun, or Aemond.

“You won’t see her again. I swear to God if you try I’ll make your head blow with one of my bullets.” 

Aemond couldn’t fight more that day.

But he was going to get his revenge.

And his girl back.

“Dinner!” The guards shouted as they hit the metal doors of all the rooms with their sticks. Aemond grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose, the sound giving him an annoying headache, just like every morning.

He sighed and stood up, he washed his face in the sink and tied his hair back into a ponytail as his roommates got up too.

As the leader of the Targaryen family, he had a lot of friends here.

He was protected, not even the guards dare to touch him.

He guessed it was thanks to the nasty scar on his face.

And his name.

He took a deep breath as he leaned his head back, closing his eye.

“You’re so pretty.” Her naked body was laying beside him, her soft fingers were caressing his scarred cheek, her eyes fixed on the stone in his eye socket.

“You’re saying that out of pity.” He grunted as he turned his gaze from the ceiling to her.

“I’m not. I love your face. I could stare at you for hours.” She smiled as she bit her lip, her hand moving to caress his hair.

“Such a creep.” He huffed a laugh as he turned his body to the side to look at her better. He moved his hand to her breasts, looking at how her nipples perked at the mere touch of his fingers, how her breath would always hitch.

“Do you really think so?” He looked back up at her face. She smiled softly and nodded, caressing his face again.

“Gevie.” That words, his native language coming from her mouth was a massive turn on for him. He immediately crashed his lips against her and pulled her body close to him.

“Issa rūs.” He growled.

-My baby.-

Aemond shook his head to get himself back together, then he walked out of his cell to walk with all the other prisoners to the eating room.

He was always among his people every step he took, in his room, at his table, at his chores.

He rarely was alone.

The few times he was, he fucked his hand like a wild animal until it would be covered in cum.

All for her.

He always did everything for her.

“Cregan?” He could hear her voice through his phone, they spy hidden in her brother’s office offering a live audio of her voice.

Her sobs.

“Cregan?!” She shouted as she kept crying. 

He closed his eyes as he listened to her sobs. He could almost see her, kneeled beside the body of his brother.

At the moment, Cregan’s body counted three bullets.

He did it for her.

So they could get back together, live together.

God he had missed her so much.

He was tired of jerking off on her nudes, he needed the real thing.

“Cregan!” She shouted as she kept crying desperately. He heard some ruffling, something falling on the floor.

“My brother is dead!” She shouted. “M-my… Aemond Targaryen did it.”

He did it for her.

And she put him in handcuffs.

Days were long without her, and even more without anything about her body.

At least he managed to get one of her thongs in there.

But the scent almost faded.

“The plan is set, boss.” Jason, his left arm in the prison, said.

Aemond gave one nod as he looked down at his food.

Escape prison was easy.

He didn't do it earlier because he knew she needed time to recover from his brother’s death before she could focus back on him.

Placing a few pieces of evidence that would lead away from him and make up an alibi was like stealing candy from a baby.

His trial process was easy to finish, after all, they didn’t have true evidence that he killed Cregan, and his alibi was firm.

Turned out to be easier than ever.

With a smirk on his face he walked out of the front door of the prison, his jumpsuit replaced with a pair of black jeans and a black sweater.

He looked at his driver and got in the car.

“Let’s go get her.” He said as he made himself comfortable.

It was night when he broke into her house.

Actually, broke in was an euphemism, he owned the place.

She was living with his money, and she didn’t even know it.

He saw her on her bed. Her hair messy on the pillow, her mouth half open.

Her body was covered by the blanket.

She was beautiful.

He walked closer to her, caressing her face softly as he looked down at her sleeping form. 

She had always been a deep sleeper, it was hard to wake her up.

He was happy to learn it when he had a little something to take care of, one of the nights she slept at his house.

He slowly handcuffed one of her wrists, then he pulled her arm up, slowly, carefully, then he raised her other arm, and quickly handcuffed it to the headrest.

He walked slowly on the end of the bed, dragging her blanket with him, smiling as she saw her wearing both but a thin pajama.

He slowly moved her pants off, along with her panties.

He needed to taste her again.

His hands slowly moved her legs open, his head digging between her thighs.

He took a deep breath in, taking in her scent before licking her slightly, enough to have the taste on his tongue.

He had to bite back a moan as he pulled back slightly.

It had been so long since the last time he ate her out.

He’ll make sure he’ll have all the time in the world in the future.

What took him off guard, was her foot hitting his face at full force.

But still too weak.

He chuckled as he stumbled back. He stood up and looked down at her.

“I remember your brother teaching you to fight. He obviously failed, you wouldn’t scratch a man, baby.”

“Don’t call me like that, you bastard!” She shouted.

So feisty, just woken up.

“At least my brother taught me how to fight. And don’t you dare speak of him again!” She said as she tried to say up, but she quickly became aware of the handcuffs.

“You like those, baby?” He asked as he stood at the edge of the bed, nodding towards the handcuffs. “You know which one are those?” He smiled down at her. “The same one they used to handcuff me when you turned me in.” He sighed as he yanked the sheets completely off the bed.

“And for the record. I didn’t teach you how to fight, because you didn’t need to with me. I would have never let anything happen to you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.” He specified as he looked at her trying to get free of the handcuffs.

“I did this all for you. For us.” He said as he grabbed her ankles, her eyes snapping back at him. “We can be together now.”

“You killed my brother!” She screamed, trying to kick him again, but he simply chuckled, pinning her ankles down on the mattress.

“He spreaded us apart. He pointed a gun at my head.” He hissed.

“He never shooted!” She growled back. “He never would have!”

“And see what that brought you.” He moved her ankles apart. “You’re alone. Your business is shattered, I took it.” He said as he started tying one ankle to the foot of the bed.

“No, no!” She tried to get away, but it was useless.

“Why do you think you still have your money, baby?” He asked as he moved to tie the other ankle.

“Why do you think you’ve been spared by the destruction of your family business?”

“Fuck you. You psycho-“ She gritted her teeth as she found herself unable to move.

“Now now, no need for insults.” He crawled on top of her. “After all… I’m here to collect.” He grinned down at her. “You’re my war prize.”

“I’m not your anything.” She growled, but he didn’t even listen.

“We’re going to move away.” He said as he lifted her shirt, despite her trying to stop him by squirming harder.

He grabbed a handful of her soft boob, and leaned down to suck her nipple, his leg sliding between hers, his thigh pressing against her clit.

“Keep squirming.” He smiled against her, her movements making her grind against his thigh. She tugged at the handcuffs as she tried to lower her hands.

“You-“ She tugged again. “Killed-“ Again. “My brother!” She yelled as she started to cry. “You had no right! No right! He loved me!”

“Not as much as I do.” He said as he moved his hand between her legs, strolling her clit. “I might hate you for calling the police on me-“ He looked down at her cunt, then back up at her face, the tears running down the sides of her face. “But you are my woman. No one loves you more than I do.” He pulled his fingers back from her and pulled off a knife from the back of his pants and twisted easily in his hand.

He straddled her and pointed the knife to her throat.

“I would let this world burn for you. If you’d told me you don’t want to be on this earth anymore, I’d use all my power to find another planet to live on.” He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “And we’d repopulate it.”

“You’re crazy.” She said, her eyes filled with tears as she pressed her head against the pillow to get as far from the knife as possible. He licked the handle.

“About you, baby.” He turned the knife in his hand, the handle pressing against her skin, the blade against the skin of his hand. “You can ask me anything. Anything. I will give that to you.” He moved the handle down her body. “You just…” He moved the handle inside her, looking at her eyes widening at the intrusion. “… stay with me baby.” 

She looked away, turning her head to the side as Aemond started to move the knife slowly, caressing her inside walls with the rough material.

“Stop -“ She sobbed as she closed her eyes. She hated how her body was betraying her, feeling pleasure out of something so sick and wrong. “Stop, just stop.”

“You feel that too, uh?” He kept looking at her. “You feel this is right. That we belong together.”

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting back sobs and the confusing mix of pain and pleasure coursing through her. "No, no, Aemond!" She whispered hoarsely, her voice shaking. "This is torture.” She said, desperate, hoping to at least gain his pity.

Aemond chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine. "Torture? Is that what you call this?" He rocked the knife handle inside her gently, the crude motion stimulating her sensitive flesh. "Or perhaps...enlightenment?"

Her eyes flew open, wide with horror and revulsion. "Shut up!" She spat, struggling futilely against the restraints. "You're insane, Aemond. Fucking insane!"

Aemond smirked, enjoying the sight of her distress.

"Maybe I am." He admitted, his tone casual. "But doesn't that make what I'm doing even more brilliant? I'm rewriting reality for us both."

He began to thrust the handle deeper, faster, each stroke hitting that spot within her that made her toes curl as the blade started to cut his hand, but he didn’t seem to care. "You can deny it all you want, but your body knows the truth. It craves mine as much as I crave yours."

Her breath hitched, her hips bucking involuntarily against the handle. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the blood from her bitten lip. "Please..." She whimpered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. "Stop, don’t do this to me..."

Despite her protests, she couldn't ignore the traitorous sensations building within her. The knife handle's coarse texture rubbing against her inner walls, the pressure and friction igniting a fire that spread through her core. 

She hated it, she hated the feeling of nostalgia, of happiness of having back at least part of her past, even in a maddening and sickening way.

Her thighs clenched, a moan escaping her lips before she could bite it back.

"See?" Aemond purred, his voice a seductive whisper. "Your body tells the truth, even if your mouth lies. You want this, baby. You need me."

Her gaze snapped to him, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and shame.

"You killed my brother!" She yelled again, hoping to get control of her body back with her

Aemond raised an eyebrow at her accusation, his expression unreadable. "Your brother was weak." He stated flatly. "He got in the way of my plans, and he paid the price."

The knife handle continued its relentless rhythm, each stroke pushing her closer to the edge. Aemond's free hand reached up to grip her chin, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

"You can hate me all you want, baby."

He punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust, the blade scraping against her cervix.

Her vision blurred, her world narrowing to the searing pain and the overwhelming urge to surrender.

"Stop fighting it." Aemond commanded, his voice low and commanding. "Let go and accept that we are not separating again."

"I hate you." She groaned as her body arched from the bed. "I will never love you again."

Aemond smiled, a cold, calculated smile devoid of warmth or humanity. "You’re so pretty when you’re in denial, baby."

He increased the pace of the handle, driving it into her with brutal force. She screamed, her nails digging into the sheets as she struggled against the restraints. But Aemond held fast, his grip unyielding as he rode her through the agony and ecstasy.

"We are two sides of the same coin." He growled, his breath hot against her skin. "You cannot escape me, just as I cannot escape you. We are destined to be together."

With a final, vicious thrust, Aemond buried the handle to the hilt inside her.

Her scream cut off abruptly as the handle plunged deep, the sudden impact triggering a violent contraction within her. Waves of intense pleasure crashed over her, obliterating the pain and leaving her gasping for air.

For a moment, she hung suspended, lost in the overwhelming sensation. Then, with a strangled cry, she came undone, her body convulsing in a frenzy of release. The orgasm ripped through her like a tornado, making everything fade except pleasure.

As the aftershocks subsided, she lay limp and spent, her mind fogged by the intensity of what had just occurred. Through the haze, she felt Aemond withdraw the knife,  licked the knife handle and then discarded it carelessly on the floor with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched her body twitch and spasm through the aftermath of her climax.

Rising from the bed, he towered over her prone form, his imposing figure casting a shadow over her. "That's the power I hold over you." He murmured, his voice low and menacing. "The ability to reduce you to this - a broken, quivering mess, completely at my mercy." He smirked. "But you know I have much more power over you than just that. Even if you did manage to leave me, baby, please tell me.” He looked down at her. “Do you think you'll be able to live a normal life? Find someone new to love, have a life with him, a future, fuck him?” He laughed as he shook his head. “No, baby. I love you. And I’m not letting you go. Ever."

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she stared up at Aemond, her eyes glazed and unfocused. The echoes of her intense orgasm still resonated through her body, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

She wanted to lash out, to spit venom at him for his cruel words and actions. But the strength had been drained from her, leaving only a hollow shell. All she could manage was a pitiful whine as he loomed over her.

"I-I won't..." She whispered. "I won't ever be yours, Aemond. Never." She hissed evilly, but he simply chuckled as he started to pull down his pants.

Aemond chuckled darkly, amused by her futile defiance. He reached down and grasped a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose the vulnerable column of her throat.

“We’ll see about that.” He whispered in her ear as he settled comfortably between her legs.

He lined up his throbbing cock with her entrance and thrusted to the hilt, stretching her tight core around his thick length.

“Take it, you feisty little bitch.” He smiled. “I still remember everything you like, you know that right?” He looked down at her, watching her discomfort as she struggled to adjust. “I know you. And I’ll make you feel so fucking good, baby.” He set a punishing pace, pounding into her relentlessly, moaning and closing his eye for a moment as he savoured the feeling of having her walls being stretched out from him again.

“Scream all you want. No one's coming to save you from my cock.” He reached around to fondle her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with his brutal strokes.

She yelled, her tits kept bouncing against his chest with every thrust, but he reveled in her cries, the sound music to his ears as he rutted into her like an animal.

He picked up speed, his heavy balls slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust.

“You love this, don't you? Love being fucked raw by me.” He moaned as he felt her pussy clench. “You’ve always loved it, when I treated you like you could never break, unlike everyone else did.” He leaned down to bite and suck at her nipples, adding to her torment and pleasure. “And you still do. Just like you love me.”

She clenched her hands into fists, squeezing her eyes closed as the nostalgia of their past ate her alive.

"Fuck you – I don’t love you!" She gritted her teeth.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes as he drove into her again.

“Oh, keep telling yourself that, baby.” He grinned, a hint of pride in his voice. “Your tight little cunt is gripping me so fucking tight – it knows exactly what it's missing without a real man's cock.” He reached down to rub her clit harder, determined to make her come on his cock.

“Admit it, baby. You're loving every second of this.”

His hips snapped forward, hitting that sweet spot inside her that made her gasp and clench around him.

"I'll never come for you." She growled.

He chuckled, a dark and sinister sound that echoed through the room. “Oh, you will. You're so close, I can feel it.” He pinched her clit roughly, trying to force her to orgasm and pounded into her harder, faster, reveling in the feeling of her tight walls squeezing him.

“There’s no more escaping this. No more sending me away -” His voice was strained by pleasure, he wasn’t even trying to control his sounds, moaning shamelessly.

“I-I hate you –” She said as she felt herself treading on the edge of her orgasm. “I’ll never love you again, you’re trash  to me.”

He smirked at her defiant words, finding them only more arousing.

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. But it’s not your body that betrays you.” He could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering around his shaft. “It’s your mind.” He thrusted especially hard, grinding against her cervix.

“Cum for me, baby. Now”. He demanded, his voice low and authoritative.

She shook her head defiantly, even as her body betrayed her, trembling on the brink of climax.

“Never... I won't…” Her words dissolved into a moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her. “F-fuck!”

Despite her best efforts, she could feel herself hurtling towards orgasm, her pussy clenching rhythmically around his pistoning cock. The stimulation to her clit combined with his commanding presence proved too much to resist.

“No – ” She cried out as she came undone, her vision whiting out from the intensity of her release.

Her inner walls spasmed almost violently around him, milking his shaft for all it was worth.

“Aem -” His name slipped past her lips unbidden as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

He groaned in satisfaction as he felt her pussy clamp down on him like a vice, her juices flooding his cock and dripping down his balls. “That's it, cum for me – ” His voice suddenly soft as he continued to pound into her through her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure and using her spasming walls to bring himself closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you feel amazing.” With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let out a guttural moan as he started to cum. He grunted, shooting thick ropes of hot seed deep into her womb as he filled her to the brim with his potent release.

They didn’t move for a while, catching their breaths after the intense encounter, but as soon as she bursted into tears Aemond immediately hugged her, freeing her wrists.

“Shhh, I’m here, baby -” He whispered in her ear as he caressed her hair, keeping her close, but she kept crying harder.

She couldn't help herself, even if he killed his brother, a part of her will always welcome Aemond, desperate for the old sense of stability that she had been seeking since it all went down.

Since her brother tore her away from Aemond.

Because that was the moment she felt like dying the most, and she felt the worst sister in the world for that.

So she cried, hoping those feelings would just flow out with her tears.

She hated Aemond, but not because he killed her brother, she hated him because he was still the love of her life, despite everything.

Because she tried to move on, desperately, she wanted to run away from her feelings for him, but every time she managed to find someone interesting she would feel guilty, she would feel like she was in the wrong place, like she was doing everything wrong, and she couldn’t fix it.

“I hate you.” She sobbed as she wrapped her arms around him tightly.

“I know.” He pressed his forehead against her temple. “I’ll fix it.”

Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413 @quinquinquincy @mamawiggers1980 @darylandbethfanforever9 @rhaethoughts @believeinthefireflies95 @urfavnoirette @summerposie @sk1mah1 @queenofshinigamis @anukulee @chlmtfilms @m-riaa @p45510n4f4shi0n @malfoycassimalfoy @agoldenwoe @sapphirevhagar

[questionablecuttlefish]

Okay Fine Let's Talk Timebomb and Season Two.

I do want to talk about this because I have a Lot of thoughts and feelings and it has been building up and building up, not only based on what's happening in other social spaces, but what people keep bringing into mine despite my best efforts to avoid it.

This isn't any kind of hatepost, I don't think I could hate Ekko or the ship if I tried, I just want to explain my very mixed feelings about the whole thing.

My likely-to-be-very unpopular take on Season Two's Timebomb romance is that it left me feeling uneasy and uncomfortable.

Not with what was in the show itself, I feel like that was perfect. Powder and Ekko sold me completely. They made me feel things. I even liked how Ekko and Jinx's story ended. I think it was beautiful, poignant, perfect...

...until.

'The Discourse' since, the way the fan culture has exploded around it, and particularly some of the creators' commentary on it, has made me sour on the whole thing.

It feels like I'm suddenly part of an increasingly small subset of people who saw what they did with S2 Timebomb and applied our media literacy to what was on our screens and got something very different to what the fandom consensus seems to be.

For context, I semi-shipped TB before this. Though I've always been Team Lightcannon, I had a lot of respect for timebomb, I understood it, I had read a few very good fics, I was just in the space of "Jinx has hurt Ekko too much for him to ever fully forgive her for murdering his friends, they might come to an understanding, and there will always be a silent undercurrent of love beneath the hurt, they may fight together on the same side again someday, but whatever bond they had as kids is broken and they can't go back, and both know it."

I respected, and still do, people who shipped them romantically, but I've always seen them as a broken childhood friendship being a much more interesting dynamic, and being hot for each other lessening that to an extent and not really adding anything to it.

All of his interactions with Jinx in season one are violent; she murders five Firelights point-blank in front of him in her intro scene, and Ekko reacts particularly upset to the pink-haired girl, Eve or Eva, whom Jinx shoots in the back. It's clear this isn't even the first time she's fought them. We don't know how many of Ekko's found family she's put on the Memorial Wall or how close he was with any of them.

Ekko is clearly convinced that "Powder" is gone, and the person who replaced her is a cold-blooded killer who can't be reasoned with. Leading to the Bridge confrontation, and this:

This is the first time Ekko catches a glimpse of "Powder", yes, but more importantly, this is the first moment he recognizes Jinx's humanity. He's hurting her, killing her, and he can't do it.

....and she knows he can't do it.

So, to save him the weight, she pulls a grenade, with the intent to kill them both, foreshadowing quite neatly where Ekko/Jinx (but not Ekko/Powder) is going to go in S2.

Fast forwarding from Season One here, Ekko disappears for 2/3rds of the second season, completely offscreen.

When we catch up with him he's woken up in the S2E7 AU; the Powder Timeline.

Here's where I start to get a little confused by the fandom take. Because, you know, I've seen enough Star Trek and Stargate and Supernatural and Batman the Animated Series and Quantum Leap to know exactly what this is.

This is the 'bottle episode', this is the 'Perfect World' trope, where the protagonists find themselves in an alternate universe - or trapped in a dream - or they've died or think they've died and this is their 'heaven' - where they have everything they ever wanted.

This is familiar storytelling and E7 follows a familiar pattern, the protagonist struggles to adapt to the surreal new circumstances, they are seduced by the illusion, particularly falling in love with someone in the Perfect World, but eventually, they start noticing something incongruous - something isn't quite right - (In this case, it's Vi's death, and Powder holding back her genius and hiding her grief to be support girl for others) - that reveals the Perfect World to be not as perfect as it seems.

And the hero has to choose to go home, because he realizes that this isn't real, it doesn't belong to him, he doesn't belong here.

Which is exactly what happens with Ekko in E7.

Which brings is to AU!Powder and Jinx.

And here's where I really start to struggle with the seeming consensus that the romance between Ekko/Powder automatically leads to Ekko/Jinx, like you can just transfer the one to the other.

I'm sorry, fam, I thought my basic media literacy was telling me that this girl:

Is not the same person as this girl:

....and I am not getting into any debate about "Jinx" vs "Powder" as identities within our current Jinx. I'm talking about Powder in the E7 AU.

AU!Powder is literally a different human being.

She may have been the same person up until the explosion in Jayce's laboratory, but from that fork in the timeline, she becomes a FUNDAMENTALLY different person to Jinx, shaped by different experiences, different relationships, different life events.

Powder's physicality with Ekko, as you can see in those GIFs, the casual intimacy, the clear affection, the way she touches him, looks at him, her awareness of him in her space, is so utterly opposite to the way Jinx interacts with him that if anything, it nailed home to me how savagely absent this kind of feeling is from his relationship with Jinx.

Powder loves Ekko. She leans on him, snuggles into him, touches his hands, dances with him, kisses him.

Jinx cares so little about him she barely makes eye contact and would casually kill him without blinking.

And I thought that was the point.

I really thought that was the whole point of E7. Being in the perfect world, getting his perfect love story with his perfect Powder, the girl Jinx could have been, but can never be, drove home for Ekko that his feelings for Jinx, both romantic and resentful, were tangled up in his illusions of "Powder", and it took living those illusions as a physical reality for Ekko to see his mistake.

To be true to himself, and true to her, Ekko had to let that go and go home.

To face his world's Jinx, and be there for her in her darkest moment, even if it meant giving up the love he'd found with Powder, a love that belonged to a different Ekko, for someone who could never love him back.

To me that was Ekko's most heroic moment, an act of selfless sacrifice. But that's what it was - a sacrifice.

Meanwhile, Season Two Jinx is not aware of any of this. The last time she saw Ekko was on the bridge where she nearly killed him, and for all we know she might have thought she succeeded.

She never talks about, thinks about, refers to, or even has scribble-nightmares about Ekko, not even once.

Season Two Jinx is, instead, having a love story of her own.

And Isha was and is a PUZZLE to me. Because she's more plot device than character, she isn't necessary except as a way to give Jinx a villain-to-hero arc and a way to reconnect to her humanity.

But she could have been Ekko.

If they really, really wanted us to have Timebomb Canon, instead of confining the entire arc to a bottle episode in an alternate timeline with a literally, physically different girl, they could easily have given all of Isha's considerable screentime to an Ekko and Jinx romance.

I'm sure Amanda Overton would have been on board with that. But that's not what we got. It's almost like reading two different fix-it-fanfics for the same character, put into the same show and running in parallel.

I'm not crazy, this is what's happening for Ekko in s2;

While this is happening for Jinx at the same time.

But Jinx's love story, too, ends with a tragic sacrifice.

And here's where the two stories finally intersect.

When Jinx is in her darkest moment, her absolute rock bottom, Ekko comes back into her life, a miracle, impossible, a Boy Savior.

But she's still ready to kill him.

Because she didn't dance with Ekko. She didn't invent a time machine with him. She didn't sit and watch the city lights with him and share a tender kiss and a heartfelt gift.

That was Powder.

Jinx and Ekko are resuming right where they left off on the bridge, right back to "I pull this pin and we both blow up".

They've both loved and lost, but their stories are absolutely unknown to each other. Ekko Doesn't Know About Isha. Jinx Doesn't Know About Powder.

It's only when Jinx (a genius, a reminder here) sees monkeys of her own design inside the Z-drive - recognizes her own handiwork, but knows SHE didn't make those - that, I think, sheer curiosity stirs her out of her darkness.

She has to know what that was about. She hesitates, just long enough for Ekko to speak. And, though offscreen, he tells her his story, and maybe she tells him hers.

And it's enough, just enough, to set Jinx back on her Redemption Arc, to become the hero Isha always saw in her.

Maybe even the hero Vi and Ekko saw in her, too. Her new costume is full of references to all of the people in her life who never gave up on her.

(side note, the yellow stars and crowns puzzle me, though - they're quite prominent, but who are THEY for? Isha? Maybe? Yellow isn't a color associated with anyone in Jinx's life, but that crown's identical to the one she scribbled on Demacia in Fortiche's map, is... this a very subtle future Lightcannon tease? Nah. I'm not that crazy.)

I mean her costume is also almost literally both a Fishbones and a Fiddlesticks cosplay, with her hair as Fiddle's tongue, so take from that what you will.

It's clear Jinx and Ekko war painted each other for the battle, but the Firelights are also similarly painted up, and (with Linke even confirming this) there really wasn't time to develop anything else, guys.

And I am, honestly, fundamentally angry at anyone who would suggest that, even if she'd been in any space to want it, our boy Ekko, one of the most genuinely good men in recent fiction let alone in Arcane, would take advantage of a girl he just talked out of suicide.

Moving on. During the battle, Ekko is knocked out and lying not far from Jinx. She doesn't even look at him, she leaps up to defend Vi instead.

And that's their final interaction on the show.

Instead of returning to Ekko, Jinx chooses one final act of sacrifice.

Ekko's final shot of the show is this.

He's sitting, alone, burning a mourning paper, where he sat with AU!Powder - where he and AU!Powder kissed - a place that has no significance to himself and Jinx, whatsoever.

It's little wonder who he's thinking about here, and which name he's burning on that paper. The girl he truly loved and lost.

For all he knows, Jinx is dead. But it's not only her he's mourning.

Or maybe he does know, or suspect, she's alive.

But either way, he's making one final act of sacrifice, too, with that paper burning into the breeze.

He's letting her go.

He's choosing his own story.

He's staying where he belongs.

Jinx may have become a symbol of the revolution, but it's Ekko who is, and always will be, the true hero of Zaun.

And this is Jinx's final shot.

Because let's face it, we all know she's on that airship.

She's "breaking the cycle". She's "walking away". She knows that Jinx has left too many scars on the people she still loves - on Vi, on Ekko, on the cities of Piltover and Zaun - for her to pick up the pieces.

She knows that if she's going to find out what "Jinx" might stand for now, she has to go very far away from everything and everyone. She has to leave it all behind and find something new.

Maybe even someone new?

And ultimately, that's why I feel the Timebomb we got was perfect, they shouldn't touch it, they shouldn't try to force it to be "Endgame", not because it couldn't have worked, but because that's the opposite of the story they told.

For the rest of my analysis, lol, this got a bit long but i have FEELINGS.

Now, I'm not saying I wouldn't buy Jinx and Ekko as a love story if they had actually told that love story. But they didn't. It had no screen time. They have less interactions in S2, maybe even in both seasons added up, than Vi and Loris. Let that sink in a bit.

We know it's Amanda's favorite ship, so she may have intended more, and may even actually give us all more at some point, but please, dear god, let's stop pretending they fucked or kissed or even held hands offscreen.

That's honestly a bit insulting to both of these characters, to insist hell or high water that this very important milestone in their relationship happened, but they just didn't even bother to depict it. That an entire love story (because it would be a whole one, remember, Ekko and Powder had a romance but Jinx did not experience any of that, she and Ekko are back at Square One) would just be cut for time.

They both deserve better than that.

Let's stop pretending there was some grand, horny, Forever Love story with 60 minutes of cut footage, all of it timebomb content, somehow left on the cutting room floor of an animated show where every single frame has to be deliberately hand painted.

Because if in some insane universe they had written, storyboarded, voice acted and animated an entire 60 minute additional timebomb storyline and then cut it from the show, that would itself be a searing indictment of the quality of the storytelling in that imagined arc, but that's not what happened. Anyone who knows how filmmaking works would shoot this one down, and the showrunners already have, so let's leave it behind.

I know Timebomb blew up hard, and I get it, but what we got on the screen is not confirmation that there is any relationship at all between Ekko and Current Timeline Jinx. If anything, Ekko and Powder's beautiful romance only highlighted the tragic 'never to be' of Ekko and Jinx.

And it's absolutely fine to look at the art book, look at the creator comments, and imagine what could have been. Draw the fan art, write the fanfic, imagine the what-ifs and the fix-its, those are all beautiful and valid expressions and deserve their space.

But don't go insisting it's "the canon" and going after the shippers of other ships for these characters as "not canon" or somehow offensive for existing, especially toward one particular ship that, yes, has been around much longer than timebomb, is uncool.

I think this is mostly people who are New From Arcane, it's Baby's First Ship and they don't know how to share space. The timebomb fans I knew pre-season two didn't do this, at least not often enough for me to notice or care.

But I'll just say to them, if a Timebomb follow up happens and they actually tell a good love story for Ekko and Jinx, I will accept it. Grudgingly, because I think Lux/Jinx is an untold, untapped story full of incredible character dynamics that would complete Jinx's story in ways that as much as I love Ekko, he's too tied to her past, he can't.

But I love Ekko, and I love Jinx, and I will accept it.

But I'll also say to them, if the followup doesn't eventuate, if things take a turn they don't expect, if Jinx's airship is heading for Demacia, maybe they'll have to experience just a taste of what it's been like for Lightcannon fans for ten long years.

And maybe that's healthy. Maybe that's okay. Maybe our endgames don't need to be 'canon' to have value and that's a lesson we should learn.

Maybe there's a new Light on her horizon, and that's okay too. Maybe Ekko won't be alone forever. Don't forget - until Arcane - his story had nothing to do with Jinx, and there was a whole lot of it.

More with the Firelights, maybe bring in the original Lost Children of Zaun from his old stories, his inventions, his parents, all could yet be in his future. Who knows? He might find a way back to AU!Powder - or she might rebuild what they worked on together, and come to him, no matter what butterfly effects that could set in motion...

But if Jinx is heading for a Light on her horizon, maybe Ekko might Explore some of his possibilities. Find a new Spark of connection. Just saying. Jinx isn't his only ship, either 😌

And it is okay for people to move on, and let go. Maybe, for two characters whose themes are letting go of the past, living in the moment, redefining their identities, and moving on, that's what their story should be.

[joluvsfinnick]

Letters Left Behind

f!reader x finnick o’dair

summary - a box of letters, penned by Finnick to his lover, words of love, hope, and dreams of a wedding that may never come. through ink and tears, a love lost to time whispers between the pages, aching and eternal.

warnings - mentions of finnicks death and capitol life.

a/n - i’ve had this in my notes for a while and finally managed to finish it. it’s short because it hurts🗿 also, i’m such a sucker for letters if u couldn’t tell.

You don’t expect to see Annie at your door.

Not since the funeral. Not since the salt-slick morning you stood beside her on the shore, both of you wearing black and silence.

But there she is. Windblown. Pale. Clutching something carefully to her chest, a small wooden box wrapped in fraying fishing twine. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just holds it out to you like it weighs too much.

“He wanted you to have this,” she whispers. “He… he started them when we were kids.” Your fingers graze the twine, confused.

“Started what?” She blinks back tears.

“Letters. He started them when he was sixteen, said he was writing to the girl he’d fall in love with one day. I teased him, told him she’d never put up with him.” A soft, cracked laugh. “But he didn’t stop. Not once.” You glance down at the box. Your name isn’t on it. But somehow, you know it’s yours.

“He didn’t know who she was for a long time,” Annie says with a slight pause. When you pinch your eyebrows in confusion, she continues. “The girl he was writing too. But once he met you… he started calling her Pearl.”

You freeze. That was his name for you.

Soft as sea foam. Whispered into your hair at night. Scrawled across everything. Spoken like a secret when the rest of the world had taken too much. Annie places the box in your arms like it’s something holy.

“He made me promise. If he didn’t come back… I’d find you. I’d give you the words he never had time to say.” And then, without another word, she’s gone.

You don’t open it right away. You couldn’t. You sit on the floor of your tiny house, the sea whispering outside your window. You run your fingers over the lid like it might bite. It doesn’t. It only trembles. Finally, you undo the twine and lift the lid.

It smells like old salt and worn-out hope.

Inside are hundreds of letters. Folded neatly. Stained slightly by time and touch. Each dated. Some sealed with faded red wax. Others just tucked closed, as if he wrote them fast, needing to spill something before it vanished from him completely.

You lift the first.

The date hits you: he was sixteen. Still barely a boy, but still broken.

“To my future wife,

If you exist, God, I hope you exist. This is for you.

I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you live. But I think about you all the time.

Today I’m headed back to the Capitol for a short stay, so I’ll write to you again when I come back.

I hope you’re kind. I hope you’d know how to hold someone like me.

— Finnick”

You press a trembling hand to your mouth. It’s too much. And yet, You keep reading.

“To my future wife,

They dressed me up again today. Put me in gold. I smiled so hard my face hurt.

One of the Capitol women called me “the boy with the perfect mouth.”

I wanted to scream.

I hope, someday, you kiss me like I’m more than what they see.

—Finnick”

“To my future wife,

I dreamed of you last night.

You were laughing. Your hair was a mess. You didn’t care who was watching.

You touched my face like I was something soft.

No one’s touched me like that in years.

— Finnick”

Your tears come quietly. You’re not even sure when they started. Letter after letter, he reaches toward someone who didn’t exist yet. And then,

He meets you.

You feel it the moment it shifts. The letters stop saying “To my future wife.”

They begin with the nickname that shatters you.

“Pearl,

I think it’s you. I think I met you today.

You called me out when you were in line behind me and you heard me flirting with the grocer just to get some free bread.

Then you smiled at me like I wasn’t a weapon.

That’s never happened before.

— Finnick”

You pull another.

“Pearl,

I touched your hand today.

I didn’t mean to. I brushed against your fingers while passing you that stupid book you wanted me to read.

And I swear to God, I felt it in my throat.

I can’t stop thinking about it.

— Finnick”

“Pearl,

You hugged me today.

You hugged me.

I don’t think you even knew what it meant to me. You were just cold.

But you wrapped your arms around me like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And I almost cried right there.

Because no one hugs a Capitol boy unless they want something.

But you just held me.

— Finnick”

“Pearl,

I kissed you today.

I didn’t plan it. I panicked. You were laughing and the sun was behind you and you were saying something ridiculous about how you’d never marry a man who eats oysters.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I kissed you.

And you kissed me back.

My hands were shaking for hours.

— Finnick”

The light outside fades. District 4 slips into evening. You’re surrounded by pieces of him, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. You wonder if it ever will.

Finally, you reach the last letter.

The paper is newer. The handwriting shakier. The date? It’s from the week before the mission in the Capitol. The week before the tunnel.

You already know what it is. And still, you open it.

“Pearl,

I’ve been writing you letters since I was sixteen.

Can you believe that?

I used to think I was writing to someone imaginary. A soft place in a hard world.

But it was always you. It’s always been you.

I don’t know how this ends. I hope I come back to you. I hope I get to see the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, and the way you fake being annoyed when I flirt with you in front of people. I hope I get to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.

But if I don’t,

Please know this: I wasn’t afraid to die. I was only afraid to leave you behind.

You were the only thing in this world that felt untouched. Unbought. Mine.

I wanted to marry you. No, not wanted, I want. If I come back, I will.

I’ll say something stupid at our wedding. I’ll cry halfway through my vows as I talk about how much love I have for you, and how you’re the only person in my life who makes me feel at peace.

You’ll make fun of me, I can already see it. You, laughing through your tears as I confess my undying love for you.

I want forever with you.

But if forever isn’t mine, then let these letters be.

Let them be the parts of me I never got to give you.

Yours, always

— Finnick”

You fold the letter slowly. Carefully. You press it to your chest, and this time, when the sob breaks out of you, you don’t stop it.

He’d been loving you even before you existed.

He loved you across time. Across pain. Across the lines that people like him weren’t supposed to cross.

You lay the letter back in the box. Tie the twine shut with trembling hands. And whisper the only words you have left to give:

“I love you too, Finnick. I always will.”

[matts-hersheys-kisses]

"you should've stayed"

-matt sturniolo

warnings: mentions of death/funerals soul shattering angst.

i wait for you - alex g

It was raining when Matt found her letter.

Not in a cinematic way, not with thunder cracking or the world falling apart around him—though maybe it should’ve been. The rain was quiet, barely there, like the kind that gets under your skin and stays, and everything smelled like the end of something.

The envelope was pale pink. Her favorite color. His least favorite now.

Matt,

You’ll hate me for this. Maybe you already do. Maybe I’m just finishing what’s been broken for a long time.

He stopped reading after the third line. The ink bled at the edges where his thumbs had pressed too hard, and his heart felt like it was caving in slow motion. It didn’t matter how long the letter was. It was enough.

It was the end.

--

They met when they were kids. She wore those dumb star clips in her hair and had the loudest laugh in the world. He used to tell her to shut up every time she laughed. She never did.

She called him “Matty” even though he hated it. She said he looked like a Matt, but sounded like a boy who needed a hug.

She was always saying things like that.

--

He saw it coming. That was the worst part.

The pieces didn’t fall all at once—they slipped. She started wearing long sleeves in July. Her texts got shorter. Her eyes didn’t glow the way they used to when he made her laugh.

She never laughed anymore.

He told himself it was a phase. That people get sad. That she’d come back, that she’d snap out of it.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t make her tell him.

And now—

Now he was standing in the middle of her empty bedroom, the walls bare except for one thing: a photo booth strip stuck to the mirror. Four blurry squares of a time before the ache took her voice. Her leaning into him, eyes squinted, both of them grinning like idiots.

His hand shook as he reached for it.

--

The funeral was too quiet.

They didn’t play her favorite songs. They didn’t mention the way she used to sing off-key on purpose just to make Matt cringe. No one brought up the time she dared him to jump into the lake in January and he did it just to impress her, even though he got sick for a week.

They made her sound like someone else. Like a girl who was just sad, not someone who had once been made of fire and noise and reckless joy.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the goddamn silence and shake someone and say, She was more than this. She was everything. She was the reason I stayed.

But he didn’t.

He just sat in the back, hands clenched in his lap, trying not to throw up every time someone said her name.

--

He visited her grave every Friday.

It was a quiet sort of ritual. He never brought flowers. She hated flowers. Said they always died too fast and made her feel like she was looking at something already grieving.

Instead, he’d bring her things she liked.

A bag of sour candy.

A book she never finished.

Once, he brought his hoodie. The one she always stole. He left it folded on the stone, even though it rained that night and he knew it would be soaked by morning.

He didn’t care.

--

Months passed, but the ache didn’t.

He heard her laugh in dreams he never remembered.

He thought he saw her once, standing by the gas station, hair tangled by the wind, hands in the pockets of a hoodie that looked too familiar.

But it wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t.

--

She wrote one last line in her letter. He hadn't read it until now—sitting in his car outside the cemetery with the envelope unfolded beside him, hands numb.

I loved you, Matty. God, I loved you so much. I just didn’t know how to stay.

His chest caved in again.

Because he would've stayed for her.

He did stay. And she didn’t.

idk if yall fw this but imma force it on you anyway sorry chat✌️💕

xoxo

-𝒜 💋

taglist - @hunyoucantresistme @angeliolo @chrepsi @imgoing-backto505 @ikyoudreamofme @iluvnicksturniolo @mattswrinkleton @shadowthesim237 @sturniolotripletlover @soplaap @emillionaireee @courta13

lmk if you want to be added/taken off the taglist x

my masterlist: here

[aggresivemenace]

Physical intimacy: Do Primarchs allow themselves to show their pleasure, or do they struggle to restrain it?

Lion El'Jonson

"My duty is to please you. Nothing else matters"

For the most part, he hides his own pleasure.

His purpose lies in satisfying his lady, his beloved; his own delight is, in his mind, a distant second.

The sound of your moans - this is his greatest reward.

Fulgrim

"Let me sing for you, in every gasp and cry"

He makes no attempt to restrain himself.

During intimacy, he is unabashedly loud - part of it born from his natural passion and disdain for holding back his emotions, and part of it a deliberate offering, a way to show you just how deeply you satisfy him.

Perturabo

"Even steel must tremble, when touched by loving hand"

He tries to restrain himself, clinging to the image of the cold, commanding Primarch of the Iron Warriors.

Yet his flushed cheeks, his tightly shut eyes, and the soft, unbidden sighs that slip from his lips betray him utterly.

Jaghatai Khan

"Love is simple. You and I - that's all there is"

He shows you exactly how good you make him feel.

His logic is plain: you are his wife; you love each other; your bodies bring mutual joy.

Why, in the name of all the stars, would anyone ever pretend otherwise?

Leman Russ

"If I love you, the whole world will know it"

Restraint is a foreign concept to him.

He doesn't just show his pleasure to you - he shows it to anyone within earshot. He wants them to know how damn gorgeous his wife is.

If the Primarch of the Space Wolves is busy replenishing the population of Fenris with his cherished mate, he’ll make sure the whole planet knows anout it.

Rogal Dorn

"You melt the walls I built around my soul"

He openly savors the pleasure your body brings him.

It may seem strange that this fortress of stone and ice could feel anything at all — but trust me: the Dorn the world sees and the Dorn you know, his beloved wife, are two entirely different men.

With you, he lets the burdens of the outside world fall away, surrendering himself completely to the tenderness of your hands, letting you see - and feel - just how deeply you affect him.

Konrad Curze

"Break me with your kindness - I cannot resist"

At first, he acts brazenly, almost mockingly - as if intimacy were merely another way to assert his dominance over you, to humiliate you (though you both know it's just a game).

He shows no true emotion at first.

But give him time, and pleasure will consume him entirely.

Soon, he'll be moaning, saliva trailing from his chin, and the cruel, cutting words will dissolve into broken cries, lost beneath the ragged sound of his hips colliding with yours.

Sanguinius

"Your touch makes my wings tremble"

He tries to hide it, but every time he fails.

A single glance, a single touch from you is enough to ignite him, and his body responds with breathtaking intensity.

Often, he grows shy of his own loud moans, hiding his face behind his hands - or shielding himself with his snowy wings, peeking at you shyly through the gaps between the feathers.

No matter how much he blushes at his own raw reactions, he never denies how completely you unravel him.

Ferrus Manus

"Hot iron bends easily"

He restrains himself - and he does it well.

But if you straddle him and set a fast, relentless pace, even the Primarch of the Iron Hands struggles to keep his composure.

He would gladly surrender his stoic facade for you, but the habit of control runs deep.

So remember: if you hear grunts, sharp breaths, and muffled moans, know that Ferrus is feeling very good.

Angron

"Hold me - remind me that I can be loved"

He hides it. His instincts scream that showing pleasure is the same as showing weakness.

He longs to surrender, to lose himself in you - but the way his mind is wired won’t allow it.

The best thing you can do for him is to cradle his tense, flushed face in your hands, kiss him gently, and whisper how much you love him, how much pleasure he brings you.

Roboute Guilliman

"With you, I finally remember how to breathe"

He shows you exactly how much he enjoys it.

You love making love to him after a long, grueling day - when the strength of a Primarch still fills his body, but his mind is worn and weary.

He lies back on the bed and closes his eyes as you straddle him, setting a slow, steady rhythm.

He doesn't need to do anything - unless he wishes to reach up and touch you.

Otherwise, he simply surrenders to the feeling, utterly relaxed.

He moans, sighs, and often murmurs how much he loves you, how deeply your touch pleases him.

Mortarion

"Even decaying flesh is soft to touch"

He doesn't hide it - simply because he can't.

By nature, he is deeply sensitive, and even if he wished to restrain himself, he would be helpless to silence the moans that spill from his lips.

Magnus the Red

"You see me - the real me - and you still love"

He praises you and encourages you with every breath.

You see, he is...large. Very large.

Before you, he stands in his true form, untouched by the Warp magic - for you love him as he truly is, natural and unaltered.

Though it can be a struggle to take him fully, he is endlessly patient.

He breathes heavily against your ear, his large, warm hands gliding over your thighs, his fingers brushing your flushed cheeks with tender reverence.

You're doing so well, my sweet...just a little more"

"You're so tight...It feels so good, my love"

Horus Lupercal

"For you, I would burn the stars and call it mercy"

He never hides his feelings - not with you.

In your embrace, he becomes what he was always meant to be: mighty, yet human; powerful, yet tender.

Horus wants to feel you with every part of his being.

His hands hold you tightly, as if he fears losing you, his kisses burning and urgent, filled with an almost painful devotion.

He moans your name, whispers how you drive him mad, how he can never get enough of you.

When he is with you, he forgets anything else - surrendering himself to you, just as he would one day surrender the stars at your feet.

Lorgar Aurelian

"Our love is a sacred flame - pure and holy"

He approaches intimacy with a heart full of reverence, yet weighed down by uncertainty.

At first, he tries to restrain himself, struggling to understand the depth of his own longing - how vital your closeness has become to him.

When he finally yields, his moans are soft, almost prayerful, slipping past his lips in waves of helpless devotion.

Still, shame flickers within him, and he tries again to quiet the storm, only to fail - again and again, drawn back to you.

It falls to you to remind him, in tender whispers, that between a devoted husband and wife, this union is no sin - but a sacred joy, a blessing to be embraced without fear.

Vulkan

"My strength was made to protect you...and to love you"

He doesn't restrain his feelings - on the contrary, he is sincere to the very core.

Every touch from Vulkan is filled with warmth and care; his moans are low and deep, like distant thunder, sweet and meant for your ears only.

He holds you as if you were the most precious treasure in the galaxy, even though his hands could crush mountains.

He whispers how much he loves you, how he trembles with every second spent in your arms - burning with passion, but never hurting you.

Alpharius/Omegon

"Two hearts. One soul. Yours forever"

During intimacy, it becomes especially easy to tell them apart.

Alpharius is more reserved with his emotions - he often buries his face against your neck, squeezing his eyes shut, too shy to let you see his expression.

Omegon, on the other hand, is the talkative one - he loves to praise you with a voice thick with heat and adoration.

"Darling, you're doing so well...taking both of us like you were made for it. Yes, made just for the two of us."

Corvus Corax

"In the silence between our breaths, I am yours"

He doesn't hold back, yet he isn't particularly loud.

He shows his pleasure through heavy breathing and soft, almost inaudible moans - not out of restraint, but simply because he is a quiet soul by nature.

And perhaps, deep down, he wants his sounds to be heard by you alone, his breath brushing against your heated, sensitive skin like a ghost's caress.

BONUS!

The God-Emperor of Mankind

"You are my light amidst endless darkness"

To the world, he is the unshakable master, majesty incarnate.

But in your arms, he lays down his golden crown, becoming only a man who loves his wife beyond measure.

He touches you with hands capable of commanding the stars, yet with a tenderness reserved for you alone.

His moans are rare, heavy, slipping past his lips when he loses himself in you, allowing a weakness he shows to no one else.

To humanity, he is a God.

To you - he is your man: loving, devoted, eternal

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

What we know about each Yellowjackets character’s life before the plane crash

Shauna

Not a lot is known about Shauna’s childhood, but it definitely seems like she had an estranged relationship with her parents. It is confirmed that Shauna’s parents divorced when she was younger. Jackie mentioned that Shauna lied to her about her father’s sudden absence, saying that he was traveling a lot because he had become the new president of Hello Kitty (aww Shauna). This suggests that, after the divorce, Shauna had little to no contact with her father. Additionally, Shauna never even mentions her parents in the adult timeline, which may imply that she is no longer on speaking terms with either of them. Further emphasizing this distance is her childhood bedroom, which appeared to be in an attic. Whether she chose to sleep there or not, this detail speaks volumes about how separated or neglected she felt by her family.

Shauna had been best friends with Jackie since grade school, although their relationship was strained by jealousy and Shauna's feeling of living in Jackie's shadow. Nevertheless, their love for each other ran DEEP (a little too deep). Shauna’s jealousy of Jackie led her to lose her virginity to Jeff, Jackie’s long-term boyfriend, behind Jackie’s back. The night before the crash, Jeff and Shauna slept together again and she became pregnant with his child.

We also know that Shauna was a straight-A student and received admission to Brown University right before the crash, and she was a very good soccer player (she was very fast according to Coach Martinez!) even though she apparently didn’t even like soccer.

Shauna was most likely a Defensive Midfielder on the soccer field, given that her jersey number was 6. This means that she was in charge of acting as a shield in the midfield, breaking up attacks, covering teammates, and intercepting passes.

Jackie

Jackie appears to have come from a wealthy family given how massive her house was (complete with those fancy mansion columns). She was an only child and lived with both her parents. Jackie’s parents seemed to put a lot of pressure on her to be perfect, and we see that they tend to brag about her achievements (even after her death), which highlights their high expectations for Jackie’s success. Jackie’s mother may have had a dependence on prescription drugs, as she mentioned that her mom was on “ten different kind of downers”, some of which (Valium) Jackie stole to fall asleep on the plane.

Jackie was popular in school and was the captain of the Yellowjackets soccer team (more expectations that she had to live up to). She was said to possess great influence over others due to her natural leadership skills and magnetism. She had been dating Jeff since freshman year, although she mentioned having broken up with him multiple times, so it seems like it was a tumultuous relationship. She refused to have sex with him due to wanting to make losing her virginity special. Jackie planned to go to Rutgers for college and be roommates with Shauna.

We can assume Jackie was a forward/striker on the soccer field due to her jersey number: 9. This means her primary role was scoring goals.

Natalie

Out of all of the Yellowjackets characters, Natalie’s life pre-crash is explored in arguably the most detail. We learn that she came from a low-income family and lived in a small, cluttered trailer with her parents, both of whom appeared to struggle with drinking and drug problems. Her father worked a blue-collar job, possibly as a mechanic, given the (tire?) patch on his work shirt, while her mother, Vera, seemed to stay at home, often drinking and sleeping throughout the day. We also know that Nat’s father was physically and verbally abusive to her and her mother.

Nat’s best friend was Kevyn Tan, whom we first see her with when she is 14 or 15 years-old, although it seems like they had been friends for a while before that. Kevyn had a significant crush on Natalie, which she was unaware of. When Nat was 14 or 15, her father found Kevyn in her bedroom one day and berated Nat, thinking that they were sleeping together. This escalated into her father beating her mother, prompting Natalie to grab a gun and attempt to shoot him. However, she forgot to take off the safety. Her father then took the gun but accidentally shot himself in the head after tripping on the stairs.

It is strongly implied that Natalie's mother blamed her for his death, as she makes comments in the present day like, "You never know what you have until it gets ripped away from you." This suggests that Natalie had a cold and distant relationship with her mother.

It appears that Nat spent much of her high school years experimenting with drugs and sex to cope with her guilt and had gained a reputation at her school for being sexually promiscuous and a “burnout.”

Somehow she ended up playing soccer, and she was likely a right midfielder or winger given her jersey number: 7. This means she was in charge of attacks in the midfield and passing the ball to other teammates closer to the goal.

And one more interesting detail: Nat was definitely a hardcore feminist in her teen years, as we can see riot grrrl posters all over her childhood bedroom walls.

Travis

We get very little information about Travis’s life before the crash, but we know that he lived with his father, Bill, his little brother, Javi, and his mother. Travis stated that his father was “a shit dad” who “didn’t even like him,” so he clearly did not have a good relationship with his father. Additionally, before leaving to get on the plane, we see that Coach Martinez leaned in to attempt to give his wife a kiss goodbye, but she turned away and appeared stiff. Travis rolled his eyes at this. My guess is that Coach Martinez cheated on his wife and Travis knew about it. His parents’ relationship was strained after the affair but they stayed together for the kids, and Travis resented his father for it. Just definitely seems like the context behind that scene.

Travis seemed to hold some resentment towards Javi as well given his harsh treatment of him even before the crash, perhaps because he received more attention and care from their father. We also know that Travis was bullied since 7th grade after he had spinal fusion surgery and Bobby Farleigh made up the rumor that he got one of his ribs removed to perform…certain acts on himself, earning him the nickname “Flex.”

Van

We got a brief scene in the pilot episode of Van’s home life. Like Natalie, Van also appears to have come from a low-income home. Van’s father was likely not involved in her life, as Van’s mom seemed to be the only option when she needed a ride to the airport and her father was never mentioned. Van’s mother was an alcoholic, as she was laying passed out on the couch and Van had to slap her to wake her up. It seems like Van had to take on a parental role with her mother and likely had to raise herself for the most part. In the adult timeline, Tai mentions that Van had always had a strained relationship with her mother.

Van went to New York City once for her 7th birthday and wanted to do the carriage ride in Central Park, but she was taken to see Cats instead. She dreamed of going back to NYC and doing the carriage ride ever since.

Van is the Yellowjackets’s goalie, and it seems like she and her teammate Taissa had a romantic relationship before the crash (or were at least flirting a lot).

Lottie

Lottie’s pre-crash life gets explored in a little more detail. Lottie grew up in a very wealthy family. Her father, Malcolm, is a businessman who seemed very strict and controlling. Lottie’s mother, Emilia, seemed more soft and understanding of Lottie’s potential gifts. We see that, as a child, Lottie often experienced strange visions, including a time in which she started to scream in the backseat of the car while her parents were at a red light, which ended up preventing them from getting into a car crash when the light turned green. It is implied that Lottie experienced these visions often. Lottie’s parents argued over the nature of these visions, with Malcolm saying that Lottie had psychological issues and needed to be fixed, while Emilia argued that Lottie had a gift for seeing the future. Lottie was placed on medication for schizophrenia, and she is seen taking this medication the morning of the crash.

Lottie had a disconnected relationship with her father. It seems like he never understood her and neglected her as a result. It is implied that he wasn’t around much due to his work. Lottie said that her dad paying for the private plane to take the Yellowjackets to Nationals was “basically his only form of parenting.”

Lottie, according to Coach Martinez, is a talented soccer player with great footwork. Lottie is likely a Defender on the soccer field, given her jersey number: 5. This means she was in charge of keeping the other team from scoring goals and stopping attacks.

Taissa

Tai appears to have come from the most well-adjusted household among the group. She lived in a nice home with both of her parents, who seemed supportive, as shown in their brief interaction in the pilot episode. Her mother offered to drive her to the airport, while her father was cooking breakfast. He reminded Tai that "the most important thing is to have fun," which conveyed a sense of care and encouragement. Despite this, Tai was always intensely focused on success and hard work. As a star player on the soccer team, she was implied to be the best player, according to Coach Martinez.

When Tai was little, her grandmother got sick and Tai often visited her on her death bed. Not long before her grandmother’s death, she saw a “man with no eyes” in the mirror of the bedroom and began to scream. Tai saw this man, as well, and also began to scream. At her grandmother’s open-casket funeral, Tai noticed that her grandmother’s eyes were missing.

Tai was likely in a romantic relationship with Van before the crash.

According to the Pilot episode script, Taissa is the star midfielder of the Yellowjackets. Her jersey number is 8, also supporting that she is a Central Midfielder, which is often considered to be the most difficult position on the field. This means she acted as a link between defense and attack in the midfield.

Misty

Misty was clearly a social outcast before the crash. She was bullied throughout her school years. One classmate, Becky, frequently targeted her with prank phone calls, spreading rumors and mocking her with her friends. During one of these calls, Misty quoted Plato, hinting at her intelligence and academic inclinations. Misty clearly loved learning and equipping herself with knowledge, as she obsessively took Red Cross babysitting classes, had a great deal of medical skills, and paid close attention in Coach Ben’s health classes. Misty always craved the feeling of being useful and needed by her peers. This was most apparent in the scene where Allie broke her leg—Misty was the first to spring into action, trying to help, although her attempt was unsuccessful.

We can also see that Misty may have always had some sociopathic tendencies, as she is seen watching a rat struggle and drown in a pool with no emotion on her face the morning before the crash.

As the Yellowjackets’ equipment manager, Misty didn’t play soccer herself but still found a way to be involved with the team. Her responsibilities likely included maintaining equipment, ordering new gear, and issuing uniforms to the players.

[almostwisegalaxy]

Hi! Can you write about the reader being Si-eun's younger sister (either one year or a few months younger) who used to be bullied in school but never talked about it? She doesn’t confide in Si-eun or their mother until one day when she comes home from school, and this time she really breaks down in front of Si-eun.How would Si-eun react, and how would he deal with this as her brother? (I’m looking for a platonic/angst-to-fluff kind of story.) Thank you so much for your hard work!<333

Up to two

Yeon Sieun x Sister!reader platonic story Part 2

In this story the reader has a shy character and is 14 years old.

..................................................................................

The sky was pouring a fine, almost invisible rain over the city, but Si-eun felt it weighing on his shoulders like a wet blanket. He had come home earlier than usual from high school, abandoning the gray corridors of the building where the boys shouted to exist. Their voices, their postures, their fury... it all exhausted him. He found neither warmth nor comfort in their gazes, not even a shadow of what he unconsciously sought: a sincere connection.

But at home, there was Y/N.

The door had closed silently behind him. The lights were dim in the small apartment, as if even the electricity thought twice before imposing itself too much. And there, on the sofa, sitting cross-legged, Y/N looked up at him. Immense eyes, dark and bright, curious but silent. She said nothing. She almost never said anything. But she looked at him as if he were the whole world. He wasn't the whole world. He was a broken boy who had never learned to love anything but silence. Yet, with her...

"Ddeul-kkot," she whispered.

It was their secret word. A trembling flower. A whispered idea to say "I waited for you" without anyone understanding. He dropped his bag without a word and walked towards her. She held out her hand. He took it without hesitation. Her small, warm palm was the only thing that brought him back to himself.

Yeon Si-eun was not a big brother like the others. He hadn't learned how to be one. He hadn't seen his father love, nor his mother forgive. He had only seen absences, closed suitcases, silences heavy like ceilings that were too low. But Y/N had appeared one day. So small. In the arms of a man who was their father to both of them, but who wasn't really anyone's father.

And since then, she was his.

She would sometimes lie down against him in the bed that was too big for one person. He never said anything. He let her do it. She would snuggle against his back or his chest, depending on the night. He could feel her breath, light, almost regular. He didn't fall asleep right away. Sometimes, he would lie there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, wondering why his heart was beating so fast, so painfully.

When she was there, he breathed better. He would let his hand slip into her hair, caressing it slowly, as if to say, "stay a little longer." She didn't speak. She didn't ask questions. She simply stayed close to him. And in this blurry and violent world, it was the only certainty he possessed.

They had their code. Simple words, often absurd. "Ddeul-kkot" for "I'm here." "Samak" for "say nothing." "Chik" for "I need you." No one understood them. And they didn't care. It was their refuge, their secret home between coded phrases, shared glances, silences woven like promises.

That day, after school, Y/N had waited for him. As always. She knew when he came home, even if he said nothing. She never jumped into his arms. She wasn't one of those clingy children. But she stayed there, sitting up straight, calm, with that small smile that existed only for him.

"You look sad," she murmured an hour later, as they lay side by side. She had come, naturally. Like every night.

He didn't answer right away. The ceiling was blurry. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the faded plaster.

"It's nothing."

She turned her head towards him. He felt it. And he sighed.

"I wish you had been born somewhere else. That you had a real father. A mother who loves you. That you weren't stuck here, with a brother like me."

She remained silent for a moment, then, slowly, she slipped her hand into his.

"But I'm happy here."

A tear rolled down Si-eun's temple. He didn't stop it. He never cried in front of others. But with her, he no longer wore a mask. He was no longer the strategist of the class, nor the boy who was hated for his coldness. He was just a boy who loved his little sister more than he had ever loved anyone else.

Y/N was not like other children. Not because she was shy or reserved, but because she knew how to observe. She understood adults without speaking, thwarted lies with a gentle smile, manipulated situations without seeming to. It was her strategy. A calculated gentleness. A mastery of silent attention. A gift she used to make people underestimate her, always.

But not Si-eun. He knew. He had seen her do it. He had even seen her pretend to cry so that a teacher would let her out of class, just to bring him his forgotten notebook. He had said nothing. He had just looked at her with silent respect.

One day, she had told him:

"You don't need to fight with your fists. You could win with silences."

He had looked at her for a long time. She had lowered her eyes, a little embarrassed. She wasn't good at long sentences. But she thought them intensely. And he understood them before she finished.

Y/N was not popular. No one really liked her. The neighbors murmured. The schoolmates avoided her gaze. But he, Si-eun, looked at her as one looks at a rare star. She was all he had, and all he wanted to protect. He had never desired something with such gentle obsession. He thought of her every moment. Wondered if she was okay, if she had eaten, if someone had hurt her.

He had the impression that if she disappeared, the world would suddenly go out. There would be nothing left.

And she, with her silent way of slipping her hand into his, of resting her head against him without asking anything, knew all this. She didn't say the words. But she lived them. And that was enough.

That night, before falling asleep, she whispered to him:

"Chik."

He smiled, his eyes closed. He squeezed her hand a little tighter. She was there. And so was he. For tonight, that was all that mattered.

---

Flashback – 13 Years Earlier

That night, it was raining.

Not a peaceful rain. A driving, aggressive rain, as if the sky itself wanted to collapse onto their dilapidated building. Si-eun, almost five years old, was sitting in his tiny room, one arm in a cast, a flickering desk lamp illuminating his worksheets. He didn’t understand everything he read, but he kept going. It was his method for stifling the screams.

Because in the living room, the world was burning.

“YOU BROUGHT THAT KID HERE LIKE IT WAS NORMAL?!”

“She’s MY DAUGHTER! She has nowhere else to go, what did you want me to do?!”

“And me? And our son? Does he deserve this? Does he deserve this SHAME in his own home?!”

Shame.

That word had lodged itself like a thorn in Si-eun’s heart. A shame. A daughter born of a mistake. An error screamed through the walls. He heard her name — not Y/N, not yet — spat out with hatred, tossed around like garbage they no longer knew where to throw.

And in that din, another sound. Tiny. A rustling. A stifled breath.

Si-eun stood up. Slowly. As if moving in a dream. He crossed the hallway — his small steps muffled by the worn rug — and stopped at the living room doorway.

No one.

Except a baby carrier forgotten at the foot of the sofa. Placed there like a cumbersome bag.

He approached. In the dim light, he saw large, wet eyes fixed on him. No tears were falling. But she was trembling. So small. Too still. As if she already knew that making noise was dangerous.

She wasn’t crying.

She didn’t dare.

He picked her up in his child’s arms, clumsily, his cast scraping against the fabric of the baby carrier. She didn’t move. Just a small sigh, a kind of silent relief. As if she knew he wouldn’t reject her.

He went back to his room. He closed the door. He locked it.

When the banging came, he didn’t answer.

“Yeon Si-eun, open up! You can’t do this, damn it!”

“You have no idea what you’re doing! This isn’t YOUR PROBLEM!”

He wasn’t listening anymore.

He sat on his bed, Y/N against his chest, and began to breathe softly. She did too. He felt her heart, a tiny beating drum, against his own.

He was only five, but he understood. This baby, no one was expecting her. No one wanted her. Except him.

She was his now.

***

They didn’t talk much. Neither of them.

Y/N had that silence born in the womb of abandonment. And Si-eun, he had learned very early that words were used to lie or to hurt. So they lived together, without unnecessary chatter.

But their gestures spoke for them.

When she learned to walk, it was to him that she reached her arms.

When she had nightmares, she would crawl out of her room, drag her blanket into his, and he would hoist her onto his bed without a word. She would snuggle against him. He would place a hand on her head. They would sleep like that.

Always like that.

“Do you think the stars are watching us?” she had asked him one day, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“Maybe.”

“And if we told them our secrets? Would they keep them?”

He had smiled. A rare, fragile smile.

“I think they would listen to you. Not me.”

“You’re a star too. But one that’s forgotten how to shine.”

He had turned his head, surprised. She was already blushing, hiding under the covers.

He had said nothing. But he hadn’t forgotten. Ever.

There was no gentleness in the house. There were only the sounds of breaking dishes, fleeting glances, chronic absences. But between them, there was an invisible cocoon, built in silence and simple gestures.

He tied her shoelaces in the morning.

She brought him water when he coughed at night.

She often fell asleep in his arms.

He watched her sleep. Sometimes, he told himself that she was the only thing that proved he had a heart.

They had invented their own language.

Because real words were dirty, misused, dangerous. So they had created others. Ddeul-kkot. Samak. Chik.

“Ddeul-kkot” to say: I’m still here.

“Samak” to say: Don’t talk about it. It’s okay.

“Chik” to say: Stay.

One day, he had been beaten up at school. A group of older students. He had refused to cry. He had come home, collapsed in the hallway. His bag torn. Blood on his shirt.

She was five years old.

She had knelt in front of him, her small hand on his chin to see his swollen face.

“Chik,” she had said.

He had nodded, his teeth clenched. She had stayed with him all night. She didn’t talk much, but she stayed.

Always.

The tenderness between them was discreet, but visceral.

When she cried, he would place his hand on the back of her neck and pull her against his chest.

When he was angry, she would place hers on his and whisper: Samak.

***

They had rituals.

In the evening, he would open his blanket for her. She would slip in, as naturally as could be, and snuggle against him. Sometimes she would rest her head on his chest and listen to his heart.

“It beats fast,” she would say.

“It’s because I think too much.”

“Do you think about me?”

He never answered. But he would gently stroke her hair, and she understood.

When he came home from middle school, his gaze empty and his knees scraped, she didn’t ask questions. She would go get the first-aid kit. She would dab a cotton ball on his wound, blow gently, and say:

“You won, huh?”

He would nod. Sometimes not. But she wouldn’t ask for more.

One day, he had cried. One night. He had broken down. He had sat at the foot of his bed, unable to breathe, his fists pressed against his temples.

She had woken up.

“Si-eun?”

He hadn’t answered.

She had slipped out of bed, sat down in front of him, her small hands resting on his knees.

“Do you want me to sing?”

He had nodded, almost imperceptibly.

And she had sung. An invented song, clumsy, with lyrics that didn’t rhyme. But he had breathed. He had held on.

A memory. Precious.

Once, she had fallen at school. A boy had pushed her head against a locker. When Si-eun had come to pick her up, he had seen the red mark on her forehead. He had asked what had happened. She had smiled.

“He said I was weird. So I showed him that weirdos can bite.”

He had chuckled. Just a little. A short, shocked, but proud laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

“Like you.”

He had taken her hand. She had squeezed it tightly.

They never said “I love you.”

It wasn’t necessary.

Because every look, every gesture, every silence said better than words: You are my only person.

And in that cracked house, in that world of held-back blows and cold violence, they had invented something rare: an indestructible tenderness. A pact without oaths.

Si-eun wasn’t born to love. He hadn’t learned.

But Y/N had given him, unintentionally, the only thing he had never had: a reason to stay.

And she, without saying it, without ever asking, had shown him what it was to be chosen.

Not out of duty. Nor out of obligation.

But because he couldn’t do otherwise.

---

First Year – Eunjang High School

The wind at Eunjang felt alien.

It whipped Yeon Si-eun’s face like a constant slap, reminding him with every step that he was no longer home. Far from the city he knew. Far from the alleys where he had learned to endure. Far from Su-ho, from Beom-seok, from everything he had wanted to protect — and failed.

Su-ho…

Just thinking of his name made his stomach clench. The images returned unbidden: his friend’s body, slumped, eyes half-closed. The screams. The blood. The metallic glint of a bat. The echo of his own heart beating too fast, too loud. Too late.

The transfer to Eunjang had been imposed. A decision made by adults who claimed they wanted to “protect him.” But no one had asked Si-eun if he wanted to run.

And above all, no one had asked him if he was ready to be separated from her.

**

It was a rainy Saturday, again. It often rained on important days, like a signal. A way for the world to mark pivotal moments.

He was returning from the high school library, bag over his shoulder, his mind tired, his heart drowned in silence. He didn’t like this new environment. Too many unfamiliar smells, too many gazes he didn’t yet understand. And that gang, invisible but omnipresent, like a constant threat lurking in the corridors, ready to erupt.

He had barely placed his hand on the doorknob of his student housing when something shifted in the air.

A presence.

He cautiously opened the door… and saw her.

Y/N.

Sitting on the small bench against the wall. Her backpack against her crossed legs. Her chin resting on her knees. She was waiting for him.

The shock was so great that he said nothing right away.

She raised her head, and her eyes shone softly.

“Ddeul-kkot,” she whispered, a smile playing on her lips.

And then, he smiled too. For the first time in a long time.

A discreet smile, almost stolen from the pain. But a real one.

“You came all by yourself?” he asked, quickly closing the door behind him.

She nodded. No pride, just a matter of fact.

“It’s not safe, Y/N. It’s far.”

“I know.”

He sighed, approached, and crouched down in front of her.

“You could have gotten lost. Which bus did you take? Have you eaten?”

She held out her hand to him. He took it. The simple contact brought him back. It always did.

“I wanted to see you.”

He didn’t answer. He sat down next to her. She rested her head on his shoulder. As if she had done it all her life. And in reality, it was almost the case.

They stayed there for a long time, without speaking. He made her fried rice with the leftovers he had. She ate it slowly, as if it were a feast.

And when she was finished, she glanced at him sideways.

“You’re sad,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“Su-ho… is still in a coma.”

Silence. She had never met Su-ho. But she knew. She read his silences like others read books.

“You can talk to me,” she had said. “Even if it’s hard.”

But he said nothing.

She didn’t insist.

**

On Fridays or Saturdays — depending on his class schedule, depending on travel — they would meet. Even if it was just a call. Even if it was only twenty minutes.

But some nights, she would make the trip.

She would arrive with a plastic bag containing kimbap she had made, or a box of tteokbokki bought at the convenience store near their old neighborhood.

“It’s not very good,” she would say.

“It’s fine,” he would reply. “You came, that’s the meal.”

They would eat side by side. Sometimes on the floor, legs crossed. Sometimes sitting on the too-narrow bed. They spoke little. But when they did, it was always true.

“I saw you smile with someone the other day,” she said one evening.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Were you following me?”

“No. I saw it in a photo from your school. He had a weird smile. Not like usual.”

“He’s a boy from my class. His name is Park Humin.”

“Do you like him?”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“He has secrets, like me.”

She smiled softly.

“Then he must be kind.”

She wasn’t jealous. Never. But she wanted to understand those who approached her brother. Because for her, no one was as precious. And anyone who entered his world had to be worthy.

***

Then, one day… she didn’t come anymore.

A Friday. He waited for her. Nothing.

He sent a message. No reply.

Saturday. Nothing.

He worried. Of course. But she had had exams before, school obligations. Maybe she was just busy.

The following weekend, he made ramyeon for two. He let it cool.

The third weekend, he didn’t make anything at all.

She hadn’t given any news.

He had waited. Sent a simple, short, worried “Are you coming?”

She had replied hours later: “I’m tired. Samak.”

And then, nothing more.

No Saturday either.

He had taken the train one Sunday morning. An impulse. A contained panic. He had walked to their building. The apartment was locked. He had waited in the hallway. Two hours.

She hadn’t come home.

When she finally replied, that evening, it was to say: “Sorry. I went to sleep at a friend’s house. I needed to… get some air.”

He felt his stomach clench. Y/N had never slept at anyone’s house. She didn’t like it. She said other people’s houses “breathed wrong.”

But he didn’t insist. He didn’t have the right to insist.

And she… she kept silent.

And yet, he knew she was okay. Not because he had seen her, but because he still felt the invisible thread between them. She existed. She was breathing. But she was drifting away.

The last time she had come, she was wearing flesh-colored tights.

Almost invisible.

But he had seen them. Of course, he had seen them.

Y/N had never liked wearing tights. She said they “itched her legs.” But that day, he had noticed the artificial line at her ankle. He had noted the tension in her movements. She scratched discreetly, glancing at her legs when she thought he wasn’t looking. And that day, she had kept her jacket on, even in the warmth of the room.

And then, when he had accidentally placed his hand on her ankle, she had flinched.

He had looked up. She had smiled at him, too quickly.

“I’m just tired,” she had murmured.

He had believed her.

Because he wanted to believe her.

Because he was scared too.

And she, she had closed herself off.

She didn’t want him to see. Not now. He already had too much to bear.

***

She looked at herself in the mirror every morning, her fingers tracing the marks that were slowly fading.

The bullying was brutal. Not always, but often. There was blood, screams. Not just words, sneers, whispers that soiled the air. Sometimes a shoulder bump in the hallway. A hand brutally pulling her hair. A poisoned remark.

But above all, there was the isolation.

The certainty of being alone.

She said nothing. She told herself she was strong. She told herself that as long as she could walk to him, everything was fine.

But she had begun to doubt.

And one day, she had told herself that she didn’t deserve to be a burden to him. Not him. Not Si-eun. He had fought for too many things, too many people.

She told herself that if he knew, he would break. He would return to that violence she had always dreaded in him. She had seen that flame, one day, when a man had raised his voice at her in the street. Si-eun hadn’t even hit him. But the man had fled. Cold with fear. Before his gaze.

And Y/N had known: her brother didn’t need to shout to destroy.

He just needed to decide.

She didn’t want him to decide to hit for her.

She wanted to be strong, as strong as him.

So she hid the marks.

She had fallen silent.

And she had stopped coming.

But the distance between two silences, however long, cannot erase bonds woven with such care.

Even in his too-narrow bed, even in the heart of Eunjang’s violence, Yeon Si-eun still sometimes dreamed that she pushed open the door. That she said “Ddeul-kkot” with that small smile.

And even if he didn’t know it yet…

He was going to discover the truth.

And that day, the world around them would change again.

---

There was something almost gentle in the uproar.

Yeon Si-eun walked slowly behind Humin, Hyun-tak, and Juntae, their voices bouncing off the damp brick walls of Eunjang High School. Humin was laughing too loudly, as always, slapping Hyun-tak’s shoulder with every sentence. Juntae, in his own way, was talking about absurd things, a plush toy in his bag and bright ideas in his head.

They weren’t like Su-ho. Not like Beom-seok either. There wasn’t that invisible thread, stretched taut between them, made of survival, silence, and unspoken wounds.

But they were there.

They fought together, shared the injuries, the retorts, the silent glances in the hallways. They got each other out of trouble, waited for each other after class, placed drinks on tables without a word when one of them seemed on the verge of collapse.

And sometimes, Si-eun thought: maybe this is it. Another version of friendship. Simpler. Less torn.

That day, they were coming out of a small confrontation with students from another high school. Nothing too serious — a stupid settling of scores, an exchange of blows, a few bruises stinging under their uniforms. They were dirty, tired, laughing to forget.

He didn’t feel like laughing. But he smiled, a little.

Because they were alive. And in this school, that counted.

They had stopped at an old, half-abandoned café. Humin was tapping on his phone, always halfway through posting something or looking for a joke. Juntae was scribbling on a paper napkin, focused like a child. Hyun-tak stood a little apart, his back against the wall, his eyes narrowed.

That’s when Si-eun took out his phone. A reflex. An old habit. To see if Y/N had replied to his last message. Just a “you okay?” sent two days earlier.

No reply.

He sighed.

Then, almost without thinking, he opened their shared messaging interface. They had been using a family cloud for a long time. She would sometimes upload drawings, photos. Silly screenshots.

And there… he saw the folder.

Named “School,” simply.

He had never paid attention to it.

He opened it.

The first photos seemed ordinary. Class notes. A teacher’s remark. A schedule.

Then.

An image.

Blurry, taken from the side. Y/N, sitting alone in a classroom. Behind her, two girls are laughing, their faces turned towards her. A hand is visible, holding a pair of scissors, like a silent threat.

Another photo. Her locker. The door twisted. Papers thrown inside. Insults scrawled on the pages of a notebook.

Then a video. Ten seconds. A girl pushes Y/N against a wall. A voice is heard: “You’re not so tough when your brother’s not around, are you?”

And another one. Y/N in tears, but without a word. She holds her bag against her like armor. Her knees are dirty. She’s bleeding a little at the elbow.

He no longer remembered his breathing at that moment.

Only the sound his heart was making. Dull, immense.

He had locked his phone, without saying a word.

He had stood up abruptly. His friends had looked up.

“I have to go,” he blurted out.

Humin watched him go, surprised, but said nothing. Juntae just smiled softly, then went back to his drawing. Because they knew too, without asking questions.

He had run to his housing. Taken the train. Swallowed the stations without seeing them. His fist was trembling. His jaw was clenching.

It had taken him three hours to arrive at Y/N’s door.

She had opened it.

He said nothing at first.

Neither did she.

But when he held out his phone, screen lit, and their eyes met…

She had lowered her gaze.

“It’s not what you think,” she murmured.

But her voice was trembling. Too much.

He took a step back. Just one.

“Why… didn’t you say anything?”

She hadn’t known how to answer.

“Y/N, why didn’t you tell me anything?”

He repeated. Louder. His voice was breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes, without him being able to control them.

“Why did you let me believe everything was okay? Why did you stay alone? Why did you lie to me?!”

She backed away, her back against the wall. He saw her silhouette tremble. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her skirt.

“Because you were going to break,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to break again…”

And then, he cried.

Really. Openly. Without shame.

Not the discreet tears he had learned to hide. Not the usual silence. No.

A raw grief, a heavy, exhausted, ancient sob.

He had collapsed on the floor, his hands over his face, unable to speak, to scream, to breathe. He was crying for her, for him, for everything they had gone through alone when they could have been together.

She had knelt down, timidly. And she had slipped her arms around him.

She hadn’t said she was sorry.

Because there were no words for that kind of pain.

Just gestures.

He held her close for a long time. Until his tears dried. Until his breathing calmed down.

Then, without asking, he took her hand.

“You’re coming with me.”

“But…”

“You’re coming. Now. You’re not sleeping alone anymore. It’s over.”

She didn’t protest for long.

She followed him.

***

The Housing – After

She had gotten into the habit of always placing her shoes in the same spot.

Of putting her bag against the left corner of the room. Of sitting on the edge of the bed when he was cooking. She didn’t talk much. But she was there.

And he, he checked her messages. Her clothes. Her elbows. Her silences.

He didn’t ask questions anymore, not right away.

But every night, he watched her, as if to make sure she wouldn’t disappear.

She was recovering slowly. She still had nightmares. Sometimes, he would hear her half-crying in her sleep. Then he would place a hand on her back, and she would fall back asleep.

One morning, she had slipped a note on the table:

I’m going to try to get better. For you. But mostly for me.

He had read it. And he had cried again. Discreetly, this time.

They had gone through hell, each on their own.

But now, they had decided to walk together.

And even if the world around them didn’t change…

The inside, it had begun to heal. Step by step.

---

The day Si-eun decided to talk to their parents, he hadn’t slept a single minute the night before.

He had sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, heart heavy like lead. He dialed their father’s number first. He knew it was the easy way out, but starting with him would be simpler. Or at least, less brutal.

The old man picked up with a tired voice. He didn’t say anything kind. Didn’t ask about his daughter.

— You know why I’m calling, Si-eun simply said.

— It’s about Y/N, I assume.

— You knew. You knew what was happening to her. And you did nothing.

There was a silence, then a sigh, like air leaking out of something long sealed shut.

— I’m ashamed, Si-eun. But...

— You don’t get to be ashamed if you keep doing nothing, he cut in.

He wasn’t shouting. But his voice sliced through, firm, sharp like a blade dulled by too many years.

— You and Mom—you’re responsible. You abandoned her. I did too, at first. But not anymore.

— What do you want? For me to crawl to you on my knees? You want money?

— Exactly. I want you to pay. For her therapy, her classes, everything she needs to live without lacking anything. This isn’t a favor. It’s your duty.

He didn’t wait for a response. He hung up.

Their mother, though, had been harsher. Less ashamed. Less compassionate.

— You’re overreacting. That girl is always whining. Do you really think it’s not her fault she got rejected?

He stood up. Grabbed his stuff. Slammed the door on his way out.

They would never live with her.

Y/N knew that. She hadn’t even asked.

In their new student apartment—a slightly bigger two-room unit, poorly insulated but warm—she could finally breathe for the first time in ages. At her new all-girls school, she was no longer “Si-eun’s sister” or “the weird girl from class 2-4.” She was just Y/N. A regular teenage girl. With colorful flashcards, earbuds glued to her ears, a backpack too big for her frame.

And little by little, she became herself again.

The real Y/N.

The one Si-eun had known when she was a baby.

He still remembered. She’d learned to walk and talk almost at the same time, barely over a year old. Out of necessity. She followed him everywhere, two stubborn little steps behind. Always calling out “Oppa! Oppa!” in every room.

She didn’t cry. That was beneath her, even back then—by her own baby rules. But she would sulk. Over nothing. Just to get her brother’s attention. So he’d pat her head. Give her his last cookie. And even now, at almost fifteen, she still sulked. When he forgot her favorite bread. When he told her to sleep earlier. When he spent too much time with his friends instead of her.

He loved it.

Not the sulking itself. But what it meant—that she had that gentle, bratty spark again.

He often thought: she came back.

But the journey had been long.

And for her to return, he had to face the worst.

He found the proof of her bullying “by accident.” An old chat window left open. Screenshots she had probably meant to delete, but hadn’t found the courage to erase. Degrading photos. Mockery. Insults disguised as jokes. Public humiliation.

He spent hours reading everything. Sorting it. Holding himself back from screaming. From breaking things.

Then he confronted their parents. Filed complaints. Notified the school. Sent warnings to those responsible. One of the bullies even changed schools after that. He wasn’t doing it for vengeance or pride—he wanted change. He didn’t want this rotten system to ruin anyone else like it had ruined her.

He also convinced Y/N to see a therapist. A gentle young woman with round glasses and a slow voice who never pushed, never insisted. Eventually, Y/N began to talk. A little. Then a lot.

And one day, she laughed. Not loud. But a real laugh. That of a carefree child.

**

They lived their routine like an old couple in exile.

Breakfast together—or not. Arguing about the dishes. Sharing the heater in winter. Listening to music together. Staying silent when memories grew too heavy.

But the balance was there. Fragile. Uncertain, yet real.

And then one day, came the Hyun-tak incident.

They were coming back from the supermarket, arms full of bags, when they ran into Humin, Juntae, and Hyun-tak at the street corner.

Y/N froze instantly.

Humin, true to form, shouted too loud:

— OH! Si-eun! Is that your sister? Hey little sis, you’re super cute—

But she had already turned and walked away. As expected, Si-eun dropped the bags and went after her.

He knew her: it wasn’t shame. It was fear. She didn’t like strangers. Not yet.

He calmed her down. Brought her back. And she reluctantly agreed to return and say hello. From a distance. No words. Arms crossed.

And then, it was Hyun-tak, surprisingly, who stepped forward first.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach out. Just handed her a cold drink, wordlessly, and sat beside her on the sidewalk like they’d known each other forever.

Y/N blinked. Stared. Then took the drink.

Humin looked stunned, like “What? Even I got ignored!”

And Hyun-tak, that smug calm kid, just smiled with the arrogant pride of someone who had accomplished an Olympic feat.

From that moment, he became the one she tolerated the most. Not that they talked much. But he understood her silences. And Y/N… she trusted him. Just like that. Instinctively.

(They fall in love afterward, but that's a whole other story.(⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠))

(The story is right (⁠☞⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠☞ here )

**

That evening, Si-eun came home with a light heart.

He watched his sister place the drink carefully in the fridge like a rare treasure, and she muttered:

— At least he’s not as loud as the others.

— Should I tell him you like him?

— Don’t you dare touch my social life, oppa.

He laughed. She fake-pouted.

And in that exact moment, he knew they had survived.

Not just physically. But truly.

They had walked through darkness.

And now they moved forward, side by side, like before. Two kids in a world too big, but strong enough together to stand tall.

.................................………………………………………

[mattslutt]

Where the Road Ends - c.sturnuolo

in which: gangsta chris falls for the innocent girl.

The bass of the party’s music thumped through the walls, vibrating beneath your feet. Colored lights flashed wildly, cutting through the smoky, crowded room. You weren’t even sure why you’d come. Your friends had dragged you along, promising a night of fun. But now, lost in a sea of strangers, you felt more alone than ever.

Until you saw him.

Chris Sturniolo stood near the kitchen doorway, laughing with his usual messy group — boys you’d heard rumors about, whispers of trouble and danger. But Chris was different. You didn’t know how you knew that — you just did. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper beneath the smirk he wore.

You tried to ignore him, but it felt like every time you looked away, your gaze was pulled back to him. Until finally, those blue eyes caught yours, and the world seemed to slow.

It started so simply. He’d noticed your uncomfortable fidgeting and had somehow materialized beside you, offering you a drink with that casual confidence that made your heart race. He was charming, making you laugh despite your nerves. And then he’d pulled you outside, away from the chaotic energy, the two of you leaning against the back fence beneath the moonlight.

“Parties aren’t your thing, huh?” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.

You shook your head, hugging yourself against the chilly breeze. “Not really. Too loud. Too many people.”

“I get that,” he admitted, surprising you. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s just pretending. Like they’re all just… empty.”

You stared at him, taken aback by his honesty. “Yeah… exactly.”

From then on, it became a habit. Parties became your meeting places, not because you loved them, but because you knew he’d be there. Sometimes you’d barely speak, just sharing a comfortable silence on a quiet balcony. Other nights, he’d talk — really talk — peeling away that reckless, cocky exterior to reveal the boy beneath.

You learned about his messy group of friends, how they dragged him into their chaos, even though he tried to keep his distance. He never admitted the worst of it directly, but you weren’t naive. The dangerous rumors surrounding Chris weren’t just rumors. But he wasn’t just that darkness — he was kind, surprisingly gentle, and underneath it all, so very lost.

“I hate them sometimes,” he whispered one night, his head resting on your shoulder, his voice rough and tired. “But they’re all I have.”

“You have me,” you whispered back, almost afraid of how true it felt.

And he did. Even though you came from two different worlds — your loving family, your small circle of friends who cared, versus his fractured, chaotic life — you somehow became his safe space. A secret he kept all to himself.

He called you Princess. Gorgeous. Baby. Names that made your heart stutter even though you knew you weren’t his. You weren’t anything. Just two teens, both a little broken, desperate to feel something real.

Your first kiss was an accident — or maybe it wasn’t. One night, when the world felt too heavy for both of you, his lips found yours, soft and searching, tasting like desperation and longing. It was messy, a little too fast, but so honest that it made your chest ache. And when you pulled away, he just rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

But you didn’t care. You never had.

Now, as you sat beside him in the quiet of your room, his head resting in your lap, his breathing slow and steady, you carded your fingers through his hair. The boy who was feared by so many looked so small here, so fragile.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just run away with you,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath.

Your heart ached at the way his voice cracked. “Then let’s go,” you whispered, even though you both knew it wasn’t that simple.

His hand found yours, squeezing tightly, as if afraid you might disappear. “You’re the only thing that feels real, princess. Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t,” you promised, even though the world outside your little bubble seemed determined to pull you both apart.

TIMESKIP TO LATER….

The hum of the engine was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. The dark highway stretched endlessly ahead, the glow of streetlights fading in the rearview mirror. Chris’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles pale against the darkness of the night. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were wild — desperate, almost feverish.

You sat curled up in the passenger seat, your knees pulled to your chest, staring out at the blur of the night. The thrill that had sparked when he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward his car, had long since dulled. Replaced by a growing ache in your chest, a gnawing fear clawing at you.

What were you doing?

Chris’s hand had been so warm when it took yours, his voice urgent, almost pleading. “Let’s just go. I don’t care where. I just… I need to be away. With you.”

And you had followed him. You always did. But now, as the world you knew faded further behind you, your heart twisted painfully.

Chris glanced at you for a split second, catching the way your face was half-buried against your knees, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. His breath hitched.

“Princess?” he whispered, voice rough, uncertainty cracking through the reckless urgency that had driven him this far.

You didn’t answer, and that shattered something inside him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his mind spiraling.

What was he doing? Dragging you away from everything you knew, just because he was desperate — desperate to escape, desperate to keep you close. But now he saw it, your crumpled expression, the regret you were trying so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out suddenly, voice breaking. Without another word, he slammed his foot on the brake, the car skidding slightly on the empty road before he twisted the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn.

“Chris?” you whispered, looking up, confusion and relief swirling in your eyes.

“We’re going back,” he whispered, jaw clenched, a thousand emotions warring in his gaze. “I’m so sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have… I just… I was being so fucking selfish.”

You didn’t know what to say, but when his free hand reached out, shaking slightly, you grabbed it, squeezing tightly. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the rough pad against your soft skin sending a shiver through you.

“I thought… I thought maybe if I got away, if I just had you… I’d finally feel like I wasn’t drowning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But all I did was drag you down with me.”

Tears spilled over your cheeks, but you shook your head, squeezing his hand even tighter. “You didn’t… I just got scared. I— I didn’t know… where we were going, or what we were gonna do. But I wasn’t scared of you.”

Those words seemed to break him. His shoulders sagged, and a trembling breath escaped his lips. “You should be. You should be scared of me, princess. I mess everything up.”

“No, you don’t,” you whispered, leaning closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “You’re just lost. We both are.”

His fingers laced with yours, his touch so warm, grounding you. He didn’t say anything, but you saw it — the way his breathing slowed, the way his grip on the steering wheel softened. The desperation bled out of him, leaving behind just the boy you knew — the boy who was scared, who was hurting, but who, for some reason, always found his way to you.

The lights of your town appeared in the distance, the familiar roads winding beneath the moonlight. Chris’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing gentle, soothing patterns on your skin.

“I won’t make you run away with me again,” he whispered as he pulled up outside your house, the engine’s rumble fading into a quiet hum.

“Maybe one day,” you murmured, your heart aching but steady. “When we’re ready.”

He looked at you then, a soft, broken smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… one day.”

You leaned over, brushing your lips against his cheek, lingering for just a second longer than a simple kiss would allow. His eyes fluttered closed, leaning into your touch.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you whispered.

“Always,” he promised.

And as you slipped out of the car, watching him drive away, you didn’t feel the crushing loneliness you once did. Because you knew he’d be back. He always was.

TIMESKIP TO LATER..

The rain was relentless, pounding against your window, streaking the glass with silver trails. You sat curled up on your bed, the dim glow of your bedside lamp casting soft shadows. The quiet hum of your thoughts was a familiar comfort — a space you retreated to whenever the world felt too loud.

But tonight, it wasn’t enough. Not with the ache in your chest, the empty, gnawing feeling that always seemed to linger whenever Chris wasn’t around. You hadn’t seen him in weeks — not at parties, not around town. No texts, no late-night calls. Silence.

You tried not to spiral, but the fear was always there — the thought that maybe this time, he was gone for good. That maybe his darkness had finally swallowed him whole.

Your phone buzzed, the sudden noise breaking through the quiet. You grabbed it without thinking, heart skipping a beat when his name flashed on the screen.

Chris :

“Outside.”

You didn’t even hesitate. You were on your feet, grabbing your hoodie, rushing down the stairs. The front door swung open, and there he was — soaked to the bone, standing in the downpour, his chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

“Chris?” you breathed, stepping onto the porch, the rain misting your face. “What have you been and what are you—”

“I can’t do it anymore,” he cut you off, voice rough, eyes wide and desperate. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. I can’t keep running away. I can’t keep—”

“Chris—”

“I can’t keep losing you,” he whispered, and suddenly, he was on the porch, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. “I thought I could just keep you on the edges of my life, like some… some escape. But you’re not an escape. You’re the only real thing I’ve ever had.”

Your breath caught, his words crashing over you like the rain. “You don’t have to lose me,” you whispered, your own voice cracking. “I’m right here.”

“But for how long?” he asked, and you saw it — the fear, the raw vulnerability in his eyes. “I keep dragging you down. I keep pulling you into my mess, and one day, you’re gonna realize you deserve better.”

“Don’t you dare decide that for me,” you snapped, grabbing his wrists, grounding him. “Don’t you dare.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his lips crashed against yours, desperate and aching, his hands slipping to your waist, pulling you closer. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in his wet hair, the cold rain forgotten in the warmth of his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I love you,” he whispered, the words tumbling out like a confession, like a plea. “I’m so in love with you, and I’m so fucking scared.”

“I love you too, Chris,” you whispered, a soft, teary laugh escaping. “I’m scared too. But I’m not leaving.”

He let out a shaky breath, a mix of relief and disbelief. His arms tightened around you, his face burying in the crook of your neck. “I won’t run away. I swear. Not anymore. Not without you.”

And you believed him.

Because in the rain, with his arms around you and his heart laid bare, his desperate but sweet mouth on yours and you knew — this wasn’t just another escape. This was something real.

This was where the running stopped.

A/N: we love gangsta chris, anyway, hope yall enjoy this :))) this is something very different that im not used to writing so i hope yall like it.

[colouredbyd]

The Nightingale II: Victor’s Mask

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: Regulus and his childhood love are torn apart by years of betrayal and silence, each carrying the weight of unspoken pain. In their reunion, guilt and heartbreak consume them as Regulus realizes he failed to protect her, his promises shattered.

warnings: emotionally intense themes, scenes of crying, trauma, survivor’s guilt, and the weight of abandonment. hurt and comfort

word count: 7.4k ( i need a fucking lobotomy)

authors note: my back broke writing this but omg thiss was an emotional rollercoaster HOLYY FUCKK, anyways i hope u love it and if u wanna be added to the taglist just leave a comment🌷💖

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They gave me three minutes.

Three minutes. That’s all they give us. Three minutes to say goodbye to everything I’ve ever known. To the crooked streets that raised me. To the voices that kept me breathing on nights I didn’t want to. To the only home I’ve ever had, even if it’s always been splintered and aching. Three minutes to wear a brave face I don’t believe in, to lie through my teeth and pretend I’m not already unraveling.

The door closes behind me with a finality that splits the air. And then the silence crashes in—deafening, suffocating—like a scream caught somewhere deep in my chest, one I’ll never get the chance to release.

Mary reaches me first. She slams into me so fast I nearly lose my footing. Her arms wrap around my ribs like iron bands, like she’s trying to hold me in place, to keep me from being torn away. Her sobs shake through both of us, hot and wild, and I bury my face in her shoulder because if I look at her, I’ll fall apart.

“No,” she whispers, over and over again, like a broken hymn. “No, no, no. Not you. It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

I hold her tighter. I don’t trust my voice, don’t recognize the way it sounds when I finally force the words out. “It’s okay.” It isn’t. “It’s not, but… just pretend it is. Please.”

She leans back just far enough to see my face, and her eyes are raw, rimmed in red. Her lip trembles as she tries to speak, but when she does, her voice is fierce through the heartbreak. “You don’t deserve this. You’re soft. You’re kind. You keep people alive with your voice. You sing when the world can’t even speak. This shouldn’t be your ending.”

I have nothing to give her. No comfort. No answer. So I press our foreheads together like we used to when we were little and scared and hoping the stars would listen. It’s a small thing, fragile and familiar. A borrowed kind of peace.

“I’ll scream for you,” she says, and her voice is fierce now, like fire catching. “Every night. I’ll scream so loud the stars hear me.”

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t waste your voice on something already lost.”

And then she’s gone. Or maybe I’m the one slipping away.

Pandora steps forward next. Quiet, trembling. Her eyes are wide, distant, filled with something brittle and breaking. She doesn’t cry—not yet—but I can see it in the way she moves, careful and slow, like the wrong breath might shatter her.

She reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The softness of it is what destroys me. Not the noise. Not the grief. The tenderness.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her, barely able to get the words out. “Just stay. That’s enough.”

But she speaks anyway, her voice cracking like thin ice beneath a heavy weight. “I wish it was me. I’d go. In a second. If it meant you didn’t have to.”

My head shakes before I even know I’m doing it. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Her hand finds mine, cold and small, and for a heartbeat that stretches far too long, the three of us just stand there—fused together in the center of the storm, tangled in a silence thick with everything we’ll never have time to say. Grief blooms between us, wide and all-consuming. Too big for the room. Too big for the world.

And still, we hold on. Because that’s all we can do.

Then I hear her—my mother.

She’s humming.

The tune is broken and slow and out of time, like a lullaby she’s forgotten the words to. She drifts into the room like a ghost, arms slightly outstretched, eyes distant but fixed on me. Her hair’s coming undone. She hasn’t looked like herself since my father was killed. Since they dragged him out in the night and called him a traitor and left us behind to rot.

She blinks like she’s seeing me for the first time in years. I don’t know whether to cry or run. But she reaches for me, and I let her pull me into her arms.

“Sing for them,” she whispers, brushing her lips to my temple. “Just like you used to sing for me.”

I can’t hold it in anymore.

The dam inside me shatters without warning, and I collapse into her arms with a sob that rips through my throat like it’s been waiting years to be heard. I bury my face in her neck, her hair, her heartbeat, clinging to the only thing left that feels remotely like safety. Like home. I cry for everything—for the girl I used to be, for the childhood they stole, for the promise she once whispered when the world was still soft.

“You’ll never have to see the Capitol,” she told me once, tucking me into bed with lullabies and lantern ight. “Not with your own eyes.”

Now I’m being offered up like a lamb, gift-wrapped in sorrow.

But she holds me. She holds me like she remembers. Like somewhere inside the grief and the panic and the aching bones, the woman who raised me still exists. Still knows me. Her arms don’t tremble. They anchor. They remind.

A knock on the door.

Sharp. Final. A sound like a sentence being read aloud.

Time’s up.

The door creaks open and a Peacekeeper steps inside, uniform pressed, face blank, voice colder than death. “It’s time.” Two words. That’s all they give me.

I pull away slowly, like tearing fabric. Every inch of distance feels like something sacred unraveling. Like losing a limb. Mary’s fingers are the last to let go, slipping from mine like falling leaves. I don’t look back. I know if I do, I won’t be able to leave at all.

I turn. And I’m already shaking.

The Justice Building is colder than I remember.

Not just the kind of cold that clings to your skin—but the kind that sinks into your bones. That finds the softest parts of you and freezes them solid. The marble walls gleam too perfectly, polished until they shine like something holy, but it doesn’t fool me. I know what they’re hiding. I know what’s seeped into the stone over the years—blood, screams, last goodbyes swallowed by silence.

I sit still. Or I try to.

But my hands won’t stop trembling in my lap. They won’t stop remembering. Mary’s voice, sharp and shattering, breaking like glass when they said my name. Pandora’s arms, wrapped so tightly around me I couldn’t breathe, refusing to let go as if holding on could stop the tide. And my mother, knees in the dirt, her cracked whisper looping like a broken lullaby as the Peacekeepers dragged me away. He’s just asleep. He’ll come back. He promised.

The door opens with a soft click that still manages to feel like thunder. And then she enters.

Marlene McKinnon.

Capitol escort.

She walks in like she owns the sky, like she has never been told no in her life. Her honey-blonde curls are pinned to perfection, a crown that glows under the dim lights. Her dress shimmers in the colors of bruised twilight, plum and gold threaded together like a storm caught mid-scream. Every click of her heels is a countdown, measured and merciless. She smiles, but it is the kind of smile you wear to a funeral when the cameras are watching. Her voice follows, smooth and slow like silk dipped in poison.

"Darling," she purrs, stepping toward me as if approaching something fragile and afraid. "You must be our star."

I say nothing. I can’t. My voice slipped away somewhere between the platform and the train, curled into the hem of my mother’s dress and stayed behind.

Marlene tilts her head like she’s trying to decipher whether I’ll break beautifully or disappointingly. Her gaze glides over me, sharp and assessing, and then softens into something almost admiring. Or maybe it’s hunger. I can never tell with Capitol people.

"Pretty," she hums. "Tragic. District Seven always gives us the most beautiful tragedies."

She reaches out, slow and theatrical, and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. It is a gesture meant to soothe, but it feels like branding. Like I belong to her now.

"You’ll do well, sweet girl," she says, her voice low and pleased. "The Capitol loves a little poetry."

I don't respond. My stomach turns. I am a song she is already rewriting.

Before I can gather myself enough to speak, the door opens again. And he walks in.

James Potter.

He is the last person I expect to see, and yet he fills the room like he was always meant to. I’ve seen him on television more times than I can count. Loud, fast, brilliant in that way that makes people look twice. The boy who laughs at danger and grins like the world should keep up. His hair is a mess of storms. His eyes, wildfire.

He never looked at me. Not really. Not until now.

He stops in the doorway as if the air has thickened. And then his eyes meet mine, and the bravado slips for just a second. Something flickers there. I don’t know what it is. Recognition, maybe. Maybe guilt. Or maybe he just hates what this place does to people.

His jaw clenches. His shoulders go rigid.

"Shit," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Of all the people..."

I want to ask what that means. I want to ask if he remembers me. If he knows I should have died in the arena five years ago. But the words knot themselves in my throat.

Marlene’s voice slices through the silence. "And here’s our charming young hero."

James lets out a dry laugh. "If I’m a hero, we’re all screwed."

She waves her hand, breezy and unconcerned. "Sit. Sit. We’ve got a thousand things to do, and no time to do them if you two insist on brooding."

He sinks into the chair beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel his attention like pressure against my skin. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just breathes like he’s trying to steady himself.

Then, softly, "What’s your name?"

"You know my name."

He nods, not looking away. "Yeah. I do. But I wanted to hear you say it."

I turn to face him. His eyes aren’t warm. They aren’t kind. But they aren’t fake. And after everything, I don’t know what to do with something that feels that real.

"I’m not going to die in there," I say, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze sharpens like the flint of a promise. "Good. Then don’t."

Marlene claps her hands, too loud and too delighted. "Perfect. Just perfect. Beautiful girl with ghosts in her eyes. Brooding boy with a chip on his shoulder. You two are going to be Capitol darlings."

She means it like a blessing. It feels like a curse.

James leans back in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest. His voice drops.

"I’m nobody’s darling."

And for the first time since the Reaping, I almost laugh. Not because anything is funny, but because I want to remember what it feels like to be alive.

But I don’t laugh.

Because I know what’s coming.

And it will not be kind.

The train glides into the Capitol like a blade through silk. I don’t move from the window. My breath fogs the glass as the city rises—no, erupts—before us. A fever dream stitched together from shards of gold and chrome and cruelty. Every surface gleams like it’s daring you to blink. Towers spiral like broken spines into a burning sky, red and gold bleeding together as if the horizon itself has caught fire.

I should look away. But I don’t.

The platform below is crawling with people who’ve twisted themselves into something inhuman. They glitter and glint and move like dolls wound too tight, their faces painted into expressions that don’t feel real. A woman blinks and glitter falls from her lashes. Another wears needles in her braid. They clap and cheer and whistle—not for us, but for the story they think they’re watching. We’re not people. We’re the performance. The slaughter, neatly gift-wrapped in silk and steel.

The doors hiss open. The air is heavy with perfume—sweet, cloying, with an undertone of something rotting underneath. I step down, the ground tilting under me, and might have fallen if James hadn’t caught me by the elbow. He says nothing, but his grip is steady. His jaw is tight. He feels it too.

The dining car hums with warmth, the kind that clings to the Capitol like perfume, artificial and overindulgent, too much of everything. Across from me sits James Potter, jacket shed, sleeves rolled up like he’s trying to pretend we’re still home. As if fabric and posture could stitch us back into the lives we lost. His eyes flick toward me, then away again. Over and over. Like he’s trying to figure out how I’m still breathing. Like he wants to ask but already knows there’s no answer that won’t ruin us both.

The silence is louder than the train. It pulses under my skin, tugging at my fingertips, making them twitch with memory. It’s the kind of silence that only comes after goodbye. The kind that echoes.

Then the door opens.

And in walks Marlene McKinnon, like she invented the sun and decided to wear it.

She’s wrapped in sapphire silk that spills over her frame like water, laced with golden threads that catch the light and dare it to look away. Her heels strike the floor with the kind of certainty that cannot be taught. Her lips are blood-red. Her eyeliner is so sharp it could draw blood. She wears herself like a weapon, a crown, and a dare all at once. A girl forced into royalty who chose to play queen anyway.

“Ah,” she says, voice soft as a clap, “my lovely little tributes.”

There’s Capitol polish to her tone, but it’s not cruel. Not yet. James doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll. I say nothing. My hands are folded tight in my lap, knuckles aching from the strain. I can’t afford to be soft.

Marlene’s gaze flicks between us, her smile sharp and tired. “I know,” she says, threading her fingers through her curls. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it? One minute you’re counting bread and chopping wood, and the next…” She flicks her wrist, and the rings on her fingers glint like small stars. “Bam. Welcome to the big leagues.”

James mutters, “You said it. Not us.”

She laughs then, a short, broken sound like a bell cracked down the middle. “Touché, sweetheart.”

She slides into the seat beside us, crossing her legs with elegance that has been rehearsed to the point of muscle memory. She smells like roses and something sharper beneath, like rust or blood or the taste of fear when you’ve bitten your tongue too hard.

“You’ll be meeting your mentor soon,” Marlene says after a beat, voice quieter now, edged with something brittle and unraveling beneath all the Capitol polish.

We both look up.

James glances up. “What’s he like?”

And for the first time, something fractures in her carefully painted expression. Her hand rises to her pinky, twisting a thin gold ring around it like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this moment. Her voice lowers. The words drop like stones.

“He’s not the nurturing type.”

James raises an eyebrow. “So a real ray of sunshine, then.”

“He doesn’t watch the reapings,” she says flatly. “He avoids his tributes. Refuses to learn their names. Doesn’t train them. Doesn’t speak to them. Doesn’t save them.”

The air in the car changes. Like someone’s drawn the curtains and let the storm inside. Like we’re all drowning now, slowly, beautifully.

James straightens. Just slightly. His shoulders tense the way a tree might bend before lightning strikes.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

There is something new in his voice. Not fear. Not yet. But suspicion, cracking through the bravado.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink. She just looks at him. Like someone who has watched too many people walk into fires thinking they were invincible.

“It means,” she says, carefully, “you’d better hope the odds are extra in your favor. Hope the sponsors take pity. Hope the audience likes your face.”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Her voice never rises. It doesn’t need to.

“Because some victors mentor for the attention, for the cameras, and the glory. Some for the paycheck, for the Capitol parties, and for the illusion that they matter.”

She pauses to let the silence crackle.

“And some,” she adds, quieter now, “don’t even notice they’ve been assigned. They’re too far gone. Drunk. Sedated. Hollowed out.”

Her eyes move.

And then they find me.

The quiet that follows isn’t stillness. It’s pressure. Something thick and invisible and pressing down on the bones.

“And some,” she says, her voice dropping to a hush, “don’t care if the children they mentor live, or die screaming.”

Everything inside me stills.

Not in fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

It isn’t a chill. It’s a return. An ache I buried and forgot to mourn. It is letters that stopped arriving. Stars that stopped being carved into soft bark. A voice that used to murmur always beneath the dark canopy of pine, now replaced by silence so total it echoes.

I know what absence tastes like. I know what it means when forever means until the cameras come. Until the Capitol gives you a crown made of blood and demands that you wear it smiling.

Because if it’s him—if it’s really him—then I already know.

I already know what it means to be abandoned.

James shifts beside me, frowning. He hears it too, the truth under her words. But he hasn’t put the pieces together. Not yet.

“Who is it?” he asks.

Marlene smiles, but it is not a smile.

It is a wound shaped like a promise. Something sharp wearing the mask of sweetness. It curves at the edges like she’s amused, like she’s been waiting for the reveal, like this is the part of the story she always loves best.

“You’ll see soon enough,” she says.

And in my chest, something quiet begins to unravel. Then she rises—smooth and unbothered. Fixes the fall of her dress like it matters. Glides to the front of the car in a whisper of silk and perfume and something heavy and unsaid.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And the silence she leaves in her wake is deafening. Not empty, not peaceful—just loud in a way only grief can be. Like something once living has been removed from the room, and the absence aches louder than a scream. It thrums beneath my skin, crawls up my throat. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sickness blooming.

James exhales beside me, slow and jagged, like the air is thinner here. Like he’s just now realizing we’re breathing something poisoned.

“You think she’s just trying to scare us?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s tension in it, a sharpness trying to hide behind casual curiosity. He wants to laugh it off. Wants to shrug and say it’s all Capitol theatre. But I hear the edge.

I don’t answer right away, because Marlene’s voice is still ringing in my ears. Cold. Clear. Final.

Some don’t care what happens to the kids.

And I remember.

I remember the boy who stopped writing before I could beg him not to. The letters that once smelled faintly of pine, always folded with care, slowly turning into silence. I remember the boy who carved stars into the bark of our secret tree and swore they were mine. Swore he’d never leave. Swore he’d find a way back. And then he didn’t.

I remember the boy who kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my soul. The boy who whispered my name like it meant sanctuary. And then disappeared like something forbidden. Like something holy that should never have touched something like me.

I remember the shadows that loved him before I did. The way they clung to him. The way they claimed him. Long before the Capitol ever did. He was always fading, always slipping through my fingers like smoke I tried to hold.

If it’s him.

If it’s Regulus Black.

Then this isn’t just the Hunger Games.

This is something ancient. A reckoning stitched into the stars. A punishment the universe has been holding back, waiting for the perfect moment to let loose. This is my name echoing through time, not as a tribute, but as a ghost he thought he left behind.

This is the wound I never got to stitch. The one I hid beneath music and performance and practiced smiles. This is every unfinished goodbye coming back with claws. Every whispered promise cracking open like a rib.

I close my eyes, and there’s ash on my tongue. The taste of endings. The taste of betrayal. The taste of a boy who used to be my whole world and now might be the one who watches me die.

“No,” I whisper finally, my voice so low it almost doesn’t belong to me. “I think she’s warning us.”

James goes quiet beside me. For once, he doesn’t have a joke. Doesn’t press for more.

And I don’t explain. Because if he knew—if he really knew—he’d understand that this isn’t about sponsors or scores or surviving the arena.

This is about the boy who made me believe the stars were mine, and then left me to burn alone in their light.

When we arrive, the Training Center towers over us like a grave marker. All glass and steel and too much light. It reflects our own faces back at us—fragile, doomed, terrified. Inside, the floors gleam and the air smells like metal and bleach, like they’re trying to erase all the blood spilled here over the years.

A Peacekeeper leads us down a hall, stopping at a silver door at the end. “Your mentor is inside.”

James doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the handle. But I freeze. Every nerve in my body tightens. Something in me is screaming—something that’s known the shape of this moment for years.

The door creaks open.

The world on the other side isn’t loud. It doesn’t roar or scream. It exhales. A breath held too long, let out too slow. The hallway behind us disappears like a memory as we step into the dim, circular room, and all the noise in my head—the train, the Capitol, Marlene’s voice—all of it falls away.

It’s quiet in here. Not peaceful. The kind of quiet that follows violence, when the blood has already dried and the echo of screaming still lingers in the walls. The floor is scuffed and scored, marked with the ghosts of training sessions that ended in bruises, breaks, or worse. Straw dummies lie in tatters near the far wall, their insides spilling out like something once human. Targets line the perimeter, each one punctured over and over again, scarred with precision.

This is a place designed to kill the softness in children. A place where they’re sculpted into something sharp enough to survive.

James shifts beside me, his footsteps hesitant. Even he, all fire and fury, feels the weight in the air. It's thick with memory. With expectation. With dread.

And at the very center of it all, standing alone beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, is someone.

A figure. Still. Silent. Back turned.

He’s dressed in Capitol black—sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, collar buttoned to the throat. His posture is too careful to be relaxed, too precise to be casual. He stands like someone who has learned not to flinch, not to hope. Like someone who has made a habit of bracing for pain.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. And still—I know.

Not a guess, not a maybe. It’s the kind of knowing that doesn’t whisper or knock, it doesn’t wait for me to catch up. It crashes into me, fierce and unforgiving, like a memory I spent too long trying to bury. The kind of knowing that lives in your bones, that aches behind your ribs, that haunts the quiet parts of you. It’s the weight of years pressing down at once—years of silence, of unanswered letters, of dreams that ended before they began. It’s every night I stayed awake wondering what I did wrong, what he meant by forever, and why he never came back to prove it.

He’s alone in the space, framed by shadow and fluorescent flickers, posture held with the kind of precision you only learn from fear or war. His arms hang stiff at his sides, not relaxed—braced. Every inch of him is poised like a wire pulled taut, like one wrong breath might snap something buried deep.

There’s a rhythm in him that hasn’t changed, something so deeply etched into my memory I couldn’t forget it if I tried. The way his weight settles on the balls of his feet. The way his shoulders slope like he’s always carrying something unseen. The way he stands like the world might hurt him if he lets it close enough.

It’s him.

Even if the Capitol has tried to scrub the boy I loved out of him—this is still Regulus Black.

He’s taller now. Sharper. Haunted. His hair’s shorter, neat in a way that feels wrong, too clean for someone who once smelled like pinewood and campfire smoke. But the ghost of him is here, stitched into the shape of the man standing before me.

Even after all this time, my body remembers what my mind tried to forget.And now, here he is. Standing just a few feet away, close enough to touch, and yet impossibly distant.

Regulus Black.

I can’t breathe.

Marlene’s heels snap against the floor like a gunshot, pulling me back to the moment. She steps forward, face carefully composed, though there’s something too sharp in her eyes.

“Black,” she says, and her voice is colder now, like even she knows what’s about to happen. “Your tributes are here.”

He doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t even blink.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s even heard her—if this is all just some cruel trick, a Capitol performance, a silent punishment stitched together to humiliate us. But then his voice cuts through the room like a wire pulled too tight, and suddenly, there's no air left in my lungs.

It’s not the voice I remember.

It’s deeper now, carved hollow, stripped of softness like someone reached into him and scooped out all the warmth, leaving only the shell behind. A shell that sounds like Regulus, shaped like him, but missing every piece that once made him human.

“I don’t care who they are.”

The words punch the breath from my lungs.

“I don’t care where they’re from, what they’ve lost, or who they’ll leave behind.”

Each sentence is slower than the last. More deliberate. Like he’s not just speaking—he’s severing. One word at a time.

“I don’t care how you die. Fast, slow, screaming or silent—it doesn’t matter.”

My fingers curl into fists, but I can’t feel them.

“I don’t want to know your names, I won’t remember your faces, don’t waste your breath trying to make me care.”

My body goes still. My mind follows. Because I think—some fragile part of me still thought maybe. Maybe he would look at me and flinch. Maybe he would hesitate. Maybe some small flicker of the boy I loved would crawl out of that Capitol-polished armor and whisper that this wasn’t who he wanted to be.

But there’s nothing. Not a pause. Not a tremble.

Just that voice, steady and ruined.

“Don’t ask me to pretend. I’m not your hero. I’m not your comfort. I’m not here to save anyone.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment something inside me rips loose.

Not in a burst—not in the kind of way that makes noise—but like thread slipping from a needle. Quiet. Slow. Final. A pain that doesn’t bleed but leaves behind a hollow where something soft used to live.

And now here he is. Saying he doesn’t care if I die. Saying he doesn’t care who I am.Saying  life means nothing.

But I remember. I remember every look, every laugh, every promise he made with shaking hands. I remember the stars. I remember the kiss he never should’ve given me, and the goodbye he never said.

I remember enough for both of us.

So maybe he doesn’t care.

But I do.

God, I do.

And that might be the cruelest thing of all.

I don’t wait. I can’t.

The moment his voice fades — sharp and final, like the slam of a cell door — I leave. I move before I even realize I’m moving, as if my body has already made the decision my mind is too splintered to face. I slip past James, who flinches like he wants to reach out, like his voice is caught in his throat and strangled by something heavier than air. Past Marlene’s warning glance, sharp and gleaming, slicing across the space between us like a blade she’s too practiced with. Past the weight of everything we haven’t said, the things we should have screamed, the silence that hangs between us like a noose.

My legs don’t ask if I’m ready, they don’t care if I come undone in the process. They just carry me forward — steady in pace, but shaking beneath the skin like I’m stitched together with thread drawn too tight, like one wrong step will unravel everything.

I don’t stop. Not when the doors hiss closed behind me. Not when the world becomes blur and breath and noise with no name. Not until I’m alone.

Until the echo of his voice no longer bounces off the marble. Until the scent of him — that Capitol musk of static and smoke and something sweet that’s already rotting — stops clinging to the air like a ghost I can’t shake.

Only then do I collapse. Not dramatically, not like the heroines in Capitol cinema reels. Just enough to fold into the wall, to press my shoulder against something cold and real. Just enough to feel the stone bite through the silk and remind me that I’m still solid, even if everything inside me is slipping like dust through a crack in the floor.

They find me, of course, they always do.

Color and glitter and too-bright teeth, with perfume that clings like poison. They descend like a flock of doves carved from razors, cooing with voices soaked in syrup and steel. I don’t fight them. I don’t speak. I don’t even blink. I just let them touch me, reshape me, peel me open like I was made for their hands, like I was never mine to begin with.

They treat me like glass, but not in the delicate sense. Not fragile — no, not that. They treat me like I’m meant to be broken. Like it’s the point. They scrub me down, dip me in rosewater until my skin reeks of a garden I was never allowed to belong to. They file and bleach and measure. They talk about my waist, my legs, the lines of my collarbones, as if I’m not there, as if I’m nothing but a thing to be altered and offered up.

They dress me in purple — not the kind that blooms in spring, not the kind that lives in twilight skies. No. This purple is bruised and blooming with silence. A shade so deep it almost swallows the light. It hangs off my shoulders like a second skin, threaded with stars. Tiny constellations stitched in silver, glinting like prayers in a sky no one can reach. The fabric clings, soft as smoke, sharp as memory. The neckline grazes my collarbone. The sleeves drift down my arms like spilled ink.

They pin a star into my hair. Just above my left ear. And they call me “The Nightingale.”

I don’t smile. I don’t flinch.

My stylist is Lily Evans, she is nothing like the others.

She’s quiet — not with the silence that comes from fear, but the kind that feels deliberate, chosen, sacred. She moves slowly, carefully, like she’s touching something already half-ruined and doesn’t want to break it further. She doesn’t speak unless she needs to, just nods or hums or murmurs when something fits right. She handles my wrist with the same care someone might give a match in the wind.

There’s grief behind her eyes. Not pity — She would never pity me. But old, folded grief. The kind that’s been pressed flat and carried too long. The kind that no longer begs for release but waits for the right moment to burn.

“You don’t have to be loud to be seen,” She says as she fastens a silver cuff around my wrist. Her hands are warm. “They’ll see you. Even if you never say a word.”

I nod, because my voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.

Then the lights come.

They are cruel and cold and blinding. The stage hums under my feet with some mechanical heart I can’t see. Everything around me is too loud and too quiet, the air thick with expectation and hunger. The crowd pulses, restless. The cameras slither like serpents on mechanical limbs, all of them stretching toward us like they can smell blood already. Every lens is an eye. Every eye is a mouth. Every mouth is waiting to devour.

The host stands at the center, tall and sharp, dressed in black that gleams like oil. His mouth is a blade. His name is Severus Snape — the Capitol’s favorite storm. He speaks in a voice that feels ancient and poisonous, every word perfectly carved. Even when the crowd cheers, he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

“Welcome,” he says, smooth as spilled ink. “To a night of introductions. A glimpse into the lives of those who may not survive the week.”

The audience laughs. I don’t.

“And now,” he says, with a curl of his lips that isn’t quite a smile, “let us welcome a familiar face. The youngest Victor in Capitol history. The boy who made blood look poetic. Your mentor from District Seven… Regulus Black!”

The lights shift.

And he walks onto the stage like he was born in shadow.

He wears black, always black — no color, no warmth. His jacket is sharp enough to cut. His boots make no sound. He moves like fog trapped in crystal. The crowd explodes. They adore him. They worship his silence, his cruelty, his carved-out sorrow.

He raises his hand once — the perfect gesture. Just enough. Capitol-trained. Emotionless.

I know the shape of that mask. I watched him build it with bleeding fingers and shaking breath. I watched him craft it over the boy who used to trace the stars on my wrist and whisper stories only we knew. The boy who once called me “Starling” like it meant something holy.

Then Snape speaks again.

“And now, our male tribute from District Seven. Please welcome… James Potter!”

James emerges like he was born for this. He smiles, runs a hand through his curls, and lets his jacket catch the light like it’s part of his heartbeat. The crowd laughs, swept into his orbit. He bows low and wide. A showman’s charm. A warrior’s grace. And for just a second, just one heartbeat, I forget why we’re here.

Then the silence returns.

Snape raises his hand.

“And finally…”

I know before he speaks. My body knows, my heart collapses inward like it’s been waiting for the blow.

“Our female tribute from District Seven… Y/N  Y/L/N!”

It doesn’t sound like a name. It sounds like a sentence. It sounds like steel.

And I see it — everything — all at once.

Regulus stills

Not in the way the Capitol adores, not with the glimmer of stage light on gold and victory, not with the polished pause of someone soaking in their applause. No, this stillness is the kind that doesn’t belong here, the kind born of something breaking. It’s sharp and sudden, humming beneath his skin like a pulled wire about to snap, too tense, too still, too quiet to be mistaken for anything other than what it is—fear

It begins in the smallest ways. A twitch in his jaw, a barely-there shift in the set of his shoulders, a breath caught too high in his chest. His arm, raised in a practiced salute, falters mid-air like it’s forgotten its purpose. The smile on his lips lingers a moment too long, then wilts at the corners, slipping away like melting wax. The crowd doesn’t notice at first, too busy clapping, cheering, basking in the glittering illusion of their perfect boy—but I do. I see it all. I see him

His eyes move—not toward the lights or the endless rows of glittering faces, not toward the cameras that hover like insects—but toward the wings of the stage, toward the shadows, toward where I’m standing, silent and still and shaking just beneath the surface

And then

He sees me.

His gaze doesn’t just land on mine, it sinks. It finds me, like it was always meant to. Like some invisible thread between us has pulled tight for the first time in years and neither of us can look away. For a breath, we exist nowhere else. Not in the Capitol, not on a screen, not in a nightmare painted to look like a dream. Just here. Just him. Just me

And that’s when he begins to fall

His hand drops first—not carefully, not with that Capitol grace they taught him, but like something heavy has torn it from the air. It falls too fast, too sudden, too human. The movement slices through the performance like a blade through silk. The crowd begins to quiet, uncertain now, shifting in their seats as if they can sense something sacred is being unraveled before their eyes

His chest rises like he’s gasping for air in a place where none exists, like his lungs have only just remembered how to move and now it hurts. There’s a tremble to it, barely visible unless you know what to look for. But I do. I always have. His frame leans forward slightly, just enough to make one of the handlers shift uneasily, ready to step in

His mouth opens like a wound. His lips part, shaping a name he doesn’t say—but I know. I know. It’s my name he’s reaching for in the silence. It’s me he’s trying to speak into a place that has no room for the truth. His voice doesn’t come, but it doesn’t have to. His face says everything. His eyes, wide and horrified, already speak in a language only I remember

And then the moment is stolen

The screen glitches—only for a breath, a flicker of static that dances across his face. The Capitol reacts fast, always fast, slicing clean through the feed like it was a mistake that never happened. The image reappears, seamless and polished, his expression replaced with a safer version, something empty, something usable

Music floods the room. Manufactured warmth replaces the cold reality. But it’s too late. Everyone saw

And worse than that—they felt it

The crowd shifts, unsettled now. Conversations still, laughter dries out like ash. No one knows what to do with what just happened. No one wants to name it. They pretend not to notice, pretend the illusion is still intact, but it hangs in the air between them like a bruise

Because they saw the crack

And in a place like this, where everything is built on silence and spectacle, a crack is dangerous. A crack is a promise that something deeper is waiting beneath the surface, something hungry and sharp and true

He shattered in front of them

And they’re too afraid to admit it

Because here, silence is a god

And when someone dares to break it, the world forgets how to breathe

And everyone remembers what it means to bleed

The lights haven’t even cooled, the cheers still echo faintly through the walls like ghosts of a show gone wrong, when Marlene storms in, heels hitting tile like gunshots, sharp and unforgiving. Her dress ripples behind her like a warning. Her face is a painting cracked straight through the middle—flawless on the surface, but fury bleeding through the lines

“What the hell was that?” she demands, voice slicing through the room like broken glass. “You nearly exposed everything—do you have any idea what they’ll do if—”

“Get out.” Regulus says

Quietly, at first

Marlene blinks, lips still parted, caught mid-rant. “Excuse me?”

He turns to face her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like every movement costs him something. The shadows catch in the hollows of his face, in the sharp line of his jaw, in the haunted dark of his eyes

“I said out!” he repeats

No longer quiet

Not polished or practiced. Not the voice the Capitol put in his mouth. This one is older. Deeper. Unforgiving. It sounds like thunder clawing its way through stormclouds. Like something ancient waking up inside him

Marlene straightens, something in her spine pulling taut like she’s trying not to flinch. “No one’s leaving until we—”

“Now.” he says, and this time the word hits like the crack of a whip

There’s something in it. Not just anger. Not just exhaustion. Something final. Something cold. The kind of tone that stops people from breathing, the kind of tone that knows exactly what power sounds like when it stops pretending to be polite

The room stills

One by one, they scatter. The stylists vanish without a sound, like petals pulled from a dying flower. James opens his mouth, a protest already blooming on his tongue, but someone grabs his arm and he’s gone too, dragged out before he can even say my name

And then it’s just us

The silence that follows is too large for the room. It settles over everything, thick as smoke, curling into the cracks, pressing into the spaces where words used to live.

Regulus turns fully this time. Not the mentor. Not the Victor. Just him. Just the boy I knew. His eyes land on me and it’s like he’s seeing something he thought the world had burned away.

His eyes find me, and everything he’s built to survive collapses. The Capitol polish fades. The armor cracks. His face drains of color. His lips part, barely breathing, and for a second, I think he might shatter from the inside out.

His legs buckle beneath him, as if his body can no longer bear the weight of this moment, as if his bones are finally acknowledging what his heart has known all along. He crumples to the floor, not with grace, not with restraint—but with the brutal honesty of someone unraveling. There is no performance in the way he falls. Only broken instinct.

“No,” he breathes, the word cracking as it leaves his mouth. “No, no, no…”

His voice is fragile, but it keeps breaking like a wave refusing to die. He crawls toward me on his hands and knees, not caring about the eyes watching, the silence hanging above us like a blade. His hands hover, shaking mid-air, as though I’m something sacred. Like if he touches me, I’ll vanish into smoke. Like I can’t possibly be real.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice disbelieving and raw. “You’re not—” It splinters. “They told me you were safe. They swore they’d never touch you.”

“I’m here,” I breathe, my voice almost too soft to hear, and I can barely stay standing. “I’m really here.”

His hands twitch, aching to close the distance between us, but they falter. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Not while he’s still convincing himself I exist.

“I didn’t watch, star.” he confesses, and the words feel torn from him, his eyes wide, burning, begging for forgiveness I haven’t yet offered. “I stopped watching the Reapings. I couldn’t bear it. I thought—if I didn’t look, it wouldn’t happen. I thought I’d saved you.”

“You didn’t know,” I say, but the words are a blade in my throat. They taste like metal. They taste like lies.

“I should’ve known,” he says, his voice crumbling into sobs. “I should’ve felt it the moment they said your name. I gave them everything. My silence. My smile. My soul. I let them carve pieces out of me until I didn’t recognize myself. I thought if I became theirs, if I let them make me a puppet, they’d forget you ever existed.”

“You left,” I whisper. The words fall like ash, soft but final. “You promised you’d come back.”

His hands are trembling again, caught between motion and stillness, suspended inches from my skin. “I left so you wouldn’t have to be part of this,” he says, his voice low and breaking. “I left so you’d never be in a room like this. With cameras and weapons. With strangers deciding if your blood is worth spilling.”

He looks at me as if he’s memorizing everything he forgot. His eyes trace my features like they’re trying to count the years we lost—like he’s scared each blink might erase me again.

“I thought if I played their game—if I smiled when they asked, bled when they demanded, performed like a good little ghost—I could make them forget about you. I thought my silence could shield you.”

“It didn’t,” I say. And it hurts to say it. “You disappeared. And they came for me anyway.”

He doesn’t argue. He can’t. His face caves inward, like something in him has cracked so deeply it can’t be stitched back together.

“I thought you hated me,” I whisper, unable to stop the truth now that it’s out. “I thought you forgot.”

He shakes his head with a desperation that borders on grief. “I never hated you,” he says, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting years. “I hated myself. For leaving. For living. I remembered you every single night. I whispered your name into pillows I didn’t deserve. I carved stars into the walls when I couldn’t sleep. I prayed the Capitol would forget you.”

His tears fall silently, cutting down his face like glass. “But they didn’t. And I was too much of a coward to look.”

Then, finally, his hand lands on mine. It’s cold. Unsteady. Reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve under his fingers. “Say something,” he whispers. “Please. Tell me you don’t hate me. Tell me I didn’t lose you completely.”

I’m crying too hard to answer. But I reach forward. I guide his trembling hand and press his palm to my chest, over my heartbeat.

“You left,” I say, my voice shaking, “but I never let go. Not really.”

He breaks. Not in the quiet way he did before—but completely. His sobs come without warning, deep and strangled, as if every scream he’s swallowed over five years is finally ripping its way out. His arms wrap around me, desperate and tight, and he pulls me against him like he’s terrified I’ll be stolen all over again.

In his embrace, we are no longer mentor and tribute. No longer Victor and girl destined to die.

We are just two broken people who once made a promise beneath the stars.

“I would’ve burned the Capitol to the ground, little bird.” he breathes into my hair, voice scorched with agony. “If I had known. I would’ve walked back into the arena a thousand times if it meant you could live.”

I close my eyes. Press my forehead gently to his. Feel the way his breath catches when I do.

“It’s too late,” I whisper. “They already chose me. I’m here now.”

His grip tightens. “Then let them do what they want to me,” he says, and his voice has changed again. It’s sharper now, like steel dragged through flame. “But I won’t lose you. Not again.”

But the Capitol does not barter with love.

And somewhere inside, we both know that.

Still, in this moment—just for this moment—we are not surrounded by cameras or death or power.

We are two children, grown into ghosts, clinging to each other in a room built for blood.

Outside, the Games wait with open jaws.

But we let the world pause.

Because we already died once.

Because this is the moment our hearts remember each other again.

Because pain, when shared, is louder than any silence they can force on us.

And because love—bruised, trembling, defiant—is still here.

Breathing. Burning. Bleeding.

Alive, for now.

taglist: @urfunnyvalentin3 @yvessentials

[tsaheylutales]

hiiiii!

if you’re still taking requests, i’d love to see steve with someon like him. someone who’s like loud, snart, flirty, flirts with him and they’re like “wait, you actually like me?! wtf???? i thought it was just a game!” queue kisses (maybe a liitle smut 👀)

i love yr writing tbw!! 🤍🤍🤍 everything dad!steve is just so fucking sweet!!! 🤍🤍🤍🤍

Hii! Yes I'm still taking request, Thank you so much for leaving one! I didn't do any smut but the kiss does get a bit heavy. let me know what you think!

about 1k words.

You and Steve were always flirting. That was just how your friendship was. You’d wear ridiculously low-cut shirts and lean over the counter at just the right angle and watch Steve’s eyes flicker down, up, and back down again.

You’d smirk. He’d cough, and pretend he wasn’t looking.

It was a game. A safe, ridiculous game you’d both been playing for months. No rules, no consequences.

But lately…It’s been feeling less like a game. And more like something you didn’t quite know how to handle.

It was a slow Tuesday and the peak of Indiana summer. The AC was broken and all there was to cool you down was a tiny desk fan perched on the counter that occasionally turned just right and blessed your face with three seconds of relief.

You were wearing one of your thinnest tank tops, the kind that hung just low enough to make Steve’s jaw clench, paired with cut-off denim shorts and zero shame. Your skin was warm, a little sticky with sweat, and the heat made everything feel heavier. Slower. Needier.

Steve was trying to make himself useful. Or at least look useful.

He was kneeling by the horror section, stacks of VHS tapes beside him, pretending to reorganize what definitely did not need reorganizing. You’d watched him line up the same row of tapes three times already, each time fussing with the angle like it mattered.

It didn’t. Not when his eyes kept drifting to you every few seconds.

“You good, Harrington?”

He stood up too fast, bumping into the shelf. “Yeah! Fine. Totally fine.” He says, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes fall to your chest.

You smirk, voice sickly sweet. “Getting a bit hot and bothered there, babe?”

Steve freezes.

His jaw works for a second, like he’s trying to form words and failing, before his eyes flutter shut for a moment and he lets out a low, shaky breath.

Then he marches over.

Not striding. Not swaggering. Marches like he’s made a decision and there’s no going back.

You barely have time to process before he’s right in front of you, hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of your thighs, locking you in.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” Steve breathes, voice low and wrecked, like he’s one second from completely losing control.

You tilt your head, lips curled in a knowing smile. “Think I do. S’part of the game.”

His eyes flicker, something shifts behind them. Less teasing, more need.

“Yeah?” He says, stepping even closer. “Well I don’t want to play anymore.”

You blink, heart skipping, breath catching. Because the look he gives you? It’s not the usual cocky, flirty Steve.

It’s real. Desperate. Like he’s been aching for this, for you, and he’s finally giving himself permission to stop pretending it’s all just a game.

“Then stop playing.” You say quietly.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth crashes against yours, messy, open-mouthed and hungry. You gasp into his mouth and he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss with a kind of desperation that sends heat straight through you. His lips are soft but needy, his tongue insistent, teeth catching on your bottom lip just hard enough to make you whimper.

Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, threading through the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him groan, low and rough in the back of his throat, like he needs this.

He kisses you deeper, hungrier, hands gripping your thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Then, suddenly, he pulls back just enough to breathe, not far, just enough to mouth along your jaw, your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear.

“You have no idea how much I like you, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your skin.

You freeze. Just slightly. Your fingers still in his hair, breath catching. “Wait…”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and nervous laughter. “So you actually like me?”

Steve leans back just enough to see your face, and he’s smiling, but it’s not cocky or flirty this time. It’s soft. Real.

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him.

“Yeah, I like you.” He says quietly, like it’s obvious. “I’ve been losing my mind over you for, like, months. Thought it was pretty clear.”

You stare at him. And now you’re the one reeling. You blink once. Twice.

“Steve…” You breathe, suddenly aware of how fast your heart is beating.

“I thought we were just… playing.” You say, softer now. “I didn’t think you actually meant it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, a little stunned, like he’s the one who can’t believe you didn’t know.

“Babe.” He says, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “I’ve dropped about seventy-five tapes, called you every name except your own, and haven’t been able to look at you without forgetting how to speak. You really thought that was just flirting?”

Your cheeks are warm, but not from the heat anymore. You smile, small, a little dazed. “I… didn’t know you liked me back.” You admit, blinking up at him.

He grins, wide and so Steve, brushing his nose against yours.

“Well.” He murmurs. “Now you do.”

And then he kisses you again.

This time softer, slower, like now that the truth’s out, there’s no rush. No more hiding.

Just you.

And Steve.

And the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a game anymore.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 8

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7

“I can’t believe you let me fall asleep!” Chrissy complains, crowding into Steve’s space to desperately try to fix her hair in the mirror.

Steve snorts, unbelievably fond at the way her bangs are going every direction but down. “What am I, your mother?” he asks, fixing his own hair by standing on his tippy toes and looking over her head.

“No, but she will be killing me for this!” Chrissy cries, finally giving up on finger-combing her bangs to dunk the strands into the sink and get them wet. “Thanks for reminding me!”

“You’re bitchy in the morning,” he mutters, grimacing when she pulls her head out of the sink abruptly enough that water droplets fling from her head and onto his shirt. “Now, hurry up, we’re already late.”

She flips him off, ignoring him entirely to continue fixing her hair.

They’re both late; Chrissy doesn’t let him forget it for the rest of the day, as if it’s his fault.

“I remember when I thought you were nice,” Steve mutters, laughing helplessly when she elbows him in the side.

“You love it,” she says, smiling as they sit across from each other in their usual spot in the library, feet settling together beneath the table.

The thing is, he does. He’s always liked Chrissy, even back when she was all sunshine and rainbows, but even more so now that there’s some grit to her.

“Shut up.”

Chrissy beams, all sunshine again as she plunks her stack of books onto the table and shuffles her letter-drafting notebook to the top. Only once she’s opened to a blank page does she bite her lip, looking up at Steve through her lashes.

“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” she asks, voice hesitant.

“What do you mean?”

She breaks eye contact, fiddling with her pen anxiously. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Steve doesn’t tell her that he already is, that a part of him, the small, squirming part he keeps hidden in his heart, wishes he’d never done this. That watching Eddie kiss Chrissy’s hand and knowing without being told that she’s the kind of girl Eddie might want had broken something inside him. That Steve knows he could never be Eddie’s choice, and knowing that burns.

But, since the flirting started, Steve hasn’t written a word, and that’s worse, somehow. He only has the one tether to Eddie, and he wants to keep it, even if it’s through Chrissy’s handwriting, and Chrissy’s words, and Chrissy’s face.

He just wants.

Instead of saying all that, he reaches out, putting his hand gently on Chrissy’s hand and replies, “I’m sure,” even as the fluttering of his heart makes a liar of him.

Chrissy’s still biting her lip, not looking reassured at all. Steve’s gut churns with worry. ”Are you, though? You didn’t sign up for this, and if you don’t want to do it anymore, that’s okay.”

She smiles, her bottom lip blanched white from her teeth, as she replies, “We’re in this together, right?”

Even with the smile, she still looks worried, but Chissy puts her pen to paper and dutifully writes out the words Steve speaks, editing and revising each thought until it’s something someone might want to hear.

They keep their voices quiet because there are more people sitting in the library than usual today: a big group working on a project, a couple of freshman scowling down at what looks like a Geometry textbook, and closest of all, a girl he recognizes as a band nerd, flipping through a magazine too fast to really be reading it.

It doesn’t take them long—they’ve done this enough times that it’s become almost an art form. Chrissy pushes the completed letter across the table for his final review before it’s signed and sealed.

“It’s good,” Steve says, pushing the letter back across to her to be dropped off in Eddie’s locker.

His heart aches; Steve wants to slap himself.

Instead, he parts ways with Chrissy at their cars, Jeff already waiting beside hers to be driven home, and goes back to his house, bereft of the noise Chrissy had brought only that morning.

*** 

Eddie had worried when there wasn’t another letter after he’d started talking to Chrissy. Did she not like him anymore? Was she done writing them entirely now that she can talk to him face to face?

He worries incessantly for days about it, even as Chrissy keeps saying hi to him in the halls, keeps smiling back when they catch eyes across the cafeteria, keeps being her usual, friendly self.

It’s just, the letters are different. They’re more raw, somehow, more real. And, no matter how this thing goes with Chrissy, if they stop coming, he’ll miss them.

So, it’s a relief when he opens his locker the Monday after Chrissy’s eventful Hellfire induction to find a letter. He can’t wait to read it, the anticipation has built up over too many days of not receiving any. So, he rushes to the same, familiar bathroom and opens it in the stall he’s starting to think of as his.

       Eddie —

       How did your show go? I bet you’ve got a couple groupies already, you’ve already got the look for it. Did you figure out the riff for the song you were working on?

       I tried playing the piano again, and I’m a little rusty, but it’s like riding a bike, you know? (Do you know how to ride a bike?) It’s nice, playing music, even if it’s all songs someone else has written, and they’re still not coming out right.

       I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter. I just didn’t know what to say. You’re so patient, and nice, and I got caught up in my head you know? But I missed you.

       I slept with your letter beneath my pillow last night, hoping for dreams of you.

       Yours, Always

       Your Secret Admirer

       P.S. I haven’t read it, but maybe I will. Just to keep with the theme, put this letter in The Lord of the Rings.

He devours the words, slumping onto the toilet seat the longer he reads. It’s perfect—just what he was missing. He reads it once, twice, thrice, the same way he had when he’d received the first two, disbelieving that such lovely words were meant for him.

Eddie skips his second period, first already long gone by the time he’d trundled into the school’s parking lot, and pens a response, then and there.

He goes to the library immediately, nervous that if he doesn’t drop it off right away, she’ll assume Eddie isn’t going to write back at all. 

He waffles over which book to put it in before finally tucking it into The Fellowship of the ring–it’s the first in the trilogy, and Chrissy’s probably too cool to even know it’s a trilogy. 

There’s no response in his locker before Hellfire on Thursday, but that’s okay because true to her word, Chrissy shows up again. She’s smiling as she bounces through the doorway, all springy curls and happy cheer.

“Hi!” Chrissy says, waving as she beams her blinding smile around the room,  all that cheerleader enthusiasm on display.

Doug looks struck dumb, staring at her with his mouth open. Gareth’s gaze is darting back and forth from the door to Eddie, eyes growing wider and wider with each pass. Only Jeff smiles and waves back.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” Chrissy says, elbowing Harrington in the side until he finally looks up and gives his own half-hearted wave.

Because Harrington is slumped in the doorway behind her, looking like he’s trying to hide the entire bulk of his body behind Chrissy’s petite frame.

“Uh, hey,” he says, ears strangely pink as his eyes dart around the room.

He never looks Eddie’s way at all.

“Hey, man,” Jeff replies, the only person aside from Chrissy that is currently functioning.

“Steve, can come, right?” Chrissy asks, like he’s not already in the doorway behind her.

Eddie’s gut sinks then swoops. Harrington’s a jock—what will he do locked in a room with a bunch of nerds? But, the chipped nail polish.

Eddie’s mind is full of screaming, thoughts flip flopping over each other as he tries to articulate all the things wrong with Harrington coming to Hellfire, but all that comes out of his mouth is a chipper, “sure!”

Chrissy’s smile grows teeth—is she going to bite him?

Eddie resists the urge to take a step back.

Jeff pulls out the vacant seat beside him, still looking cool as a cucumber while the rest of them scramble. “Come sit down.”

And that’s how he finds himself with a jock in Hellfire. Should they call an exterminator?

It’s Chrissy who takes the seat beside Jeff which leaves the only other empty chair next to Eddie’s throne. Eddie glares at Gareth, gesturing wildly for his friend to move up a seat, but Gareth’s too busy staring at Harrington like he’s a cobra about to strike.

Harrington is looking at the only empty seat with the exact same expression.

“Steve,” Chrissy hisses, and Harrington jumps. “Go sit down.

The pink on his ears travels down to his cheeks—it’s unfair, really, how pretty and even his blush is. When Eddie blushes, he blotches bright red from forehead to chest.

Steve’s embarrassment suits him.

Eddie waits until he’s seated before clapping loud enough that everyone startles as they turn to him. “Now!” he starts in the grand voice he uses when he’s performing his Dungeon Master duties. “Are you two playing?”

“No,” Harrington rushes out, the pink of his blush deepening to a red as he finally meets Eddie’s eyes. “I mean, Chrissy said she just watched last time?”

“We didn’t want to slow you down,” Chrissy cuts in.

Eddie nods, looking between the couple as awkwardness stews in the stilted silence.

“Alright,” he replies. “Gird your loins, lords and lady.”

Knowing a cue when they hear one, the Hellfire boys scramble to pull out character sheets and dice.

And they’re off!

It takes a minute to fall into the familiar minutiae of telling a story with not one but two interlopers, but Eddie manages it. This is where he thrives: a captive audience and all the power to fuck with them in the palm of his hand.

He only stumbles once, words jumbling together when he looks up and catches Harrington staring at him, eyes wide, cheeks still flushed from his earlier embarrassment as he bites his lip, ass literally on the edge of his seat as Eddie cobbles together the climactic finish to their latest encounter.

Harrington looks away quickly, but Eddie knows what he saw: Harrington is into this nerd shit. He’d tease him if he wasn’t worried that it would end in a swirlie.

Still, Eddie can feel his head puffing up like an overfilled balloon. He’s on the top of his game, painting grand adventures with grander words, all gestures and enthusiasm. He feels electric, the way he always does when there’s a new sheep in his flock to impress. His skin’s almost buzzing with it.

After all, even if his audience member is a jock, Eddie’s always been great at putting on a show. 

Neither of the interlopers say anything until they’re busy packing up. Eddie lounges back in his throne, watching Chrissy help Jeff with his dice. She’s smiling up at him, clearly just as interested in their nerd shit as Harrington.

Eddie turns his eyes back to Harrington to see how he’s taking his girl talking to a guy that isn’t him only to find Harrington staring at him again.  When Eddie meets his eyes, he ducks his head, cheeks tinting that familiar pink.

Is Steve Harrington fucking awkward?

“You’re good at that,” Harrington says quietly.

Eddie hums, confused. He’s shuffling his papers back together, not looking down at what he’s doing. What’s happening in front of him is far more interesting.

“At what, big boy?”

“Uh,” Harrington starts, darting his eyes back up to Eddie’s for a second before looking back down at his fiddling hands. “Telling a story.”

Eddie smiles, something warm and amorphous filling his stomach. “Thanks,” he says, lightly kicking Harrington’s ankle.

Harrington twitches, lets out a quick, “mmhmm,” and then turns away from Eddie to go find his girlfriend, dismissing Eddie without another word.

“Ready to go, babe?” Steve asks, settling his arm around her waist and damn-near frog marching her out of the room.

“Bye, Jeff! Bye, Eddie!” Chrissy calls, still cheerful even as her boyfriend controls her every move. Maybe she’s used to it—first Carver and now Harrington. “See you next week?”

Neither of them wait for a reply.

The silence is stifling in their wake. Only Jeff seems unbothered as he stuffs all of his supplies into his backpack. Doug hasn’t even touched his dice.

“What the hell was that?” Gareth asks, whipping around to Eddie.

“How the hell should I know?”

Jeff snorts. “You invited them,” he says.

“I invited Chrissy,” Eddie whines. “She invited Harrington.”

That catches Jeff’s attention. He glares at Eddie like he’s the one that had invaded their sacred space. “You’re not this stupid,” he says, swinging his backpack onto his back and striding toward the door. “I’ve got a ride home, don’t wait for me.”

“What does that mean?” Eddie demands.

The only answer is the door swinging shut.

*** 

Once he’s walked Chrissy to her car and watched her pull out of the parking lot safe from Carver’s creepy hands, Steve collapses into his own car. He presses his face into the steering wheel and groans, long and loud, assured in his safe isolation. 

When the passenger door opens, he jumps, neck cracking with the speed at which he turns his head, ready to fight off the trespasser.

“Oh, it’s you,” Steve says, dropping his head back to the steering wheel.

“He knows,” Jeff says, voice serious enough that Steve raises his head back up immediately, heartbeat ratcheting up.

It takes a second for the words to connect, and when they do, his heartbeat quickens further, sweat pooling on the back of his neck, hands clenched hard enough on the steering wheel to hurt as fight or flight hits him.

“What?” he asks, the word cracking around his suddenly parched throat.

“Shit,” Jeff mutters, reaching out to pat Steve’s shoulder. “Not about you!”

Steve’s shoulders slump, breath shuddering out of him as Jeff continues to pat his shoulder, too awkward to be all that comforting. “Then, what—”

“He knows Chrissy is putting the notes in his locker.”

Steve sighs, slumping into his seat, uncaring of the way it crushes Jeff’s hand against the backrest. “Yeah, we figured,” he says, suddenly exhausted. “Do you know how?”

Jeff’s biting his lip when Steve looks his way. “He didn’t tell me,” he mutters. “But I know my best friend.”

It’s Steve’s turn to reach across the car and clasp Jeff’s shoulder. “I’m sure he has a reason for not telling you,” Steve replies, trying to smile past all that exhaustion.

Jeff snorts. “A stupid one, maybe.”

Steve hums, squeezing once more before dropping his hold on Jeff, suddenly realizing how stupid they must look, leaning toward each other, hands on each other’s shoulders like they’re having some sort of bro moment.

Steve turns back to the front of his car, cranks the engine, and smiles across at Jeff as the other boy takes the hint and drops his own hold. “Want a ride home?”

Instead of answering, Jeff puts on his seatbelt.

Jeff’s house is surprisingly close to Steve’s own. It’s a bit smaller than his, but there’s already a car in the driveway, and the shadows of silhouettes moving behind the pulled curtains, warm yellow light filtering through the fabric and onto the street.

Steve wishes he could go in with a fierce sort of longing that surprises him.

Jeff’s already got his seatbelt off and the passenger door open when he sighs, turning back around and settling back in his seat.

“You should come next week,” he says, all earnest in that way that seems to come so naturally to him and must have gotten him eaten alive in middle school.

“You can’t be serious,” Steve replies. There’s a tension headache growing, exasperated by the incredulous scrunching of his eyebrows. “That was a disaster.”

“Aw, it wasn’t that bad,” Jeff says, but he’s grinning like he’s remembering something funny. Steve’s got a few guesses what.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious, man.” Jeff clasps his shoulder again—maybe that’s just something he does?

Steve scoffs, the roll of his eyes making his head pound. He opens his mouth to retort, something about Eddie’s reaction to Steve sitting beside him, but Jeff beats him to the punch.

“I know Eddie. And that in there?” He points back the way they’d come, like if Steve just strains his eyes, he’ll be able to catch sight of Eddie’s stupid fancy chair, and the stupid musty drama room, and the stupid look on Eddie’s face. “—is him interested.”

Steve closes his mouth, swallowing all the spit in his mouth, hoping it’s not audible to Jeff no matter how quiet the car is. “In me?” he asks, voice cracking embarrassingly.

Jeff doesn’t break eye contact, but his mouth twists uncomfortably. “Like you’re interested in him?” Jeff asks, continuing before Steve can reply. “I don’t know, man.”

Steve droops, the hope blooming in his chest curdling and sinking down into his stomach like old milk. He wants, desperately, to go home, turn out all the lights, and curl up alone in his bed to sleep away the rest of the day. But, Jeff’s still in his car, so he clenches the wheel between his fingers and says, “okay.”

“But, he doesn’t get you,” Jeff continues, voice gentling further. “And that intrigues him.”

Jeff’s still smiling like that should be some sort of boon to Steve’s ego, but it’s not. It lands like a brick. No one ever gets him, and whether he intrigues them or not, it always ends the same: him, alone in his big, empty house, waiting for a phone call that will never come, a doorbell that will never ring, a window that will never be snuck through.

He’d been through it before, with Donna in sixth grade, Nancy in tenth, hell, even Carol and Tommy for more years than he can count.

Intrigue has never gotten him anywhere. But, Jeff’s smiling, small and real, so Steve replies, “thanks, man,” smiling back until the other boy gets out of the car and he can safely drive away.

He’s got a dark house and a chilled bed waiting for him.

For the first time since this whole thing started, Steve writes the first draft of one of his secret admirer letters alone.

PART 9

[earthsparked]

Although it's not really focused on, I do wonder what the bots would feel like when we touch them (physical affection). Sometimes they're portrayed as being cold to the touch, sometimes they're warm like a computer, but I personally think that Cybertronians are more in-between, just like how humans are—the extremities tend to be cooler than the body itself, although they can still be pretty warm.

For example, Optimus has warm hands, perfect for holding cold humans, but if it's frigid outside? Lay on his chassis, that's where you go to defrost from the cold.

A bot like Ultra Magnus has even warmer hands, a warmer chassis, and woah, even his shoulder pauldrons are warm! I would love to sit on his shoulders, but would I accidentally fall asleep and fall off? Yes. Yes I would.

Smaller bots are the best for cuddling though, even with the size difference. Watching a movie with Bumblebee? Welp, now he's watching a movie with his human, who's fast asleep. He wouldn't mind.

Gah, physical affection with the bots (any bot) is my favorite! Let me hug them!

Oh you've hit on one of the things I can't quite decide (in a good way!)

You're so right. If I had a mech friend, I'd be all over them. Cat on a warm car hood. Chilling on their knee. Sprawled over their shoulder.

What I can't quite decide is, I go back and forth on how a mechanical being would register physical touch. It seems intuitive that they'd have to have some sensory input from their exterior. To what degree can they feel their armor, though? And does touch, for them, tie into emotion and pleasure the way it does for us? It's hard to even consider what it might mean if it didn't.

You're very right that this isn't really focused on much. I think one of the biggest differences between humans and Cybertronians, and yet one of the most unexplored, is that they can in all likelihood turn off their physical pain. At least to some degree. They can probably alter their sensory capacities to a much, much greater extent than we can. What's life like when you can decide how much or how little you want to feel? And how is that sensation processed?

In humans, there's a rare condition of being unable to feel pain and it's considered extremely dangerous. Because pain is a warning that something is wrong. If you can't feel pain, how do you know you've broken your ankle? You could just keep walking on it, doing more and more structural damage, until you've become permanently injured. Being able to turn your pain on and off, while something I'd be very envious of, would make us so, so fundamentally different as a species. It would change our medical field, our wars, our laws, our relationships, our art.

Touch is such an inherent part of any kind of close relationship for us. We're born with a need for it. Babies literally die without it. Of course we'd want to touch our new friends. To bond with them, to feel close to them, for reassurance and mutual enjoyment of their presence. Doubtless we could and would do that.

But would they view touch the same way? Would they need it? I know we see mechs hugging and touching, but..they're metal. That's kind of a lot of clanging. What sensation would they get out of it? What use would it have for them? What role would touch have played in their development – when they're not really a species that evolved, at all?

I know I go back to this a lot, but Therrae's Xenoethnography really was formative to me in a number of ways, and the mechs there just don't use touch, natively, in the way humans do. And they have to adapt to our ways, even as the human main character tries to adapt to theirs. That would include finding ways to bridge that gap and really communicate what we're trying to communicate in ways that make sense to us both, when we're trying to be physically close or vulnerable to foster those emotional bonds.

The real challenge, and the real crux of it all, is that. That we're both willing to try, to take risks. It takes courage to look at a being you're so different from, and be willing to climb in their hand or sit on their shoulder. It takes courage to engage in whatever alien means of physical communication they would use. It's also what's so beautiful about first contact. Not the failures, or the misunderstandings, or the differences, but the willingness to try and keep trying to build a third language we can both speak.

And then, to use that third language to say I love you, I trust you, I want to be with you.

[cognitiveleague]

Something I really enjoy about the Dressrosa arc is the narrative comparison and contrast presented between Law and Doflamingo.

Oda, especially post-timeskip, devotes a lot of storytelling to looking closely at protagonists and villains alike, asking the audience to join him in exploring questions of “what made them like this?” and “does it matter what drove them, at the end of the day?”

And Dressrosa is one of the places where those questions hit the hardest for me, because one after the other, he shows us two children — both having experienced a fall from (different degrees of) privilege and into incredibly traumatic situations at a young age, both victimized for things they had no means of controlling as children. Law and Doflamingo are both shown as being radicalized by that trauma and loss of control, rejecting the gentler values their parents tried to instill in them because they reached a point of not being able to see a point in compassion, or hope for any justice but revenge.

In the present, Doflamingo hasn’t really known for a very long time who Law truly is, but in a sense, he wasn’t wrong when he saw himself in the way a younger Law reacted to the loss of his former life by wanting to lash out at the world. In that moment, there was something in Law that DID reflect his own wounded inner child’s rage, and in a strange way, he clung to the connection he felt with that worst possible version of Law long after Law had discarded it and moved on.

The question implied there is “what made them different in the end? What redeemed Law, and what (if anything) pushed Doflamingo past the point of redemption?”

While the second question (as is often the case) is up to a lot of interpretation, the answer (as with Big Mom in the following arc) seems to me to lean toward “while his choices were his own and he ultimately has responsibility for them, it’s also true that when he was young and vulnerable and poised to go down a path of destruction for himself and everyone around him, the adults in his life used his brokenness to their own selfish advantage, encouraging him along that path instead of teaching him better; whether or not it absolves him of ANYTHING at this point (and it certainly doesn’t absolve him of EVERYTHING), there is a tragedy in the fact that we will never see who he might have been if he wasn’t encouraged and enabled to embrace his worst impulses.”

That tragedy is a core part of Corazón’s story — Corazón’s big brother who never grew past fear and rage and clinging to the selfish comfort of the memory of how easy their past life of privilege had been, who thought he loved him on some level, and who on another level probably knew he never developed the capacity to truly love anyone but himself. I think it’s probably why Corazón didn’t pull the trigger fast enough, when it came down to it — even after seeing what a monster his brother had become, even after dedicating his whole adult life to stopping him from hurting even more people, part of him still remembered the wounded, frightened child in his big brother, and the times he’d tried in his selfish way to protect him. Something in him still had sympathy for that child, and wanted, if not to believe, then at least to hope (even against all evidence) that enough of him was still in there that HE wouldn’t pull the trigger without hesitation, either.

We know how that story ended. It was far too late for his kindness to save Doffy by then, if it had ever been possible — there might have been something left in him that could feel something akin to regret over killing Corazón after the fact, or at least greedily resent the loss of him, but if there was, it wasn’t able to stop him.

But in the end, Corazón’s kindness — his compassion, his determination to believe that even a deeply wounded, deeply flawed world was worth placing his hope in and fighting for, his unrelenting love — was worth it, because it saved Law. It was enough to save the bitter, broken child Doffy saw so much of himself in.

Corazón took Law away from the adults who would have enabled him the way Doffy was enabled at his age, and put in the hard work of showing him, day after day, that while his pain was worth acknowledging and sympathizing with, he was worth more than just revenge — he was worth love, and healing, and the fight for a world better than the one that had hurt him so badly. He taught him not a naïve hope like the one the adults in Flevance had tried to give him, but a stubborn, bitter hope, one that laughed and spat a bloody declaration of victory right in the face of the enemy even when their backs were to the wall, hope with its teeth bared in defiance of a world that Law already knew to be unjust and pitiless.

That is what made Law’s story end differently than Doflamingo’s, and how we ended up with the version of Law that we and the Strawhats get to know - a man determined to trudge on, in spite of his own pain and disillusionment, as the bearer of lights that would otherwise be lost, those left in his hands by people he saw (still sees) as having been kinder, gentler, more deserving than he was of survival. A man who covered his body with reminders of the love that dragged him kicking and screaming into the light when he’d given his own heart up for lost, who named his crew in honor of that love, who devoted the rest of his life to making sure that love and that sacrifice mattered. A man all too familiar with his own worst impulses, who struggles to see or to trust in his own kindness, but who has chosen to be a defender like Corazón was to him, to be a healer like his birth parents were to those around them, to be not a tyrant like his former mentor, but a leader who loves and respects the people who follow him, and who is genuinely cared for by them in return.

And, despite his own misgivings, despite not being someone who reads to strangers as warm or caring, he is kind. He has chosen, through the love that was shown to him, to be a genuinely good man — faithful and just to his friends and allies and those he’s seen wronged in front of him, unwilling to demand sacrifices of others that he wouldn’t give of himself, determined to fight back against the ugliness and apathy and cruelty of the world, to wrest every bit of hard-fought justice he can from life not only for himself, but for others who have been crushed down by life.

It’s thematically fitting that he specializes in surgery, even completely aside from how suited his power is for it. As a character, his narrative is fundamentally about having chosen to become someone who can offer the world a surgeon’s sort of kindness —not warmth or softness, usually, but the mercy of a sharp, careful blade, a steady hand, and a clear understanding that sometimes, you have to roll up your sleeves and do the ugly, messy work of cutting away what’s too damaged to save before the healing can begin.

[bbywtfamidoing]

My brain is infected so yours should also be infected. (If you want to count this as an idea or a request PLEASE feel free but I also just really wanna share) sorry if it’s kinda long

Smosh doing like a really big charity stream, it's like 24 hour sleepover themed and Damien's there and reader is like crew or something and at one point they all decide to play a brand new game on live, that the reader is like OBSESSED with, but reader is also kind of insecure about talking about there hyper-fixations/infodumping/feel like they talk to much and are annoying or something so they have a hard time talking about there interests with others, but Damien is perceptive like that (He’s so in love with them it’s unfair) so he knows they at the very least like, and have played the game before so they invite her over to sit and play on stream with them and she sits next to Damien and they both end up just geeking out all night while playing and reader tries to like apologize and be like ‘im sorry if I talk to much about this you can just tell me to shut up if you need to haha’ and Damien’s like ‘no I like listening to you talk, this is great’ and eventually everyone else is like ‘nah man youre commentary is actually making this game make WAY more sense lol’ and eventually at some point as it gets later reader is the cuddly affectionate, giggly type of tired and ends up falling asleep on Damien and Damien’s like 😮 “what do I do??” L

they're both crushing on each other so hard but neither of them have said anything and they’re both so comfy and cozy and pretty and cute in their PJs and it’s so fluffy and cute and PDBSOBFLABDOSBCONS

I am unwell. Thank you for listening <3

You’re so real for this- and my friend I’ve done it. I may continue this at some point but I’ll post what I have here!! Hope you enjoy!!!

When they found out that The Last of Us was being played it was chaos at Smosh, so as soon as they were approached about being apart of the stream to help with parts that they could get stuck in- they were all in. Jacked in and ready to play, Shane and Spencer sat with Courtney and Damien and you sat together and eventually Amanda arrived to set with drinks for all. The games screen was on and the animation of a old broken down window with a curtain blowing in the wind, it was time to play and Damien held the controller as it started snd the subtitles were on screen as Amanda watched intently, with a quirked eyebrow as she processed the introduction to the fireflies. Now what the part they were all waiting for, the story- but Amanda asked questions consistently “Actually, it’s not a normal zombie outbreak like walking dead! It’s based off of a strange fugus called Cordyceps that kills bugs and basically eats at their brain so that the fungus can basically shoot out spores to spread it quicker. But any and all bread products is where the outbreak began-“ they paused and felt their face flush at the explosion of information

They seemed to go quiet as the game started, playing as Sarah as she woke up at the phone ringing. Shane carefully moved to joystick as he was prompted to, Courtney looked at them “Hey- we don’t mind you know? It gives us more story to follow.” They smiled at the other and nodded “thank you Court.” Damien carefully set a hand on their arm “I like hearing you talk about stuff you enjoy.” He spoke softly as they leaned forward and watched the screen intently.

Some time passed as Shane panicked and played Joel as he ran with Sarah in his arms after the car accident, You made quick work of explaining where to go so he didn’t get killed fast- he screamed at the Q to E and shoved the zombie away.

A group all speaking quickly and getting nervous as they were shoved into the bar by Tommy as he made his way around the bar to meet them. Making quick work as they ran down the hill and the SWAT officer yelled, quickly you sat up and watched the scene intently. Knowing exactly what was going to happen as Damien watched as the screaming and yelling at the screen began- Shane’s mouth hung open as Courtney leaned against him with a hand over their mouth

Tears in others eyes over the scene, as it lead to the screen the load into the game. Quickly you picked up “They had to retake this scene so many times that Hana Hayes the actress- who was 14 at the time of doing mo-cap was emotionally exhausted by the end of it. Oh! And the actor that voices- Joel voiced by Troy Baker was the youngest to audition for his role!” Damien nodded as he listened intently and Courtney smiled “That’s impressive work though- I think if I was alone I’d be sobbing-“ they chuckled softly wiping at their eyes as Spencer rubbed their back to console them.

A few hours in and the stream was getting pretty long at this point, you did your best to keep your eyes open but being around friends always made you feel safe and comfortable as you leaned against Damien who happily let you and hummed, after about another 30 minutes the stream was getting set hi to focus on another group and Damien moved to look at you and paused “Uh- are they asleep?” He didn’t wanna risk waking them up and quirked an eyebrow up as Courtney nodded and Shane covered his mouth “I was wondering where the facts and stuff went- we’re kinda keeping me off edge playing.” You heard them talking about you and groaned as you shifted and wrapped an arm around Damien and rolled your eyes “You guys suck-“ you huff and look up to see Damien looking down at you with a soft smile as you nuzzled against his chest to hide from his gaze and force the flush from your face to go away. Shane laughed and Courtney playfully ‘awed’ as Damien wrapped his arm around you “This is bullying-“ he joked and you chuckled as you sat up “We can play more later- it’s past my bedtime I’m such an old man.” The stream moved over to Angela, Arasha, Noah, Kieth, Ian and Anthony. Thy were playing the Quiet game and Ian was holding the noodle and had the blindfold on since he won the last pit challenge game.

The gaming group went to go get food and get into comfy clothes quickly, Damien in a baggy Smosh Tee-shirt and pajama pants, you in a tank top and a purple fuzzy sweatshirt that had bunny ears attached at the hood with matching pajama shorts. He saw you and his smile brightened for a moment but as soon as you look at him his gaze quickly moved away as he ignore the heat in his cheeks at just how cute you looked. You watched him for a few moments and approached him and playfully poked his chest “Hope I don’t look to ridiculous.” You chuckled as Courtney, Spencer and Shane came out in onesies- Eeyore (Shane, it was the biggest one they could find that wouldn’t rip at the seams) , Winnie the Pooh (Spencer, cause I mean come on) and Piglet (Courtney cause they knew they could make it match their makeup for the day.)

Shane moved forward and looked at you “Hey, your stealin Spencer’s vibe!” He teased softly as you turned and squinted at him and poked his chest “Fucker- I look more like Bonnie then I do any Winnie the Pooh character.” You huffed dramatically as Courtney saw you “Yes! Bonnie core!”