#because if all you need to is write the final answer‚ then if that answer is wrong‚ youve failed. don't get the points for the exam question

[lazysoulwriter]

who's that woman? - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you so much for sending, hope you like it. ♡

---

The after party buzzes with static energy — music, flashing lights, laughter bouncing off the walls. You feel it in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your heels are killing you, your curls are sticking to the back of your neck, and someone spilled something suspiciously sticky near the bar. But none of it matters.

Because you're dancing.

Dancing like no one’s watching — even though everyone kind of is. The DJ is deep into a 90s setlist, and you’re in your element. You know every lyric, every beat drop, every over-the-top bridge. And you don’t care how you look doing it. You’re having fun. Real, shameless, sweat-slicked fun. And the people around you? They’re feeding off your energy. Laughing when you point to them mid-verse, clapping along when you hit a dramatic air guitar solo.

You’ve always been the life of the party without even trying.

What you don’t know is that, from across the room, Pedro Pascal is watching you — completely mesmerized.

He’s leaning against a wall with a half-empty drink in hand, tired from small talk, already plotting his escape when he sees you. And it stops him cold.

Your smile, your joy, your wild abandon — it’s unlike anything he’s seen in a long time.

“Who is that woman?” he murmurs out loud, not meaning to be heard.

But someone beside him answers casually, like it’s obvious. “That’s Y/N. You don’t know her? She’s the indie singer of the moment. Absolutely magical.”

He repeats your name under his breath. Y/N. It sounds good already. His eyes never leave you — not even when the song ends and you finally step off the dance floor, cheeks flushed, skin glowing, laughter still lingering on your lips.

You head to the bar, needing water more than another drink. And he sees his chance.

He walks toward you — slowly, calmly — but just before he reaches you, someone else gets there first.

A man leans in close to your ear. Says something low. You throw your head back and laugh.

Pedro stops in his tracks.

Of course she has someone, he thinks. Why wouldn’t you? You’re radiant. Magnetic. Everyone wants to be near you. And he isn’t the kind of guy to flirt with someone who’s taken. Even if all he wants to do is hear your voice. Ask what song you were dancing to like it was saving your life.

He’s just about to turn away when the man — whoever he is — looks up and locks eyes with Pedro.

And then he smiles. Waves him over like they’re old friends.

Confused, Pedro approaches. “Took you long enough,” the guy says, easy and amused. “Pedro, right? I’m Luca — co-producer on the indie you’re shooting next month.”

Pedro laughs in recognition. “No way. I didn’t recognize you without five assistants and a clipboard.”

Then Luca turns to you and says, almost too casually: “This is my sister. Y/N.”

You smile at Pedro with that same effortless warmth that had everyone watching you dance. “I love your work,” you say, offering your hand. “Your voice? I’d listen to you read my grocery list.”

He laughs, starstruck and completely at ease. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And from there — the rest of the night falls into place like it was always meant to.

The party fades into background noise. You end up sitting close, knees brushing under a tiny table, talking like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He’s funnier than you expected. A little shy at first, but playful, too. Sharp. Thoughtful. You tell him you write better lyrics after two drinks. He confesses he’s cried at every animated film he’s ever seen. You tease him for dancing too well for a man over 40. He tells you you’re like his childhood best friend — the one who dared him to do ridiculous things just to see if he’d say yes.

You feel it. That pull. That click.

And you can see he feels it too.

He looks at you like he’s remembering something. Like you remind him of a version of himself he thought he’d outgrown — but misses more than he realized. You’re loud where he’s quiet, fearless where he’s careful. But underneath? You’re made of the same stuff. Passion. Curiosity. Heart.

Six months later.

You’re sitting on the kitchen floor in mismatched pajamas, eating cold risotto straight from the container. He’s across from you, eyes soft, cheeks a little pink from the wine.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t have a speech. Just pulls a small box from his hoodie pocket and says your name like a question.

And you say yes before he even finishes.

Now, in a quiet interview for a glossy magazine, Pedro leans back in his chair, fiddling with the silver ring on his hand. The journalist asks about you — how you met, how it happened.

He smiles, slow and sure. “I never believed in love at first sight,” he says, voice warm. “Not until her.”

---

[mintyys-blog]

I wanted to ask if you could pls do a blue diamond or garnet like reader for main mark and the variants. Im in love with your writing and steven universe

HEADCANON | mark variants with garnet/blue diamond! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: ooc, dark themes?

MAIN MARK + GARNET! READER

The warehouse had long since emptied out. Blood, thick and half-dried, painted the concrete floors in haphazard splatters. Light filtered in through shattered skylights, dusty and golden, illuminating the wreckage of a fight that had been over for hours.

Mark sat on the edge of a loading dock, elbows on his knees, knuckles scraped raw. He wasn’t breathing hard anymore, but his eyes still trembled like he hadn’t stopped running inside his own head.

You approached from the far end of the warehouse, each footstep quiet but steady. There was a rhythm to the way you moved—measured, assured, like the universe itself might pause to keep time with you.

You didn’t ask if he was okay. You never did. You didn’t offer him comfort wrapped in lies or false hope. Instead, you sat beside him, your posture as still and grounded as a statue, as if your presence alone was a promise: I’m here. I won’t move.

Mark didn’t look at you. Not right away.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” he said after a long silence. His voice cracked—just a little. “But he wouldn’t stop.”

You nodded once. No judgment. Just acknowledgment.

“I’ve done this a hundred times now. And I still feel sick every damn time. Isn’t that supposed to stop?”

You turned your head toward him. Your voice, when it came, was low and unhurried.

“If it stops… that’s when you should worry.”

His laugh was bitter, but short-lived. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“I know what needs to be heard,” you replied. “Even when you don’t want to hear it.”

He finally looked at you. In your eyes, he saw no fear. No pity. Just a reflection of himself—every version, every failure, every victory you had already seen. You bore them all without blinking.

He hated that. And he needed it more than anything.

“I think about all the futures you’ve seen,” he murmured. “All the ways I break, or fall, or become him—my dad.”

“I’ve seen them,” you said quietly. “And I’ve also seen the ones where you don’t.” The sun had dropped lower. A shard of golden light framed your silhouette, painting you in warmth he didn’t think he deserved. “Why do you stay?” he asked. It wasn’t a plea, not exactly. Just exhaustion dressed up as curiosity.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out and rested your fingers over his—solid, grounding, still. “Because you keep choosing not to be him.” Mark’s hand turned beneath yours, hesitantly curling around your fingers. There was blood beneath his nails, but you didn’t flinch.

SINISTER MARK + BLUE DIAMOND! READER

The room was dark, save for the hum of the containment field keeping the outer wall sealed. Metal walls pulsed with dim red lighting. It wasn’t a cell, not technically. Sinister Mark had designed it himself. But the way you sat—elegant and composed on the stone bench, hands folded in your lap like a queen before her mourning court—made him feel caged.

He stood just far enough away that he could watch without being noticed. Or so he thought.

“You’re here again,” you said, your voice like slow-moving water, soft but commanding. “You always return when someone cries.”

Mark stepped forward, the sharp lines of his black and red suit reflecting cold light. His eyes, cruel in every other context, were oddly curious when they settled on you. Like a child poking at something fragile just to see what would happen.

“You always cry,” he answered.

A small, knowing smile ghosted across your lips, but it held no amusement. “And you always want to know why.”

He circled you slowly, like a lion with too much time on his hands. You didn’t watch him. You didn’t need to. Your presence was heavy, like the gravity of a dying star. Even the air changed around you when your sorrow deepened.

“You could level cities,” he said. “Flood the skies, drown the earth. Your grief could kill a thousand men.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you?”

You turned your head, the weight of your gaze falling upon him like a velvet shroud. “Because they are already dying,” you whispered. “What use is vengeance on a world already bleeding?”

Something twitched in his expression. Not quite anger. Not quite empathy. Confusion, perhaps. Frustration.

“You’re lying,” he accused. “You’re pretending your sorrow is strength. But it’s a chain. You want to be broken. You like it.”

“And you want to break me because you don’t know what to do with your own pain,” you replied softly, cutting him with kindness he didn’t understand.

That stopped him.

He didn’t flinch—Sinister Mark didn’t flinch—but the air thickened between you. He could feel the emotion radiating off you like heat from smoldering coals. It was more than sadness. It was centuries of quiet mourning layered into something beautiful and terrifying. He wanted to hate it. He needed to.

“You grieve for people who would never grieve for you,” he said, stepping closer. “You cry for monsters. The most ugliest kind.”

“I cry for what they could have been. What you could have been.” He knelt before you, then—mocking at first, until he wasn’t. Until he was just tired. He stared into your eyes and whispered, “Why does it hurt more when you’re sad than when they scream?”

You reached out, your hand hovering just over his cheek but never touching. “Because when I weep… you finally feel human.” His breath caught. For a moment, he hated you more than anyone else he had ever known. And for that same moment, he wanted nothing more than to stay.

OMNI MARK + GARNET! READER

The moon hung low over Earth, casting silver light across the Viltrumite base suspended in orbit. Inside, silence ruled—a cold, artificial kind of stillness that came from power, not peace.

Omni Mark stood with arms crossed behind his back, his cape trailing like blood across the polished floor. The stars shimmered outside the observation deck, but he wasn’t looking at them.

He was watching you.

You stood as if you belonged there—solid, still, a pillar carved out of time itself. The shadows curled around you but never consumed you. Your face betrayed nothing, your posture straight, unmoved by the weight of his gaze or the threat of what he was capable of.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. “I’m not,” you agreed, your voice even and calm. “You don’t frighten me.”

He turned fully to face you then, expression unreadable. “I’ve torn planets in half. I’ve left suns to burn out and watched life die without blinking. And you—” his eyes narrowed—“stand there as if none of it matters.”

You didn’t look away. “It matters. But fear is a choice I made long before I met you.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “I know what you are. I’ve read the reports. Future sight. Emotional fusion. Strength nearly on par with mine. You should be more—angrier, louder, desperate to stop me.”

“I’ve already seen what happens if I try to stop you.”

His lips curled slightly. “And what happens?”

“You kill me,” you said. “Easily. Brutally. The floor stains red, and you don’t flinch.”

That didn’t shake him. But what came next did. “And I’ve seen what happens if I don’t fight you. If I stay.”

A pause. Then: “And?” You took a single step forward. “You break.” Mark’s jaw clenched.

“In one future,” you continued, quiet but unrelenting, “you keep winning until you’re alone. No voices left but your own. You sit on a throne of corpses, and there’s no one to tell you the truth. No one left who dares.”

“And in the other?”

“In the other,” you said, “you learn to listen. You look at what you’ve done—not with pride, not with regret, but with understanding. You break, and then… you change.”

He laughed—sharp and hollow. “You think I want to change?”

“No,” you replied. “You want control. You want order. But deep down, under all that weight and fire… you want someone who sees you and doesn’t run.”

You stopped a breath away from him now. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. “I don’t run,” you said. “Even when I should.”

His voice was low, almost reverent. “And what if I kill you anyway?”

“Then I’ll die knowing I told the truth.”

Silence stretched between you like a taut wire. He hated how steady your heartbeat remained—how still your face was even as he considered vaporizing you on the spot. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back. “You’ve seen my future,” he said. “I’ve seen many,” you replied. His eyes locked onto yours. “Then why do I feel like I’ve finally stepped into yours?” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

MOHAWK MARK + BLUE DIAMOND! READER

The sky above the battlefield still burned, streaked with fire and falling debris. Ash floated like snow, soft and silent, in the aftermath of another senseless slaughter.

Mohawk Mark stood at the center of the ruin, blood drying on his gloves, his breathing steady. He looked victorious—shoulders back, posture loose, satisfied with the devastation. Bodies lay scattered behind him like forgotten tools, none worth mourning in his eyes.

And yet… you knelt.

You always did.

At the edge of the wreckage, your robes dusted in soot and singed at the hems, you folded yourself beside a fallen soldier whose name you didn’t know. Your head bowed, your fingers brushed the man’s forehead, closing his eyes with a reverence that made Mark grit his teeth.

He stalked toward you with the same swagger he carried into battle. His boots crunched over bones and metal, but you didn’t flinch. You were too wrapped in grief—too far away in the ocean of it.

“I told you not to follow me,” he said. “This isn’t your place.”

You looked up slowly, your eyes wet but calm. “Isn’t it?”

His scowl deepened. “What’s the point of this? He’s dead. They’re all dead. You crying over them isn’t going to change that.”

“I know,” you said.

“You always know. That’s the problem.”

He crouched beside you now, eyes sharp with disdain—and something else. Fascination. His tone was mocking, but quieter. “You’re too delicate for this. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t have to be.”

Your answer was soft. Unapologetic.

He leaned closer, testing your reaction like a child pushing against something breakable. “You wear your sadness like armor. But you’re not a warrior.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Then what are you?” he demanded. “Some saint? Some cosmic therapist for the war-torn? Is that what you think you are?” You finally turned your full gaze on him.

And Mark—vicious, reckless, blood-hungry—felt his breath hitch.

“I am what’s left after people like you are finished,” you whispered. “I’m the silence that follows screaming. The sorrow no one else wants to feel. The one who stays to remember when everyone else forgets.” Your power lingered in the air like a low hum, subtle but endless. A pressure behind the eyes, a heaviness in the chest. His smirk faltered.

“I’ve seen your mind,” you continued. “You kill because it makes you feel alive. You mock sorrow because it reminds you what you lost.”

“I haven’t lost anything,” he growled.

“Not yet,” you said.

Silence.

Then: “You think that makes you strong? Weeping for people who would’ve slit your throat five minutes ago?”

“I don’t weep for what they were,” you said, rising to your feet with slow grace. “I weep for what they could’ve been. What you still could be.”

Your presence towered over him—not physically, but spiritually. Regal, tragic, unbreakable. And it infuriated him. It pulled at something he didn’t want to name. “You pity me,” he spat.

“No,” you said, turning away. “I grieve for you.” You walked off into the ash. And for the first time since his first kill, Mark didn’t follow. He watched you go. And hated how empty the silence felt once you were gone.

PRISONER MARK + GARNET! READER

The apartment was dark except for the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp casting faint shadows on the walls. The night outside was quiet, the city just a hum beneath the weight of silence. Mark lay in bed, his back against the cool sheets, but his eyes were wide open. He hadn’t meant to stay awake. It was becoming more frequent, though—these restless nights that refused to let him slip into the darkness of sleep.

Beside him, you slept soundly, your breathing deep and even. It was a comfort, in a way, knowing that you had found peace even when the world seemed to spin out of control. Yet, despite the tranquility, he couldn’t shake the restlessness gnawing at him.

He turned his head toward you, his eyes tracing the curve of your profile in the dim light. There was something steady about the way you slept, something grounded. You were the calm to his storm, and it was easy to forget that even you had your own weight to carry.

As the minutes stretched on, Mark found his gaze drifting from your form to the clock, to the stillness in the room, to the faint sound of your steady breathing. He felt the pull of something unsaid between you—something heavy, but quiet, like a storm waiting to break.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Carefully, he shifted, easing himself out of bed. The sheets rustled gently as he stood, walking across the room with quiet steps, trying not to disturb the peace that seemed so fragile in the air.

But as he passed by the doorway, his eyes landed on you again.

You hadn’t moved.

You were still there, but not there. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the calm expression on your face—you seemed at peace, but something in the air told him otherwise. He lingered for a moment, watching you. His instincts, sharp and practiced, told him something wasn’t quite right.

He couldn’t help it—he crossed back to the bed and leaned down, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not sleeping.”

Your eyes fluttered open, slow and deliberate, but not startled. You always seemed to know when he was awake, even when you were in a deep sleep. You didn’t look surprised to see him beside you again, didn’t sit up or ask him why he was watching you.

Instead, you just blinked and turned your head toward him, your gaze steady.

“I don’t need to,” you replied, your voice as calm as ever, filled with that quiet certainty that was so you. “I’m not tired yet.”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure how to explain it—how the weight of the night had felt too heavy, too oppressive, now that he was so close to it. There was something about you, about how you held yourself, that made it impossible for him to ignore.

“You need rest,” he said after a long pause, his voice unsteady despite the firm words. “We both do.”

“I will rest when I need to,” you replied, your voice still calm. “But not yet.”

Mark tilted his head, confused but not frustrated. You never got frustrated. You always knew, always held that composed air about you, like you could see the outcome of any situation, even the ones where he felt lost. He admired that, in a way. But tonight, tonight he was tired, not physically, but emotionally, mentally. The weight of everything was finally hitting him, and he felt it pressing in, an ache he couldn’t shake.

“Why are you awake?” he asked quietly, his gaze softening as he sat on the edge of the bed beside you. His voice was gentler now, as if he were asking a question he didn’t really want to ask, but couldn’t hold back anymore.

You didn’t move for a long moment. But then, in the silence, you finally spoke.

“Because sometimes, I need to be awake to see. To feel where things are going.”

Mark’s brow furrowed, but you placed a hand on his arm, the touch calm and steady.

“I know you think I don’t need sleep, that I’m unaffected. But I need to stay awake for both of us—for you, when you can’t sleep, and for me when I feel like I’m losing my way.” Your voice softened, even further now, like a gentle breeze. “I watch the future unfold, and sometimes… it’s easier to be awake than to sleep through it.”

He felt something shift in his chest then, an ache that was deeper than any physical wound he had ever known. There was a quiet burden you carried, one that you never spoke about. You were always the constant—never wavering, always steady. But tonight, he saw the cracks beneath that surface, the weight of your role that you never let anyone see.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you replied, your voice soft but sure. “But I will always be here, Mark. Even when you can’t sleep, even when you can’t keep running anymore.”

He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing yours, hesitating for a moment before closing the gap between you. His fingers rested gently on yours, the warmth of your touch grounding him. It was simple, this connection, but in that moment, it felt like the most honest thing he had ever known.

VILTRUMITE MARK + BLUE DIAMOND! READER

The silence between them was thick, like a palpable thing that filled the room with weight. Mark stood by the observation window, staring out at the stars, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. The cold expanse of space stretched out before him, endless and uncaring, a reflection of everything he had become.

The Viltrumite empire had molded him into a weapon, a tool. Emotions had no place in his world—only strength, only purpose. He had been trained to suppress every weakness, to ignore anything that might make him falter. And yet, there was a part of him, buried deep down, that longed for something more. Something different. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Across the room, you sat on the edge of the bed, your figure draped in soft, flowing robes, the gentle glow of your presence filling the space with a warmth that felt foreign to him. You were quiet, your eyes cast downward, as though lost in thought. The contrast between you and him was striking. He was stone—unmovable, hardened by years of combat, war, and conquest. You, however, were something else entirely. Softness, vulnerability, a tender sadness that radiated from you in waves.

Mark’s gaze shifted from the stars to you. He noticed how still you were, how you hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. It was unusual. You were always so full of quiet strength, yet tonight, something about you seemed… off. He wasn’t sure what it was. He couldn’t place it, but something about the way you held yourself told him you were breaking, little by little.

He didn’t know how to fix it, how to reach you. But he didn’t have to. Not tonight.

Without a word, you stood and walked toward him, your steps light but deliberate. Mark didn’t move, didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There was no need.

You reached him, standing in front of him for a moment, your gaze lifting to meet his. There was a vulnerability in your eyes now—something he wasn’t used to seeing. It felt raw, fragile, and it unsettled him. But before he could say anything, before he could try to piece together what was happening, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Mark stiffened in surprise, his body rigid against the unexpected touch. You pressed your forehead against his chest, your breath shaky, and it took a moment for him to process what was happening. You weren’t trying to comfort him—you were seeking comfort from him.

It was strange, and yet… not. His heart clenched in a way he didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to burden you. I just… I can’t help it. I feel everything. All the time.”

Mark stood frozen, his hands hanging by his sides. He wasn’t used to this. Emotions had always been foreign to him—especially emotions like this. He had been raised to lead with logic, to dominate, to crush everything in his path. And yet, here you were, trembling in his arms, your tears soaking through his uniform.

It wasn’t just your sadness that unsettled him. It was the way your emotions seemed to reach inside him, affecting him in ways he hadn’t expected. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at you, his chest tightening, not with sadness, but with something else.

You sniffled against his chest, and for a brief moment, Mark considered pulling away. He didn’t know how to help you, how to fix this feeling inside you. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Something in him stopped him from retreating, from shutting you out. Your tears… they were like a silent storm, washing over him, and in their wake, something shifted within him. Something he couldn’t ignore.

He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to look away. His breath was steady, but his heart was racing—unfamiliar, untamed.

“I’m not like you,” he said, his voice rough and distant, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. “I don’t feel… the way you do. I don’t understand this.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I don’t expect you to.”

You didn’t pull away, and neither did he. Your presence was gentle, unyielding, even as your tears continued to fall. Your emotions—so vulnerable, so unguarded—seeped into him like a quiet flood, tugging at something deep inside him. His mind screamed at him to stay stoic, to remain unaffected. But in the face of your vulnerability, in the weight of your grief, he couldn’t shut it out.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching. “You don’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“I do,” you replied softly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I need to let it out. And I need you to know that I trust you, even when I’m breaking.”

Mark’s heart thudded painfully against his chest. There was something about those words—something that cut deeper than any wound he had ever received. His hands, which had been at his sides, now hovered uncertainly. He didn’t know what to do. He had never known what to do with tenderness.

You reached up, placing your hands over his, and even though your fingers were trembling, you held onto him. “I’m sorry, Mark. I just… I feel everything. And I’m scared.”

You weren’t afraid of him, he realized. You were afraid of everything else. The weight of the universe. The crushing loneliness that came with being the one who had to carry it all.

For a long moment, Mark stood there, his gaze fixed on yours. You were a stark contrast to him—vulnerable, raw, unafraid to show your emotions. He had never known someone like you before, and it scared him. But as the moments stretched on, he found himself not wanting to pull away.

He couldn’t fix you. He couldn’t make you feel better. But maybe, just maybe, for once, he didn’t need to fix anything.

Instead, his hands slowly wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his embrace firm but careful. You were the one who was broken tonight, but he didn’t have to be. He wouldn’t fix you. He wouldn’t try to fix you.

But he could hold you.

And for now, that was enough.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Braveheart

summary: joel helps you in the middle of a panic attack.

pairing: joel miller x reader

contents: panic attack, firearm mention, illusions to ptsd, romantic tension, soft!joel, a kiss!

wc: 1,459

an: was thinking about joel’s panic attack from season one & wanted to write him helping reader bc i can!!! bc he’s alive and well!!

pedro pascal characters masterlist

You don’t notice what’s happening to yourself right away, you never do.

It’s late. Patrol is done for the night, and you and Joel are back in Jackson, sitting outside the weapons shed, oiling down your gear. The firepit between you crackles, burning hot, but the chill in the air has teeth. Despite the cold, despite the nature of life these days, it’s peaceful.

Quiet in a way you never take for granted.

You’re not talking much. Joel doesn’t need to fill silence. That’s one of the things you like about him; how he lets the quiet be a comfort instead of a punishment.

But then he says something. It’s a simple comment about the western trails being clear. It's benign, or at least it should be. The western trails hold meaning. They were practically your second home at one point��� one you got sent out on alone.

You go completely still just at the mention of them, your mind allowing in scenes you try to forget.

You don’t know why it hits you the way it does. Maybe it’s the smoke in the air coupled with the flick of a memory you didn’t mean to touch. But suddenly your chest is tight, your ears are ringing. The world feels ages away, blurred at the edges like you’re not with Joel sitting by a fire in Jackson anymore.

You don’t realize how still you’ve gone until Joel shifts beside you.

“Hey.”

You blink, trying to answer but the words don’t come, a soft sound in the back of your throat. Your hands feel wrong, light and heavy all at once. You can see yourself, see Joel like you’re floating too far above your own body.

“Hey.” He repeats, voice lowering. “You with me?”

Your breath stutters. You try to inhale but it’s like trying to take a breath in through a straw. Your chest goes tighter.

You wish you could say you’re fine, brush it off, and joke about zoning out. But you can’t— you can’t move, can’t breathe right, let alone lie.

There’s a rustling beside you, then Joel crouches in front of you, knees popping, his expression calm but focused.

“All right,” he murmurs, “I think you’re havin’ a panic attack. That’s all it is.”

All it is.

Like it’s manageable, like it doesn’t feel like the world is forcing your chest to cave in.

You barely register when he takes your hand. He does it gently, so painfully gently. There is no tug or rush, just a warm, steady grip that makes you feel here, even when everything else feels far away.

“Can I show you somethin’?”

You can’t nod, but you don’t pull away. You force your eyes to flutter and it’s enough for him.

Joel guides your hand forward, rests your palm flat against his chest. Right over his heart.

“You feel that?” he asks.

You do…eventually. The beat of it like a drum, the solid warmth of his chest. How strong, slow, real Joel is with you right now. It anchors you, because if he feels so real underneath your fingertips, aren’t you?

“I want you to match it,” he says, like he’s done this before. “Don’t overthink it. Just breathe with me.”

You try. The first breath stutters in your lungs, but Joel’s still watching you, breathing slow and deep like you can sync to him. And somehow, you do; little by little, the tightness eases. The tremble in your body evens out.

He keeps his hand over yours. When you look up, his eyes are already on you. Quiet, and encouraging, shining with familiarity in a way that undoes you.

“I didn’t realize,” you rasp finally. “Thought I was just being… weird.”

Joel shakes his head. You notice that his hand stays where it is. “You weren’t. You got hit by somethin’. Happens more than folks admit.”

Your voice breaks a little. “I’m sorry.”

His fingers tighten around yours just slightly. “Don’t be. You don’t owe me an apology for bein’ human.”

You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let go. Not until you stop trying to run from it—from him.

“Why’d you notice?” you ask. “Why’d you know what was happening?”

He hesitates but eventually is honest. “Because I’ve had ’em too.”

The idea of Joel, the one who’s always composed and grounded, the one who people look to as a pillar falling apart like that twists something sharp and tender in your chest.

“When?”

He exhales shakily, looking toward the fire. “First time was years ago, right after Sarah. Thought I was dyin’. My heart was racin’ and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I laid in the dirt behind a gas station and thought that was it.”

He thought that was it? He sounds as if he was so resigned to drifting away, to letting the panic take him under. You’re silent, watching him. His eyes have gone far away, but his hand is still on yours, and his touch is still gentle.

“Tommy found me,” he adds after a beat. “Didn’t say much, he just sat with me. That helped more than anythin’.”

You swallow hard. “So that’s why you stayed with me.”

Joel looks at you again. His voice is lower now, almost rough. “I’d stay anyway.”

Quiet stretches between you, laced with the soft sounds of Jackson. The fire pops, the night sighs, and the weight of his words settles somewhere behind your ribs.

“I didn’t expect you,” you whisper.

He tilts his head, not understanding.

“To be the one who noticed,” you clarify. “To be the one who… stayed.”

Joel’s eyes soften. Not in pity but in something else, something warmer. He lifts his free hand, caressing your hair, slow and hesitant like he’s not sure he should. But when you don’t flinch, he lets his touch linger.

“I notice you more than you think,” he says.

All you can do is look at him, his words winding you. Look at the way the firelight dances along the sharp lines of his face, at the silver in his hair, at the steadiness that you’d come to rely on without ever naming it.

You think about the way he always shows up. The way he knows how to help without making someone feel like they owe him. The way he touches you now—not like you’re broken, but like you’re his.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this,” you say quietly.

“Waitin’ for someone to see you?” he asks. “Or waitin’ to let ‘em?”

Your chest pulls tight again—but not with panic. With anticipation and bravery. With honesty.

“Both,” you admit.

Joel’s eyes fall to your mouth, then flicker back to your eyes. “I see you,” he says. “I’ve seen you.”

The space between you narrows. His forehead tips toward yours—not touching, but close enough you can feel his warm breath.

You don’t kiss him; not at first.

But when he takes your hand again, presses it back to his chest like a vow, and murmurs, “Still right here. Whenever you need it…”

That’s when something in you breaks open.

You don’t crumble or fall apart— it feels like being freed. Like letting yourself go. Like a lock unlatching or a coveted breath finally exhaled.

You lean in slowly, just a few inches, just enough to ask the question without words. Your eyes stay trained on his, and as far as you can see there is no fear. They’re warm, almost amber in the fire light.

Joel doesn’t pull away. His hand tightens just slightly at the back of your neck, to ground you, a reminder that he’s here. And then he closes the last of that space, kissing you.

It’s not a dramatic kiss. It’s not ravenous or desperate. It’s smooth, syrupy.

It’s full of every moment you didn’t let yourself want this—every look, every silence, every small act of care that now blooms into something more.

His mouth claims yours with that same quiet certainty he carries in everything he does. When he kisses you, it’s with reverence. Like he’s known for a long time this might happen—but wasn’t going to take it until you were ready to meet him there.

Joel takes his time; kissing you and kissing you and kissing you. Ignoring the ache in his knees, letting the worry of being seen slip away. There is just your mouth on his, and you taste as sweet as he’s imagined.

When you part, you don’t pull away far, just enough to see him, to see his eyes. Bright and warm and full of adoration. Yours look much the same.

You let your forehead rest against his, and whisper, “Still here?”

“Still here,” he answers, just as softly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

lmk if you’d like to be on the joel miller taglist!

joel miller taglist: @lesbianhotch, @ozarkthedog, @lowrisemiller, @iamthatonefangirl, @campingwiththecharmings, @stargazingcarol, @megamindsecretlair, @nerdieforpedro, @fakeplasticfeels, @for-a-longlongtime, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike, @veritable-trash, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @lowrisemiller, @ficsavin, @diedorleft, @meetmeatyourworst, @amyispxnk, @marc-spectorr, @luzhesrozes, @arsonhotchner, @ashmiller

[differenteagletragedy]

Heyyy !!

So i had an idea.

Since Simon doesn’t celebrate birthdays at all, let’s imagine a world where reader’s birthday comes before his.

How would he react?

I thought that maybe he would ignore it just like anyone else’s birthday which would sadden reader A HELL LOT.

I absolutely live for angst so I believe that Simon would be crushed once he realizes his mistake and try to fix it.

Anyway, I hope that was understandable! Your writing is so good, I’m a 100% sure you’ll turn this into a masterpiece !

THANK YOU!??!!?! I live for the angst too, big big time, I hope you like it!!!

Simon keeps a watchful eye on you as you get ready for a night out with friends. He watches you do your hair and makeup, slide into a tight little dress, and it's a pleasant sight to see, but something's off. There's a tenseness in your shoulders, and he can't figure out the source.

"Everything all right?" he asks from his spot on the bed while you move to the closet to find a pair of shoes.

"Yep," you answer in a tone that tells him that everything is not, in fact, all right.

He stands, making his way to you, and you still when he puts his hands on your hips, pulling you so that your back rests against his chest.

"Can't fix the problem if I don't know what it is, love."

"The problem," you tell him, sliding around to face him, "is that I'm going to be late if you keep being handsy."

He lets you slip away from him.

Later that night, when you come home, you're buzzed enough to be honest but not enough to be belligerent about it. He meets you at the door, kneels to take your shoes off for you, and you begin.

"I'm sad."

He sets the shoes down and stands, taking your hands in his, and says, "Well, we can't have that, now can we?"

"It's my birthday," you tell him.

"As of midnight, yes."

"... You knew?"

There's hurt in your eyes, and Simon understands immediately that he's played this all wrong, but he's still trying to work out where exactly he failed.

"'Course I knew," he answers truthfully. "I know everything about you."

"Then why didn't you say anything? My friends took me out for my birthday, and you ... you didn't even say anything. You didn't want to come. Why not?"

"Because I knew you'd have more fun with your friends than you'd have with me."

It's another truth, but it's just the tip of the iceberg.

You sigh, then drop one of his hands, taking the other and leading him to the couch. You've been together long enough that he knows what this is -- you've just realized you've uncovered another piece of Simon Riley that is a little bit peculiar, and you want to talk it out.

"So here's the thing," you begin, sitting next to him. "I love you. I love being around you. And I want to be around you on my birthday."

He fights against the din that begins immediately in his mind -- the too-loud thoughts about how he doesn't deserve this understanding, doesn't deserve your kindness, doesn't deserve you, and he tries to speak.

Nothing comes out.

It's too many things, too many mistakes. It's the deep-seated feeling that plagued him at the beginning of the relationship, that quietened over time but is now back in full force, screaming through the silence in the room and making the patience in your stare painful: he's not cut out for this.

Finally, in a small, defeated voice, he says, "I was going to tell you happy birthday."

You pull him into a hug, then push him down until he's half-laying on the couch, his head in your lap and your fingers running through his hair. He closes his eyes, part of him waiting for this to be the final straw for you and part of him knowing, somehow, that you love him too much to let him go.

"Listen," you say softly, "I know sometimes you feel like you're not enough. But I need you to know that you are, ok? You're more than enough for me, Simon, you're everything. And that means spending birthdays with me and holidays and good times and bad times and everything else that makes up a life, because I want to share my life with you. Is that what you want?"

He can't say it in words, he doesn't know any that would suffice. He tries to say it in actions, in the way he gives you the first cup of tea, how he scrapes the ice off your windshield when it frosts and how he stops the radio in the car on your favorite songs, even when he can't stand them. He tries to press it into you too, through his hands and his mouth when he holds you.

Now, in the moment, he nods, his head still resting in your lap, and he hopes you can feel everything else. How hard he tries.

Your touch turns softer, and you pause to lean down and press a soft kiss on his temple.

"So tell me."

He hesitates, then turns to lay on his back so that he can look up at you. He feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards into a smile, small but genuine. It still feels strange, even after all these months, like a muscle that's never quite developed. It aches a little less every time.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says.

[digitaldaydreamm]

unspoken claim

rafe x childhood friend!reader

| summary | he has a way of making you forgive him without even saying he's sorry

warnings: manipulation, gaslighting, jealousy, toxic rafe is back for this one

a/n: here's the highly (sort of) requested part 2!! it's kind of short bc i don't really like writing second parts :') there was a few ways i was thinking of taking this little scenario but i ended up going for toxic rafe because at the end of the day, he's rafe. i love to give you guys the best of both worlds with unspoken claim and show you how soft he can be but also remind you how much of an asshole he is sometimes lol... anyway i hope you like it, feedback is appreciated <3

part 1 | masterlist | taglist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

You haven’t seen him in days.

Not really, anyway. Just a few texts here and there—one-word answers, dry replies, the kind of stuff Rafe only ever sends when he’s pissed but trying to act like he isn’t. No FaceTime calls. No random pop-ins. Not even a passive-aggressive “where are you?” like he usually sends when you’re gone too long without checking in.

You told yourself it was fine. That you needed space too.

That you wanted space.

But when your phone buzzes and you see a message from the same guy who dropped you off that night—hey, you still up?—you don’t reply. He'd been texting you every now and then, but you didn't really care. So you just stare at it. Let the screen go dark again.

And then your front door opens.

Not a knock. Not a heads-up. Just the jingle of keys and the creak of hinges and the low, familiar sound of heavy footsteps on your floor.

Your stomach knots instantly.

Rafe steps into the living room like he’s lived there his whole life, dressed in black, his buzzed head fresh from a recent cut. He’s got that calm but angry look again—blank face, tight jaw, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s holding something in.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He barely looks at you before dropping onto the couch.

You hesitate, then join him, legs tucked under you, trying not to fidget. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you missed me.”

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you—just leans back against the cushions like this is all routine. “You been busy, right? Hanging out. Talking. Distracted.”

“Rafe…” you sigh, “I’ve barely texted him.”

“I never said who,” he cuts in, smooth and sharp.

You flinch.

There’s silence. Tense and stretched thin between you. He finally turns his head, and his eyes meet yours—cool, unreadable.

“I give you space,” he says lowly, “and you fill it with him?”

You open your mouth to respond but your phone buzzes again on the coffee table—same name, second message. You both see it light up.

Rafe’s gaze drops to it, then flicks back to you. He doesn’t look mad.

Worse—he looks disappointed.

“Wow,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself.

“Rafe, I wasn’t even gonna reply—”

He cuts you off again. “You think I’m mad?” he asks with a dry laugh. “Nah, kid. I’m not mad. I’m just… realizing you really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

He leans in a little, voice lowering. “You think he gives a shit about why you don’t text back? Think he notices that you’re upset? Think he’d show up if you were having a bad day, no invite, no reason—just because?”

You blink fast.

“No, because he doesn’t see you,” Rafe says. “Not the way I do.”

Your throat tightens. “Then why’ve you been ignoring me?”

He tilts his head. “You were pulling away first.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Every time I came around, you were nose deep in your phone,” he says smoothly. “You laughed less when I was around. Got quieter. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“I was just—”

“Just what?” he interrupts gently, like he’s coaxing a child. “Trying something new? Seeing what it’s like with someone who doesn’t even know your middle name?”

The words sting more than you want to admit.

You cross your arms, turning away, but he leans closer, warm breath brushing your ear.

“I’ve been here,” he murmurs. “Always been here. You think that’s an accident?”

Your chest tightens. He’s too close. He smells like his cologne and the ocean and that stupid expensive soap he pretends not to use. And you hate how much you missed it.

“How many times do I have to prove it, huh?” he asks, voice soft now. “How many more people are you gonna test me with?”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

He notices. Smirks faintly.

And just like that—snap—the tension breaks. He stands, grabs the remote, and flops back onto the couch like everything’s fine.

“You hungry?” he asks, casual. “You barely eat when you’re sad.”

You glance at him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me, baby.”

Your breath catches at the nickname—rare, but not unheard of. Always drops when he knows you’re too vulnerable to fight it.

“I’ll make something,” he says, already headed to your kitchen like it’s his kitchen.

And just like that… the conversation’s over.

No apology. No “I’m sorry I made you cry,” or “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care.” Just Rafe sliding back into your world like he never left—making you grilled cheese, asking if you want a movie, throwing you a hoodie when you shiver.

And you let him.

Because he’s always been here.

Because you don’t know how to say no.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

taglist!!

@drewsdirtyslut @rafestoothbrush @vanessa-rafesgirl @dookeyfartt @doublejeon @memoirofasparklemuff1n @sunsetmade @xummer01 @justoxyo22 @maybankslover @jkrafe @meetmeintheemeraldpool @actcvntwhennoonesaround

please lmk if i missed someone or if you weren't meant to be tagged for this series!

[thegingerparty]

I was tagged in Tidbit Tuesday by @sad-girl-hours23 so now seems like a great time to say that I am in fact writing a fic based on this -> https://www.tumblr.com/thegingerparty/782024880658989056/okay-but-why-havent-we-talked-about-dailey-planet?source=share post!! I'm really excited about it and I hope it doesn't take me a million years to write. lol.

______________

"Do you think he had plastic surgery?"

Eddie pauses in his typing. "I'm not even sure I want to ask."

"For his cleft, I mean."

A myriad of expressions cross Eddie's face before finally settling on something like bemusement. "Pretty sure that's natural, bud."

"You think?" Buck rests his chin in his hand, gazing across the room at where Tommy sits typing on his own computer. He watches as Tommy squints at the computer, before pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Buck's stomach clenches.

He quickly turns back to Eddie. "What about his jawline?" he presses. "There's no way that is all natural."

The loudest sigh Buck has ever heard slowly releases from Eddie's lips. "Buck," he says. His tone of voice is the same one he uses whenever Buck has started oversharing.

"What?" he responds defensively, pulling back to cross his arms over his chest. "Its a valid question!"

"No, Buck, it really isn't." The clicking of the keys continues as Eddie picks up his typing again. He's been really excited about this week's coverage, since the Rangers are in town. You can't take the Tex out of the mex, or however the saying goes. "I thought you guys really hit it off, when you gave him the tour?"

"See, that's what I thought, too!"

"But then…" Buck can feel himself losing Eddie's attention rapidly. He's even more annoyed Taylor is at the city council meeting today, he could really use someone else to vent to about this.

"But then he reconnected with Hen and Chim from when they worked at the Times and Athena agreed to work with him on a case during his second week! I had to wait months for her to work with me voluntarily." Eddie hums noncommittally, frowning at his document. He probably accidentally made every right justified again and is trying to figure out how to change it back.

"And! I know the two of you have been going to bar trivia together on Thursday's after work." Buck accuses, pulling out the big guns. He sits back in the chair smugly as Eddie freezes. He looks over at Buck out of the corner of his eye, not even turning his head.

"Technically, its karaoke trivia," Eddie says. "And I haven't invited you because…." He trails off.

"Because you-you want to exclude me from fun? You want to keep the new guy all to yourself? Sorry that I still don't understand baseball Eddie, but it's not like you can blame me. I mean, the short stop isn't even short! They're usually tall!"

Eddie has taken to rubbing his forehead, a sure sign he's about to professionally tell Buck to fuck off any second.

"I haven't invited you because you hate singing in public unless you're tipsy, which you don't like to do during the week, and because you can be kind of…intense about trivia. I didn't want to scare Tommy off right away."

Buck scoffs. "I am not that bad." he insists.

"You got us kicked out because you kept arguing with the host about how the answers were actually wrong. At three different bars!"

"Well they were wrong." he grouses, borderline pouting, now, even though he would never admit it. "And if it happened again, I would have made sure to keep my cool in front of Tommy."

"Buck you tripped me when walking into the elevator yesterday so you could get in first and stand between us." Eddie has his patent "Dad Face" on, like he's about to ground Buck for a week.

"You can't prove that." Buck says airily.

Eddie just shakes his head. "Listen, whatever it is you have against this guy, you need to get over it. I mean, you barely even work with him, no one is forcing you to interact with him if you don't want to."

Buck rolled his eyes. Eddie was so missing the point. Because the thing is, Buck had wanted to interact with Tommy, had been looking forward to it. But somewhere along the way everyone else had gotten there first and now Buck was stuck trying to figure out how to either make an impression on him, or find a way to ignore him completely.

(He had been trying that for days.)

(It wasn't working.)

Which meant his only choice was to make an impression.

Tagging @queermccoy @dharmaavocado and @thefixations-ofmine if they so desire and anyone else that reads this and wants to share!

[hijadelverano]

Sunset

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Ex!Red-Cross Nurse

Summary: Luciana, a highly experienced and tough nurse (ex-Red Cross) working in a busy ER, is haunted by traumatic memories from her past humanitarian work in a war zone. One day, during a shift, she is suddenly overwhelmed by flashbacks of a deadly battlefield, reliving the chaos, pain, and loss she witnessed, which causes her to have a panic attack. Thankfully, Jack is there to pull her back.

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks, war, injuries. Luciana is Latina, so a few words are in Spanish. English is not my main language.

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: it's been a while since I wrote something but I was inspired after watching the Pitt. Also, this is my first time writing in englsih, so forgive my grammar.

Hope you like it!!!

Gif de emziess

Sometimes, the noises are enough to drag her back—ironic because she works in a place where silence is a pipe dream. If she can’t stand the noise, she shouldn’t work in an ER, but she does and now has to pay the price.

This does not always happen; after all, she’s been in The Pitt for years. What dragged her to the past today was a combination of shouting and the wind hitting the doors. She was so concentrated on looking at the board, analyzing the patients while searching for an opportunity to clear more beds, that she was startled when the wind hit the glass door.

The only thing she can hear is her heart beating strongly and her rapid breaths, but her mind isn’t in the PItt anymore. She’s back in hell, the heat of an explosion surrounding her, making it hard to breathe, bullets everywhere, and the only thing she sees is blood.

Blood in her clothes, in the sand, in her body. 

Blood pouring from a soldier’s leg

“Stay with me!” she hears herself screaming. “Don’t close your eyes!”

She acted fast, making a tourniquet with her belt and using her shirt to bandage the wound. She needs to get him out of here. They were in the open in the middle of a battle between soldiers and terrorists, so she grabbed his arms and tried to ignore his screams while she dragged him to hide behind a vehicle.

“Where the hell is our backup?!” she screams to another soldier. They needed to get the hell out of there if she wanted to save the wounded. 

From a distance, another scream, a familiar one. Miles, a senior doctor, the one who recruited her was now dead. One second, he was helping a soldier, the next he was on the sand with a bullet hole between his eyes.

This was supposed to be another humanitarian mission, like the many others they did in the past; they weren’t even soldiers. They were sent to a small village to help the women and children, the military was just there for protection.

This was supposed to be an offer of peace, but it turned out to be a deadly trap, and she was in the middle of it.

Her body was on autopilot, she couldn't stop to cry over the deaths. There were lives still to be saved. From her pocket, she grabs gauze and uses it to keep the soldier alive. She prayed for the helicopter to arrive soon, the soldier needed surgery fast. The medic looked around, her eyes settling on one of the four soldiers who were still fighting, firing his gun with his right arm while his left was bleeding from a gunshot.

“Hey, you!” she shouted, “come over here!”

The soldier, not much older than her and definitely terrified, crawled faster to her side. When his eyes landed on the man on the ground, he paled.

“Fuck, that’s Abbot, our medic” the soldier, a latin boy she figured by his accent, said barely in a whisper but she managed to hear it.

“Well right now he’s my patient” she snapped, her patience running thin. “I need you to keep his leg elevated and hold pressure on the wound” she told him while looking for more bandages to cover that gunshot wound. But the soldier didn’t answer, his eyes still on Abbot’s leg - or the lack of it.

“Soldado!” She switched to spanish and finally the soldier looked at her. “Necesito que tengas elevada su pierna y hagas presión así puedo revisar tu herida. Can you do that?!”

He gave her a nod and moved quickly to help. The adrenaline was high for him as he didn’t feel the pain when the medic started to apply pressure on his arm. She used her last roll of bandage and prayed to be enough.

“Where’s our damn helicopter?” she asked again, finally getting an answer “Two minutes!”

Two minutes, one hundred and twenty seconds. A lot can happen in that time.

“Grenade!” someone shouts, and she drops to the ground, her body covering the army medic. An explosion steals the air from her lungs, and pain erupts from her side. Something hit her.

“Shit, Abbot!” the young soldier screams, grabbing the medics attention. She didn’t have time to assess the situation, see if any of them were hurt, or determine her own pain;  Abbot was pale as a ghost and wasn’t responding. She quickly pressed two fingers to his throat. There was no pulse

“La puta madre” she cursed and started compressions. “Don’t you dare to fucking die, ¡¿me escuchaste?!”

You are not allowed to give up.

There’s ringing in her ears, and her vision is dizzy, but she only stops to breathe in his mouth and resumes compressions again. That’s when the wind started, making it hard to see anything, but she didn’t stop CPR. They had already lost so much, and the idea of Abbot dying under her hands was a thought she couldn’t conceive. She looked around, searching for something that could help her. She cursed, when did she let go of her medic bag? How could she be so dumb to let go of the most important thing- there it was.

“Somebody fucking get me that bag!” she shouted, hoping to be heard. If she could grab the epi, maybe she could save him.

A hand is on her shoulder, and someone is talking to her.

L-

Luci-

“Luciana!” someone’s shaking her by the arms, and suddenly she isn’t in the desert anymore, fighting to save a life.

No sand surrounded her, just concrete, and the wind wasn’t from a helicopter. She’s back in Pittsburgh, on the rooftop of the hospital where she works. 

How did she get here? 

“Luciana, hey, look at me” A warm hand is on her cheek, guiding her face to the person in front of her.

Brown's eyes met their mirror, and the door guarding her soul was wide open, making her feel bare under his eyes. The thought of being so vulnerable increased the panic in her veins. She’s not used to showing her feelings, always maintaining a stoic face when it comes to her problems. Luciana made empathy her armor, prioritizing other’s problems over hers. That way, her trauma keeps being deep inside and her mind would never have the time to address it.

Luciana Suarez built her personality around being a strong woman who has seen it all and doesn’t shed a single tear about it. When her eyes met Abbot’s, her walls crumbled down into tiny pieces, and her facade no longer existed, making it all worse.

“I need you to breathe,” he instructed her, as he would to any other patient, at least that was what she told herself.

But air seemed like the wrong option when her lungs were burning like a forest in the middle of the summer.

“I - I can’t” It was an impossible task, how can she calm down when everything feels like a nightmare? Her eyes might be seeing Jack in front of her, but her body is still in hell.

Suddenly she felt something cold and her mind stopped. It was unexpected, for a moment all she could feel was the heat - imaginary but nonetheless. When her eyes looked for the source, her heart stopped. A hand she’d seen too many times doing impossible procedures, had grabbed her with such gentleness and placed it on something metal.

It was a prosthetic foot. His prosthetic foot.

“Feel this?” he asked “ I’m alive, we survived”

He wanted to tell her so many things. That his moments on this very roof aren’t a debate over suicide, on the contrary, he’s grateful he’s still breathing and it’s all because of her. Because she didn’t give up on him, she fought and brought him back to the land of living. Yes, he lost his leg but that would never be her fault. Thanks to this angel - as he usually calls her in his mind -, he got to live. Fifteen extra years and plenty of opportunities. 

If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have married his wife. He wouldn’t be alive to go home, marry Isabel, and live her last years with her. He wouldn’t have met his brother in everything but blood, Robby.

If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have this job that made him feel useful without putting his life in danger. He isn’t going to lie, some shifts still took a toll on him, where the death felt like a weight he was holding.  Some nights, he was Atlas holding the sky on his shoulders and that’s why he goes back to the roof. And when the sun rise again, she appears and suddenly, the weight isn’t as heavy as before: she’s holding the sky with him, together.

God, she was barely a child when she saved his lame ass. She was twenty years old, a prodigy child who graduated early and just wanted to be a doctor and do humanitarian work he discovered after waking up in a foreign hospital.

Definitely an angel.

As soon as he opened his eyes and learned the news - learned what he’d lost -, she visited him. In his pain, he was surprised: the person who saved him was a young girl… in a wheelchair. A bullet to her back, she had to be operated on twice to get the remains off or she could risk being paralyzed for life.

She was badly hurt while saving his life and she told him all that with a little smile. In the beginning, he hated that smile. How can she be fine after all that? He lost part of his leg and already felt like his life was ending - it took him a very long time, with the help of his therapist and his wife, to make peace with this new and broken body.

It took him a few years to realize she was broken too.

He hates to see his salvation hiding the pain behind a smile, hoping nobody would notice. But he did and did nothing about it: maybe it was because Luciana was too stubborn to accept help and he didn’t know how to act on these feelings. He remembered when he saw her again, a few years ago, when she started working at The Pitt. The world stopped but his heart started beating again after a long time. Regret filled his heart at his cowardice, guilt swimming in his heart. 

Jack let himself be used to toeing between the lines: between being colleagues and something more. He already has a soft spot for her, everyone knows it. Always praising her for her good work, or consolating her when the shift was being a nightmare. He even let his fingers graze her every now and then, a small act of selfishness for his heart. But that was it. When the opportunity of doing something else, of doing something more crossed his mind, he closed the door.

Oh how Jack wished to go back in time, but that was just a fantasy. So, in return, he vowed to not be that version of himself anymore.

A hand brushing the scar on her back made her open her eyes - she didn’t know when she closed them. It took her a few seconds to remember what was happening, her mind shut down when she met the cold of-

Jack

She lifted her gaze and there he was, still looking at her like he could read her mind and maybe he could as he managed to bring her back. 

“Hey”

“Hola” Jack speaking Spanish almost makes her smile again, and he relaxed slightly. “¿Estas bien?”

When did the wind stop?

Lu took a deep breath, something that felt impossible moments ago, and cleaned her tears with her hand. “A little peachy,” she said, giving him a small smile “Sorry you had to come”.  The hate of being a burden was burning her throat.

“Don’t” he interrupted her. “You are not a burden to me, Luciana”. How did he know? She swears every time his eyes found hers, he could read her mind.

She hid her face in his chest and strong arms involved her. She’s not used to opening up about her problems, even though her therapist told her plenty of times that she shouldn’t be embarrassed about her feelings.

She protected her heart because it was too big for her own sake: she felt too much about everything, a curse rather than a gift. That’s why she hid her true feelings, she doesn’t want to suffer.

Maybe that’s why she did nothing about her feelings for Jack. He would never hurt her, she knows that, but what if they weren’t ready? What if she was too much? She would never recover from the bleeding.

“Damm my heart” she murmured, still between his arms. Her hand was still on the prosthetic, the cold metal grounding her

“Hey, don’t be hard on yourself” he rests his chin on top of her head, his fingers running small circles on her scar.

“Jack, I got a panic attack from a little wind, don’t tell me that’s normal”

A hand on her cheek brought her back to the starring contest (when she loses every time).

“You have PTSD, just like I have. You told me plenty of times that there’s nothing wrong with that”.

It’s okay to be broken sometimes.

He hugged her again, knowing she still needed the contention. They stayed like that, feeling each other heartbeat while watching the sunset. That’s when she grabbed the courage.

“I was searching for a place like this”

“A rooftop?” that made her laugh and for Jack it felt like heaven.

“No, tonto. I mean in a metaphorical sense. I was looking for a place to finally wake up and be the full version of myself”

“And where’s that?” he asks, but his eyes are shining like he knows the answer.

“Here, between your arms” there, she finally said it.

“It was time you let me hold the weight with you” he placed a kiss on her forehead and that almost made her cry again “and I intend to do it for as long as you have me”.

“¿Y si digo para siempre?” she asked in her mother language, can’t help but feel a little insecure. She just asked him forever and they haven’t even-

“Then forever it is” and he kissed all her insecurities goodbye.

[joooooniecore]

After all this time(Teaser)

Your friends have been successful enough to drag you out of your workaholic routine for a vacation out of country.

The only problem? Your long term crush who actually used to be your best friend is also going there. And he is bringing his girlfriend, your ex-female best friend.

What could go wrong? Right?

✧˖* pairing: ex-bestfriend!mingyu x f!reader

✧˖* release date: 5th May, 2025

✧˖* w.c: contains several chapters (will be updated eventually)

✧˖* genre: ex-best friend mingyu, friends to strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, angst, slow-burn, smut.

✧˖* playlist: spotify playlist

✧˖* content warnings (full work): resurfaced old feelings, toxic relationship(not between the main characters), angst, confusions, resentments, past misunderstandings, a very slow burn | explicit smut: penetration, explicit language, cursing, bodily fluids, praising, body worship.

THIS FIC IS FOR +18 READERS ONLY! I can't control what people read, but I can control who interacts with my blog. MINORS CAUGHT INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED.

✧˖* note: hi! this story is something i have been working on for almost 6 months now. i almost abandoned the story and took it off the internet but then recently i decided to come back and finish this. i have researched about tourist spots in prague to make this story believable but their might be some facts that aren't exactly true (sorry to any fans from czech republic). hope you enjoy this story as much as i loved writing it!! --- love, artemis

comment on this post to be added to the tag list!

"We are planning a trip next week.", Seungkwan finally said.

You had heard about it a month back and could remember some of the details in the back of your head. The plan was then at its initial stages so you didn't really care about it. Most of the plans that Seungkwan makes go down the drain when the time comes by. He is very indecisive.

"The one to Prague?", you asked as you retained some of the information you heard back then.

"Oh, thank heavens you remember some of it. Yes, Prague. My friend actually has relatives there who are willing to give us their bungalow so that we can tour around comfortably."

You nodded as you asked, "So what is the plan?"

You could practically hear Seungkwan squeal as he explained, "Well we leave the upcoming Monday and return back before New Year's Eve."

Seungkwan goes to orphanages near the town on New Year's Eve hence he planned it in such a way that you guys return before that. Sometimes you just wonder how this menace can he so soft hearted.

"Okay? So do I get a choice whether to go or not?", you asked, even if you knew the answer.

"Haha! You wish. You are going with us. You need to.", Seungkwan laughed.

You shook your head fondly and asked, "Who all are going?"

You knew that some of your college classmates are going to be there because Seungkwan is practically friends with everyone. Even if he is the closest to you, he loves being a social butterfly and that shows pretty well.

"Umm so me, Jihyun and you obviously. Chan is going since its his relative's bungalow. Jihyun is bringing her brother Vernon and my friend Seungcheol will go."

You thought the list was done. There was a long pause before Seungkwan spoke again, voice a bit unsure this time, "M-Mingyu is also going."

Your world shattered. A shiver ran down your spine as you took a deep breath. It is quite obvious Mingyu would go. He had always been part of the group. You just decided to omit him from your life when college got over.

Kim Mingyu, same department as yours in college and one of your closest friends. He was extremely charming and intelligent. You both clicked off instantly and stayed the same for two years. He was the first guy you had a crush on. In the second last year of college, you finally decided to confess to him and that ended badly. Hence you are embarrassed to even go close to him now.

"Is he still dating her?", you asked, a bit unsure.

"Yes, he is. I think he might bring her but I have no idea about that.", Seungkwan answered.

You really wanted to say no to the trip and stay in your bed all day and watch sappy Christmas movies till it is time to get back to work again. The urge to cut the call and block everyone was too much but you were arrogant too. You really didn't want to face him after knowing that he might have read the letter that you wrote him before you came to know that he was dating your best friend. Well now your ex-best friend. It was the embarrassment that you felt when you realized that the sweet talks Mingyu did with you were just out of mere friendliness and you took it the wrong way.

"I will go, don't worry Kwannie.", you softly said and you audibly heard Seungkwan sigh.

It was going to be a long vacation it seems.

[linkons-most-wanted]

I like your Sylus analysis so much and adore our dragon with all my heart but I steel don't understand why he acted so mean towards mc in the n 109 zone in the beginning 😭 and also it feels like he tried to return his old mc because he loved her but not mc from main story line 😔

Thank you for this ask!! This was actually perfect timing since I was just getting back into working on my Sylus PoV for Long Awaited Revelry which gets into allll this. And of course I will yammer about it endlessly whenever given the chance--this ended up becoming an essay. 😅

Storytelling and genre choices

First, I feel like I need to address the sort of "meta" reason--that is, the storytelling reason. The simplest answer is... it's hot. 🙈 While I'd say Sylus x MC isn't dark enough for most dark romance connoisseurs, his character leans in that direction, so there's a bit of meanness for the fun of it. I'm happy to go into more detail on that--and how liking meanness/darker themes in romance fiction is NOT the same as wanting/deserving those things IRL--but I'll leave it there for now so this doesn't get too long.

So, all that said, good writing hides that meta-layer well by giving you a story you totally believe, and imo the writers for Sylus do a great job of selling it.

MC's curse really is a curse

The biggest thing that stands out to me is how Beyond Cloudfall leaves off. Sorceress MC is being a bit selfish and vindictive (and we love that for her). He's about to be able to go to eternal rest knowing that he managed to defy his fate to kill his beloved. Then Sorceress MC says, "you're about to leave me alone, so I'm going to make you suffer through this same loneliness." I think we can be confident that by the time Sylus is able to "manifest" again, Sorceress MC is gone. There's a theme in Beyond Cloudfall of "if you kill them, they can't suffer" so her keeping him alive to suffer is pretty explicitly intended. (It's a romantic sort of vindictiveness, of course, but it's still vindictive.)

So Sylus is searching the galaxy for her, dealing with this intense love and also intense bitterness, perhaps even hate. (There's the saying that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. I really like playing with this idea of love and hate as two sides of the same coin with Sylus x mc.) All the years, all the boredom, all the loneliness, all the pain--she did that to him. On purpose. (It can be tempting to shy away from this, but imo the entire point of Sorceress MC is the power inherent in claiming our own dark desires and being honest about them. Another thing I could write a whole essay on.)

We now have canon confirmation that Sylus was in the N109 Zone by 2036, meaning that by the time they reconnect in 2049, he's been in the N109 Zone waiting for her for at least thirteen years, not to mention the years (or decades or centuries) as a space pirate before that.

When they do meet, Sylus tells her that she owes him "a curtain call grander than death itself". That is, he's not delighted that their reunion means he'll be happy again. He's bitter. He's over being immortal. She's his destined arch-nemesis and maybe she'll finally kill him properly this time. But of course, all those emotions collide with the fact that he still loves her, still cares about her, still on some level wants to treat her tenderly. And we see this conflict in his actions.

Adjusting to a different version of MC

I don't think it's quite right to say that Sylus doesn't love main-timeline MC and is trying to turn her into Sorceress MC. It's moreso that his love and history with Sorceress MC collides with the new reality of main-timeline MC. On some level, he expects to be able to step into their old dynamic, which is only natural. But the key things he loved about Sorceress MC are apparent immediately--her audacity, her stubbornness, her fire for life, her refusal to live by others' rules, etc.

The first thing Dragon Sylus says to MC in Beyond Cloudfall is "I like your eyes. They are beautiful… In them, I can see your hatred, defiance, and greed for life." So when she looks at him in the parlor, he sees all those things--her hatred for him (she thinks he's insane), her defiance of him (she refuses to cower and comply) and her greed for life (which sent her into the N109 Zone to claim her power, despite that being a suicide mission).

She is the same in all the ways that matter to him--and that's part of the problem. It intensifies the desire he has to get her to remember him, so he tramples over boundaries in an effort to recreate events from their past (using his eye to stir her greed for his power, having her shoot him being analogous to the sword, their antagonistic dynamic, etc).

But that being said, if all these things are being done out of love, why be so violent and demanding? That leads to the next point...

Sylus doesn't have "normal" friendship experience

The other key factor is that Sylus has not ever had a friendship or relationship with a "normal" person before. If people are brave enough to approach him, they're not going to be dissuaded by him being grumpy, pushy, caustic, etc. And, in fact, Sorceress MC meets him in this state and ends up falling for him anyway. So, as far as he's aware, she likes his forceful, demanding draconic ways. Being at each others' throats was part of how they fell for each other in the first place.

So, when they meet again, Sylus is probably assuming she's along for the ride. To him, her wanting to kill him is basically flirting. He's showing her all the traits she fell for before--but this MC has a very different early life. She wasn't shunned by society, she was raised by a loving adoptive parent. She has friends, a job, a purpose.

On some level, Sylus doesn't yet understand that it's a problem that MC is afraid of him, since that's how things started before. It's only when Philip tells him that she's disgusted or repulsed by him that he slams on the breaks. Teasing her, pushing her, making her angry--that's their dynamic. But for her to be disgusted? He suddenly realizes that there's a problem.

And, to his credit, we see him pivot and take that into account very quickly. He stops pushing the resonance issue. He figures out what she wants and helps her get it. Yes, he still tells her she needs to prove herself, which leads to my next point...

Why MC needs to prove herself

MC is stubbornly, stupidly insisting on inserting herself into the middle of an extremely dangerous place she's too naive to navigate. It's important to remember how very, very badly getting herself kidnapped into the N109 Zone could have gone. Philip says as much to her as well--and not because Sylus told him to. When Sylus gives her a hard time, wondering if he over-estimated her intellect, he's being blunt but not unfair. For example, she could not have dealt with the Wanderer attack at Elysium by herself, and she would have been up against that or worse if she'd made it any further by herself. As we see in other memories, she's terrible at lying and bluffing at this point.

Sylus has reason to be concerned that she's going to get herself captured or killed if he takes her to the Protocore Auction. It would be irresponsible of him to take her into that environment, where he can't be in two places at once, if she couldn't in some way hold her own. Captivating Moment (the myth) completes this arc where MC fully surprises Sylus and proves herself, and we get his iconic line, "With you here, I only need one plan." (That is, he can trust her and together they can overcome any obstacle.)

Zooming in on the parlor scene

In my opinion, most of Sylus's choices in Long Awaited Revelry can be understood vis-a-vis the above insights. But there's one specific decision that I think deserves a little bit more analysis--his decision to keep her under his mind control for those first 3 days when he's trying to force the resonance.

First off, I think it's meant to be very clear that he's using mind-control to keep her mostly unconscious in that time because there's some similar language in LAR to the Land of Lost anecdote when he's dealing with the Overlord. The writers are really intentional in their parallels, so I think we're being explicitly shown that he can and will keep someone in his thrall for a while.

But why? This requires more reading between the lines, though I'm fairly confident in my interpretation. I think Sylus's main two reasons for this choice are 1) he truly believes that if they resonate, she'll remember him and 2) he knows that if she sleeps normally, she'll have terrible nightmares, so the thrall state is intended as a mercy (like she does when he finally puts her in bed and has Luke and Kieran watch over her).

To Sylus--who is at his most impatient and demanding at the start of LAR--explaining himself is pointless if she won't believe him until he remembers. So, he's trying to take the most direct path. It's always worked for him before, after all. Maybe it'll even help jog her memory.

I really recommend watching closely his reaction in that parlor scene. He closes his eyes and focuses when they're trying to resonate. That little wisp of golden power is new--their previous attempts haven't yielded even that. Sorceress MC's power is depicted as that golden light, as is her soul--so touching that power would be achingly familiar. You see him hold her hand for a moment, feeling it again--but then he catches himself, dropping her hand. That power is so much weaker than it was before--that's why he stops trying to resonate and decides that the issue must be that something is blocking or suppressing her power, hence the trip to Philip at the Odd Workshop.

He's laser-focused on getting her to remember, sure that this will be the solution--until Philip informs him that he's actively repulsive to her. Sylus, who always thinks tens steps ahead, who always considers every contingency, suddenly realizes he's out of his depth. He's miscalculated. He realizes how selfish he's being--and this realization causes him to act differently. There's no doubt that Sylus made many mistakes in his early treatment of current-timeline MC, and yet his humility and decisiveness in changing his behavior shows strong character.

I think the most profound example of him changing course is that when they finally do resonate and she remembers more about him, instead of jumping on that and demanding more, he remains collected. Tells her it's not a big deal--it'll happen more. We see in Continuous Symphony also that he's waiting, he's hoping, but he's no longer pushing. And then in Razor's Dance, he's realizing that maybe her complaints aren't as flirtatious as he thought. Maybe this version of her doesn't want to be in his life. And so, without guilt-tripping or throwing a fit, he tells her clearly that he'll leave her alone if she wants to be left alone. And so she's truly given the choice of whether to continue the relationship or not. It's a poignant moment that, to me, fully sets right all his earlier mistakes and pushiness.

In conclusion

When they first reconnect, Sylus is dealing with the intensity of seeing her again, of her being the same in all the ways that matter, yet having her not remember him. That's painful enough, then add on his feelings of bitterness from the decades (or centuries) of waiting. No matter how mature or collected you are, that surge of emotion is enough to overwhelm anyone and cause them to not be their best self.

He expects his pushy behavior to be as endearing to her now as it was back then--after all, their whole thing was being true to their desires. He desperately hopes that resonating will restore her memory, and he remains laser focused on this goal to the detriment of their earlier relationship.

Sylus's love and essential maturity is revealed by how quickly and profoundly he course-corrects when Philip warns him that MC is repulsed by him. His personality doesn't change--he's still teasing, demanding, sly, smug, etc. (Which we love.) But he takes a big step back and focuses on helping MC get what she wants (the Aether Core) not taking from her what he wants (for her to remember him).

He realizes that asking this version of MC to remember their traumatic past together is too selfish, even for him. His initially mean and demanding behavior reveals just how badly he wants that connection--which makes his willingness to set that aside for MC even more profound. Ironically, we don't get to see the depth of his love without that indiscretion.

Sylus does a profoundly difficult thing--he grieves the loss of their past life together so that he can embrace this new reality with her--falling in love with the person she is now, the person she's become. The one that was quietly transplanted to a garden far away, but has still bloomed beautifully. 🥹

[amoromniaodium]

Animal Kingdom

Andrew Pope Cody

Thank you all for reading the preview! I didn’t expect such a positive reaction to my writing. Your likes and comments have truly inspired me — I already have two more parts planned. Feel free to share your thoughts, whether good or bad. I always appreciate honest feedback.

We’ll be seeing more of the Cody family soon, but I wanted to give you some background on Pope and my character first.

Chapter 1

The Revival

—

When she was five, she witnessed something she’d only later come to recognize as bipolar disorder in her mother.

Her mother didn’t believe in medication. Said it made her too foggy, too far from herself. So she replaced prescriptions with “the good drugs.” And from then on, her daughter saw things no child should ever see — things done to her mother, things done by her mother.

By the age of ten, she was the unofficial head of the household. She cleaned, cooked, kept the apartment running. She stole — not because she liked it, but because it was the only way to survive. She lifted money from the men her mother brought home. Took soap, toothpaste, and pads from school. Stole lunches from bigger kids. She was a pro.

She loved her mother. Deeply. Enough to make sure she ate, drank water, showered. Enough to keep watch when her mother’s “friends” were over. She loved her even when she didn’t understand her — especially then. That’s where her obsession with psychology began.

She had seen people overdose. Seen how depression and addiction twisted people until they became unrecognizable. She didn’t judge. She watched. She asked questions. She wanted to understand. Needed to understand.

Her schoolwork improved. She started talking to the men who didn’t make her stomach twist. She made them feel seen. Safe. And in return, they opened up. She never gave advice. She just listened. By sixteen, she had done more emotional labor than most people do in a lifetime.

She read psych books from the library and used the tools they taught. Guided conversations, helped others find their own answers. She helped build relationships, and quietly helped end toxic ones, too.

They cried in front of her. Sat with her in silence. Let their rage unravel in the safety of her presence. And when her mother spiraled — manic or depressed — they were there. They helped her study. Helped her apply to university. Helped her celebrate when she got into med school on a partial scholarship.

And they were there when her mother overdosed.

In the quietest, darkest part of her chest, she was relieved.

She left. She studied. She was great at it — not just because she was smart, but because she understood. She could see pain before it was spoken. And she was determined to help fix both mind and body. That’s what led to her final rotation, at Folsom State Prison — and to the man who would change her completely.

⸻

Her first day at Folsom, she knew: this was not where she wanted to be.

Her attending was kind — as kind as one can be after decades in a place like this. He laid out the rules, the code, the expectations. Who to trust. What not to wear. How to walk, how to speak. He gave her a list of patients, diagnoses, medication routines.

That’s when she saw his name.

Andrew David Cody.

A massive dose of Thorazine. Enough to sedate rage. She didn’t meet the inmates until two weeks in.

And the moment she saw his eyes — dark, empty, emotionless — she should have known it wouldn’t end well.

⸻

There’s something to be said about leaving employment to return to school.

After her residency, she realized she didn’t want to be a prison psychiatrist. Not because she couldn’t handle it — but because she had no real power to help. She thought of a pair of eyes — dark, sad, and unblinking — and knew that wasn’t enough.

So she returned. Started a certificate in criminology, hoping to understand them better. But maybe it was something simpler than that: maybe she just didn’t want to grow up. Not yet.

Maybe she should work at a hospital in California. Maybe she should leave the country. Or maybe… maybe she should go back to her mother’s apartment. Let herself rot quietly, the way her mother had.

But then, walking out of class one evening, she saw him.

Not saw — felt.

A presence.

Straight-backed. Arms at his sides. Short sleeved shirt buttoned to the top like a priest.

And eyes — hawk-like, locked on her.

Andrew Cody.

But this time, for the first time since he’d been released, there was something new in his gaze.

A flicker of light in all that darkness.

⸻

There was something to say about the first time she saw him in months —it wasn’t fear that struck her. It was relief. A twisted kind of happiness.

Not about how he found her. Not how he knew where to look.

But because he was out. He had made parole.

Her first instinct, naive as it was, hoped he hadn’t gone back.

Not to that house. Not to her.

That maybe he’d gotten his own place, finally freed himself from the grip of that obsessive, broken mother — and the suffocating loyalty to his family.

But no.

She knew better.

Of course he hadn’t. They were the only thing he had ever known.

Letting go of them would be like letting go of oxygen.

She understood.

The only reason she ever left was because her mother was six feet under. These thoughts flickered and died the moment she saw him — standing there awkwardly, stiff as ever, eyes locked on her like always.

She moved toward him, not quite running, but not walking either.

Stopped just short of touching distance.

“Andrew!” she breathed. “You… you did it. Oh my God, I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared. But she saw it — the barest twitch of his mouth, a subtle lift of his brow.

He was happy to see her.

“How are you feeling? Have you seen your brothers?” she asked gently.

He replied, voice low. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask about his mother. She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to open that door. Not yet.

So she reached for the first thing that surfaced — something safer.

“The fountain… did Baz ever finish it?” Her voice came out too light, too casual — even she could hear it.

But it was the only thing she could grab. He had once told her Baz promised to finish it while he was gone.

A flicker again — this time annoyance. A tilt of the head, the slightest grimace.

“No. I’m making it.”

So he was back there.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Well… I’m not really surprised. From what you told me about Baz…”

(From what your eyes told me. From what your silences said.)

“But it’s good, right? Keeps you busy. Keeps your mind quiet.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared.

“Right. Sorry… are you hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”

“I thought you were done with school,” he said.

“Yeah. I was. I don’t know —” she gave a nervous laugh, tugged at her sleeve, “—I guess I’m just not ready for the real world yet.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I understand.”

“I know you do, Andrew,” she said gently. “Let’s go. There’s this Mexican place nearby — it’s amazing.”

She reached out instinctively, about to touch his arm — but paused.

He was watching her hand. Not with fear. Not quite with hope. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness. Like he wanted it more than anything but wouldn’t let himself show it.

There was something in his eyes — not pleading, but almost… waiting. The kind of stillness a child holds when something precious is near, afraid to move and scare it off.

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly.

She knew how vulnerable he was in that moment. Knew what it meant — what it would mean — to touch him here, like this. There was desire under it, yes, but not sexual. Not yet. It felt more like comforting a child after a nightmare.

So she moved slowly.

When she finally took his hand, his fingers didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten. Just rested there — solid, warm, resigned.

But he didn’t pull away.

And that was everything.

She led him forward, her grip light, his steps heavier — like he was trying not to fall into her.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hi! Could you write about katakuri and his childhood sweetheart. Like they were pretty close friends since childhood, she has been friends with him from when he didn't used to cover his face. But they never said 'I love you' to each other. And now that they've grown up, Big mom has asked(ordered) the reader to marry Cracker/Oven. She maybe confesses her love to katakuri, but him being the perfect son he is, doesn't want to disobey his mom, so he let the marriage happen.

I know requests are off, but if you like the idea, please do write about it, idc even if it takes like a month or two. I'm absolutely in love with your writing.

oohh! that is good! tis not much but, hope u like this!

The Sweetness We Never Tasted

You’ve loved Katakuri since you were kids. But Big Mom has chosen another path for you—and he won’t fight her to stop it.

katakuri x reader

tags: sfw, arranged marriage, childhood sweethearts, angst

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward

word count: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The air in Totto Land always smelled faintly of sugar, but today it was too sweet—so sweet it made your stomach twist.

You stood in the rose garden behind the Chateau, the very place where you and Katakuri used to sneak pastries as children, hiding behind the candy-cane columns and daring each other to steal more from the kitchen. Those days felt like dreams now—soft, distant, and a little too painful to look at directly.

And now, you were waiting for him.

You clenched your fists, heart pounding. He was late. Or maybe he was avoiding you.

No. He wouldn’t.

“(Y/N),” a deep voice rumbled behind you.

You turned.

Katakuri stood there, tall as ever, shadows cutting across his face from the low afternoon sun. His scarf was on, of course. He didn’t show his mouth anymore. Not to anyone.

Except you—once.

"You're late," you said, forcing a smile.

"I came as soon as I could."

There was always something different in his voice when he spoke to you. A softness hidden under the gravel. He glanced around before walking over to stand beside you, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours. He didn’t touch. He never did. Not anymore.

"So..." You stared down at your boots, trying to summon the courage that had kept you alive in this family all these years. "Have you heard?"

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence dragged between you like the end of a rope—fraying, tension snapping strand by strand.

"Yes," he finally said. “Mama told me.”

You swallowed hard. “She wants me to marry Cracker.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Only a subtle clenching of his jaw beneath the scarf gave him away.

“I didn’t think she’d do it,” you whispered. “I thought… I thought she’d at least ask me. Or you would. Before it got this far.”

Katakuri turned his face away, eyes focused on something in the distance. Maybe he was looking at the horizon. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to look at you.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “It makes sense politically.”

You laughed bitterly. “Of course. Because that’s what marriage is in this family. Strategy.”

Another beat of silence. Your voice shook when you said his name.

“Katakuri.”

He looked at you now. Directly. It hurt.

“I need to know,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Did you ever feel it too?”

His shoulders tensed.

“When we were kids… when we were teens… when we’d sneak out after dinner to watch the stars from the rooftops… when you showed me your mouth and told me I was the only one you weren’t ashamed around… Did that mean nothing to you?”

You didn’t mean to cry, but the tears came anyway—quiet, burning down your cheeks.

“I always thought we’d have time,” you said. “That one day we’d stop pretending and actually say it. I waited for you to say it first. I waited for years.”

He took a step toward you. His hands twitched like he wanted to hold yours.

“I wanted to,” he said.

"Then why didn’t you?"

"Because I knew this would happen."

You blinked. “What?”

“I knew Mama would never allow it,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t choose based on love. She chooses for power, for bloodlines, for strength. Cracker is a biscuit soldier commander—strong, obedient. You’ve always been one of her favorites. Of course she'd put you with someone she trusts.”

“But you’re her favorite too. More than Cracker. If you’d said something—if you’d just told her we wanted—”

“I couldn’t,” he cut in. “I’m not just her son, (Y/N). I’m her soldier. Her perfect creation. I do not defy her.”

You stared at him. “Not even for me?”

His silence was louder than any answer.

You stepped back like he’d slapped you. “You would’ve let me go without a word. Without knowing.”

“I thought it would be easier,” he said. “If you hated me. It would hurt less.”

You covered your mouth, choking on the sound that wanted to escape. “You coward.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve fought for you,” you said. “I would’ve burned everything down for you.”

“I know.”

You turned to leave. You didn’t want him to see you fall apart.

But his hand caught your wrist.

“(Y/N).”

You froze.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched. You turned to face him again, slowly.

“What?”

He stepped closer. “I loved you then. I love you now. I’ll love you after the wedding, and I’ll hate myself every day for not stopping it.”

You stared at him, heart breaking in slow motion. “Then stop it.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Your voice cracked. “Why not fight for once? Why not just—”

“Because if I do, Mama will kill someone,” he said. “Maybe Cracker. Maybe you. Maybe one of your crewmates. You think she wouldn’t?”

Your voice died in your throat.

“I can’t risk your life,” he said. “I’d rather lose you than bury you.”

You collapsed into his arms without thinking, fists pounding against his chest.

“I hate you,” you sobbed. “I hate you for not loving me enough to try.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you, trembling.

The embrace didn’t last long enough.

The wedding day arrived too quickly.

You wore the gown Mama picked. Something ridiculous and pastel with lace up to your chin and jewels that dug into your collarbones. Cracker looked pleased enough, though he kept grumbling about how annoying formal events were. He barely looked at you.

Your mind was elsewhere anyway.

Katakuri stood near the front, expression blank. You couldn’t read anything behind that scarf and those crimson eyes.

You were numb as the vows were spoken. Your lips moved, but they weren’t your words. When the crowd cheered, it felt like your ears had gone underwater.

Your heart stayed behind in that garden.

That night, you sat alone on the balcony while the festivities carried on below. Cracker was off getting drunk with Opera and Snack, bragging about how ‘lucky’ he was to get someone like you. You felt sick.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. You knew the footsteps.

“Shouldn’t you be with your husband?” Katakuri asked quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then don’t stay.”

He hesitated. You could hear the tightness in his breath.

“Did you mean it?” you asked.

“Mean what?”

“When you said you love me.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still?”

“Yes.”

You turned to him. “Then why did you let them take me?”

He looked like he wanted to shatter.

“Because I thought I was strong,” he said. “But I’m just her puppet, (Y/N). We all are.”

You walked up to him, slowly.

“I would’ve run with you,” you said. “I would’ve left everything behind.”

He looked down at you. “You still could.”

“No,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

You leaned up and kissed the scarf covering his mouth, just once.

Then walked past him, back into the room.

That night, Katakuri stood alone on the edge of the island, staring out at the moonlit sea.

He didn't cry.

But if he had, the ocean might’ve wept with him.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Hiya!! Can you write for dvd, maybe about the semi final and that she in the match she was in a bit of discomfort because of her ankle, and reader notice immediately?

Injury Time

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,4k of words!! Hope you will like it!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

The tension in the Groupama Stadium was electric. The semi-final of the UEFA Women's Champions League was in full swing, with Arsenal and Lyon battling it out for a spot in the final. It was the match everyone had been waiting for, a clash of two powerhouses, and the crowd was at the edge of their seats.

But there was one thing that caught your eye as soon as the game began.

Daphne van Domselaar.

You’d been on the sideline for the entire match, keeping an eye on your players, as any good physiotherapist would. You were there to ensure they were in peak condition, that their bodies were ready to go, and that no injuries would derail their dreams of Champions League glory.

But Daphne — your beautiful, strong, and usually unstoppable goalkeeper — was showing signs that something wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t in the way she moved initially; it was more subtle than that. She was still putting on a solid performance, diving to make key saves and calling out instructions to her teammates. But there was something in the way her left foot planted on the ground that had you immediately on alert.

You were used to reading your players’ bodies, their movements. You knew Daphne too well. You saw the way she slightly favored her right side as she moved. A split second of hesitation after she landed from a save. The small, almost imperceptible limp when she jogged back into position.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, watching her closely. Your instinct was to run out onto the field, to stop the game and check on her, but you knew the stakes of the game. It was the Champions League. They couldn’t afford to stop for a break now.

But you were worried. More worried than you should have been, especially with everything on the line.

It was halfway through the first half when you couldn’t take it anymore. The game was tense, with Lyon relentlessly attacking, but Daphne was holding her ground — at least, you hoped she was. Every time she landed awkwardly after a jump, your heart skipped a beat.

Your pulse quickened as you caught her wincing after one of her signature saves. She had landed heavily on her left ankle, and you could see it right away — the way she shifted her weight, trying to mask the discomfort.

You didn’t need a second more. You immediately called over to Renee Slagers, the head coach, who nodded his approval for you to go out onto the field. He’d noticed it too.

The whistle blew, and the game momentarily halted as you jogged across the pitch toward her.

Daphne caught your eye as you approached. Her face was flushed from the intensity of the match, but there was an almost imperceptible shift in her expression. Concern. Worry. Something she didn’t want to show anyone, but that you knew all too well.

You stopped a few feet away, just out of her line of sight of the referee, and crouched slightly to meet her eye. “Daphne,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, “how’s your ankle?”

She hesitated, a flash of annoyance crossing her features, but she quickly masked it. “It’s fine,” she replied, her voice carrying the confidence of a seasoned pro.

But you knew better. You’d seen her struggle with injuries before, and this wasn’t the usual kind of pain she’d brush off.

“No, it’s not,” you said softly but urgently. “You’re limping. And I can see the way you’re favoring it when you land.” You paused for a moment, stepping closer, lowering your voice. “If you need to come off, tell me now. You’re more important than any game.”

Daphne’s jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, you could see her wrestling with herself. The competitive fire in her burned so bright, it almost hurt to see. She wanted to keep going, to push through the pain.

But she didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes flickered to the goal, to the players waiting for the game to restart, and then back to you. You could tell she was weighing her options. She didn’t want to leave her teammates short, especially not in a game this important. But she trusted you.

“I’ll keep going,” she finally said, her voice low. “Just… keep an eye on it. I’ll be fine.”

You hesitated, biting your lip, but nodded. You had no choice. As much as you wanted to take her off the field and treat the injury immediately, you knew this was a decision only she could make.

“I’ll be right here,” you promised her. “But if it gets worse, don’t hesitate.”

You watched her for the rest of the half, heart in your throat with every dive she made. But as the final whistle blew and the teams jogged off for halftime, you were already on the field, making your way toward her.

Daphne was limping slightly now — more than before — but she was still trying to hide it, still trying to act as if everything was normal.

You met her just outside the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Without a word, you reached for her ankle, your fingers gently tracing the side of it.

She winced, and you immediately saw the redness and swelling around her left foot. It wasn’t just a sprain anymore; it was something more serious.

"Daphne," you said gently, looking up at her, your fingers still pressing lightly against the injury. "We need to treat this. I can’t let you keep playing with this kind of pain."

She sighed, frustration lining her features. "I know you’re right, but—"

"You’re not risking this," you interrupted softly, your hands already wrapping her ankle in a compression bandage to prevent further injury.

Daphne stared at you for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Okay. But you better be there when we win," she said with a teasing smirk.

You chuckled softly, squeezing her shoulder. "You’ve got this. Just rest for now. We’ll get you back in top form after this."

As you helped her into the treatment room, you knew the battle wasn’t just about the game anymore. It was about getting her back to full health. Because you couldn’t afford to lose someone as incredible as Daphne. Not in a match this big.

And even if she was frustrated now, you knew she’d fight like hell to come back stronger.

You were in it together — all the way to the final whistle.

The treatment room was dimly lit, and the hustle and bustle of the match outside seemed distant as you guided Daphne van Domselaar inside. The adrenaline of the semi-final still buzzed in the air, but inside this quiet space, all that mattered was her well-being.

You closed the door softly behind you and motioned for her to sit on the bench. You noticed the way her movements were slower now, her face tinged with frustration. She was a fierce competitor, but the pain in her ankle was undeniable.

“Sit down. Let me take a look,” you said, keeping your voice calm and reassuring, the way you always did with her.

Daphne hesitated for a moment, still stubbornly trying to act like nothing was wrong. But when she finally eased onto the bench, she winced slightly as she shifted her weight off her injured foot.

You knelt down in front of her, taking her left ankle in your hands with the care you reserved only for the people who mattered most. “Let’s get this wrapped up properly,” you murmured.

Her eyes softened as she looked at you. For a moment, the competitive edge seemed to fade, and all that was left was vulnerability. She bit her lip, clearly frustrated at having to leave the game, but also grateful for the safety and comfort you provided.

“You’ve got a strong one, Daphne,” you teased softly, as you began gently examining her swollen ankle, your fingers tracing the tender spots where she’d taken a bad step.

“I know…” she sighed. “I just hate feeling like I let the team down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down,” you said firmly, your eyes locking with hers. “You’ve been amazing out there. No one can play through pain like you. But you don’t need to be a hero right now. You need to heal, so you can get back out there for the final.”

Her lips curved slightly, a soft smile playing on her face as she looked down at you. The warmth in her eyes melted some of the tension between you, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of you — the noise of the game outside, the high stakes of the tournament, all faded away.

As you wrapped her ankle with the compression bandage, you couldn’t help but let your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, the softness of her skin beneath your touch making your heart flutter.

Daphne’s breath caught when you finished, and she didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she let out a long, steady exhale. “You know, you’re really good at this,” she said, her voice quieter now, the playful teasing from earlier replaced with something more genuine.

You smiled at her. “It’s my job to take care of you, isn’t it?”

She leaned back against the bench, her eyes watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “You’ve done more than just take care of me.”

There was something in her tone, something unspoken, but the connection was clear. You could feel it in the way she looked at you — like she wanted more, like she needed you close.

You slowly stood up and took a step back, giving her some space, but before you could say anything else, Daphne reached up and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back toward her.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you barely had time to react as she leaned up, her lips pressing against yours in a soft, unexpected kiss. It was tender at first, a simple connection, but it held so much meaning. It was an apology, a reassurance, a promise that everything would be okay.

For a moment, you forgot about the game. You forgot about the injured ankle, the players waiting outside, the clock ticking down to the final moments of the first leg of the semi-final. All that mattered was the way she kissed you, the way her hand gently cupped your cheek, the warmth of her touch as if she needed to hold on to you.

When the kiss ended, Daphne’s forehead rested against yours. Her breath was warm against your skin, and for a few seconds, neither of you moved. You could feel her heart beating just as fast as yours.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice low, almost vulnerable. “I needed that.”

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing across her cheek. “Anytime.”

Daphne pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her expression a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something that made your heart race. “I’ll be okay. You’ve got me through this. Just don’t leave me hanging when we win this, alright?”

You laughed quietly, a small, affectionate sound. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you both knew what was unspoken: the way the final whistle was approaching. The goal of the tournament was still within reach, but more than anything, you needed to make sure Daphne was healed and ready for what would come next.

As you finished adjusting the bandages on her ankle, you placed one last, gentle kiss to her temple. “Rest up. You’ve got the final to focus on. And I’ll be right here.”

She smiled at you, the spark of determination still shining in her eyes, even as she sat there, nursing an injury. “And I’ll be ready. For you. For the team. We’re going to win this.”

You nodded, knowing she meant it. You didn’t doubt it for a second. As much as you were there to take care of her physically, you both knew you were in this together — body, heart, and soul.

The evening after the semi-final, the adrenaline had finally started to wear off. Arsenal had edged out Lyon and the team was celebrating cautiously, knowing the final in Lisbon was just around the corner.

You were sitting beside Daphne in the team hotel, her foot propped up on a pillow, freshly iced and bandaged. She had been stubborn about staying with the team instead of going straight for additional medical checks — and you, naturally, had stayed by her side.

You were scrolling through your phone absentmindedly when you felt Daphne shift closer. You turned your head just in time to see her, her phone raised, her expression playful.

"Smile," she said quietly.

You blinked, and before you could even react, she snapped a photo: you looking up at her with a small, soft smile, your hands carefully tending to her ankle, a mix of care and affection written all over your face.

Daphne chuckled at your startled expression and immediately started typing on her phone.

You tilted your head suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

She grinned mischievously. “Just posting something. You’ll see.”

Moments later, your phone buzzed. You opened Instagram and there it was — a story from @daphnevdomselaar.

The picture she had taken of you, the lighting warm and cozy, showing you concentrated on her, bandaging her ankle with so much care it almost looked romantic. Over it, she had written in simple white text:

"My favorite healer 🫶🏻 Couldn't do this without you. #finalbound"

You felt your cheeks flush immediately.

Before you could even think of teasing her back, Daphne set her phone down and leaned into you, resting her head lightly against your shoulder.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” you asked softly, shifting to rest your cheek against the top of her head.

“For noticing. For taking care of me. For… always being here.” Her voice was muffled but full of quiet, earnest affection.

You smiled and reached down to intertwine your fingers with hers gently. "Always," you promised.

She squeezed your hand, a soft, slow squeeze that said more than words ever could.

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the city lights of Lisbon in the distance already calling — but for now, it was just you and Daphne, safe, warm, and ready to take on the world together.

The final was waiting. And this time, it felt like you’d already won.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!!

Tagged by @diazsdimples who shared AMAZING words that hit like a punch in the chest (in the best way) 🩷🩷

I can't even remember the last time I did one of these y'all. This semester really took it out of me holy cow. But! With only three finals remaining, I might get a chance to actually post some words! (And answer the make me write asks I haven't done yet 😅). Anyhoo, I have... started another wip! Danger Prone Diaz in fact! So, have a little calm before the storm:

“I just don't understand why every time I leave, Ravi's here, and every time I come back, he's gone,” Eddie comments, spraying cleaner on the glass of the locker room. He'd been excited to get to work with Ravi again. It was always fun watching his horrified expressions whenever the team got a little too personal, and he fit in seamlessly with A shift. But the day Eddie announced he was coming back, also the day they all discovered Bobby was alive, Ravi filed a transfer request. Buck ducks his head with a bashful smile and a soft laugh. He gives Eddie that squinty lopsided grin that always makes his heart skip and shrugs as he focuses on cleaning the glass. “Well, that… might be my fault.” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Might? What'd you do, chase him around with another chainsaw?” Buck shoves at his shoulder. “I did not. I just… don't think he likes you, that's all.” Eddie pouts. He's not too proud to deny it. He thought he and Ravi were friends! “No, no, it's not you,” Buck rushes to correct, but it really doesn't help much. “It's… Well, while you were gone, I might've… talked about you. A- a bit.” Eddie raises both eyebrows now, his chin tilted down as if to ask de veras? Because really. De veras? Ravi doesn't like Eddie because Buck talked about Eddie? “Talked about me how?” He sprays the next section and taps the glass, because Buck has abandoned their task in favor of yapping, which Eddie loves, but they really need to get their chores done at the same time. Buck turns to the glass, mutters something Eddie can't hear over the squeak of the squeegee in Buck's hand. Eddie grabs his wrist to stop his movement. “I'm sorry, what was that?”

(Tags under the cut! If y'all want to be added/ removed, let me know!)

@lover-of-mine @tizniz @daffi-990 @kitteneddiediaz

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @exhuastedpigeon

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@lyricfulloflight @charlzie-ghost @hypersensitivitywitch @kindlingtotheflames @wallywise @zerokrox-blog @hawaiianlove808 @retromodgirl @allygateobeanz @savlikesbluengreen @penpatronuswhump @lecturedetachee and anyone else who wants to!! 🥰🩷

[skyward-floored]

Lu encanto AU, dinner scene

I’m so good at making AUs and then writing dinner scenes involving them shdfbdhdgsbd

I don’t think this one needs much explanation, it’s the dinner/proposal scene from Encanto. Dot is Four’s Zelda, Mariano in this case, and I had to slip Hyrule in as another cousin, but I think it’s fairly obvious who’s who besides that. Voila.

Next

————————————————————

He should have listened to the warnings.

Wind stared down at the image he’d finally pieced together, horror clutching around his heart like a vice as his own face looked blankly up at him.

He’d worked so hard to find his cousin Legend’s vision, gathered all of the pieces from his tower, hoping and praying they’d finally give him the answers he’d been so desperately seeking. And despite his family explaining in great detail why they didn’t talk about Legend, and how his visions were nothing but trouble, he’d ignored their words of caution and put the shattered vision back together again anyway.

And now he faced with the image of himself, standing in front of Casita with cracks spreading out around him.

Wind couldn’t look away from the terrible sight, heart in his throat. He’d wanted to fix things, figure out what was wrong with the magic, save the miracle, but this...

Is this all my fault? he thought with a thick swallow. Are the cracks because of me? Is the magic dying because of me?!

A knock at his door startled him, and Wind jumped as he heard his father call his name.

“Hey Wind, got your party pants on?” Time teased as he opened the door, and Wind hurriedly tried to hide the damning image on the dresser behind him, casita quickly bouncing the furniture behind him, Wind trying to act casual as he blocked it with his arms.

The faint amethyst glow was impossible to miss though, and Time’s eye quickly zeroed in on it, a rapid mix of emotions flickering across his face before finally freezing into shock.

Wind watched him, nearly shaking with nerves, and Time slowly walked over, gaze fixed on the vision. The seconds stretched on, and finally Wind couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“I broke into Legend’s tower,” he blurted out, and as his father looked at him, the rest of it all came spilling out. “I know I’m not supposed to but I needed answers and I found his last vision, the family’s in trouble, the magic is dying, Twilight’s gift is fading, and I think it’s all because of... me?”

Time didn’t react, apart from moving a little closer to the vision so he could properly see the terrible image in it.

“...Pá?” Wind asked in a small voice, and Time’s gaze flicked outside the room when the clear sound of the doorbell rang out.

Then he snapped into action, and quickly began snatching up the pieces of the vision.

“We say nothing,” he stressed, plucking up each piece and tucking them securely into the pockets of his pants. “Abuela wants tonight to be perfect. Until the Gustafsons leave, you did not break into Legend’s tower, the magic is not dying, the house is not breaking, and Twilight’s gift is not fading.”

He finished tucking the vision securely away, and took Wind’s shoulders in his hands, meeting his eyes.

“We can figure this all out afterwards,” he reassured, giving Wind’s shoulders a squeeze and lowering his voice to a whisper. “No one will know. We’ll just act normal. No one has to know.”

Wind started to nod, but then the door beside them creaked. He and Time slowly turned to look outside, and saw Four, frozen on the balcony on the other side of the second floor and obviously listening in.

“I know,” Four whispered, eyes huge.

Then he let out a small squeak before hurrying away.

Wind and Time watched him rush off, frozen, and Wind’s stomach turned itself inside out.

“He’s gonna tell everybody,” Wind gulped, and saw his father press a hand to his brow as Abuela called that it was time to eat.

“Miercoles,” Time muttered.

(...)

Somehow, Four didn’t tell anyone before they were all seated at the table together, and Wind sat across from him, refusing to take his eyes off his cousin for even a second. Four looked extremely nervous, and Wind stared at him, almost daring him to say something.

You know just as well as I do that we can’t mess up this dinner, Four!

They had to make a good impression on the Gustafsons, and Abuela would kill them if they ruined that by yelling about gifts fading and magic dying.

But that didn’t mean Four wouldn’t try and tell people sneakily. Wind didn’t trust him a single bit.

At the head of the table, Hylia was entertaining Mr. Gustafson with a cheery demeanor, seemingly unaware of the tension at the other side of the table. Or maybe she was just ignoring it. It was hard to tell.

“The Gustafsons and the Madrigals together will be so good for the Encanto,” Hylia said brightly, and Mr. Gustafson smiled back at her.

“Indeed. Let’s hope tonight isn’t a horrible disaster then, eh?” he said jovially, and laughed along with the rest of them. Wind felt a little like throwing up.

“To a perfect night,” Hylia said with a smile, raising her glass, and the others did the same. “Salud!”

“Salud!” the table echoed.

Wind kept staring at Four, not taking his eyes off of him to raise his cup or even put food on his plate. His cousin nervously held the edge of the table, and it was like Wind could see the secret on his lips, ready to be spilled. He wouldn’t take his gaze off of him for a second.

“Avocado?” Dot suddenly asked Wind, passing the bowl in front of his face. Wind startled, then scrambled to take it, but he was too late.

Four was already whispering rapidly into his brother’s ear, Wild’s eyes growing wider with every word. As Four finished, Wild’s face went wonky, features flickering rapidly between different ones as he coughed. His face finally went back to his normal one, but his eyes and mouth were shaped strangely.

Señor Gustafson and the rest of the family stared, and Hylia cleared her throat, quickly pouring him some wine.

“Wild, fix your face,” his father whispered beside him, and Wild hurriedly shook himself back to normal, looking at Wind in dismay.

Wind looked back at him in horror, but before he could try and stop him from spreading the news, Warriors passed Wind a pitcher of water, blocking his view of Wild.

Wind hurriedly took it, but Wild was already whispering quickly into his father’s ear. Sky spat out his drink in shock at the secret, Dot startling as a few drops hit her sleeve, but Sky hurriedly cleared his throat and wiped up what he could when Hylia gave him a pointed look.

Wind looked around the table in dismay, feeling like things were rapidly spiraling out of control. Nearly half the table was giving him alarmed looks they tried to hide, and the other half appeared rather confused.

“Wind?” Hylia said suddenly, and Wind froze, heart shooting into his throat. “The cream, please?”

“Oh! Uh, sí, Abuela,” Wind replied with a nervous laugh, and looked over at his father. “Papá? The cream?”

Time, who had been stone-faced the entire time, nodded, and silently grabbed the cream from beside him. Wind only looked over at him for a moment to take the dish and pass it, but it was long enough for Sky to hurriedly whisper into Sun’s ear. Her eyes went huge, and she stared at Wind in disbelief as a large cloud formed above her head the more Sky whispered.

“Sun, dear, the cloud?” Hylia said pointedly at the raincloud now covering the entire table, and Sun gulped, running her hands through her hair and whispering as she did her best to calm down.

Wind looked up as thunder rumbled, then back down in time to see Sun rapidly whispering into Hyrule’s ear about the vision. His cousin sucked in a gasp and choked on a bite of food in the process, and roughly hacked into his hand. Sun pounded him on the back, and the piece of food shot out of his mouth, hitting Señor Gustafson’s cup and cracking the side of the wineglass.

He startled, making a dismayed noise as a small stream of wine began to spurt out of the cup, but Hylia quickly replaced it with another, pouring what was left into the new glass.

All while Hyrule stared at Wind with an unreadable look on his face, one that was honestly kinda scary.

Wind bit back a frantic whimper, and Aryll squinted at him from her spot, briefly catching his attention. She looked like she wanted to say something, but then Wind saw Hyrule whispering into Malon’s ear about the vision. His mother looked at him, her expression somehow both worried and alarmed, and Wind swallowed, his stomach feeling like the shards of Legend’s vision were scraping around inside of it.

They’re going to think you’re even more of a failure—

Wind quickly drank from his cup so he didn’t have to see the disappointment that was surely on his mother’s face, then looked at his feet to further avoid her eyes. Then he startled, one of the cracks he’d seen the night of Aryll’s ceremony appearing right between his legs on the floor.

Oh no, not more!

Wind looked closer just to be sure, then straightened, accidentally banging his head on the table. He yelped as he sat up, rubbing his head, and Warriors gave him a look that warned him to knock it off.

“Wind? Are you okay?” Dot asked from a few seats over as he kept rubbing his head, and Wind quickly nodded, plastering a smile on his face.

“Great! Fine!” he squeaked unconvincingly.

“Everything is fine,” Time added, though he was still stone-faced, like he was afraid if he showed any emotion the secret would also be shown. “He’s merely excited.”

“...For Warriors to propose!” Wind quickly finished, grinning a little extra wide at his brother. “Which you should totally do! Right now!”

Warriors looked at him sharply, and opened his mouth to protest.

“I was going to—”

“You were going to! Great!” Wind said cheerily, and jumped up from his seat and turned Dot’s chair so it was facing Warriors’, her red hair nearly brushing the food it swept past.

“Well, eh,” Mr. Gustafson said, looking a bit confused, before patting Dot on the arm, “I suppose that works. Before we begin, since everyone here has a talent, my lovely Zelda wondered if perhaps she could sing before the proposal. Twilight my boy, would you get the piano?”

Wind looked at Twilight, who hadn’t said a word the entire dinner. He’d merely stared at his food, of which Wind noticed he’d barely touched, and only looked up from his plate at the sound of his name. His face looked like he was about two seconds away from bursting into tears.

“...Okay,” Twilight finally said in a watery voice, then slowly got up and went into the other room to fetch the piano.

An awkward silence followed him.

“Erm... actually, it’s family tradition to sing afterwards,” Wind lied through his teeth, and quickly shoved Warriors’ chair over so he stumbled down to a knee in front of Dot. “So go ahead and do your thing there... bro.”

If everyone hadn’t been looking at them, Wind was sure Warriors would have shot him the worst death glare he could manage. He managed to suppress it though, and cleared his throat, turning to Dot.

“Zelda Dorothea,” Warriors began, that annoying cheesy smile plastered on his face. “Lovely flower of our township...”

Wind listened with a relieved smile as Warriors prattled on, glad that things seemed to be back on track. But then he noticed a crack splintering its way across the floor, right in view of the entire table.

He lunged for it, flopping sideways overtop the crack to block it, and everybody stared at him.

“Doing great!” Wind said with a thumbs up, and this time Warriors did manage a sharp look at him before smoothing his face again.

“...gem of the Encanto,” he continued, a light blush falling over Dot’s face as he went on. Wind spared a brief thought that Warriors was laying it on awfully thick, before he saw one of the coatis that Aryll was friends with tug a piece of the vision out of Time’s pocket, looking at it in interest.

Wind gasped, but before he could try and do anything, Twilight came back into the room, struggling to push the piano more than a few inches at a time. Wind looked at him, and Twilight suddenly stopped and pressed his face down against it with a tiny, frustrated sob.

Warriors and the rest of the table stared at him in confusion.

Wind bit his lip in dismay as he looked at Twilight, then looked back at the coati, who’d been joined by another and was happily piecing Legend’s vision together beneath the table. They squeaked in excitement, and Wind looked wildly around the room for a way out of this disaster.

Warriors valiantly kept on with his proposal despite the rising tension, obviously doing his best to pretend everything was fine if the extremely fake smile on his face was any measure.

“Will you marry—”

“No!” Wind cried as the coati slotted the last piece in, and he leapt under the table, trying to snatch the vision away.

Twilight fell to the ground with a wail as his powers completely failed him, and Señor Gustafson ducked as a toucan shrieked past his head, his face panicked.

“What’s going on?!” he gasped, Hylia looking just as alarmed as he was, and thunder rumbled menacing from the cloud that had reformed above the table. Four finally couldn’t take it anymore as birds screeched and Wind scrambled to grab the vision, and he stood up from his chair in a panic.

“It’s Wind! He found Legend’s vision and he’s in it, he’s gonna destroy the magic and we’re all doomed!” Four wailed.

Wind finally grabbed the vision from the coatis, but they grabbed it back, the tray it was sitting on landing on the table with a clatter. Wind snatched at it as the coatis scrambled around him, and he accidentally slid the vision across the table to stop right in front of Hylia.

Where she could clearly see the image of Wind, standing in front of Casita with cracks spreading out behind him.

Hyrule and Malon both went pale as they took it in, Señor Gustafson blanched, and Hylia had a look on her face so mixed that Wind couldn’t even identify it.

He shakily straightened from where he’d been leaning over at the foot of the table, and he looked around frantically as a rumbling that wasn’t thunder shook through the room.

Cracks spread their way out in the wall behind Wind, and Aryll gasped as more birds flew shrieking through the room, Wild’s features going entirely wonky as Sky looked at him in alarm. A mirror on the wall behind Hyrule cracked, lightning crashed near Sun, Four slammed his hands to his ears, and someone cried out in fear.

Wind looked around in horror, and saw Warriors, still on one knee with a ring in his hand, looking unusually panicked. A thorny vine abruptly sprang up from the ground in front of him, and whipped around, smacking Dot on the nose and slashing Warriors’ cheek as well.

They both cried out, and the door nearby swung open, revealing a crowd of townspeople all prepared to congratulate the new couple. They all shouted happily, but then the clouds above them burst, sending a downpour onto everyone’s heads and silencing the calls.

A heavy silence fell with the rain over the table.

Wind looked around, his entire family soaking wet, hurting and fearful, and Hylia did the same, her face pure disbelief.

All because of Wind and the vision.

All my fault.

(...)

The spell that the shock of the moment had left over them soon faded, and before Wind knew what was happening, suddenly people were getting up from the table left and right, Mr. Gustafson rushing his daughter up and away faster than anyone.

“Señor, por favor!” Hylia begged as she hurried after them, Mr. Gustafson ignoring her as Dot winced and held her hands over her nose.

Wind stood frozen by the doorway as everyone ran by him, not sure what to do. Twilight hurried past him next with a distraught expression, their father going after him as he tried to escape to his room. Aryll and Wild both scrambled away with frightened looks, Sky going after them, and Sun briefly paused to look at Wind in sharp confusion and fear.

“What did you do?” she asked with a rumble of thunder.

“I-I didn’t— I’m not doing anything! It’s Legend’s vision...” Wind trailed off weakly, and Sun hurried off as Sky called her name.

Warriors didn’t even say anything as he swept by, just glared at Wind past the cloth he’d pressed to his cheek. He stormed up to his room, scarf flaring behind him, and Wind heard Abuela speaking to the worried crowd that had gathered outside in a firm voice, insisting that everything was fine.

Then Wind heard a squeak.

He turned, and saw a rat peering at him from behind a corner, an amethyst piece of vision held in its mouth. Wind startled, then watched in surprise as the rat skittered off, followed by a few others. They all held pieces of the vision, and Wind hesitated.

Then he heard Abuela call his name, her voice nearly as thunderous as the storm brewing outside, and he turned and followed the rats.

He would fix this. Somehow... he would fix this.

But first he needed to know what a bunch of rats wanted with the pieces of Legend’s vision.

[veryace-ficrecs]

The Pitt Fic Recs Part 1

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

This Is The Day In Chaos by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

As the Pitt descends into its usual chaos, Dr Robby brings coffee and encouragement to his beleaguered team. Samira Mohan and Dennis Whittaker bond, while Mel King finally makes a joke -- intentionally!

The Dead Don’t Answer by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch learned a long time ago that death isn’t quiet—it’s a symphony of chaos, a brutal soundtrack of screaming monitors, cracking ribs, and the rush of hands fighting the inevitable. At Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, there are always calls for help. Because the dead don’t answer. But the living don’t have a choice.

The Aftermath by AGirlHasNoName20 - Rated T

Two weeks after Pittfest, Robby is presented with a choice. Or: The one in which Robby starts therapy. Don't read unless you've watched the entire season 1.

Rules of Law by jumpfall - Rated G

The night Robby signed his attending contract, he was introduced to the Laws According to Adamson. He likes to hope that if he leaves his trainees with nothing else, it'll be the Addendums According to Robby. - Alternatively, is it really a fandom until there's a five things fic?

To Be A Doctor by mossterious -Rated G

Four student doctors. Four paths to get there. Four points of view. One hospital. — Aka I need to get used to writing different character povs SO HAVE SOME TINY CHARACTER STUDIES I GUESS?!

people come and go on the breeze by sweetmuses - Rated M

Redemption is a hard, long journey. She knows this probably better than most people. You have to keep yourself afloat amongst the madness, being acutely aware of tipping back into the ether. It’s easier to live within the boundless ocean of guilt than to take accountability - because to take accountability means that you’re willing to work for it, and there’s no way of knowing when you’ll slip up and fall.

Or: A reflection on the in-betweens of life, ghosts, and the human condition, through the eyes of Cassie McKay.

In Memoriam by fundotperiod - Rated G

How Robby has grieved and remembered his mentor.

Reflection by ZHH123 - Rated G

She thinks back on all the moments she almost couldn’t bear. The moments that prompted her to question if she belonged in the pitt. Then she thinks of her triumphs.

Last Call by jumpfall - Rated T

“Sorry if I woke you,” Robby says. Jack shrugs. “Middle of the day in my time zone.” He waits a beat, and then asks, “You want to talk?” “No.” “You want a drink?” “You'd allow that?” “No,” Jack says. “Just lets me gauge how concerned I should be.” – 1x15 episode tag.

The Pitt Crew! by megas217 - Rated G

Welcome to the Pitt Crew a story about the doctors and nurses who work in the Pitt.

Sursum Corda by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing) - Rated M

A few hours after Pittfest, Langdon returns to the ED.

The Way, Way Back by jumpfall - Rated T

Robby, post 1x13.

And I Said Nothing by elpopooley66 - Rated T

Trinity Santos is not okay. She’s never really been okay. But she’s held herself together this long — on caffeine, adrenaline, and silence sharp enough to cut. The Pitt sees it. Langdon sees it. And for once, maybe she lets herself be seen. They don’t fix her. They just don’t leave. Sometimes, that’s enough. Featuring: unresolved trauma, a lobster named Greb, a borrowed hoodie, and the terrifying prospect of letting someone care. Or: the one where she stops pretending she’s fine — and someone finally calls her bluff.

what a weight to live under by shirelings - Rated T

Mel’s convinced she’s made it to the door without anyone noticing her before a voice stops her dead in her tracks. “Dr. King.” It’s said in that sort of way that’s not really a question even if someone else would frame it like that, and Mel lets her shoulders rise up a little towards her ears as she slowly turns. Oh, boy. - Mel does, in fact, talk to Abbot at the end of the day.

Change of Watch by jumpfall - Rated T

When Robby's phone vibrated twenty minutes ago, he'd been dealing with a critical GSW to the adbomen and unable to answer. Now there's a voicemail from Jake.

Even Grouches Need to Go to the Hospital by lolathatch - Rated T

Trinity Santos finds a video of Doctor Robby from his younger days and makes it everyone's problem.

singing in unison by dotsayers - Rated M

Leah's sick the night before Pittfest. Robby gets his ticket back.

just a drop of water in an endless sea by evening_spirit - Rated G

Robby’s going to be fine, a rational part of Frank’s mind says. You’re the last person Robby needs right now, says another part, the one that hates himself. But Frank saw the look in Robby’s eyes and he knows that Robby is not fine. Not this time. And no one else will help. But should it be him? Maybe he should go get Dana? Abbot? Damn, if at least Collins was here. But Collins is not here, Dana doesn’t have anything more to give and Abbot is a pragmatic, a doer, not someone who would comfort another. Then again, neither is Frank. Or--a 1x13 coda where Frank and Robby talk, but it doesn't really solve anything.

Aftershocks by jumpfall - Rated T

Ways they are (and aren't) coping with the mass casualty incident.

living weighs heavier by Antumbra - Rated T

Maybe none of them were ever meant to be alright, not once they’d chosen to devote themselves to this career that could only tear them down and break them apart. Or: an alternate take where Jack finds Robby after his breakdown.

[luna-azzurra]

Hey, I just wanted to say how helpful your blog has been for me with all the writing tips you are willing to share with us. I often come to your blog when I'm stuck and see if I can find something to help me out.

I was wondering if you could give a little insight on what goes on in the characters body when they are in a high emotional situation. Like when they are excited or feeling anxious? But are a rather reserved character on the outside? I'm struggling to not constantly repeat myself with the same phrases.

Thank you so much for all you do! xD

Hi, You have no idea how much that means to me, thank you! :)

I’m so happy the blog’s been a helpful place for you.

And... God, I feel this question. Writing reserved characters in high-emotion scenes is a weird kind of torture, right? Like, you know they’re feeling it, you can feel it in your own body… but on the page, they’re just standing there, giving you nothing but blank stares and clenched jaws. You want to scream, “Say something!!” and they just quietly blink at you like, no thanks.

╰ First, the core truth

Reserved characters don’t feel less. They just hide better. Their reactions aren’t absent—they’re internalized. They don’t scream or sob or throw chairs. Their version of an emotional breakdown is maybe… pausing half a second too long before answering. Maybe tapping a finger against their leg like it’s the only way to keep themselves grounded. Maybe avoiding eye contact like your gaze might cut too deep.

You don’t need loud. You need pressure.

➝ When they’re anxious

- Their chest feels tight, but they won't say it. So maybe they breathe a little shallower, a little faster. - Their jaw clenches, not out of anger, but because they’re holding back a thousand words they don’t know how to say without unraveling. - Their stomach churns. Maybe they shift in their seat a lot. Maybe they’re suddenly aware of how loud the silence is. - Their skin feels too tight, like they want to crawl out of themselves but don’t move at all.

➝ When they’re overwhelmed with excitement or joy

- Their body buzzes with it, but they go still. They freeze because feeling this much feels dangerous. - They smile, but only when no one’s looking. - They reach out and stop. Pull back. Pretend they weren’t going to. - Maybe they even get a little irritable. Because feeling this happy makes them suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

╰ What makes this kind of character compelling?

They’re wired for control. They don’t want to lose face. They don’t want to give anyone the power of seeing what’s going on inside them. So instead of outbursts, they give you...

Precision. Quiet restraint.

Forced normalcy. (“I’m fine,” through gritted teeth.)

Delayed reactions. (They don’t break down until after the danger passes.)

Emotional contradictions. (Tears they wipe away angrily. Joy that makes them panic.)

You can write an entire emotional rollercoaster in the space between what they feel and what they show. So how do you avoid repeating yourself? Don’t just ask, “What do they feel?”

Ask: What would they never let themselves show? What physical habit do they rely on to look okay, even when they’re not? What’s the one tiny thing they do when they think no one is watching? When they finally slip, what does it look like? A breath? A flinch? A single word spoken too fast?

Let the tension come from that almost. That barely. That I want to scream, but I swallow it instead.