#but only one of them thinks the other is their enemy

[pitlanepeach]

Gentle Thing | OP81 + LN4

Summary — They’ve always been something soft, something golden—Oscar and Elodie. But then came F1. Then came Lando Norris, with his fast mouth and wide blue eyes. And suddenly, it’s not just the two of them anymore, because that was never how their fairytale was supposed to end. They were always supposed to be three.

Pairing — Oscar Piastri x Original Female Character x Lando Norris (MMF)

Word Count — 7k

My Masterlist

Melbourne, 2013 - Age 11 + 12

Oscar had a busted lip and a fourth-place karting medal clenched in his fist, and Elodie was painting delicate sparkles onto a pair of old ballet flats on her bedroom floor.

“You’re not gonna win every time,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And fourth isn’t that bad. You still beat, like, sixteen other people to the line.”

Oscar flopped back on her bed with a choked moan. “I don’t like being fourth.”

“Fourth seems to like you.” She grinned at him.

He glared at her. “Don’t remind me. I hate it. I’ve decided that the number four is my mortal enemy. I never want to come fourth again.”

Elodie glanced at him over the rim of her rhinestone-covered sunglasses. They were heart shaped. “You look kind of cute with a split lip.”

He cracked a smile despite himself, and in doing so, re-split the cut that’d tentatively started to heal. “Do not.” He argued.

She sighed. “You do. If I didn’t know that it was from you tripping over your own kart, I’d assume you’d been in a fight. Bad-boys are hot.”

He just stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together in disbelief.

Elodie Jade, his best friend since nursery school, was wearing a pink cotton sundress, smudged with glue and glitter. Her legs were curled under her like a cat and she was surrounded by cheap craft supplies.

Oscar had dirt under his nails and a gravel burn on his arm. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on a pair of clean boxer shorts.

“I don’t want to be a bad boy,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said, flipping one of the shoes over delicately. He leaned over to look at them. They looked good. Better than before. More… Elodie. ”What do you think?” She asked, chewing on her lip.

“Pretty.” He told her.

She beamed.

⸻

Melbourne, 2017 - Age 15 + 16

They celebrated Oscar’s first European test session with pizza. Sat around the table, Elodie had fabric swatches strewn all over the kitchen.

Oscar had engine grease under his fingernails.

Elodie had a sketchbook open and a stress breakout all across her forehead.

“I might not get in,” she whispered, like saying the words out loud might somehow make them more likely to come true. “They only take like, thirty students a year.”

Oscar gave her a look, folding his piece of pizza in order to eat it more effeciently. “You will.” He told her. She blinked at him, venerability flashing on her face, and he sighed. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re really good at this stuff.” He pointed at the mannequin in the corner of the kitchen. It was covered in sewing pins and layered with a million different textured fabrics.

Elodie rolled her eyes and gave a tiny laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She teased.

“It’s not even top ten.” He argued flatly. But then he bumped his knee against hers under the table. And she adjusted her position so that she could wrap her ankle around his.

Her smile was soft. Careful. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss, nor since it had happened. Two weeks ago, behind the garage after his last race, when she’d grabbed his face like she was scared of herself and he’d kissed her back like it was something inevitable, not something downright terrifying.

It hadn’t happened again since. But things felt different between them now. The energy was charged, like a million little sparks of electricity was connecting them now.

A week later, when her acceptance letter appeared in her email, she called him first.

He picked up on the second ring, groggy in some hotel room three time zones away. “Elodie?” He grumbled.

“I got in.” She said on an exhale.

She heard the rustle of sheets, the shift in his voice as he sat up. “You did?”

“I did.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. Wide and unguarded. “Of course you did.”

⸻

Paris, 2019 - Age 17 + 18

Elodie’s first collection debuted at a small fashion week offshoot in Paris; nothing major, but enough to land a few editorials and a feature in a niche luxury magazine. She wore custom satin sling backs to every event. She barely slept.

She was seventeen. In Paris, that passed for adulthood—old enough to wear red lipstick and pretend she wasn’t still full of childlike naivety.

Oscar wasn’t there. He was in the middle of a race weekend in Italy. But he sent flowers. And a note.

“I love you.”

She kept the card in her purse for weeks, until it crumpled. Then she put it in the back of her phone case. Just because.

⸻

Barcelona, 2020 - Age 18 + 19

Oscar had just won his first F3 race.

Elodie was waiting outside the paddock entrance, wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before; white, with puffed sleeves and ribbon-tie shoulders.

“You’re going to be a world champion,” she said, as he leaned into her hug. Squeezed her.

He breathed in the scent of the same perfume she’d been wearing for years and track dust and something sweet, always something sweet, and pretended the words didn’t make his stomach twist. “Just focused on surviving this season,” he murmured into her hair.

She leaned up. Kissed him softly. “You’ll do more than that.“

⸻

Baku, 2021 - Age 19 + 20

Elodie had a migraine and a décolleté crisis. Oscar had a back-of-the-grid start and an angry press officer breathing down his neck.

He called her from the cool tile floor of his hotel bathroom, lying flat on his back with his legs propped up against the door, phone balanced on his chest. His voice was hollow with exhaustion. “Tell me something not about racing.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I stabbed my finger trying to sew lace onto a bias-cut bodice. I bled on the muslin.”

Oscar smiled faintly, eyes closed. “That’s hot.”

“You’re weird.” She laughed.

“You knew that when you started dating me.” He retorted.

She sighed, dramatic and fond. “Don’t remind me.”

He could picture her perfectly, even thousands of miles away, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her Melbourne studio, hair up in a velvet ribbon, sleeves pushed to her elbows, surrounded by half-dressed mannequins and tangled threads. Probably in one of his old team shirts. Probably glowing, even under ugly fluorescent lights.

“What happened with the bodice?” He asked.

“It didn’t sit right on the model. I cut it three times and it still looked off. Like the neckline was holding a grudge.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I think I’m going to reshoot the whole thing. The photos are wrong. The lighting’s wrong. The girls don’t… they’re beautiful, but they don’t feel like they fit my brand.”

Oscar let the silence stretch for a second, then said, “branding is important. Reshoot it.” He agreed.

“You make it sound easy.” She complained.

“Because I’m clueless.” He told her flatly,

That earned a breath of a laugh, all musical and pretty. She shifted on the other end of the line; he could hear fabric rustle, something ceramic clink, probably a teacup or a wineglass. Depending on her mood.

“Are you okay?” She asked eventually, voice somehow gentler than usual. It was impressive, how he’d managed to make someone so soft and goddamn sweet fall in love with him.

Oscar pressed his thumb into the space between his eyebrows. “Grid penalty. Shit quali. Everyone’s thinking the same thing — ‘that Aussie boy is a shit racer’.”

“You’re not.” She retorted.

He grunted. “Yeah. I know. But it’s loud. All the time. Even when they’re not saying it, they’re thinking it.”

Elodie didn’t try to offer empty comfort. She knew him too well for that. Instead, she filled the silence with her presence. Her breathing. The soft rustle of paper. The click of a lighter—one of the candles, probably.

“I miss you,” he said finally.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I miss you too.”

He opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling light. “Will you still love me if I crash tomorrow?”

“I’ll love you even if you spin into a barrier and throw up in your helmet.” She chimed.

“You’re weird.” He shot her earlier words back at her.

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

Oscar smiled, and it felt easier. He could hear her smiling, too.

They talked for another ten minutes—about the espresso machine in her new studio that hissed like it was threatening to explode, about her satin samples arriving late, about whether she should start doing video content for her website (“Only if I can be your cameraman,” he smirked, and then, just as he predicted, she sharply told him that him and his oily hands were not welcome anywhere near her fabrics).

⸻

London, 2022

The news broke at 8am.

By 8:15, her phone was hot with notifications.

ALPINE ANNOUNCE OSCAR PIASTRI AS 2023 DRIVER ALONGSIDE GASLY

F2 SUPERSTAR PIASTRI ANNOUNCED AS PART OF ALPINE’S 2023 LINE-UP

He didn’t call. Not right away.

Elodie watched the digital chaos unfold from the couch in their London flat. Her inbox buzzed with emails she didn’t open; old friends sending their congratulations, Oscar’s old racing teammates asking her a million questions like they expected her to be able to answer all of them.

Her next runway show was in six weeks. Her dressmaker had the flu.

When her phone finally rang, blocked number, go figure, she picked up before the first ring finished.

“Oscar.” She said, immediately.

“I’m with Mark.” His voice was ragged. “It’s not true. I didn’t sign anything.”

“I know. You would’ve told me.” She said.

“They went public without telling me.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m gonna lose everything.” He breathed.

“No, you’re not.” She whispered.

He let out a sound that cracked halfway through. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or scream. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

She stared at one of the paint swatches on the wall. They couldn’t decide between eggshell blue and jade green. “Let Mark handle it. Stop blaming yourself. And then come home.”

⸻

Oscar let the door click shut behind him and dropped his keys into the strawberry-print bowl by the front door. The flat was quiet, lights low, warm, but not empty. Never empty.

He could smell bergamot and fabric glue, the unmistakable signature of Elodie in work mode. Therefore he headed straight to her studio, alternatively known as the spare bedroom, exactly where he knew she’d be.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pins between her teeth, measuring tape slung around her neck, one wrist marked up with lipstick and foundation swatches from testing tones against fabric. Muslin mockups draped her mannequins like half-formed dreams. Pattern paper curled like petals around her.

She looked like everything he wanted to protect.

“Hi, baby,” she said, not looking up from the sizing chart that she was editing.

He didn’t answer. Just toed off his shoes and crossed the room in silence. Then, without a word, he sat on the floor in front of her and leaned back into the space between her knees, his shoulders brushing hers. Seeking warmth. Permission to fall apart, just a little.

Elodie blinked down at him, reading the lines in his face instantly.

Without speaking, she set her work aside and slid her fingers into his hair.

She combed through it slowly with her long, artsy nails, brushing it back from his eyes, the way she used to when they were kids and he came home from a karting trip with scraped-up knees, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

He exhaled shakily. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, then another to his temple, and another at the corner of his jaw when he tilted his face toward her.

“I’m sorry this is all such a mess,” he said after a long silence, voice rough.

“Not your fault,” she murmured.

He gave a half-laugh, tired and tight. “Still feels like I’m failing. Trusted Alpine. Shouldn’t have.”

“Osc.” She whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “you’re the only reason I’ve made it this far.”

Her hand paused against his head.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’ve built your brand, your vision, your whole world. You’re doing so well, Elodie. And I’m still here hoping this F1 thing finally makes me someone worth—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, voice cracking at the edges.

“Oscar.”

She leaned down toward him, eyes glassy with tears, and something twisted in his chest like a blade.

She wasn’t meant to cry. Elodie was meant to be light and elegance and all the soft, lovely things in the world. Seeing her like this—eyes shining, mouth trembling—felt like the universe folding in on itself.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

She was too beautiful for sorrow. Too golden to be anything but happy.

“I haven’t made any real money,” he said quietly, feeling discomfort curl in his gut. “Not yet. And I want—God, I want to be able to give you something solid. A full, comfortable life. I want you to build your empire with silk and organza and not for one second have to worry about how we’re going to pay for your expensive fabric swatches.”

Elodie wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into her chest, into her warmth. “You’ve already given me so much,” she said against his hair. “Your love. Your friendship. You.” She breathed delicately. “Oscar, I would live in a hobbit hole, or a tent in the woods, if it meant being with you.”

He was silent for a beat. “Did you see the tweet?”

She hummed. “Of course. I have your notifications turned on.”

He smirked, but it was hesitant. “It felt good.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “I bet. It was very sassy.”

He hesitated, the amusement wavering. “I might never make it to Formula One now. Might’ve burned too many bridges.”

She kissed the curve of his neck, soft and sure. “You will. Trust me.”

⸻

A Week Later - Melbourne, 2022

The evening air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. Pale pink bougainvillaea curled over the railing like something out of a painting. The sky over St Kilda was soft watercolor gold, the sun bleeding into the horizon in quiet surrender.

Elodie sat curled on the top step in a white linen sundress, bare feet tucked beneath her, her hair pinned up with one of her mother’s old tortoiseshell clips. She looked like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere older, slower, more romantic. A character from a vintage novel, Oscar often thought, or the ghost of an eighteenth century ballerina.

There was a punnet of strawberries sat between them.

“I signed,” Oscar said, out of nowhere.

Elodie turned to him, eyes wide and impossibly clear. “I— What? Signed what?”

“With McLaren.” He said. “For 2023.”

She blinked once. Then twice. And then she smiled. Slowly. Radiantly. “You’re going to drive in Formula One,” she whispered, reverent and proud.

“I’m going to drive in Formula One.” He confirmed.

The words hung between them like starlight.

She didn’t cheer, didn’t gasp or throw herself into his arms. She just reached for his hand, gently—like it was instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her palm was warm and soft against his. Her nails were painted a pale blush, her wrist dusted with the scent of gardenia, the diamond bracelet that hung off of her delicate wrist real and the most expensive thing he’s ever bought. He went into debt for it—but he’d never once regretted buying it.

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, her long, painted lashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

“You did it,” she breathed against his cheek.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

The screen door creaked behind them.

“God, you two are terrible,” came Mark’s voice, fond and dry. “Can’t keep you apart for five minutes, ay?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Elodie only turned slightly, offering the older man one of her serene, almost too-sweet smiles. “Hello, Mark.”

“Evening, angel,” he said, walking down the steps with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. “You look precious as always.” He teased.

“She doesn’t own anything without embroidery,” Oscar muttered, fond.

“I like pretty things,” Elodie replied simply. “And I like them even more when I’ve made them with my own hands.”

Mark snorted, crouching beside them and producing three slightly crushed paper cups from the depths of his jacket. “Alright, then. A toast. To Oscar, McLaren, the downfall of Alpine, and you, Elodie girl. You’ll be the prettiest WAG in the paddock.”

Oscar groaned, low and half-hearted.

Elodie blinked but smiled anyway. Oscar stared at her. The way her lips curved when she smiled, glossed and sparkling with flecks of glitter, caught the last bit of golden light like it was made for her.

Mark poured a generous splash of wine into two of the cups, then offered the third to Elodie. She took it with her fingertips, delicate and careful, and held it like it might bite.

She peered into it, nose wrinkling in the cutest little grimace.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Oscar murmured, leaning in, voice just for her.

Mark caught it. “Shit. Sorry, forgot.” Then, laughing, he pulled a can of Sprite out of his back pocket and handed it over.

Elodie beamed. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“Don’t tell Oscar,” Mark said with a wink.

She cracked the can open and leaned against Oscar’s side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like something citrusy and expensive, and he instinctively tilted his head so it brushed against hers.

Mark settled into the step below them, stretching his long legs out and launching into a story about his rookie season—something about a gearbox, a helicopter, and Jacques Villeneuve that probably wasn’t entirely legal.

Oscar only half listened.

His hand was resting over Elodie’s knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the soft cotton of her dress. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrist. The sky was going grey-blue now, city lights flickering on in the distance.

And for the first time in a long time, Oscar let himself feel it.

Pride.

Not just in the contract, though that felt surreal in its own right, but in everything that had gotten him here. The endless hours of sim work. The thousands of karting tracks and cheap medals and grazed knees—bruised eyes. The months at a time spent away from Elodie, feeling every single mile like a knife to his gut.

All of it. Every sacrifice, every near miss.

It had all come together to lead him here.

To this perfect girl with stardust lips and sun-kissed skin. To this quiet moment on a warm Melbourne night, sitting with the two people who’d believed in him without question since the very beginning. To the knowledge that he hadn’t just made it to Formula One—he’d made something for them.

A life. A future.

He squeezed Elodie’s knee gently. She glanced up, emerald eyes catching the light, and gave him a soft, warm stare.

Yeah, Oscar thought. This is what it’s all for.

—

Oscar meets Lando on his first day at MTC.

It’s awkward. Fumbling. Lando fidgets, practically vibrating as he talks, clearly still getting used to the idea of being the team’s senior driver. That’s fine; Oscar has no intention of being anyone’s second driver, so Lando will get over himself soon enough.

They spend a few hours working on the sim before Lando takes him to meet the engineers. Zak’s there—beaming, boisterous, all overzealous shoulder pats and rib-crushing squeezes of enthusiasm.

Lando clings. As soon as he realises Oscar is nice, friendly, and capable of holding a conversation despite being quiet, blunt, and a little stoic, he latches on. Doesn’t stray more than five feet away all day. Talks too fast, changes topics mid-sentence, and circles back like it makes sense. Oscar mostly just nods. He doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should.

They eat lunch together in the cafeteria. Lando leans over the table with sudden, serious focus.

“You’re not allowed to eat fish,” he says.

Oscar blinks. Frowns. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies slowly, confused but—strangely—willing to go along with it.

Lando nods like that settles it.

Oscar drives himself back to London in the evening, exhausted in the way that only first days and new environments can make you. Elodie’s in her studio when he gets in, barefoot on the hardwood, her hair twisted up in a silk scarf, glue fumes thick in the air. She’s hunched over a mannequin, hands full of pearl beading, soft music playing from the little speaker on her windowsill.

He pushes the nearest window open to clear the smell before crossing the room and bending to kiss her. She tastes like strawberries and green tea, her lips soft and glossed, and she hums against his mouth like he’s exactly what she needed.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her cheek, already breathless.

She smiles, warm and dreamy, and the whole world sparkles at the edges.

“I missed you too.”

—

Elodie spends eight weeks hand-crafting her paddock outfit for Oscar’s first race as a Formula One driver in Bahrain.

It’s a labour of love—ivory silk, structured but soft, with a modest neckline and long, fluttering sleeves that catch on the breeze like petals. The beadwork is intricate, papaya-toned to match the McLaren livery, stitched in quiet, looping patterns down the cuffs and hem. Just above the curve of her hip, nestled into the folds of the fabric, is a tiny, hand-stitched OP81.

She steps into the paddock for the first time with her press pass clutched between two fingers, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. It’s loud and busy, the air dry and sun-hot, smelling of rubber and fuel and sunscreen.

Oscar waits for her at the McLaren hospitality entrance. He’s still in his civvy’s, shorts and a plain white t-shirt. He grins when he sees her. “You wore it.”

She smooths her skirt self-consciously. “Of course I did.”

His hand finds her waist. His thumb brushes the little OP81 like it’s a secret just for him.

They don’t get more than a few seconds before a voice interrupts—bright and slightly too loud, bouncing with energy. “Oh, hey!”

Lando Norris.

He’s flushed from the heat, curls damp at the edges, eyes wide behind dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. He skids to a halt in front of them, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

Oscar steps back a little, hand still on Elodie’s waist. “Lando, this is my girlfriend, Elodie.”

Lando blinks at her. Then blinks again. “Oh. You’re real.”

Elodie smiles, polite, a little hesitant. “Yes. I think so.”

“No, I just—he talks about you a lot,” Lando says quickly, shifting his weight. “Not in a weird way. Just—like, normal. Nice. Supportive.”

Oscar groans softly. Elodie purses her lips softly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she says, and it’s not a lie. Oscar had mumbled things about “a bit chaotic” and “kind of funny” and “I think he eats four chocolate croissants a day, I’m not sure how it’s even possible.”

Lando rocks back on his heels. “You look amazing. That dress is… like… I don’t even know what it is.”

“She made it,” Oscar tells him.

Lando’s eyebrows lift. “No way.”

She manages a small nod. “I did.”

Lando whistles, low and sincere. “You’re way too talented to be stuck with him.”

Oscar elbows him in the ribs, but it’s gentle. Familiar.

Elodie just smiles again. Soft, poised, unreadable. But when Oscar glances down, he can see the curve of her fingers tightening slightly around his wrist.

Later, when Lando finally wanders off (mid-sentence, distracted by something shiny and unusual near the garage entrance) Elodie watches him go with a curious tilt of her head.

“He’s… nice,” she says softly.

Oscar hums. “He grows on you.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer. “He races with the number four, doesn’t he?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

She laces their fingers together with quiet ease. “You never liked that number.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

They walk slowly, past tire trolleys and engineers and the familiar hum of a team preparing for a new season. Oscar shows her where she’ll sit, where she’ll be able to see his garage and the track.

He squeezes her fingers once. “No,” he agrees. “I’ve never liked it.”

Elodie smiles, lightly, knowingly, and tucks herself closer to his side. He doesn’t say it out loud, but she can feel it anyway.

Maybe that won’t be true for much longer.

—

Zandvoort, 2023

It started raining midway through FP3. The kind of sudden, wind-lashed downpour that turned everything slick and halted everything. Engineers ducked under awnings, pit crews scrambled to cover tyres, media teams rushed to save their equipment.

Elodie hadn’t moved.

She stood just under the edge of the overhang at Oscar’s garage, rain misting across her face, curls slipping free from the tortoiseshell comb at the back of her head. Her papaya-hued trench coat had darkened at the seams, damp fabric clinging to her sleeves like second skin.

Lando spotted her before anyone else did.

He paused halfway through a sip of Monster, blinking. Tilted his head slightly. “Is she—why is she just standing there?”

Oscar looked up from the telemetry monitor and followed his gaze.

“Elodie,” he said. Softly. Simply.

Lando waited for more. When it didn’t come, he turned toward him, brows raised.

“She likes the sound,” Oscar said after a moment. “And the smell. Of the rain.”

Lando frowned. “She’s gonna get drenched.”

But Oscar didn’t move.

And Lando, already in motion, realised, for the first time, how strange that was. The lack of tension. The stillness. Like Oscar was fully in tune with everything Elodie was feeling, seeing, hearing.

Elodie didn’t flinch when Lando stopped beside her. She only looked up with that small, gentle smile—the kind that made him feel oddly exposed. Her eyes were soft and storm-lit. Her lips glossed with the same faint shimmer that seemed to settle over everything she touched.

“Hi,” she said, voice light.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he offered, extending the McLaren umbrella toward her with both hands, like he didn’t quite trust himself to just hold it over her and not stare.

She blinked up at him. “I’m alright, Lando,” she said. “It’s only a bit of rain.”

He blinked back. “Yeah, but—wet, innit?”

There was a pause. And then—she giggled. Actually giggled. It was light and breathless, like wind chimes. Clear and sudden and completely, utterly unexpected.

He liked the sound of it far more than he should’ve.

Inside the garage, Oscar still hadn’t moved. Arms crossed. Helmet tucked under one elbow. Watching.

He didn’t feel angry. Or possessive. Or anything he was supposed to feel. And maybe that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because Elodie looked lovely in the rain.

Raindrops clung to the edge of her skin. Her cheeks were pink with cold. The coat hugged her frame in a way that made her look even smaller than she was, her embroidery catching faint glints of light beneath the grey sky. She looked like she’d been painted there. Dreamlike. Half-imagined.

Lando adjusted the umbrella, held it closer. His elbow brushed hers.

She didn’t move away.

“I heard you cracked a joke in the drivers’ briefing,” she said. Like she was continuing a conversation they’d already been having.

Lando winced. Smiled around an embarrassed grimace. His cheeks went a little red. “Did Oscar say it was bad?”

“He didn’t need to, Lando.”

She smiled again. Fully, this time. Wide. With teeth. And somehow, it hit him differently. He’d seen that smile before, in passing—on Oscar’s phone, in paddock photos. But not like this. Not when it was for him.

It was beautiful.

And suddenly, painfully, he knew it.

He forgot everything else for a second. The team radios, the storm warnings, the puddle slowly soaking into his races shoes.

She was just standing there—rain in her hair, glitter on her lips, saying his name like it meant something good.

And Oscar was still watching. Quiet. Still. Something flickering behind his eyes.

Lando swallowed, glanced at his teammate and then looked away just as quickly.

Oscar worked his jaw; four had always been his least favourite number—his six-month long fourth place curse when he’d still been in karts had made sure of that.

So why, now, could he picture it stitched right beside 81? Papaya thread. The soft curve of her embroidery font. A quiet, private claim.

OP81. LN4.

He turned away before he could think too hard about what that meant.

Walked further into the garage with his hands curled into loose fists, flexing open and closed in a rhythm he didn’t quite understand.

—

Lando sank onto the little padded bench at the back of the hospitality suite, still damp around the ankles, the McLaren umbrella propped uselessly by the wall. He stared at it like it might tell him something.

Something useful. Like what the hell he was doing.

She was Oscar’s girlfriend.

That was the headline. That was the full story. Had been from the moment they’d first met, when she’d said hi in her quiet, polite way, like it didn’t even occur to her that she might be worth noticing. And maybe that was the problem.

She didn’t seem to know. That she was worth noticing.

He kept thinking about the rain. The way it made her eyelashes stick together in little wet triangles. The way she’d tilted her head when he fumbled through telling her not to stand outside—wet, like an idiot—and how she’d just laughed all sweetly.

He liked the way she looked at people.

But mostly he just liked the way she looked at him.

Lando dragged a hand through his hair and groaned under his breath. Somewhere across the room, someone was talking about tyre degradation, and he tried—tried—to focus. He’d never had trouble focusing on racing before. Racing was simple. Clean. Numbers and instinct.

This wasn’t.

Oscar had said nothing. Had just stood there watching, cool and unreadable as always. Not jealous. Not angry.

Just watching.

That was worse, somehow. Because it meant there was no line being drawn. No boundary to respect. No solid ground to stand on.

There was a brief knock, then a head poking in—one of the engineers. “You coming to the debrief?”

Lando blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

He stood too fast and stumbled into the umbrella on the way out. It clattered to the floor behind him, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how she hadn’t stepped away.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Not yet.

But he thought maybe Oscar did.

—

The flat smelled like garlic and basil. Warm bread, rain on a pavement. Elodie sat cross-legged on the kitchen bench, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pencil tucked between her fingers like it belonged there. She was wearing Oscar’s sweatshirt. The navy one with the loose hem and faded collar. Her hair was damp, curling where it dried against her neck.

Oscar set down her bowl without saying anything. Pasta with roasted tomato, soft white cheese melting at the edges. He poured her water—over ice, a piece of fresh mint.

Sat across from her.

She didn’t look up. Just kept sketching. Lines, flourishes, thread work. Something soft. Ornate.

Oscar watched her. Ate. The clink of cutlery, the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

“Dinner, Elodie,” he prompted eventually.

She looked up. “Mm. Thank you.”

They ate. Something French and slow playing from the little speaker near the stove. Her foot brushed his knee once. She didn’t notice. He didn’t move.

Then—

She turned slightly, already mid-thought. “Lan, do you…”

Pause.

Her head tilted. She stared at the empty seat on her left. Blinked once. “Oh,” she whispered.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She looked down at her pasta. Bit her lip, soft and unthinking. “Sorry. I meant—”

“Lando?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Oscar shrugged, like it was fine. Like he didn’t mind that they were sat here, just the two of them, eating dinner as they always had—and still, she’d turned to speak to someone who wasn’t even there. Like it had become muscle memory to expect him to be. Elbows on the table. Half a smile. Talking too loud about something too specific.

“He’s like that.” Oscar told her, quiet. “Clingy. Makes you think about him even when you shouldn't.”

Her fingers rested on the corner of her sketchbook. She didn’t speak, not at first. But he could see it in her—the flicker of thought. That little crease between her brows. Her teeth pressing gently into her lower lip.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Elodie.”

She blinked at him, her beautiful eyes shining. “Oscar.” She breathed.

They’d spent the first three race weekends of Oscar’s rookie season with Lando attached to them like a fifth limb. Traveling together, eating together, laughing together.

Hotel rooms that meant for two that ended up fitting three — Oscar and Elodie in the bed, Lando on the sofa (“I don’t really like being alone,” he’d said, once, and Elodie had hurt). Lando stealing the last of Elodie’s lip balm. Oscar accidentally wearing Lando’s boxers, and vice versa.

Now, it was quiet.

A lovely pasta. A one-on-one date night that mirrored a thousand they’d had before.

But suddenly it felt like there was a piece missing. A hyperactive, freckled, Monster-fuelled piece.

Elodie reached across the table, brushing her knuckles against the back of Oscar’s hand. Gentle. Like always. “I didn’t even realise,” she said softly. “That I was missing him.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

They both already knew.

—

The hotel room was quiet.

Warm light filtered through linen curtains, brushing over the edge of the bed in pale, dusky streaks.

Oscar was on his side, propped up on one elbow. Elodie was tucked beside him, one leg thrown loosely over his hip, embroidery circle abandoned on the duvet. Her hair was still slightly damp from her shower, curling softly at her temples. She smelled like vanilla body oil and her expensive conditioner.

She always smelled lovely

The TV was playing something neither of them were paying much attention to—some old film, all long glances and black-and-white glamour. Oscar couldn’t tell if she’d chosen it for the aesthetic or if it had just been the first thing she’d clicked.

Elodie shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the screen. Her thumb traced absent little arcs over Oscar’s ribs. His eyes fluttered shut.

Then the door slammed open.

They both startled. A thump, a muttered curse, and then Lando stumbled in, hoodie half-zipped, curls damp, cheeks splotched with red. “Sorry,” he said, breathless, kicking the door shut behind him. “Media stuff ran long. And then Jensen cornered me in the paddock.”

Elodie sat up a little, smiling, all warm and… Elodie. “Hi, Lando.”

Lando blinked at them on the bed, then dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy, tired thud. “Hi.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but shifted back just enough to make space. Elodie tugged the duvet up. Without another word, Lando dropped onto the mattress like he belonged there.

His head landed somewhere near Oscar’s knee. He exhaled hard, a long, whiny sigh. “I’m dying.”

“You qualified second,” Oscar said, voice low.

“I’m emotionally dying,” Lando clarified. “That’s different.”

Elodie’s hand found the curls at the back of his neck. She didn’t say anything, just combed through them gently, rhythmically. Lando made a small, pleased noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. His eyes slid closed.

Within minutes, he was asleep. Sprawled halfway across the bed, long limbs thrown out like a starfish, mouth open, one hand curled loosely around the edge of Elodie’s embroidery circle. There was a smear of engine oil on his jaw and his socks didn’t match. One of them had a hole.

Oscar didn’t move. Just lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Elodie reached for his hand under the blanket.

She squeezed it, gently.

And just like that, they were three again.

—

Lando gives up pretending six weeks later.

Its been six weeks of sharing hotel rooms, of tiptoeing around each other, of lingering touches that were too soft to be anything but an invitation, of pillow talk that lingered in the air even after the lights went out. Of awkward glances when Elodie and Oscar ask the front desk, “Do you have any bigger beds?” because they both knew the time would come. And yet, none of them quite dared to speak the words out loud.

But now, standing in the paddock in Austin, Lando can’t take it anymore.

He corners her, pulling her into the dark corner between the motorhomes, where no one can see them. There’s a strange sense of urgency in his chest, and the way her bohemian dress flows around her, catching the light just right, makes his stomach twist and curl.

She looks up at him, those wide eyes full of curiosity, maybe even a hint of sweet amusement. And that smile of hers, soft and knowing, makes him burn a little on the inside.

“I want to kiss Oscar,” he says before he even thinks about it. The words spill out, heavy with the weight of something he’s been carrying around without even knowing it. The confession hangs between them, unspoken, unasked for. But there it is.

She blinks at him, completely unfazed, and then her hand is on his face, feather-light, fingers brushing over his skin and tracing his moles. The touch is delicate. Her breath, tinged with peppermint, brushes his lips, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Is he even breathing? His chest tightens, and for a second, he swears his heart might stop. Or maybe it’s racing so fast that he’s having a heart attack. Either way, his body feels like it’s no longer his own.

Her eyes meet his, the silence between them is suddenly too loud. And then, with that perfect sweetness in her voice that always makes him feel like he’s being cradled by a cloud, she asks, “Do you want to kiss me too?”

Lando stops breathing. The question hangs there, soft and unexpected, curling around him like smoke. He blinks at her and his mind goes blank for a moment, and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

But then, his head nods once. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible.

Elodie doesn’t move away. In fact, she steps closer, so close that he can feel the heat of her body against his. Her long, pretty fingernails linger at his jaw, the unreasonably soft pad of her thumb brushing the curve of his cheek.

Her smile softens.

Everything changes.

—

Glastonbury 2023

The sun had set, and the soft hum of evening wrapped itself around the quiet house. The three of them sat on the outdoor sofa, spread out in a comfortable, easy pile. Oscar’s legs were stretched out, his head resting on Elodie’s lap as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Lando leaned back against the armrest, one leg draped over Oscar’s, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Oscar’s hand. Elodie glanced up at Lando and blinked, expression open and full of unfiltered adoration, before her fingers shifted to trace the curve of his jaw.

Lando let his eyes flutter close at the touch.

Oscar shifted slightly, pulling his head from Elodie’s lap to tilt his face up toward Lando. Without a word, he leaned in, just a little, and Lando met him halfway. It was slow, soft, a kiss that lingered without pressure. And then, just as easily, Lando pulled back, turning to Elodie. Her smile was bright, her eyes soft, and before she could say anything, he leaned in to kiss her too, a gentle brush of lips that held no rush, no need for anything but the quiet certainty of this.

When he pulled back, Oscar was already watching, his gaze warm, appreciative; so fucking fond. His hand rested on Lando’s knee, fingers lightly tapping in a rhythm that didn’t need to be explained. Lando’s heart gave a little jolt, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he needed to figure out. Not now, not when everything was so perfectly easy.

Elodie leaned over to kiss Oscar on the cheek, then pressed her forehead to his. “It’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This.”

Oscar nodded, lips curling into a soft smile as he kissed her cheek in return. “Perfect, I think.”

Lando sat back, his arm casually wrapping around both of them, pulling them closer.

Because they were both his now—and he could have them as close as he wanted. All the time. Forever.

—

Oscar didn’t hate the number four anymore.

It meant something different now. Something far more tender.

But—he thinks, staring at the photograph he has set as his iPhone wallpaper—maybe he’ll always prefer the number three.

[inseobts]

A Swordsman’s Resolve

zoro x reader

when you awaken a new power that lets you take others' pain as your own, you begin secretly protecting the strawhat crew—until zoro finds out and decide to train you to grow stronger without relying on your gift.

words count: 3.1k

warning: reader is like a voodoo doll so self harm, blood and injuries are mentioned for the fights

tags: injuries, fluff, a bit angst maybe, training with zoro

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You ate a Devil Fruit when you were a kid, and got a strange ability that let you use your own pain as a weapon.

If you stabbed yourself, your enemy would feel the wound instead. A direct exchange. Pain for pain.

It wasn’t perfect. The more damage you took, the weaker you got. Sure, you healed faster than the one you hurt, but it still hurt like hell.

And if you pushed too hard you wouldn’t heal as fast as your usual.

Still, it was useful. You used it to protect the crew, especially during battle. If someone was about to get hit, you’d cut yourself transferring the damage to the enemy instead to stop them.

Painful? Yes. Worth it? Always.

But then, something changed.

It happened a few weeks ago.

The battle had been rough, but the crew had won. You stood on the Sunny’s deck, covered in sweat and blood, catching your breath.

Across from you, Luffy was clutching his side waiting for Chopper to finish patch someone else.

“Oi, you okay?” you asked, stepping closer.

Luffy grinned, but it was weaker than usual “Yeah! Just a little cut.”

A little cut was Luffy speak for ‘I’m actually bleeding a lot, but don’t worry about it.’

You frowned, crouching beside him. His shirt was torn, revealing a deep gash along his ribs. It wasn’t fatal, but it didn’t look good either.

Without thinking, you pressed your fingers over the wound and then a sharp, searing pain shot through your own ribs.

Your breath caught as you felt the wound disappear from Luffy’s body… and appear on yours.

Luffy blinked, confused.

“Huh? It stopped hurting!” He poked his side, then looked at you “…Wait, why do you look like you’re in pain now?”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to hiss “No reason.”

Luffy tilted his head “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you muttered, standing up quickly “I said it’s nothing.”

Luffy’s eyes narrowed “Did you just steal my injury?”

You froze “…No.”

“Yes, you did!” His expression lit up like a kid discovering a new game “That’s so cool! Can you do it again?”

You groaned “It’s not cool, Luffy.”

But he was already poking at his arm “What if I get a cut here—can you take it?”

“Luffy.”

“What if I break a bone?”

“LUFFY.”

He pouted “What? It’s a fair question!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples “Look. I didn’t even know I could do this until now. It just… happened.”

Luffy blinked, processing.

Then, to your absolute horror, he grinned “That means you can heal everyone! You heal faster so it must be already gone..”

Your stomach dropped “No. It actually hurts. A lot more than my usual power.” You crossed your arms “Seems like it takes longer for me to heal. It’s not some magical fix.”

Luffy hummed “Mh then I'd say you don't use that anymore... but you’d still do it, right? I know you”

You hesitated.

Of course, you would. If it meant protecting the crew.

But before you could answer, Sanji’s voice rang out from the kitchen “Dinner’s ready!”

Luffy immediately forgot everything and ran inside, laughing.

You exhaled. Crisis averted.

For now.

Because if Luffy knew then it was only a matter of time before someone else found out.

You keep your secret safe for weeks! Apparently Luffy forgot...

At first, it’s easy. You start small, taking tiny injuries from the crew when no one’s looking. A scraped knee here, a bruised knuckle there. Nothing big.

No one notices.

But then the fights get tougher.

The New World isn’t kind. Enemies get stronger, battles last longer. The crew starts walking away from fights with barely any wounds. But you start feeling it.

The constant ache in your bones, the sharp sting of deep cuts that aren’t healing fast enough. But you push through it, hide it well.

Or at least, you think you do.

Until Zoro catches you.

It happens after a particularly brutal fight.

The crew had just finished raiding a marine base. Nothing too crazy, but the enemies had been tough.

You stand on the deck of the Sunny, bandaging your arm. Another wound you had taken from Usopp. He had been hit bad, you hadn’t even thought before reaching for him, absorbing the injury.

Now, you regret it. This one hurts.

“You’re doing it again.”

You freeze.

Zoro’s voice is sharp, too sharp. When you turn, he’s standing near the railing, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you.

You force a smile “Doing what?”

His expression darkens “Don’t play dumb.”

Your stomach twists.

“Taking our damn injuries” he says flatly.

Your grip tightens on the bandages “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro steps closer “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

Before you can finish, he moves. Too fast.

One second, he’s in front of you. The next, he’s grabbing your wrist forcing your hand away from your bandages.

Your breath catches.

His eyes drop to your arm.

To the wound that wasn’t there before the fight ended.

His jaw tightens “So that’s how we’ve been walking away without a scratch.”

You yank your hand back “It’s not a big deal.”

“The hell it isn’t!” His voice is low, but angry “You’re hurting yourself for us.”

You glare “I’ve always done that.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s the same thing!” You step closer, frustration bubbling up “I take pain to protect the crew, that’s what I’ve always done!”

Zoro’s expression hardens “You’re not protecting us. You’re making yourself weaker.”

You scoff “Oh, so I’m the weak one now?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Your breath catches.

Zoro exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You rely on this power too much.” He shakes his head “What happens when you take too much? When your body can’t keep up?”

You look away.

He notices.

His voice drops lower “You don’t know, do you?”

You swallow hard.

Zoro sighs. When he speaks again, there’s no anger. Just frustration.

“You can’t keep fighting like this.” His gaze locks onto yours “Train with me.”

You blink “…What?”

“Train with me,” he repeats “You want to protect the crew? Then get strong yourself. Not through your Devil Fruit. You.”

You hesitate.

This is Zoro. The most stubborn, relentless, brutal fighter on the crew.

But deep down, you know he’s right.

You exhale “…Fine.”

A smirk tugs at his lips “You’re gonna regret that.”

Training with Zoro is hell.

You expect it to be hard, Zoro is one of the strongest swordsmen, after all. But you don’t expect him to be this relentless.

“You call that a punch?” he scoffs, blocking your attack with one arm “I’ve seen Chopper hit harder.”

You grit your teeth “I don’t need to be strong like you. I have my Devil Fruit.”

Zoro’s expression darkens “That’s the problem.”

Before you can react, he moves, sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the ground hard.

Pain explodes through your body, but you refuse to transfer it away.

Zoro stands over you, arms crossed “If you lost your powers tomorrow, could you still protect the crew?”

You don’t answer because you don’t know, and Zoro sees it.

He sighs, holding out a hand “Get up.”

You glare at him, but take his hand anyway. He pulls you to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re doing that again” he says.

You groan “You just knocked me on my ass.”

“Then stop letting me.”

Over the next few weeks, something shifts.

Training with Zoro is brutal, but you keep up. You stop relying on your Devil Fruit in fights. You block, dodge, counter without using your power as a crutch.

And Zoro watches you closely.

At first, you think it’s just him being a tough mentor. But it’s not just that.

Because sometimes, when you push yourself too far, his frustration turns to something like worry.

You don’t question it. Not until the day everything changes.

The crew is ambushed on an island.

It’s not the worst fight you’ve had, but it’s bad enough. The enemy captain is strong, and before you know it Zoro takes a hit.

A deep slash across his chest. Blood spills onto the ground.

Your body moves before your brain does. You reach for him.

Pain floods your body as the wound transfers to you. Your knees buckle, breath hitching but Zoro catches you immediately.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, eyes blazing.

You grit your teeth “Saving your life, dumbass.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“You didn’t have to!”

Zoro scowls. He grips your shoulders, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You can’t just take pain like it’s nothing,” he growls “You think it doesn’t matter?”

You glare back “It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

His voice is low. Firm.

Your chest tightens “You wouldn’t get it.”

His grip tightens “I do get it.”

You freeze.

Because there’s something in his eyes, something familiar... and then, you remember.

You were awake when the Rumble Ball incident happened. The damage Luffy took at Thriller Bark. The moment Zoro stood covered in blood, refusing to say what happened.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Your breath catches “You took Luffy’s pain back then.”

Zoro’s jaw clenches.

You stare at him and his gaze softens. Just for a second.

Then he looks away “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Because now, you understand you and Zoro are the same.

You both take pain so the crew doesn’t have to.

But Zoro never let it break him.

And maybe that’s why he’s so angry now. Because he sees you going down the same path. And he doesn’t want that for you.

You swallow hard “…Zoro.”

His eyes flicker back to you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then his voice is quieter “Don’t do that again.”

Your fingers curl into fists “I can’t promise that.”

Zoro exhales sharply “Then I’ll just have to stop you again.”

Your heart pounds.

Because the way he says it, it’s not just a threat. It’s a promise.

You and Zoro don’t talk about what happened.

Not at first.

The crew is too busy celebrating the win. Luffy’s laughing, Usopp’s boasting about some made-up feat, and Sanji’s grilling enough food to feed an army.

But Zoro stays quiet.

And you pretend your body isn’t aching from taking his wound. You pretend Zoro’s eyes aren’t constantly on you.

But you feel the way he watches you. The way his jaw tightens every time you wince.

And then, late that night, when the crew is asleep, he finally snaps.

You’re on the deck, staring at the sea, when you hear heavy footsteps.

Zoro stops beside you, arms crossed.

You sigh “Here to scold me again?”

“Tch.” He leans against the railing “Don’t act like you didn’t deserve it.”

You roll your eyes “I saved your life.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

Zoro gives you a pointed look “So were you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because he’s right.

You shift uncomfortably “I can handle it.”

Zoro scoffs “That’s what I said back then.”

You glance at him “What?”

His gaze darkens “It almost got myself killed.”

You’re confused but you don’t need the details to understand. Silence stretches between you.

Zoro sighs, rubbing his neck “I know why you do it. But you’re an idiot if you think you can keep this up forever.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “…So what do I do? Stand there watching everyone getting hurt when I know I can do something about it?”

Zoro exhales sharply “Just let me help you.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not a demand. Not a command. It’s an offer.

You swallow hard “I don’t need—”

“Don’t start.”

You blink.

Zoro turns to you fully, expression serious “You need to stop acting like you’re alone in this.”

Your chest tightens.

Zoro doesn’t do speeches. He doesn’t waste words.

So if he’s saying this…

He means it.

“…Okay.” you murmur.

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Okay?”

You roll your eyes “Yeah, okay. I’ll let you help me. Happy?”

He smirks “Ecstatic.”

You laugh, shaking your head “Asshole.”

His smirk widens “You love it.”

Your heart stumbles.

Because he says it too casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s true.

You look away “Shut up.”

Zoro just chuckles. And somehow the weight on your shoulders feels lighter.

Training with Zoro doesn’t get easier.

If anything, it gets harder.

Every day, he pushes you past your limits, forcing you to fight without using your Devil Fruit, making you stronger on your own. You hate him for it, but you also hate that it works.

Your body stops aching as much. Your reactions get faster. Your movements sharper.

And Zoro never stops watching you. But you ignore that.

Until the day everything falls apart.

The training session is brutal.

Zoro blocks every attack with zero effort. He moves too fast, dodging your punches like they’re nothing.

You’re tired. Frustrated.

So when he steps in close, you react on instinct.

You try to sweep his legs, but he sidesteps, and suddenly, you’re off balance and before you can stop it, you crash into him.

Zoro grunts as you both hit the ground, hard.

And just then you realize where you landed.

Your body is on top of his. Your hands are on his chest. His very solid, very warm chest.

And Zoro is just staring at you.

His breath is warm against your skin. His hands rest lightly on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to hold you or let go.

Your heart pounds.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

And then, without thinking, you kiss him.

It’s quick. A fleeting brush of lips. But it’s enough. Because for a split second, Zoro freezes. His grip on your waist tightens as his breath catches. And that’s when it hits you.

What the hell did I just do?!

Panic floods your chest.

You pull away. Scramble to your feet.

Zoro sits up instantly, eyes wide “Wait!”

But you don’t. You turn and run.

Because holy shit, you just kissed Zoro and you don’t know if he wanted you to.

You avoid him after that.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

But every time you see him, you hear his sharp inhale. Feel his hands tightening on your waist. See the shock in his eyes.

And you can’t face that.

So you just... don’t.

You dodge his training sessions. You sit as far from him as possible during meals. When he walks into a room, you walk out.

The crew notices.

Luffy is confused. Nami is amused. Usopp keeps giving you looks.

And Zoro is pissed, because he might be shy, but he isn’t dumb. And you’re not subtle.

So after three days of this he corners you. And you realize, too late that you’re screwed.

You’re about to slip away again when you feel that familiar, heavy stare.

You freeze.

And before you can react a strong hand grips your wrist. You spin around.

Zoro stands there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“You,” he says, voice low, “are avoiding me.”

You swallow “No, I’m not.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow.

You try again “I’m just... busy.”

His jaw clenches “Bullshit.”

You flinch because Zoro never calls you out like this.

You pull your wrist free, looking away “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro exhales sharply and then “Is it because of the kiss?”

Your stomach drops.

Your entire body tenses.

You should have known he’d bring it up.

But hearing him say it out loud... you can’t breathe.

“I—” Your voice catches “I didn’t mean to—”

Zoro steps closer “Didn’t mean to what?”

You step back “Forget it.”

“No.” His eyes darken “I won’t.”

You clench your fists “Just drop it, Zoro.”

His hand catches your chin. Gently.

Your breath hitches.

“I’m not dropping shit,” he murmurs “You kissed me. Then you ran. Now you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze.

And fuck, he looks serious.

Your heart pounds.

“I thought…” You swallow hard “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Zoro stares.

Then he curses under his breath, and before you can react his hand cups your face and he kisses you.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

But actually firm and certain. Like he’s making a point.

Like he’s saying “You’re an idiot if you think I didn’t want this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Your hands fist in his shirt. You kiss him back desperate, dizzy.

His arms lock around you, because now that he has you he’s not letting go.

Zoro’s kiss is rough, unyielding.

Like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s claiming something he should’ve had all along.

You barely have time to breathe.

His hand tightens at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just right, deepening the kiss until your knees threaten to give out.

You clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, and maybe it is.

When you finally pull away, gasping, your head feels light, hazy.

Zoro doesn’t let go.

His forehead presses against yours. His breathing is uneven and when he speaks his voice is low, rough “Still think I didn’t want it?”

You shudder.

Your fingers tighten on his chest.

“…No.”

His lips curve “Good.”

The crew finds out immediately. Not because you tell them, but because, apparently, you’re both terrible at hiding it.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and the entire crew is staring at you.

You freeze.

“…What?”

Sanji smirks, leaning against the counter “So…you and the mosshead, huh?”

Your stomach drops.

Nami hums, sipping her coffee “Took you long enough.”

Usopp grins “You guys weren’t exactly subtle.”

Your face burns “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luffy just tilts his head “Zoro was smiling this morning.”

You blink “So?”

Luffy grins “Zoro never smiles like that.”

Your mouth opens and then you hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

You turn and there he is.

Zoro strides in, yawning. He looks relaxed, more than usual, like he actually slept well for once.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And without hesitation he reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you into his side casually, like it’s natural, like he’s done it a million times.

And when he notices the crew watching he just raises an eyebrow “…What?”

Silence.

Then Sanji groans “Oh, great. Now he’s even more unbearable.”

Nami just smirks “About damn time.”

Usopp whispers something about losing a bet.

And Luffy just laughs “Shishishi! You two are weird.”

Zoro just grunts “Tch. Whatever.”

But you see the way his fingers linger against your skin. The way his shoulders relax just slightly when you don’t pull away.

[luna-azzurra]

Enemies to Lovers – Romantic Gestures That Could Burn Down a Kingdom (But Make You Swoon First)

Enemies to lovers isn’t just a trope. It’s a bloodsport. It's sharp words, lingering glances, and two people falling in love while pretending they're not. The gestures here are full of tension, denial, and drama. Because what’s hotter than someone who once wanted to destroy you now wanting to hold your hand?

╰ The “I Hate Everyone But You” Exception

They don’t do favors. Ever. But suddenly your character’s car is fixed, or their name is cleared, or someone suspiciously threatening has backed off. No explanation. Just, “Don’t read into it.” We’re reading into it. Hard.

╰ Bandaging the Wounds They Might Have Caused

Enemies fall in love while bleeding. One gets hurt—physically or emotionally—and the other is the one who stays behind. They patch the other up in silence, trying not to flinch at every touch. It’s a love language. A very stabby one.

╰ The Insult-That’s-Actually-a-Compliment

“You’re insufferable and reckless and… gods, you’re brilliant.” They can’t quite say “I’m in love with you,” so they wrap it in verbal barbed wire and hope you catch the truth beneath it.

╰  Fighting for Them Instead of with Them

When the enemy suddenly becomes your character’s fiercest defender. A verbal sparring match turns into: “You don’t get to talk about them like that.” Yes. That’s growth. That’s romance. That’s literary foreplay.

╰  The Reluctant Confession (aka Emotional Vomit)

It slips out. After a fight. Or in the rain. Or while one of them is bleeding and the other thinks they might lose them. “I don’t know when it happened, but I care. More than I should. More than I want to.”

╰ The Jealousy Meltdown

Watching someone else flirt with their former mortal enemy-turned-emotional-trauma-partner is agony. Cue the sulking, the sarcastic digs, or even a protective arm around the waist. “I thought you hated me.”, “I do. Just not when they’re looking at you like that.”

╰ Touch That Lingers

Accidental shoulder brushes. A hand that stays a second too long. Pulling them back by the wrist. They're not even sure when the touch went from "tactical" to tender. But we all felt it.

╰ Burnt Bridges, Rebuilt with Care

They say sorry. Maybe not directly. Maybe it’s “I didn’t mean it” or “You didn’t deserve that.” But for someone who used to only speak in daggers, that apology is a love letter in disguise.

╰ Sacrifice, the Ultimate Plot Twist

The character who swore they'd never care—who literally plotted the downfall of your protagonist—is now taking the hit. Protecting them. Giving something up. Choosing them. And not because it’s noble. Because they can’t stand the thought of losing them.

╰ The Kiss That Ends a War

When words fail, and emotions bubble over, and suddenly they’re grabbing each other like salvation. That kiss? That’s not just a kiss. That’s 100 pages of tension, regret, longing, and fury turned into a moment of surrender. (You know the one.)

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere Dr. Lee scenario <3

“My love for you is seeping into my bones like cancer. I’m obsessed with your every waking breath. My chest heaves at the idea of you ever leaving me behind to rot like the corpse of an abandoned animal. But you would never. You’re perfect. You’re the balm that soothes my burns and the morphine for when my body breaks. I hope to one day heal your wounds as deeply as you’ve done mine. I’ll start with slitting open your enemies like I used to do frogs in biology.” What? Your head is fuzzy from reading the first paragraph, but you can’t stop yourself. If you never finish reading then it will haunt you, or even hurt you, if this was to be taken seriously. 

“I want you. I’ve wanted you for myself for years. I let you have your social circle because that’s just the little butterfly you are. I know you know how obsessed I can be with you. If not, then, now you know. I’ve been in love with you for years, and every single time you bat those pretty eyes at other men, I want to kill them. I’m not going to make this hurt. This isn’t truly a punishment. I just couldn’t hold myself back anymore. I’m going to make you feel good, over and over and over until you see that I love you, little butterfly.”

You read the letter over and over again. You feel the shaking taking over as the deranged letter trembles in your hands, and your breath feels stuck in your throat. Whatthe fuck was this? Some sick love confession? And from who?! What did it even mean by punishment? You can’t bring yourself to hold onto the paper anymore, tossing it aside as you grasp at your hair. What do you do? Cops are hardly ever helpful with shit like this. Making a report should help, at least a little but- There’s a creaking sound behind you. Your thoughts pause, and your hairs stand on end. It’s an eerie silence as you hold your breath and feel the foreboding feeling behind you. Do you acknowledge it? Do you turn your head and see what made the noise? Or do you simply run away, get in the car and go? What if it’s just nothing? You shake. Deep breaths only do so much, but they’re better than completely flying off the edge. 

It’s fine. You’re just extra paranoid. This is a fucked up prank at the very least, and a crime waiting to happen at worst. You just need to get your bearings, get something to calm down, and take care of it as soon as possible. 

Turning your head reveals nothing. The same old floor, same kitchen and living room. No menacing boogeyman, no scary burglar, just your home. (Is it truly yours if rent is always there? Well, whatever, you need a way to get comfort. Delusions such as owning a home help!) 

Double checking the house isn’t a bad idea. So, you go, checking the cupboards, the cabinets, the pantry, and of course anything that looked like a grown person could be hiding. There’s still that foreboding feeling, but once you finish checking under your bed, and your closet, there’s nothing left to check.  There’s the ruffling of your blanket as you collapse. Deep breath in, slow exhale, again and again, until you feel your nerves settling.

Maybe this will be over by the time you get up in the morning to make a report. Maybe it’s a fucked up prank. You can’t really bring yourself to think past anything other than that. You tiredly drag your hands down your face, sighing out as your thoughts try to become less jumbled.

Your eyes close, and your mind finally starts to go blank. Everythings going to be ok. You’ll be ok.

Then there’s the pinprick burning in your arm, and a gloved hand over your mouth.

“So sorry, dove. I know, I know. Shh shh shh. You did good! you did so so good. Hide and seek with you is adorable! But...You know, just because I wasn’t in one hiding spot the first time, it doesn’t mean I didn’t move! Ah, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

There’s a flicker of light as your eyes struggle to stay open, heavy and weighted as your nails try to dig into the arm holding onto you. It’s no use. Your fight is leaving you fast and so is your consciousness, and while your heart is hammering, it’s slowing down considerably as a few tears leave your drooping eyes.

“Wanted a picture to remember this by. Just relax, my butterfly. Just relax. I’ve given you many shots haven’t I? Never did like when my nurses went to do it. Think those count as flirting? I sure do-”

There’s a pouty, disappointed hum as the intruder watches you fade into unconsciousness. “Damn. Worked quicker than I had hoped. Oh well, I need to get you home quick anyway. If I leave too late, people may notice, and it’s not an easy trail to clean.”

(-Mommabean)

[softlymellow]

The Order Forgot Me First - Chapter 4

☆⁠ PAIRING : Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☆⁠ word count: 3.5k

☆⁠ story themes: lovers to enemies to eventually lovers

☆⁠ warnings: spoilers to swtcw

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

"I would have died for you. I wanted to."

You threw the wrist comlink attached to your arm on the sand covered floor, the constant beeping began to irritate you as you had other matters to focus on.

Using your mechanics, you had removed the gps chip inside of the comlink back at Coruscant but kept the commlink itself – mainly to have some sort of contact with Anakin. Regardless, the sooner you got rid of it, the sooner you could move on. 

Looking down at the device, flickers of red kept emitting from it alerting you that you had received a new message. It took everything inside of you to not open and listen to it. It was from Anakin. Of course it would be from Anakin. He had stayed up nights and days talking to his comlink as if his life depended on it. He would talk about how much he missed you, how he would find you and that he loves you. It had only been a few days since he had last seen you but it had proven to be the worst days of Anakin’s life.

You never responded to any of his messages, instead you would lay inside of your now wrecked ship you stole from a poor person back in Coruscant and listen to his voice as he talked to you, but he didn’t know you were listening.

At least he hoped you were.

The device had no status ability to tell you if someone was listening or not, a common flaw that irritated the Jedis. And that’s what Anakin had to live with. He would continue to send you voice messages until you would respond to them. 

Your foot hovered over the device ready to smash it, but you just couldn’t. 

“Errgh!” You screamed to yourself in frustration, snatching the comlink from the ground and throwing it next to your destroyed ship from your failed landing.

You inhaled deeply, rubbing your face with both hands in anger. Why couldn’t you just get rid of the damn thing?

“Woah there, lady.” You whipped your head around to see a man sitting on a speeder bike, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

You narrowed your eyes at him and glared at him, “I don’t have time for people like you.” You barked as you walked towards your comlink, covering your mouth as the dark smoke from the wreckage clouded the device. 

“No need to be nasty, you just looked like you needed help.” He joked, his golden locks flying back as the wind hit him, his red goggles sitting at the top of his forehead. He wore a loose collared shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned, revealing his tan skin underneath and baggy tar pants. 

“Piss off,” you sneered, grabbing the comlink and attaching it to your left arm, refusing to make eye contact with the man. 

“Is that any way for a Jedi to be speaking?” He eyed your lightsaber that rested on the side of your hip.

Shit

You instinctively hovered your hand over your saber in defense, afraid that he might pull a move now that he knows you're a Jedi, well was. 

“If you’re going to keep talking, at least tell me how long the walk is for the next town.”  

“We’re in Jakku! You got to be kidding if you think you’re going to walk in this heat.” He exclaimed as he watched your despondent figure. 

“Well, I didn’t plan on crash landing here…” You mumbled to yourself as you began to walk past him, if he wasn’t going to help you then you would do it yourself. 

The speeder rumbled besides you, the man driving it excruciatingly slow to match your pace. 

“It will take you 2 hours to walk but 15 minutes on my speeder.” He sighed.

You paused and raised your eyebrow, “What’s the catch?” 

“No catch.” 

You didn’t have much of a choice, by the time you’d reach civilisation, it’d be sunset and you couldn’t afford that, not when Jakku has one of the coldest nights. Taking a deep breath, you walked over to the man and threw your leg over his bike, his back uncomfortably close to you. 

“Hold on tight,” he exclaimed, a grin plastered on his face. Without giving you a chance to even listen to him, the speeder bursted with speed, your body almost falling off. Your hands immediately rushed towards the sides of his figure but not close enough that your entire body was touching his. 

It didn’t feel good though. You knew that if Anakin had seen this man being too close to you he wouldn’t see the light of day, but Anakin wasn’t here right now. And you didn’t know when you would see him next. 

“My name's Dev!” He exclaimed over the howling of the wind. 

“Cool.” You yelled out, not wanting to really know anything about this man considering you wouldn’t see him again after this.

“Yours?” He exclaimed again.

You remained silent, unsure on how to respond. “....Ani… My name’s Ani!” You didn’t know why you told him that, if anything you knew you didn’t want to tell him your actual name. In an isolated place like Jakku, it wasn’t bad to be too careful about your identity as your name had become some sort of a prodigy. 

Dev nodded to himself, a smile growing on his face, “Nice to meet you, Ani.” You didn’t respond, unease growing in your stomach. 

You both didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, instead, you relished in the feeling of the air hitting your face, closing your eyes as your head lightly hit his back. The speeder eventually came to a halt at a junkyard.

Hopping off of the bike, your eyes darted everywhere, taking in the outpost. Just traders, scavengers and outlaws. 

“Well, there’s not much to it. Then again, you are in Jakku.” Dev said as got off his bike, his hands on his hips as he observed the surroundings. 

“Mhm,” you mumbled to yourself, already walking away from him. 

Dev broke into an awkward speed walk as he tried to catch up to you. He didn’t say anything beside you but followed you around like he was a mum trying to supervise his kid. 

Looking around, there were a couple of jackets and worn out clothing on display. You walked over to the rack of clothing, the wind blowing it out. Your hands gently touched a poncho, it had no sleeves or zipper but was long in the back and short in the front, it shielded your arms from your elbow to your shoulder and had a dirty mediaeval look to it. Taking the poncho, you held it in your hands as you observed the other clothing. 

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” Dev said beside you, a teasing tone in his voice. 

“That’s why I’m picking out clothes, genius.” You pointed out, rolling your eyes as you walked over to the Teedo who had a cocky expression, pleased that someone who dressed classy had come to buy off of him. 

“All of these please,” You plopped your clothing at his wooden desk.

“Republic Credits, no good.” he announced.

Your mouth fell agape, “What?” Ignoring the fact that he immediately thought of you as part of the Galactic Republic. 

Dev tried to stifle a laugh and you shot him a glare in return. “What do you mean, no good?”

“We exchange here.” 

“Yeah, well I’m exchanging my credits for these clothes.” You blinked. 

Dev suddenly pulled out a small bag containing goods inside of it and dropped it in front of him, “Here, take these instead.” The Teedo eyed Dev carefully but Dev wouldn’t back down from his stare, his eyes almost commanding. 

The Teedo cautiously took the small bag and opened it, a pleased smile lit up in his face and he nodded, taking the bag away from him. 

Dev took your clothing and handed it to you. Narrowing your eyes, you took it grimly from not enjoying the fact that he had paid for you. 

“Thank you,” you muttered as you looked down at your feet.

Dev waved his hand around, “It’s getting dark. We can go to my ship and stay there for the night.”

Not really feeling like arguing with him, you nodded and followed him as he led you to his ship. It was a small light cruiser but plentiful for you and him, at least for this one day. The cargo doors open as Dev walks you inside. It was a Republic light cruiser for all you could tell, having had to ride with it many times with Anakin and Obi-wan. 

“Go down the hall, last room on the right, you can shower and change there.” Dev said without looking at you, fixing the manuals on his ship.

You nodded and walked towards the room. It was a bunker and you were going to assume that was where you’d sleep. In all honesty, you had no idea if you could trust Dev, but right now, he would be the only person you could trust in this planet. 

Locking the door behind you with the touchpad attached to the wall, you slowly began to strip off your clothing, afraid that there was a hidden trick to this. You put your lightsaber and your comlink underneath the mattress of the bed, wanting it to be as safe as possible. You walked over to the very small bathroom that connected to your cabin and entered the shower. Turning on the shower, the hot water immediately hit your back as you held back a moan.

You began to slowly wash off the dirt and grime that stuck to your skin and thoroughly wash your hair. You closed your eyes and thought about Anakin, how much you missed him and what he was doing right now. Part of you was still hurt about what had happened between you and the council, but you were so far from it now that it seemed like a lifetime ago. But you couldn’t forget it at the same time. The distrust and blatant disrespect you felt by not only the council but by Anakin and those you loved as well, for them not to believe you but taking the council’s side instead? 

You swallowed down the lump in your throat as you turned off the shower. There was no towel so you had to make do with what you had to dry yourself. You took your new clothing and threw them on, your Jedi robes neatly folded on your desk. 

It didn’t look like you were a Jedi anymore, just a smuggler, but that was the look you were going for. Lifting your mattress, you pulled out the comlink and your saber, hooking it to the belt that was hidden underneath your jacket - making it invisible - and strapping on your comlink in your wrist. Walking out of your bunker, you made your way towards Dev who sat on the floor of the ship with his legs crossed. 

“What are you doing?” You asked, sitting on the co-pilot seat. Dev had two packets of what looked to be some sort of powder or flour and two bowls of water on the floor. 

“Making dinner,” He said without looking up at you. 

Dev ripped open each packet and poured it in the liquid. His eyes focused as he began to stir each bowl with a small wooden spoon, his jaw clenched. 

In almost a blink of an eye, the mixture began to lower before suddenly expanding, and a beige and green bread-like loaf was formed. 

Dev then handed you your bowl with a sheepish smile, “Dinner is served.”

You picked up the bread and fiddled with it with your fingers, your eyes suspiciously rising as the bread had a hard texture almost as if it was just baked. 

“Eat it while you can…Hard work getting rations around here, can’t always rely on your fancy credits.” Dev said as he began to take bites of his loaf, crumbs falling off with every bite he took. 

Ignoring his last comment, you twirled the bread in your hand before taking a bite. It was dry to say the least. Dev was right though, you weren’t back at Coruscant with fancy food and luxury showers, you were in Jakku, practically nowhere. 

“So, Ani,” Dev shoot you a look. You almost choked on your bread, forgetting that your name was supposingly Ani. 

“What brings you here? It’s not common for a Jedi to wander around on this planet.” Dev questioned you, watching your reaction carefully. 

“I’m not a Jedi.” You bit the inside of your cheek, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

Dev raised his eyebrow, “Sweets, you have Republic credits, Jedi robes and a lightsaber. I beg to differ.”

“I stole it,” you shrugged, avoiding eye contact with him. 

Dev began to hysterically laugh, clearly not believing in your lie. What was so unbelievable about that? I could totally steal from a Jedi if I wanted to, you scoffed to yourself. 

“Okay…What actually brings you here.” He laughed in between his words, setting his bowl down.

There was no point in lying if he knew that you were a Jedi, you just hoped he wouldn’t take advantage of you for that. 

“I got kicked out of the Order,” You confessed in a quieter tone, playing with the loaf of bread. Dev fell silent immediately, a somber expression on his face. 

“Why?” 

You shook your head, spinning in the co-pilot chair to face away from him, “That’s none of your business.” Yes, you could trust Dev after he took you in, brought you clothes and made you food but you weren’t ready to share personal backstories with him just yet. The cuts were still fresh and it hurts even thinking about it. 

Dev went silent as he watched your back, his hands in his pocket. “We should be a team.” 

“What?” You span to look at him, your eyes wide. 

“We’ll do bounties together.” 

“No.”

“You have nowhere to go,” Dev said as a matter of fact. 

“No, I-I do,” All you could think about was Anakin. He would never approve of you for even listening to this. You could even hear Obi-wan scolding you. 

“You have no home, no ship and no money. As a matter of fact, you need a great pilot and just in your luck-” Dev boasted, a glowing smile on his face. Dev was right. You needed a pilot. You weren’t exactly the greatest considering the reason you are talking to him was because of your plane crashing. You always relied on Anakin for flying, he was after all, the best. It was something Anakin had always teased you about.

….

….

“What kind of bounties?” You interrupted him, not wanting to dwell on past stories.

“We only capture people and worst case scenario, killing them-”

“And you always do this?” You asked, feeling suddenly uneasy, internally cursing yourself for even seeming remotely interested. 

“I never pick the good guys, Ani, just the bad ones.” He reassured you, noticing the way you shifted in your seat from side to side. 

“We can do one tomorrow and then you can decide if you really want to be my partner. We’ll split the reward and if not-” He raised his hands, “Then it was a pleasure knowing you.” 

You had to take this. Dev was the only person you could remotely trust on this planet and you couldn’t pass on an opportunity to have some sort of stability. After all what he said was right, you didn’t have a ship therefore, no escape from this planet. 

You nodded slowly, “Okay…Who are we getting tomorrow?” 

“Tala Illnen. She is on the loose for the attempted murder of Ziro the Hutt when he visited his homeland in Sleheyron.” Dev said as if he had repeated it to himself many times, he had already planned to go there with or without you, you assumed. 

“Well, I need weapons. I don’t want to use my lightsaber, it’ll make us a target.” You shrunk in your seat, feeling slightly dejected that you aren’t able to use your saber in the open. 

“Already thought of that, sweets.” He said, picking up both of your bowls and placing them on a table, his back turned towards you. “Sleep on it. We have a big day tomorrow.” You nodded in response, you did in fact have a big day tomorrow. One that wasn’t very clear. 

You got up from your seat, unsure if you should thank him or greet him a goodnight. You weren’t friends but he did help you and you might be his partner in crime. 

“Your clothes suit you,” He complimented you, his back still turned against you and his eyes staring intensely to the empty bowels.  

Okay. 

…

A pink hue began to slowly crawl up your cheeks as you were taken back by the sudden compliment and that he noticed. Dev was probably used to the Bounty Hunter attire so it’d be obvious that he would prefer those on you than the Coruscant clothing. Obviously. 

“Thanks.” You replied, not wanting to think much of his praise. You retreated to your cabin while Dev smiled to himself as he busied himself with the cruiser. 

Locking the door behind you using the pad, you took off your jacket and placed it on the desk and slowly began to remove your shoes.  You turned the lights off using the same pad near the doorway and walked over to your bed. You pulled the covers back and began to slither inside, it wasn’t as comfortable as your own Jedi chambers but you’d have to get used to it. It definitely wasn't as comfortable as Anakin's arms.

Snuggling into your bed, you closed your eyes. You need the rest. Afterall today was a long day. It was officially day one of your journey without the Jedi Order, Masters and Padawans. Without your best friends. Without him. 

You couldn’t go back, not after what had happened. The people you thought were closest to you ending up betraying you, unbelieving of your pure intents and you don’t think you could forgive that too easily. It was like everything stopped for a second and the only thing you could process are the millions of memories and thoughts and emotions. They all collectively hit you at once making it harder for you to run away. You couldn’t forget the busy streets of Coruscant, the ships after ships that flew overhead while blinding you with their beams of lights. The mixture of tears, sweat and rain on your body. The yelling and screaming to find you. The soldiers after soldiers after soldiers that chased you down the tunnels. Because no one believed you. 

But the greatest of comforts was the illusion that the dark is temporary. 

A sudden beeping began to sound in your wrist, sending your heart racing. Pulling out your left wrist, small flickers of red emitted from your comlink.

You quickly sat up and brushed your hair behind your ears. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest while your stomach began to do somersaults. 

“Okay…Okay…Okay…” You whispered to yourself, trying to soothe yourself. It was Anakin. 

Pressing the small illuminated red button on your comlink, Anakin’s voice was heard. 

“-Still nowhere to be found. Every hour that I’m not assigned for something...." he breathed. "I’m looking for you.” He sighed, it was almost like you could see him rubbing his face in discontent. His hair a mess, his jaw clenched and his muscles in knots.

“I miss you, Y/n." He said in a softer tone. His voice low, rough, like he hadn't slept for days.

"Wherever you go, I'm with you." He inhaled shakily. "Every moment that I'm not with you, I can't breathe."

"So please. Please, answer this. I don’t know if you’re dead. Alive. If you made it out safe. Just -force- tell me where you are and we’ll run away together. We’ll leave the order behind. I don't care. We'll get married like we had planned."

There was silence for a few seconds, deep and aching, before he continued. 

“I would have died for you. I wanted to." He exclaimed, his voice hoarse.

You began to fiddle with the comlink, smashing the microphone button to allow you to communicate.

"Anakin?" You called out.

"I’m sorry…I wasn’t there to help you like I should have." He continued.

"Anakin, can you hear me?" Once more.

"I should've burnt down the whole universe for you. I won't fail again.”

It wasn't working. The goddamn comlink wasn't working. It was all because you fucking threw it on the floor. Gritting your teeth you kept pressing all kind of buttons, hoping a little red orb would flare.

“Obi-wan’s worried. He told me to keep trying to contact you. He wants me to remain calm, trust in the force and-” He sighed, “The Council don’t believe that I should be searching for you."

You brought the comlink underneath the covers with you, sniffling into your shirt. 

"But I promise you , I will find you. Even if it's for the very last time. Even if you hate me." He breathed out.

"I love you.” Anakin said quietly. Then a beat of silence.

"This is pointless-” His voice snapped. It was then you heard a loud thud. Like metal clashing. Like in his anger he had hit something.

Static. A muffled voice. And then nothing. 

He'd shut it off.

Groaning, you squinted your eyes and fell deeper in your bed. The comlink being one of the only things tethered to who you used to be.

Rubbing away the tears that threatened to fall out of your eyes, you laid on your side, holding the device close to you as you fell asleep.

a/n: it was a longgg one guys sorry if i bored u with the dev stuff i just need to set the world for when shes gone and the timeskip and stuff dev will also be importanttt laterrrr but next chp we're getting more pov on anakin and obiwan !!!! i also just finished writing their reunion and working out what happens after its not happy is all i can say

Taglist: @endairachristensen26 @hayden-christensen-verse @ducks118 @seventeen-x @movingalongthekiwi @ssnapsaurus @caramelfondu

if u want to be added or removed lmk!

ALSOO in the meantime if anyone wants to req oneshots/imagines of anyone im so down to do it

[ghost-kings-court-jester]

I find it so interesting that time and time again Jun Wu never considered other peoples kindness and how that foiled all his plans.

Like originally he wanted Xie Lian to fall apart and break like him but Wu Ming was there to be sure he wasn’t alone and to take on all that resentment.

The man with the bamboo hat was there making sure Xie Lian remember that people can be kind.

Like even 800 years later after Jun Wu failed he tries to cause rifts for Xie Lian so that he has no one and becomes isolated and hopefully insane like him.

Except Pei Ming who would have lied and manipulated the situation doesn’t blame Xie Lian for figuring everything out, he knows it wasn’t personal and he’s able to work with him later despite Jun Wu constantly pitting them against each other.

Shi Wudu is the strongest elemental master and while he didn’t ever warm to Xie Lian, Shi Qingxuan did and they loved him for who he was. They always came to Xie Lian defence to give him backing in heaven because they were friends. (Which honestly might be why the Shi Wudu plot was revealed starting the Black Water Arc.) then even after leaving heaven and Xie Lian losing a popular gods backing. Shi Qingxuan is kind and doesn’t hold a grudge and even when they have nothing and can’t be an ally in heaven they still care about Xie Lian and help him when they are literally crippled and mortal.

Ling Wen is shrewd and could have been a very strong antagonist against Xie Lian except he was always polite and kind to her and she respects that. She has no real desire to do him harm outside of protecting herself and doesn’t really consider him an enemy in any way.

Lang Qianqiu should have turned against him and all of the heavens against too except he only wants the truth. He hears the whole story and immediately clears Xie Lians name and makes sure the heavens know it was Qi Rong so Xie Lian can’t be banished again.

He pairs Xie Lian with Quan Yizhen a god known for being confrontational and picking fights except Xie Lian was kind to him and that makes him a for lifer in Quan Yizhen’s mind he literally wouldn’t turn against him or even think about it because Xie Lian proved himself to be a good person and that’s all Quan Yizhen needs to like you.

Yushi Huang happily tried to help Xie Lian with the drought and gives him her spiritual device as a show of kindness. Then she helps him hide Banyue, helps in Tonglu and helps Hua Cheng infiltrate Heaven because she’s a kind woman who gave up her life for her people and understands Xie Lian is the same.

Jun Wu assumes this whole time that Feng Xin and Mu Qing would be resentful because that’s what happened to him with his friends except Feng Xin and Mu Qing are insane and deranged and just want Xie Lian to be their friend again so they make little disguises to help all the time and take some of the scrutiny of Xie Lian because they were there too. Feng Xin pays of Xie Lians huge debt to smooth things over for him with the other Gods. When Xie Lian is “kidnapped” they follow him to get him back immediately because hey wait that’s our friend. Jun Wu tries to bring suspicion between them by making them assume the worst about each other but Mu Qing literally takes a shackle over betrayal. Then both of them go to Mount Tonglu to protect Xie Lian and begin to mend their friendship because that’s how they roll.

And of course we have Hua Cheng who is Wu Ming that constant loyal thorn in Jun Wu’s side because through all of these events he is with Xie Lian. He offers comfort and support and insures that Xie Lian never even begins to spiral down the same dark path by helping him in every situation, acting as a buffer and a confidant and reminding Xie Lian he isn’t alone and he will be there loving Xie Lian more than Jun Wu could ever hate him.

There’s probably more instances but I just love how this all kinda plays out like yes Xie Lian is truly kind and hopeful and that’s why he’ll never fully be Bai Wuxiang anyway but other people are kind too! There is so much more to people than Jun Wu expects and that’s why his plan is foiled over and over again. Not by smarts or by fighting but by simple human kindness and compassion.

[makingspiritualityreal]

After reading yet another completely misinforming post on Saturn, filled with pointless negativity and lack of understanding, I feel like I need to set the story straight.

To understand Saturn, one needs to know its natural zodiacal place, which is after Jupiter. So Saturn is a natural consequence of Jupiter. This is where Vedic astrology is helpful, because we get the understanding of the planets from the Nakshatra order, which translates to all aspects of life.

If you want to understand Jupiter’s nature in a nutshell, I always think of Luc Besson’s “Lucy”, where by the end of the movie, we witness achievement of infinite consciousness. “I am everywhere” is Jupiter’s motto. It is constant growth and expansion, because Jupiter reflects the Divine nature of the Universe, everything being a part of a constant expansive plan. And we need that in our lives, because it keeps us going, the awareness that there is more to do, to create, to develop, always. That’s why Jupiter represents hope and perspective and can lead to success, because this is where we have the most energy to “spread”, the most will to continue constantly expanding and creating, which keeps us going and shows us the light at the end of the tunnel even in most difficult situations.

However, with all the positive aspects of Jupiter, over time we run into several issues. The first one is that constant growth also leads to danger of excess. If bushes grow and we don’t trim them, they become a mess. Everything that is not tended to, eventually decays without maintenance. And that next step, building on Jupiter’s expansion, is Saturn. The second one is energetic exhaustion, because any non abstract matter needs to reset cyclically to keep going. This also comes with the realization that if you are everywhere, you become a target for everyone, which is tiring too. Jupiter is a purely abstract planet, so it doesn’t understand that physical responsibility, but that realistic, necessary need for privacy, rest and break is Saturn. The last problem we run into is lack of focus. If we are everything and everywhere, we can also feel void, nothingness, because such is the duality of God and the Universe and with infinity there is no direction, so precise building becomes an issue. That organization, that narrowing down, that makes building and focusing possible is Saturn. That is also why Saturn is friend’s with Venus, the planet of decisions, because to make a decision you have to let go of something to prioritize over something else, and Saturn gives Venus that efficiency.

As you can see, fundamentally none of these traits of Saturn are bad or negative and all of them are essential. For instance, you can’t build a successful business without organization and compartmentalization, without being able to discard the unnecessary and control and cultivate your object of focus. If you struggle with any of the above processes in your chart, your Saturn is struggling by aspect, sign or dignity and it simply resists at performing a necessary job that it was meant to do. So any negative experiences with Saturn are simply what we can equate to a malfunctioning machine.

The collective fear mongering towards Saturn comes also from these malfunctions and also because other more impulsive, spontaneous planets don’t agree with its nature. Ernst Wilhelm says in his teachings that Saturn has so many enemies (Sun, Moon, Mars), and for that reason it’s easy to misunderstand it.

To give you an example, don’t believe any of the posts that say Saturn in the 2nd house will make you poor. It only will, if you make bad decisions with it, because every bad action in this life has a consequence. To contrast it, while an unafflicted Jupiter in the 2nd would have the karma of a certain level of basic financial freedom and certain creative financial intelligence “what can I buy and keep buying that will make my life better?”, Saturn in the 2nd would more enter the stage of “buying endlessly with no purpose is exhausting and wasteful, what can I buy and how can I invest in a way that yields long term dividends? How can I cut off excess to redirect these resources in a more useful way? Do I really need that much, or can I put certain resources towards something more worthy?”. So the theme here is responsibility for an allocation of every penny, not deprivation.

Saturn will perform on a similar principle in all houses, and that becomes really important when Saturn is a Karaka of a certain house, like in the 10th house, because some things cannot be achieved without focus. For instance, even if you do have a multitude of hobbies and several interests or even professions, you only have so much time each day, so narrowing down your options and choosing what is truly important becomes imperative, and that commitment of what you devote your time and energy to, that narrowing down and prioritizing of one avenue over another, is what over time becomes what we in the modern world call a career. If your life is scattered, you will never accomplish anything, even if your dreams were humble, and you will find yourself on your deathbed with no lasting legacy.

[lovetrouble123]

You Look At Me And I’m Weak

Synopsis: Batman has Catwoman, and Nightwing has Kitty.

TW: n/a

A/N: oh Jesus Christ I pulled this out my ass lol so here’s my 2nd fic on tumblr ig???

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Once becoming Nightwing, Dick Grayson expected the code name ‘Robin’ to never come up again. It started with him and it would end with him, but when Jason, Tim and Damian all came into the picture, he realized that he had created a legacy.

It probably wasn’t the best legacy to have created, especially since he was the first Robin but also the oldest, which left the others to have a lot to live up to. But in some strange way…it connected all of them.

Though all the siblings had their own lives, their roots were connected to being a Robin at some point. But for Dick Grayson, there was one thing that separated him from his siblings.

One person.

One girl.

Bruce had lead by example, cats and bats don’t get along and a relationship would be strenuous and complicated.

But Dick wasn’t a bat anymore…well, technically at his core he was. But now he was a bird, meaning that cats and birds could get along, right?

He had moved away from Gotham City and to Blüdhaven to investigate some murders, only to stay when he realized how bad off Blüdhaven was in comparison. At the time, he assumed the cat wouldn’t follow, but she did.

“Birdy~,” a sweet voice called from behind.

“You know I hate that name,” Dick replied as he sat on the edge of a Blüdhaven building that was tall enough to overlook the city.

He didn’t have to turn around to know who was behind him. He was long past the days of her sneaking up on him and scaring the daylights out of him.

He was way past his Robin days.

Her boots clicked against the rooftop as she approached him, her steps barely heard. “Well, you shouldn’t have stuck with being a bird then.” She sassed as she sat down beside the Blüdhaven vigilante, her legs dangling over the ledge like his were.

“What would you rather I be?” He asked with a small head tilt as he looked at her face that was illuminated by the bright moonlight above.

“Not sure.” She trails off, “I can’t really imagine you as anything but a bird.”

His blue eyes were hidden behind his domino mask, but he was sure she could feel his gaze on her. “And why’s that?” He asked as he reached a gloved hand out and traced the scar on her arm that ran from her shoulder all the way down to her wrist.

He had always had a habit of tracing that scar. A scar that he had given her back as Robin, and something he still felt guilty for.

At the time, the two were enemies—rivals.

He was still fairly new to the Robin gig when the two met that night at the museum. He remembered Bruce handling Selina Kyle (his situationship that was still going on after all these years) while he handled Selina’s new protégée—Kitty.

He hadn’t had meant to hurt her that badly, but who knew baterangs were so sharp?

“Birds are cat’s natural prey.”

“Still trying to catch me, huh?”

“I’ve already caught you,” Kitty replied with a smirk.

He moved his hand away from her arm but continued to look at her, this time with a small and amused smile. “And what do you plan to do with me?”

She shrugged, “not sure…but I’ll keep you updated.”

“You could always let me go. You know, fly away?” Dick suggested as a small snort of laughter escaped the girl beside him. She tried to hide it and keep a straight face, to keep up her seductive persona, but she ultimately failed.

“You think I would?”

“Why not?”

“What if someone else finds my bird and captures him?”

Her words made Dick feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside, as if he was a teenage boy again.

He had been here too many times with Kitty.

And this feeling wasn’t anything new.

“Should’ve put a collar on me then,” Dick joked as he shifted closer to her.

“You can’t put a collar on a bird.”

“No, but you can put a collar on a cat.” Dick quipped, his eyes flickering to her lips for a moment.

Kitty’s eyes widened at his words and looked away to hide the ever growing flush on her cheeks.

Oh. He had struck a nerve.

A gloved hand found the girls chin and gently guided her to look at him again, in his direction. Their faces were close.

Too close.

“Don’t get all shy now, Kitty.”

She was warm.

When had the two of them gotten so close?

He ran his thumb over her bottom lip.

They were so close that they could feel the others breath.

Just kiss her already. Dick’s mind encouraged, you and her have been dancing around each other like this for years now. You can flirt with her all day with no problem, but you can’t even kiss her?

The world around them ceased to exist as they stared at each other.

He had been pining after her for years now, and it all started at that museum whether they knew it or not.

It started with an apology.

And then she seemed to find him wherever he went.

And now, the lines between ‘just friends’ and romance was becoming blurred.

“Screw it,” Dick said aloud though it was to himself. He moved the hand that was her chin to her cheek and he placed his other hand on her other cheek. With both hands cupping her face, he kissed her.

And he had been waiting to do it for years.

And now, it was finally happening.

Over the years the two had gotten close, but now, they were closer than they ever expected—both mentally and physically.

Kitty’s hands found Dick’s shoulders as she held his shoulders in an attempt to steady herself in the deepening kiss.

Ever since he was a teenager and found himself falling for the cat, he had dreamed of her—of this moment.

She was a thief.

A pretty thief who had stolen his heart all those years ago whether she knew it or not.

He needed air.

He was the first to break away from the kiss and they stared at each other in silence.

She was breathtaking with her flushed cheeks and the small pants she let out as she tried to regain air.

He cupped her cheeks as he came down from his high.

God, he wanted to kiss her again…and again…and again…and again until he forgot how to breathe or how to form a coherent thought or sentence.

He wanted her like air.

Kitty was the first to break the silence as she removed her hands from Dick’s shoulders and placed a hand on his chest, giving him a small and light push to create some distance.

“So, uh…that happened.”

Dick removed his own hands from her face, “master of words.” He said he poked her side playfully, causing Kitty to let out a small squeak of surprise.

“H-Hey—!”

“Oh so you can handle all the flirting but you draw the line at poking?” Dick mused with a smirk.

Kitty used all her strength to push Dick harshly which caused him to tumble back onto the rooftop, but he caught himself on his elbows. He grinned, “strike another nerve?”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Dick said as he sat up and tried to cup her cheeks again.

Just one more—.

Kitty shoved his hands away, “you practically assaulted me.”

“How?”

“You kissed me without my consent,” Kitty answered as she flicked Dick’s forehead. “That’s assault.”

He rubbed the spot she flicked once she pulled away from him. “Was it that bad?”

She crossed her arms with a huff, “of course it was.”

Dick playfully scoffed and dropped his hand, “yeah cuz you totally didn’t kiss me back.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol or something?”

“And aren’t you supposed to be stealing something?”

“Not tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Cuz,” she trailed off with flushed cheeks and a meek voice. “I think I’ve been stolen.”

Dick’s breath caught in his throat at her words but he quickly composed himself, “I’m a thief now?”

“Role reversal I guess.”

Did she even realize how charming she was?

“And if I don’t return it?”

“I would typically claw your eyes out.” She then softly smiled, “but I don’t know anymore.”

Dick’s gaze softened beneath his domino mask at her admission. His heart sped a little and in that moment the only word he could muster out was her name—her real name.

She was speechless at how he said her name, her real name. It wasn’t often she called anything but her code name Kitty, but with how he said it like a prayer?

It caused her to shiver.

“Yes?”

He shifted his body to fully face her as he took in her appearance. Her eyes sparkled under the moonlight, her hair flowed gently in the cool midnight breeze…

She was breathtaking, and he was in love with her.

He loves her.

It was something he had known for years now. But it suddenly hit him how much and how deeply his love ran for her…

Bruce taught him and lead by example.

Don’t get involved with cats, and keep relationships at arms length or better yet, don’t have one.

But how could he keep an arms length relationship or not have one at all when he was a lover boy?

Stolen glances, brief touches, compliments, playful banter that could easily be mistaken for flirting—he was in love.

Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson, the formal Robin and now Nightwing was foolishly, idiotically and hopelessly in love.

“Can we..?” Dick trailed off, “what if we stopped playing this game?”

“Meaning..?”

He stopped for a moment.

Was this really happening?

Was he about to confess his love to her?

Was he really going to confess how weak he was for Y/N?

Yes.

He was tired of this same song and dance they had preformed for years, even if the two of them hadn’t fully understood it themselves.

All it took was a kiss, and he suddenly realized how much he loved her.

He understood how much he wanted to touch her and kiss her until he ran out of breath.

“What if we stopped this whole…cat and bird thing?”

“Which would make us..?”

His gloved hands gently grabbed hers, and for once, he dropped the playfully persona and focused on how her hands seemed to fit perfectly in his own.

He focused on her.

He focused on the now.

“I want this to be more than a silly game…I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.”

There he said it.

He brought her hands up to her mouth and gently kissed them.

“I want to be able to kiss you without holding back. I want to be able to hold you and call you mine. I want to take you on dates and—.”

“Me?”

“You.” He took a breath in to calm his nerves. “I love you, Y/N and I’ve loved you for years now.”

And then, she kissed him.

He had expected plenty of responses from her, but a kiss was far from his mind.

He expected her to laugh and turn him down.

He expected her to yell at him.

He expected her…not to kiss him.

It was short kiss but one that held so much passion.

She pulled away, “but if you want me so bad…” she stood up. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

And then, she took off into the Blüdhaven night, her figure being seen running and jumping away from him.

From Gotham City to Blüdhaven.

From Robin to Nightwing.

Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson was hopelessly in love…

[anya-nya-nya]

NSFW themes but without detailed description of intimacy, borisin! reader, virgin! Jiaoqiu, yandere, no angst just horny, abo dynamic! (slightly?? at least a scent thingy)

Let's pretend the new generation of borisins is normal and walk around freely for this one.

Jiaoqiu with his need for spice always teetering on the edge of danger, if another indigestion could be counted like that. But the hellbent rush in the food aspect didn't scare him as much as the same reckless need in his romantic life.

He never skipped the history lessons, but he doesn't remember hearing about differences in borisins’ pheromones. Cause there's something CLEARLY wrong with your Lupitoxin and the way it erupts not even a sliver of fear in him, but unbeknown obsession. Talking with you to have another sniff of it is like cooking a dish and adding a new herb he didn't have time to check for the level of spice. An implacable thrill to risk and taste.

Maybe he just saw the kindness and comfort he didn't expect to find in someone of your race, and got lured by it? But the need that nagging the depth of his guts is too strong to be justified by such silly guesses. It was your scent that dragged him closer, and only then your personality that kept him in this new place without even a thought of running away.

The hunger for your taste wasn't that much of romantical firstly, directed by his arousal, but the more time he spends listening to your voice and thoughts - that weren't as cruel and rabid as the ones Hoolay was barking long ago - the more he becomes drawn to you completely in all ways.

He becomes needy - and jealous. These wild jackasses from your pack are too frivolous with their touches, and Jiaoqiu doesn't even want to hear that this kind of behavior is a norm among you all. Moreso, the fear of your mind getting occupied by the culture of your race to the point you would shift your attention from him to one of the fellow borisins made Jiaoqiu's guts boil with such a strength it's a miracle he didn't turn into a hotpot. Your culture profess to have a strong, fierce partner, and he's a fucking blind foxian. Nothing hurt him more than newfound insecurity of not being able to suit your choices, as every time you pay a visit, he could smell not only the pleasing taste of your body, but also the tastes of others. Did you spar with them again? Let them sleep near you when you spend a night in your pack?

They all have such an ugly scent, as despite the wide kaleidoscope of natural odors humanoid species can get, borisins always got the most acrid ones. Even you had a musky one, but the soft edge it had didn't make him indisposed. Huge contrast to fruity, dulcet fragrances foxians usually have as signature. Huge contract to the one Jiaoqiu had himself.

But if initially you were interested in him, then maybe you have a sweet tooth? Maybe all Jiaoqiu needs to do is coax you the same way you cough him - by the foxian's smell that naturally would erupt instinctive hunger in your blood?

The history of his ancestors made him loathe the idea of being claimed by anyone, but if it's you then Jiaoqiu is more than happy to submit entirely till all you can think about is his, his sweet, sugary, so differ from fetid borisins, smell. Jiaoqiu knows how much of an appetite love can arise in one's soul so he would let you even bite: but only if you would never look at anyone else.

Fuck it, Jiaoqiu wouldn't mind losing his virginity with you despite knowing how important the first time is for the foxian race culturally: the pheromones of the first partner stain the skin forever, and not even thousands of partners would wash away the scent you got during first intercourse.

Anyone who Jiaoqiu would decide to sleep with after this night would smell it and know he was taken by the enemy, but he didn't care. As if he ever would sully his loyalty by letting anyone warm the bed he saved only for you.

Jiaoqiu has no appetite for this plain tasteless filth other foxians can offer him. His crave only for your musky spice.

[paxaz535]

Just for Now

chapter 6

synopsis : when a group of students go on a school field trip are suddenly forced into a deadly real-life game of Mafia at a retreat center. They receive a message that tells them the game has started, and the only way of survival is by eliminating classmates and identifying the Mafias.

___

note : 😛

___

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. You showed the phone to Stormi, whose brows shot up. “I knew I had a fucking feeling.”

“What are you gonna do?”

You thought about it for a moment, the weight of your decision pressing down on you.

“If she tries to lie about it, I’ll have to expose her.”

The words felt like they should be final, but you hated them. You were getting closer to Aaliyah, starting to see her as more than just another player in this twisted game. But that connection—your connection—was fragile. It could snap in an instant.

Stormi didn’t say anything else, just nodded once and walked back toward KK, Ice, and Sarah, leaving you with the buzzing weight of your thoughts.

“Hey, what time is it?” KK asked, her voice steady but laced with a quiet urgency.

You glanced at your phone. “6:30.”

She nodded, her face unreadable. It wasn’t time to finalize a vote yet. Not quite.

You and Stormi shared a look, a silent agreement passing between you two. The game had reached a boiling point, and there was no turning back now.

A Mafia is going to die tonight.

-

You sat on your bed, staring at the blank wall, your thoughts swirling in a storm of confusion and regret. The weight of everything—the people who were already gone, the game that was getting darker by the minute—it was too much. You could almost feel the walls closing in.

Then, as if summoned by your thoughts, two figures appeared in front of you.

You looked up, startled. A blond and a brunette. They stood there silently, their expressions neutral, unreadable. The silence between you three felt thick, suffocating, as if the very air was holding its breath.

The three of you stared at each other for what felt like hours. Time stretched, warped, and all you could do was wait. Waiting for them to speak. Waiting for something to break the silence.

But nothing came.

They didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched you with eyes that felt like they could see straight through you.

“What are you not telling us, Rose?” Paige asked.

You swallowed hard. Her voice was deep, stern—but there was softness beneath it. Like she didn’t want to believe whatever truth might come next.

You glanced at Azzi. Her brows were lifted, her stare sharp and expectant. She didn’t look angry, just… ready. Like she already knew the answer and was waiting for you to say it out loud.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” you said quietly.

Silence. Heavy. Dense.

The air around you buzzed with unspoken accusations. Your skin felt hot, like your body had registered the fight before your brain could.

No one moved.

Paige tilted her head slightly. “You think we’re hiding something?”

“I know you are,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

And you did. You just weren’t sure what it was yet—or how much more you were willing to lose to find out.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was charged. Like a storm about to break. You could feel their eyes on you, feel every glance like a match dragged across your skin.

Paige stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “Careful, Rose,” she said, voice low. “You’re not the only one who knows how to play this game.”

Azzi leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze locked on yours. “We’re not your enemies,” she said. “Unless you make us one.”

You stood up.

You didn’t mean to—it just happened. Like your body was done waiting.

“You think I wanted any of this?” Your voice cracked with something raw. “You think I like pretending I don’t see the way you two look at each other when you think I’m not watching?”

Paige’s mouth parted slightly. Azzi’s brows dipped just enough to show it landed.

For a moment, it wasn’t about the game. Not about roles or alliances or strategy. It was about the heat sitting heavy between the three of you. The unspoken things. The glances. The tension.

Azzi pushed off the wall, slow. “Say what you really mean, Rose.”

You looked between them. Your pulse in your throat. The lie on your tongue.

“I don’t care.”

But you did. God, you did.

Azzi’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “You don’t care?” she repeated, stepping closer. “Then why does it bother you?”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The space between you three felt electric, tight, like a wire stretched to its limit.

Paige was still watching you, her gaze unreadable but intense. “This isn’t about the game anymore, is it?”

“No,” you said, voice low. “It never really was.”

Azzi was close now. Too close. You could feel the heat of her body, see the way her pupils darkened as she stared you down. “You could’ve played this smarter, Rose,” she murmured. “But you let feelings get in the way.”

“So did you,” you shot back.

Her smirk faltered. Just a flicker. Just enough to show you’d hit something real.

Behind you, Paige spoke—quieter now, but with weight. “Maybe we all did.”

That’s when the door creaked.

The three of you turned at once—instinct kicking in, hearts thudding.

It was Stormi.

Her face was pale.

“It’s almost time to vote,” Stormi said, her voice a little softer now, like she regretted cutting into whatever had just been happening.

She lingered for a second too long, eyes darting between the three of you. Then she cursed under her breath and backed out, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Silence.

You swallowed, nodding once, but Paige and Azzi hadn’t looked away from her. Not yet. Their bodies were still turned in that direction, like her presence had jolted them out of something… charged.

Then slowly—like a tide rolling back—they turned to face you again.

And just like that, it was back. That thick, magnetic pull between the three of you. The heat. The mistrust. The ache.

You looked at Paige. Then Azzi. The fire and the ice.

And you realized: no matter how the vote went tonight…

You were already burning.

“You were saying?” you asked.

Paige looked down at her shoes before stepping closer. “I said—maybe we all let our feelings get in the way.”

You gulped, turning your gaze to the wall beside you, refusing to meet either pair of eyes.

Then, a hand touched your chin. Gentle. Certain.

Azzi.

She tilted your face back toward her, eyes steady as they dropped to your lips. “Question is,” she said softly, “what are we gonna do about it?”

That did it for you.

Your breath caught. Heat surged through your body, not from embarrassment—but want. Confusion. Need.

Azzi was so close you could smell her skin. That clean, electric scent that always hit you too hard.

Behind her, Paige didn’t move. She didn’t step in. Didn’t flinch.

She just watched.

You leaned in, instinct overthinking. Heart racing.

And then—

“Rose!”

Stormi’s voice, sharp and urgent through the door.

You jerked back, the moment cracking in half like glass under pressure.

“What?” you called, throat dry.

“People are waiting. They’re asking for you.”

You hesitated, eyes still locked with Azzi’s.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did Paige.

But something had changed. You could feel it.

And whatever happened in that vote…

It wouldn’t just be about the game anymore.

-

“Okay,” Ice started as she looked at everyone. “Has anyone gave off weird vibes?”

You knew Aaliyah was going to die tonight.

Because you had checked her occupation.

And she was Mafia.

Your eyes drifted toward her—sitting across from you, hunched just slightly, fidgeting with her fingers like she wasn’t trying to hide something… but trying not to get caught.

You watched her carefully.

She was good. Composed, quiet, but not too quiet. Just enough to slip under the radar. But now that you knew the truth, every twitch, every breath, looked like a crack.

Paige and Azzi were watching you. You could feel it.

You looked up and met their eyes. No words passed between you—but you knew they were thinking about that conversation. About trust. About lies.

“So far… nope,” Sarah said, glancing around as she tugged at the hem of her hoodie.

It was quiet for a beat too long.

“I don’t know,” KK muttered. “Someone’s hiding something. I can feel it.”

You shifted slightly, keeping your face unreadable.

“Anyone want to throw a name out?” Ice asked, flipping the pen between her fingers.

Your heart beat steady. Calm.

Stormi looked at you for a fraction of a second. It was the smallest nod. She remembered what you told her earlier.

You didn’t have to say it out loud.

The noose was already tightening.

And Aaliyah had no idea it was her neck.

“I still think it’s one of those four,” Nora said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Nika snapped her head toward her. “Oh, shut the hell up, freshie,” she spat.

KK and Sarah exchanged a glance, lips pressed tight— trying to not to laugh.

Nora rolled her eyes, but it was forced. She glanced around the room, slower this time, realizing the weight of her words.

You decided it was time.

Your voice was calm, but it cut clean.

“Which one of the four, Nora?”

She froze.

Then looked at you—surprised. Not just because you were speaking to her.

But because you weren’t asking.

You were challenging.

Nora hesitated. You saw it—the flicker of doubt in her eyes before she tried to stand taller, like that would make her words hit harder.

“I don’t know exactly,” she said, voice lower now. “But there’s something off about the way they act. The four of them always look at each other before they speak. Like they’re checking.”

“Checking for what?” you asked, tone calm but sharp enough to draw blood.

She swallowed. “Approval. Or… guilt.”

“Names, Nora,” you said. Cold. Controlled. The air had turned thick around the circle.

Nora’s eyes moved slowly—almost too slowly—as she looked at each of them.

“Paige,” she started. “Azzi. Nika. And…” Her voice caught for just a breath. “Aaliyah.”

You didn’t look at any of them.

Not yet.

Your eyes stayed locked on Nora.

Because she had just made a move.

And in this game, every move was a gamble.

She might’ve spoken the truth.

Or she might’ve just lit the fuse that would blow everything apart.

A beat of silence.

Then Nika laughed—short, sharp, and without humor. “You’re kidding, right?”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing on Nora. “You’re seriously throwing my name out there? What happened, you get bored of blaming someone else?”

“No one’s blaming,” Paige said quickly, but her voice was tight, her jaw clenched. “She’s guessing. That’s what this is. A desperate guess.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but you saw the muscle in her jaw tense.

And Aaliyah… Aaliyah didn’t even flinch.

She just tilted her head, eyes locked on Nora, like she was calculating something. Slowly. Silently.

The air in the room thickened, tension creeping into every glance.

“Convenient,” Ice muttered, her voice barely audible. “All four names just happen to be the ones who’ve been quiet lately.”

“You want noise, Ice?” Nika snapped. “How about I say what everyone’s thinking—maybe Nora’s throwing names out to distract from herself.”

Nora opened her mouth, but you cut in before she could speak.

“Enough.”

Everyone turned to look at you.

“Whether she’s right or not,” you said, voice low and firm, “we’re not going to scream our way to the answer.”

You looked at each of the accused, one by one.

Paige. Azzi. Nika. Aaliyah.

Somewhere in that list, someone was lying.

and you knew exactly who is was.

The room was holding its breath.

Paige and Azzi exchanged uneasy glances, but Aaliyah didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. It was as if the accusation hadn’t even grazed her.

You knew better.

Aaliyah was the Mafia. You had already checked her occupation. She was playing everyone in this room, weaving her web with the calmest of smiles. The way she sat there, so composed, like she hadn’t a care in the world—it was almost too perfect.

Nika’s words hung in the air like a challenge, but you didn’t look at her. Not yet. Your eyes stayed locked on Aaliyah.

She was the one who’d made this game dangerous.

And now, it was time to make sure she never saw it coming.

“So,” you said, the room quieting in response, “you don’t think it’s you, Aaliyah?”

She tilted her head just enough to make it look casual, but her eyes flashed—briefly. A crack.

“I’m not the one guessing names,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Nora’s the one throwing out accusations without proof. Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“You’re right, Aaliyah,” you said softly. “But you know what’s even more suspicious? The way you’re not even trying to defend yourself. You don’t have to convince anyone you’re innocent. You just need to make sure we don’t see you as a threat.”

Aaliyah’s lips curled into a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“You don’t need to be sure,” you said, feeling the weight of every word. “Because you know exactly who you are. And you know exactly who you’re fooling.”

The silence after your words was thick, suffocating.

Aaliyah didn’t break eye contact. But there was a shift. A shadow of doubt in her gaze.

And that was enough.

Everyone watched in dead silence as you pulled out your phone, your movements deliberate, measured, as if each second stretched out to the breaking point.

“There’s no point in lying anymore, Aaliyah. You’ve fooled us long enough,” you said, your voice cold but steady. Every word you spoke felt like it carried the weight of the entire game.

Aaliyah’s confident facade finally cracked. Her eyes flickered—first to your face, then down to the phone in your hand.

Her gaze hardened, but the smallest tremor in her fingers betrayed her. She knew exactly what was coming.

With a slow, deliberate motion, you turned the phone around to face the room.

Aaliyah’s Occupation: Mafia.

The room was dead silent for a moment, the words hanging in the air like a bomb waiting to explode.

You could feel the shift. The collective realization. The disbelief.

Ice was the first to speak, her voice breaking the tension with a sharp edge. “No… this isn’t…”

Nora’s eyes narrowed, her fists clenching at her sides. “So it was you. All along.”

Kk expression twisted into something between disgust and amusement. “You really thought you could get away with this, huh?”

Aaliyah’s face wasn’t tough anymore, and for the first time, the mask slipped. She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat.

“Explain yourself,” you said, your tone still calm but cutting through the chaos.

Aaliyah’s breath came in shallow gasps. She looked around the room, but the walls were closing in on her. There was no escape now.

“I… I didn’t want this,” she whispered, but the words were weak. “I didn’t want any of you to get hurt. I…”

You took a step forward, your gaze never leaving hers. “You didn’t want us to get hurt?“

Aaliyah’s eyes flicked to the others, her expression shifting from guilt to something colder. Something darker.

“You think you’re so much better than me,” she spat, her voice trembling with anger now. “You don’t know what it’s like to be in my shoes. You think you can just point fingers, judge me—like you’re so perfect.”

But the room wasn’t on her side anymore.

Aaliyah stood up abruptly, eyes wild, her voice rising. “You don’t understand! I had no choice! You don’t understand!”

It was too late for apologies. Too late for excuses. The truth had been revealed.

And now, the only thing left was to see how the game would end.

Aaliyah’s chest heaved with rage, her eyes wild as she struggled to hold on to whatever control she thought she had left. She wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

“You think I’m the only one?” she spat, her voice trembling with fury. “You think I’m the only one hiding something?”

The room tensed, everyone leaning in, waiting for her to finally reveal who else was playing the game.

She pointed toward Paige, her finger trembling. “You—”

But before she could finish, her body jerked violently, a brutal cough tearing through her chest. She gasped for air, blood spilling from her mouth, splattering across the table.

The room froze.

Aaliyah’s hand flew to her lips, trying to stop the blood from spilling, but it kept coming, dark red staining her fingers. Her eyes widened in horror, and her breath hitched as another cough racked her body, her chest heaving.

Her face contorted in pain, but she forced herself to speak, her voice ragged. Then, the alarm came on.

“You can’t disclose other mafia players.”

Another cough erupted, cutting off her words completely, and she doubled over, gasping for air, the blood continuing to drip from her lips.

The reality of the situation hit her like a brick. She was no longer in control. She was breaking. And the game’s rules were unforgiving.

Aaliyah’s hands trembled as she wiped the blood away, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to…”

Her words trailed off, lost in the silence that followed, her body still shaking, the blood pooling on the table as the room stared at her in stunned silence.

You shook your head, casting the first vote.

“Sucks it had to be this way,” you muttered, voice low but final.

Then you turned and walked away, the weight of everything finally crashing down. The truth was out. The mask was off.

One Mafia down.

The others followed, murmurs and footsteps fading down the hall.

But three stayed behind.

Paige. Azzi. Nika.

They stood in the quiet, looking down at the girl barely holding herself up, blood on her hands, her breath ragged.

Aaliyah.

“I kept telling you,” she gasped, her voice broken, trembling. “I kept— I kept telling you…”

There was guilt in their eyes. For a moment.

But it didn’t last.

Paige’s expression hardened as she stepped back. “You were about to rat us out, Lili.”

Her voice was cold. Unforgiving.

Then she turned and walked away without another word.

Nika clicked her tongue in disgust. “That’s on you,” she muttered, and followed after Paige.

Azzi lingered for a second longer. Her eyes met Aaliyah’s—something passed between them. Regret. Maybe even pity.

“That’s fucked up,” she whispered.

And then she left too.

Aaliyah was alone.

Bleeding. Gasping.

Left to die by the only people who had ever known who she really was.

“With the most votes, Aaliyah will be executed.”

“Aaliyah was a Mafia.”

-

The three remaining Mafia sat in heavy silence.

This was their second loss.

They never even got the chance to know the first—Jaida. You had been on her the moment she slipped, and she didn’t last long. But Aaliyah… they knew Aaliyah. She wasn’t just a teammate. She was a friend. A sister.

And now she was gone.

“I can’t help but feel bad,” Azzi said, her voice barely above a whisper. It cut through the thick silence like a crack in glass.

Paige and Nika turned to her, their faces unreadable—stone-cold and sharp with something unspoken.

Azzi shrank back slightly under their stares, her words curling in on themselves.

“She brought that on herself,” Nika muttered, her eyes fixed on nothing, like she was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere darker.

No one argued.

Because deep down, they all knew it was true.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

Paige leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, jaw tense. The silence settled in again—thicker now, like grief and strategy were fighting for space in the room.

“She panicked,” Paige said eventually. “That’s why she tried to name us. She thought if she burned us, she’d survive.”

“She knew the rules,” Nika said flatly. “And she still tried.”

Azzi looked down at her hands, fingers twisting in her lap. “She was scared.”

“Scared doesn’t matter,” Paige snapped, her voice sharper than before. “We don’t have room for scared. Not anymore.”

They were quiet again.

Then Nika broke it. “So what now?”

Paige’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “Now we play smarter. Tighter. We already lost Jaida and Aaliyah. That’s half of us gone.”

Azzi looked up. “And the others? They’re going to come after us next.”

“They don’t know it’s us yet,” Paige said. “But they’re suspicious. Especially of me.”

“And me,” Nika added.

Azzi hesitated. “I don’t think they’re looking at me. The only person is probably that Nora chick.”

“Then that’s our edge,” Paige said, locking eyes with her. “If you’re the one they trust, use it. We’re not out yet.”

Azzi nodded slowly, the weight of the role settling on her shoulders.

For a brief second, the room felt colder.

The three of them weren’t just surviving anymore.

They were preparing for war.

“Who’s next?” Azzi asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nika sat still, jaw tight. As much as they didn’t want to say it—someone had to.

“It’s getting too risky,” Nika murmured. “We have to kill Rose. You two… we have to.”

Both Paige and Azzi’s heads snapped toward her, eyes wide.

“Nika—no.” Paige’s voice was sharp, disbelieving. “Don’t even say that. You wouldn’t want to kill Stormi, would you?”

Nika looked away, jaw clenched. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Azzi stepped in, voice steadier. “Besides… we can’t kill Rose. And not just because we have feelings for her.”

That made the other two pause. They looked at her—really looked at her.

She met their eyes.

“We let her live too long,” Azzi said. “If we kill her now, it’ll be too obvious. Everyone will turn on us. The timing’s wrong.”

A beat of silence.

And she was right.

Even Paige couldn’t argue it—not when the logic lined up with the feelings she tried to bury.

Rose had become too central, too known. A sudden death now would send the whole group into suspicion. And all fingers would turn inward.

They were boxed in.

Hearts tied. Hands tied.

And every move from here on out?

It had to be perfect.

“So,” Paige said, folding her arms, “if we can’t kill Stormi… and we won’t kill Rose…”

She trailed off, the unspoken truth settling between them.

Someone else had to go.

Azzi exhaled slowly, her voice tight. “We need someone they trust. Someone whose absence will rattle them, shake their sense of safety.”

Nika leaned forward. “KK?”

Paige shook her head. “She follows the crowd. No one’s going to lose sleep over KK.”

“What about Sarah?” Azzi offered.

That made them pause.

“She’s quiet,” Nika said slowly. “Smart. Always watching.”

“She’s close enough to Rose and Ice to cause a stir,” Paige added, the beginnings of a plan forming behind her eyes. “But not so close that they’ll immediately point fingers.”

Azzi nodded. “Her death will feel random. Out of nowhere. That’s what we need—chaos.”

“If we do this right,” Paige said, “they’ll turn on each other trying to figure it out.”

Nika hesitated again. “We sure about this?”

No one answered right away.

Then Paige: “We have to be.”

There was no more room for hesitation.

They couldn’t kill the people they loved.

So they’d kill the people around them instead.

taglist:

@iowahawkeyes22 @evry1luvzzae @kalan1z @evanpeterstoe

[distort-opia]

I’m begging, pleading if you will for some longer batjokes fic recommendations that are less mainstream (as I’ve read most of the popular ones) because I just finished your timeloop fic and OH MY GOD IT WAS SO GOOD IM GONNA CRY WOWOW YOU CAN WRITE THEM SO WELL.

so now I guess I thought who better to find more fics from that my fav batjokes fic writer!

First of all, thank you for the kind words! I'm really glad you enjoyed REMS, and I'm flattered you think of me as your favorite writer. I hope I can recommend some multi-chaptered, longer fics you don't already know of... but bear in mind, I haven't been able to keep up with recent fanfic a lot-- real life and a PhD are kicking my ass.

Maybe you already know of the #48 verse, The Eternal Batman Universe, City Goblins, matchjokes, Two sided blade soul mate theory, Enemies With Benefits and the jaxverse series? I assume fics over 1k kudos might be considered mainstream... So I tried to go for stories with a lower number of kudos that are relatively recent, or older fics that might not be well known by newer fans. Either way, they're a mix of Universes, with a bias for comicverse because that's my jam. Some of these I haven't managed to read fully, but I am reccing either because I liked what I did read or I heard very good things from friends.

Needless to say, check the tags carefully before reading! I am only including some short summaries and word counts. Do leave the authors some love if you like the story, and check out their other stuff. The list got pretty long, so I'm putting the recs (in no particular order) under the cut.

Ghosts of a Future Lost by messageredacted (15k+, complete)

Wayne Manor has been rebuilt, but things just aren’t the same as they used to be. Something is stirring old memories, and not just Bruce’s…

Strange Comradery in Arkham by Vampowerment (series, 45k+ words)

Bruce Wayne checks himself into Arkham because he considers himself a danger to himself and others, but only Joker seems to understand why.

Blood of the Covenant by batjokesinlove (28k+ words, WIP)

When Bruce is attacked by a horrifying monster, he finds himself turned into a creature of the night with a thirst for human blood. Although he retains his humanity, he wrestles with his need for blood and his desire to maintain his code. That is until an unlikely person offers up himself up to Batman as his own personal blood bank.

Inside the Music Box by MargueritePoretesDefenseAttorney (series, 116k+ words)

A dark comedy where the Batkids are very suspicious of Bruce's new boyfriend, a strange man who looks oddly familiar . . .

Bygone Boy by Masterofceremonies (25k+ words, WIP)

Bruce is millionaire in the public eye. His husband, Jack, is a widely known, largely mysterious artist, famous for his borderline illegal exhibitions. Their marriage has been a happy one. Mostly. Until Jack goes missing, and Bruce becomes suspect #1.

Induced Labor by fractualized (29k+ words, WIP)

After a fight in an illegal magic shop results in Bruce impregnating Joker, at least things can't get any more bizarre— except of course they can.

A Rule for A Rule by Severus_divides_into_H (34k+ words, WIP)

When Bruce walks into his new elementary school classroom, the first thing he sees is green. Green hair, green eyes, green sweater with a clown on it, green pants that look way too big. A decade later, he looks at the Joker, and all he sees is a person he once loved.

This Strange Effect by battybrownboo (19k+ words, WIP)

Batman and the Justice League are forced to harbor Joker when he accidentally gets beamed up to the Watchtower. But a clown in space will be the least of their problems.

Life is so much better when you're dead by toluenesister (167k+ words, complete)

During the two years following the Joker's escape from Arkham, Gotham gradually becomes rid of its criminal element in a particularly ghastly way. The appearances of Batman and the Joker become more and more scarce as well to the point of vanishing from the public eye, leaving the city's crime rate at an all time low. At the same time, Carmine's daughter, Sofia Falcone, decides to rebuild her father's organization, but in the course of gathering resources she accidentally finds out what both Batman and the Joker have been preoccupied with while they were away from the streets.

Dissolve & Absolve by toluenesister (63k+ words, complete)

One day the Joker decides to lay his mark on what is his, but he doesn't anticipate the magnitude of what is about to unravel.

through a glass, darkly by itallstartedwithdefenestration (series, 156k+ words)

Three months after Batman effectively disappears from society, Bruce Wayne goes to work for the Joker.

Blank Canvas by Vampowerment (21k+ words, WIP)

When Eric Border, an orderly at Arkham and an ally to Batman, tries to build a life outside of his work, he somehow keeps running into Gotham's darling, Bruce Wayne.

Hope We Can Again by blackbatsx (22k+ words, WIP)

Their original counterparts are long gone but what do you do when the universe (or multiverse for that matter) presents you with another opportunity to try again?

a world with love by railroadman, slaapkat (48k+ words, series)

A canon-divergent universe where Bruce and Joker really do love each other.

In the claws of the Owl by orphan_account (27k+ words, complete)

The Owlman, the Great bird of Sorrows, White King of Gotham, is barely human any more. There is something terrifying about the secret tyrant of Gotham who is watching all the time. The Red Hood wishes he didn't love him. The Owl had tried to drown him in chemicals, murdered his family, broken him again and again with torture, but this time Owlman has something worse in mind for his favorite pet enemy.

Kintsugi Elseworld by a_stands_for (20k+ words, complete)

A suspiciously insistent Zatanna reads Bruce's fortune, which somehow leads to an adventure in a parallel universe--one where the Joker wears a mask and cape and fights at Batman's side.

The Heart by slire (20k+ words, complete)

The Joker, sick and heartbroken, plans to recreate himself. Another scheme is in motion; one that'll shake his darling to the core and break the Bat like no one else can.

I'll Tell You No Lies by TheMidnightOwl (29k+ words, complete)

Earth-22. One mistake was all it took. In the months that pass after Bruce accidentally kills a hired gun, he must reevaluate his life, his methods, and his mission. He remembers everything the Joker has ever said to him, every taunt he ever made, every similarity they share, and this time he's listening. This time he gets the joke.

Acts of Agression by vojavodun (series, 30k+ words)

Batman confronts the Joker in a skyscraper and the night's events get physical.

Bring Down The House by ArgentNoelle (53k+ words, complete)

The Joker is the greatest performance of Jack’s life.

Madness, Domesticated by thatsnotfunny (56k+, WIP)

Bruce Wayne offers to rehabilitate Joker at the manor for the holidays. But which of them needed socialization the most?

Love isn't brains, it's blood by cutting_capers (27k+ words, complete)

He was speaking before even choosing to. “But, so many lives. If you care about Gotham, how can you end so many lives?” Bruce shook his head but was then startled out of his own daze by the raised voice of Joker across from him. “I don’t care about their lives. I care about yours!” Joker stabbed a finger in his direction, his other hand balled in a fist and his entire body rigid. After just a few moments, though, the tension broke, a high pitch of laughter bubbling out of Joker. His eyes drifted about. “They do say I’m crazy. I must be.”

Arkham by AnonGrimm (74k+ words, complete)

The Joker has landed in Arkham again with a long sentence ahead of him in solitary. While plotting his next escape, he gets a visit from the Batman. Two-Face has been wreaking havoc and Batman wants Joker to divulge clues in how to stop him or cure his madness. Joker pretends to listen as a new game begins to bloom in his fractured mind. Can he crack that cold strength and find a weakness, find a way to warp the Bat?

The Bliss of Ignorance by Crashingthisbane (Sitarsitar) (34k+ words, complete)

After getting a concussion, Bruce loses his memory. Joker crafts a new past for him. He tells Bruce that the two of them are crime-fighting partners, weaving a tangled web of half-truths and plain lies. Complex feelings ensue, for both Joker and Bruce.

Yes And by limeta (41k+ words, complete)

The Joker "yes ands" his way into having a mental breakdown. Kidnapping Tim Drake and a bunch of Rogues isn't helping. Especially because he isn't the Joker, of course, but Bruce Wayne's newest secretary. Cut him some slack, he's just trying to run some errands!

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔰 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔊𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔢

A/N: You ever watch people climb a ladder you built with your own blood? That’s this chapter. [Y/N] and Karma aren’t chasing applause. They’re the shadows behind the stage, the hand that pushes the scalpel deeper when justice needs to hurt. The world sees students. The staff sees assets. The other students? They don’t know what they’re looking at anymore—and that’s exactly the point. This chapter is about walking into enemy territory with a smile on your lips, a knife in your belt, and a partner at your side who never blinks when you burn too hot. You’re not here to fit in. You’re here to outlast everyone who doubted you.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2, 𝔖𝔦𝔡𝔢 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The transition from operatives-in-training to full-fledged agents should have been jarring. But for [Y/N] Midoriya and Karma Akabane, it felt more like slipping into clothes they had long since outgrown.

They were already killers. Already protectors. Already unshakable.

Now, they were official.

And that changed everything.

Their new assignment came with increased freedom—and increased danger. No more hand-holding. No more simulated threats.

Kasuma called them in one final time for a private briefing.

“You’re not children anymore,” he repeated, like a mantra. “You’re ghost agents. Assets. The moment you step into this, you belong to no one and serve only the mission.”

He paused, then looked at them—not the badges on their jackets, not the files they held.

Them.

“I’m proud of you both,” he said quietly.

[Y/N] felt something tight twist in her chest. She nodded. Karma smiled, just barely.

That was the last time they saw Kasuma for a while.

He left for an overseas operation that would last months, taking Irina with him. He gave them a contact in Tokyo and warned them: Stay sharp. UA might need you sooner than expected.

They didn’t know then just how right he was.

In the weeks that followed, Karma and [Y/N] established a base in a small apartment on the edge of the city.

They weren’t exactly living undercover, but they also weren’t public heroes. They moved through the world like ghosts, slipping between crowded alleys and rooftops, collecting information and building networks.

Their targets weren’t low-level thugs anymore.

They were watching names whispered in fear:

People tied to the League of Villains.

Underground arms dealers.

Corrupt businessmen sponsoring bio-enhanced quirk tech.

Karma enjoyed the tension.

[Y/N] thrived on the structure.

They operated like one mind in two bodies—flawless coordination, unspoken cues.

And slowly, as nights turned into weeks and weeks into months, their bond deepened.

They didn’t talk about it.

Not directly.

But it was there in the quiet things:

The way Karma always saved her the last strawberry milk in the fridge. The way [Y/N] always patched up his wounds before her own. The way they gravitated toward each other when things were too loud, too heavy, too real.

It was natural. Unspoken. And undeniable.

One night, after a long mission that ended in fire and fractured ribs, they collapsed on their apartment floor, bruised and breathless.

Karma’s shirt was torn. [Y/N] had blood on her knuckles.

She lay on the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You ever think,” she said quietly, “that we’re the only ones who get it?”

Karma was silent for a beat.

Then: “Every day.”

She turned her head. He was already looking at her.

The moment stretched long and quiet.

Then Karma reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

[Y/N] blinked.

“You didn’t,” she said, trying to sit up.

He opened it.

Inside was a ring. Silver. Clean. A thin band etched with a symbol only they understood: a flame crossed by lightning.

“It’s not what you think,” Karma said quickly, ears turning red. “It’s not… I mean, not yet. It’s just…”

She took it before he could finish.

Slid it onto her finger.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

And that night, for the first time, they didn’t sleep in separate beds.

Not for sex. Not for comfort.

Just to be close.

To know they were real.

To remember they were alive.

Their next mission came sooner than expected.

A deep investigation into a string of disappearances tied to illegal quirk experimentation.

They found a lab buried beneath a seemingly abandoned hospital.

What they discovered made even Karma’s cocky grin fade.

Children.

Dozens.

Hooked to machines, wired for data extraction.

[Y/N] nearly vomited. Karma stood frozen.

And then they moved.

The operation burned that night.

[Y/N] created a dome of air to shield the children. Karma melted the power grids and iced every escape route.

The scientists didn’t escape.

Neither did the armed guards.

The media was never alerted.

The story never made headlines.

But the kids lived.

That was enough.

They spent a week off-grid after that.

Recovery. Sleep. Therapy in the form of video games, bad takeout, and long walks along empty rooftops.

[Y/N] didn’t cry. Karma didn’t joke.

They just existed. Together.

It was during that quiet week that the second kiss happened.

The first had been months ago. A heat-of-the-moment adrenaline spark after a close-call mission.

But this one…

They were sitting on the apartment balcony.

Karma said something stupid. [Y/N] laughed.

He turned to look at her. She turned at the same time.

Their eyes met.

And suddenly, it wasn’t a question.

It was inevitable.

He leaned in. She met him halfway.

Soft. Slow. Real.

When they broke apart, Karma pressed their foreheads together.

“Don’t leave,” he said quietly.

[Y/N] smiled.

“I never do.”

They didn’t define it. Didn’t label it. Didn’t need to.

It was theirs.

And that was enough.

By the end of the month, they were called in for a special briefing.

Kasuma, back from his mission, met them at a secure facility.

“You’re going to U.A.,” he said, without preamble.

[Y/N] blinked.

“What?” Karma said.

“You’re not enrolling as students,” Kasuma clarified. “You’ll be embedded. Posing as transfers, but you’re there as internal operatives.”

[Y/N] folded her arms. “Why us?”

Kasuma looked at her evenly. “Because I trust you. Because you’re smart. Because you’re powerful. Because if anyone can keep that place from collapsing, it’s you two.”

Karma raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried we’ll… y’know… start chaos?”

Kasuma smiled faintly. “I’m counting on it.”

He handed over two sealed envelopes.

“Inside are your contracts. Your permissions. Your mission parameters. Don’t lose them.”

They didn’t.

The night before they left, [Y/N] and Karma stood on the rooftop of their building, looking out over Tokyo.

“It’s going to be different,” [Y/N] said.

Karma nodded.

“We’re going back to being students,” she added.

Karma snorted. “Sort of.”

She turned to him.

“What if they hate us?”

He shrugged. “Then we make them wish they didn’t.”

[Y/N] laughed.

“You’re terrifying,” she said.

Karma leaned closer.

“I’m yours.”

And she kissed him.

Under the stars.

Bonds forged in fire. In blood. In quiet promises and loud declarations.

Unbreakable. Unshakable.

The world had no idea what was coming.

But it would learn.

Because [Y/N] Midoriya and Karma Akabane were no one’s background characters.

They were the storm.

And they were heading straight for U.A.

U.A. High School was louder than she remembered.

[Y/N] Midoriya stood in front of the dorm building, one box levitating behind her as she used a casual breeze to float it into her hands. Her other arm was looped through Katsuki Bakugou’s as she babbled happily about the dorm arrangements, the bland uniforms, and the god-awful lighting in the girls’ bathrooms.

Katsuki Bakugou carried the heavier boxes with minimal complaint. Not because he was kind. Because he knew better than to let her get bored.

“Can’t believe they’re making you set up alone,” he muttered.

“Oh, I’m never alone, Kats,” she chirped, skipping ahead as her wind quirk lifted a box through the air behind them. “I’ve got voices. And glass. And you.”

“...I’m not comforted by that.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said I am.”

“Seriously, Kats,” she said in a sing-song voice, “I think the hallways are actually designed to suck the soul out of people. Like, one big soul Hoover.”

Bakugou grunted. “You’re just pissed there’s no pink tile.”

“I ASKED for lavender. That’s not unreasonable.”

He didn’t reply, but she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

From a distance, Class 1-A watched the interaction with a mixture of fascination and suspicion.

Bakugou? Willingly letting someone talk his ear off? Letting them touch him? Letting them use him as a moving wall to carry her dumbass decorations for her room?

It was chaos.

And then she turned.

Bright green eyes landed on the gathered students with that same cheerful gleam—too bright, too wide, like a neon sign that flickered too much.

“Hiya, Class 1-A!” she chirped, twirling once as her hair fluttered in the wind she summoned. “I’m [Y/N] Midoriya! Twin sister of your very own Izuku~!”

The silence hit like a slap.

All eyes turned to Izuku.

He turned pale.

“You never said you had a sister,” Uraraka said quietly.

Izuku swallowed. “I-I didn’t think it was important.”

Ouch.

[Y/N] grinned wider.

“Oh, don’t worry, Deku,” she said sweetly, floating a small wind-blown leaf onto his head. “It’s not like I’ve been alive this whole time or anything.”

Bakugou snorted. Kaminari blinked. Todoroki tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“She’s quirkless, right?” Sero asked.

“NOPE!” [Y/N] beamed, hands on hips. “Got mine before Izuku even knew what a quirk was. But I kept it a secret to make him feel better.”

Another silence.

Izuku looked like he was going to pass out.

“That’s… insane,” Momo said cautiously.

[Y/N] cocked her head. “Awww, thanks! I try.”

Bakugou stood beside her, arms crossed, and for once, he looked smug.

“Don’t try to figure her out,” he said dryly. “You’ll go nuts before she does.”

Aizawa called her in that afternoon for a quick assessment.

“You know the rule,” he said. “Sparring introduction. You’ll be matched with Todoroki.”

“Oh, Todoroki~?” [Y/N] sang, clapping. “The one with fire and ice? Cute.”

Izuku stood immediately. “She’s too unstable. She shouldn’t—”

A gust of wind slammed him back into his chair.

“Oopsies,” [Y/N] said, not looking at him. “I twitch sometimes.”

Aizawa sighed deeply and waved her toward the arena.

The match lasted three minutes.

Todoroki opened with ice.

[Y/N] melted it mid-air with a snap of her fingers.

He followed with fire.

She swallowed it with a vortex and spit it back at him in a wave of scalding steam.

Then she surrounded him in a prison of rock and danced just out of reach, laughing.

No quirks, no weapons, no tricks—just raw elemental dominance wrapped in a pink ribbon of madness.

When it ended, Todoroki stared at the ground, humiliated.

[Y/N] patted his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty when you’re confused,” she said sweetly. “Like a sad puppy who forgot where the door is.”

The class stared at her like she was a ticking bomb.

Later that evening, Izuku cornered her in the hallway.

“You humiliated me,” he hissed.

[Y/N] smiled like sunshine. “Did I?”

“You told everyone about your quirk. You—”

“I pretended to be quirkless for you,” she said brightly. “Because you were crying. Because Mom hit me when I tried to say I had powers. Because she said it would ‘hurt you.’ So I waited. And waited. And then you got powers and didn’t even tell me.”

He flinched.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

That made her laugh.

Not a soft giggle.

A high, wild laugh that echoed through the dorm halls.

“I don’t care,” she said, still laughing. “You’re just not my brother anymore. You’re a guy I used to know. Now I’ve got a best friend who actually likes me and a boyfriend who brings me strawberry milk.”

She walked away without looking back.

Katsuki was waiting by the dorms. He gave her a once-over and passed her a soda.

“Deku crying again?”

“Always.”

She popped the can open with a flick of ice and grinned.

The next week, Karma arrived.

He walked into Class 1-A like he owned it, two buttons undone, blazer flapping, strawberry milk in hand.

Iida tried to lecture him.

Karma tossed the empty milk carton into his chest and kept walking.

[Y/N] launched herself at him. They kissed in front of everyone.

The room combusted.

Iida screamed about propriety. Kaminari short-circuited. Mineta nosebled and passed out.

Only Bakugou rolled his eyes and muttered, “Took long enough.”

Karma grinned. “[Y/N] missed me so bad she almost burned a building down.”

“I only set the bathroom on fire,” [Y/N] huffed. “That doesn’t count.”

“Hi,” Karma said to the class, slipping an arm around her waist. “I’m Karma. I like strawberry milk, chaos, and her. Try to touch her, and I’ll break your kneecaps with a smile.”

Uraraka stepped back. Even Todoroki seemed uneasy.

Izuku looked like he was going to explode.

From that point on, Class 1-A gave them space.

[Y/N] dragged Bakugou around, repainted his room lavender, stuck googly eyes on his grenadier gauntlets, and kept calling him “BoomBoom BFF.”

Bakugou let her.

The Baku Squad hated it.

The Deku Squad hated her.

The rest kept their distance.

Aizawa didn’t bother interfering.

“You’re not here to make friends,” he muttered during homeroom.

“Nope!” [Y/N] replied cheerfully, balancing a pencil on her nose. “I’m here to make trauma fashionable.”

He stared at her. Marked her present. Moved on.

At night, she slept in Karma’s dorm. They curled under too many blankets, whispered about strategy, giggled at dumb inside jokes, and practiced hand-to-hand in the common room after hours.

They were chaos wrapped in chemistry.

And U.A. didn’t know what to do with them.

[Y/N] didn’t need approval. Didn’t crave love from people who once ignored her existence.

She had Karma. She had Katsuki. She had her own strength.

And that was more than enough.

Because the girl who had once stayed silent had found her voice.

And it was cheerful.

It was twisted.

It was absolutely, unapologetically psychotic.

And she loved it.

[Y/N] Midoriya liked her new dorm.

Mostly because she didn’t actually stay in it.

Her official dorm was neat, full of sparkly figurines, mood lighting, and a whiteboard of unfinished elemental theories. But her real home? That was Karma’s room, where the walls smelled faintly of cherry detergent and strawberry milk.

Sleeping there was normal. Comforting. Strategic.

Until Principal Nezu decided to “reassess arrangements.”

“You’ll be placed in separate dorms permanently,” Nezu said, paws folded neatly on his desk. “We believe it’s for the best.”

[Y/N] blinked. “Best for who?”

“For the morale of Class 1-A. For appearances. You understand.”

She smiled. Too wide. Too sweet.

“Oh, I understand just fine,” she said in a singsong tone. “And I’m telling you very gently, Nezu-san… fix it before Karma comes back from his mission. Or you’ll be the one applying emergency morale patches.”

Karma had been called to Tokyo. She, on the other hand, was given one job: get comfortable. That was laughable. Comfort and U.A. didn’t mix, not after everything she’d heard and seen.

Aizawa, who had been silent up to this point, exhaled slowly. “She’s not bluffing.”

Nezu chuckled nervously. “We’ll consider it.”

They didn’t.

So she waited.

The day Karma returned from Tokyo, he didn’t enter U.A. like a normal person.

He kicked the door open.

Strawberry milk in one hand, dorm key in the other, blazer tied around his waist.

[Y/N] launched into his arms before the dust settled.

“You smell like fire and deadlines,” she murmured against his collar.

“And you smell like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t. I threatened a rodent.”

“Good girl.”

“You’re saying what now?” Karma asked later that night, tilting his head as [Y/N] ranted, pacing in a circle in their shared—secret—study room.

“They want us in separate dorms, Karma. Like they forgot the clause in our contract that literally says we operate as a team unit and we share living quarters for control and coordination. They said it might ‘make other students uncomfortable.’”

Karma rolled a coin between his fingers. “What’s our authority level again?”

“Above theirs,” [Y/N] said sweetly.

“Neat. Let’s burn the paperwork.”

“Nope. Better idea. We’ll let Aizawa do the talking. Then we’ll make friends with the support course. I want to build a thermal-proof ‘Do Not Disturb’ field around our dorm.”

He smirked. “You’re adorable when you’re scheming.”

“You’re hot when you’re complicit.”

Aizawa held an emergency meeting with the faculty.

“They have security clearance higher than half of Japan’s military. I don’t care if it makes Mineta nervous. Let them share a room or deal with the fallout.”

Principal Nezu reluctantly agreed.

“Very well. But we announce it.”

“Effective immediately,” Aizawa said flatly the next morning, “Karma Akabane and [Y/N] Midoriya will be rooming together. This has been authorized and approved. No discussion.”

There was so much discussion.

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!” Mineta cried.

“She sleeps in his T-shirt!” Kaminari shouted.

“Why do they get to act like royalty?” Iida barked.

“Because we are,” Karma said with a smile.

[Y/N] sat beside him, swirling a tiny tornado in her teacup. “We’re not normal students. We’re contractors. You remember the part where I folded Todoroki like a beach towel, right?”

Todoroki raised a hand. “I’m not part of this conversation.”

Uraraka’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re just above us now?”

“No,” [Y/N] said, licking her spoon. “We’re beneath you. Like ghosts. That protect you while you sleep. Or choose not to. Depending on how annoying you are.”

Silence.

Behind the scenes, things were moving fast.

The League of Villains had made three indirect attacks in a month.

U.A. needed insurance.

[Y/N] and Karma weren’t just students.

They were insurance with trigger-happy smiles.

Their official mission briefing, written by Kasuma himself, was clear:

Maintain cover as elite student transfers. Monitor League movement. Neutralize threats. Protect critical assets.

In short: babysit the hero children. Eliminate anyone who tried to hurt them.

It was a mess.

And they were perfect for it.

Karma adjusted quickly. He got along with some of the Baku Squad when they weren’t acting like territorial cats.

[Y/N] continued to rub everyone the wrong way.

“Why do you only talk to Bakugou?” Jirou asked one afternoon.

“Because BoomBoom is the only one who doesn’t flinch when I touch a blade.”

“You used wind to send Sato’s cake into the ceiling.”

“Poor structural integrity.”

“You set Iida’s notes on fire.”

“They were boring.”

“You replaced my shampoo with glitter.”

“That one was Karma, actually.”

“TRAITOR!” Karma called from the common room.

Despite the chaos, the missions kept coming.

Small ones at first.

Interventions off-campus.

Scouting dangerous areas.

U.A. didn’t announce it, but the staff all knew who to call when the police were too slow.

[Y/N] and Karma answered every time.

No fanfare.

No reports.

Just results.

One night, they got called to intercept a rogue bio-enhanced villain on the edge of Musutafu.

Aizawa handed them the file.

“He’s armed, unstable, and strong. Try to de-escalate. But if he throws the first punch—”

“He’s done,” Karma said, slipping on his gloves.

[Y/N] grinned. “Got it. Dinner after?”

“I’m thinking noodles.”

“Spicy?”

“You read my mind.”

They were gone in seconds.

Thirty minutes later, the villain was unconscious, tied to a lamp post, with a sticky note on his forehead that read:

‘Try again never.’ –The Ghosts of U.A.

Back at school, things grew tenser.

Izuku cornered [Y/N] one morning.

“We should talk,” he said, hesitant.

“We just did,” she replied.

“Seriously. I want to understand.”

“Now you want to understand?”

“I didn’t know how much I hurt you.”

She stopped.

Looked at him.

Then leaned in close.

“You hurt me a lot, Izuku. But I’m over it. I’m not angry anymore. I just don’t trust you. That’s different.”

He swallowed hard.

“But maybe one day,” she added with a sad smile, “we’ll be family again. If you earn it.”

And she walked away.

At night, she sat on the rooftop with Karma, twirling a spark of light between her fingers.

“They’re starting to hate us more,” she said.

“They’re starting to fear us more,” he corrected.

“Same thing.”

Karma shrugged. “Let them. We’re not here to win a popularity contest.”

She sighed. “No. We’re here to keep them alive.”

“And we will.”

She looked over at him.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

He leaned over, kissed her forehead.

“Always.”

They sat in silence.

The two bodyguards of U.A.

Invisible to most.

Essential to all.

A/N: They never wanted her power. They just didn’t want her to use it. Now? Too late. [Y/N] Midoriya isn’t just strong—she’s untouchable. Karma’s not just her match—he’s her mirror. Together, they aren’t classmates. They’re contingency plans. You don’t have to like them. You just have to survive long enough to realize you needed them. The ghosts are watching. And they don’t miss.

— Author, absolutely unwell over rooftop kisses, sibling detachment arcs, and U.A. accidentally housing its own secret endgame duo.

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx, @ironsaladwitch, @lithiumval, @starsdotalk, @fortunatelydifferentqueen, @ocean-mochi, @bunniotomia, @sept3mberchild, @sweetheart4you, @mayhem-k

Let me know if I missed anyone

[stoopkidlisteningtocsh]

You are so deeply privileged to feel this way. Western medicine and especially psychiatry were founded on non consenting patient experiments. And deep deep abelism. There are studies that people with anger issues and lack of understanding of others become doctors in america at high rates

Even the good ones are LEAVING because it is so corrupt. The good ones struggle to stay cause its just constantly watching the system kill and harm people.

Woman/afab people, poc, and plus size people are historically and constantly berated by the system because the system was founded on making them more socially acceptable or justifying locking them away from society. Do you remember the diagnosis of female hysteria? Do you know that gynecologist practices were founded on unconsenting slaves? Do you know we dont get any pain killers or prep before because that study said woman cant feel pain down there? Are you aware how many people cannot go to the doctor alone and need an advocate cause certain illness make doctors instantly think your drug seeking? Do you know that in many places you still need permission from your husband to get your tubes ties or uterus removed? And in some places you need to have multiple kids before doing it? Do you know most of the time when a doctor asks about a womans period theres no actual benefit to that expect knowing if they can blame it on hormones or possible pregnancy? Do you know that its 100% legal for doctors to do unrelated shit to you body when your knocked out for surgery, like showing students how to put in a cathider?

Telling someone to give doctors and nurses the benefit of the doubt is genuinely so fucking dangerous. I still go to doctor obviously and i currently have the best doctor ive ever had and i still do not trust her implicitly. I never will for my safety and health. Doctors even if they are trying to be good people, are still being taught outdated and harmful information. A doctor with 100% good intentions could still do something insanely harmful if you do not continue to advocate for yourself.

Its genuinely fucking insane for someone to here the horrific stories of american healthcare and go "but most of them are trying their best!" I dont care! Alot of doctors "best" are actively and badly harming people. I know alot of doctors are tired and struggling and yes the system is to blame. But there is objectively SO much more to this than just "oh my doctor took a long time to come in". No. I know theyre overworked but that dosent excuse a good amount of shit thats wrong. Like oh your so overworked you started doing lectures on unconsenting unconscious patients? Oh your so overworked you label every person in pain as a drug seeker? Well cool because you had a bad day i now will suffer with whatever the fuck you put on my record for the rest of my fucking life

If a doctor is genuinely good. They will understand that you dont trust them. I trust myself and what i feel and that is SO important for american healthcare. The fact that you posted this really shows youre unaware of just how fucking bad it can get. I havent even mentioned how evil dentists are! Or that compared to other countries our pap smears are borderline barbaric.

Imo this is just like saying "guys the cops themselves arnt bad its the system that teaches them to be that way" okay well the system made them bastards! And im going to call them that and be upset at the people harming others no matter what the system has done to make them think theyre the hero. I do not give a singular fuck about intention when it comes to literal life or death in many situations

"I can only speak for my country" i really REALLY hope your not american. And honestly if you arnt it just makes me what to tell you to shut up even more cause like. Okay yeah cool its awesome YOUR doctors arnt the enemy but most people with this perspective are american and have genuine reasons to think this way. The doctors are apart of the system so if the system is fucked than by extention the doctors are too. But to try and say to give them the benefit of the doubt when my medication that i need to live is in there hands, is insane

The negativity surrounding doctors

every now and then I make the mistake of reading comments online under posts that have even the tiniest thing to do with medicine

it’s always one and the same thing about how doctors are parasites and all they ever want is more money and how they don’t listen to patients and they’re all filthy rich and don’t get me started on the shit that antivaxxers still spew out

I can only speak for my country, but doctors are not the enemy. There’s plenty of asshole doctors, no doubt about it. But the vast, VAST majority are good natured people who genuinely give a shit about their patients and are doing their best in a system that only ever works against them.

So who should you really be upset with? Who is really to blame that the wait times are long and that your own pay is shit and that the doctor doesn’t have time to sit with you and listen to you properly without having to work overtime and/or keeping other patients waiting and/or miss out on time with their own family and life?

Some doctors are bad doctors, hell, some are even bad people. Though the bad ones were maybe good before they had to sacrifice a little bit more than they thought they would have to and turned bitter and exhausted when that sacrifice gave very little in return and was often sprinkled with ungratefulness, spite or even abuse.

Because the enemy here is the system. For both the doctor and the patient.

So if your doc is being an asshat and genuinely doing an objectively bad job at treating you, I’m really sorry about that and I hope you can get someone better.

But the majority of healthcare folks are really doing their best for you and have sacrificed a lot to be there and keep trying, even though the system keeps fucking them over.

[jordiemeow]

AHHHHHH

I wanna DEEPTHROAT your fics!!

Okay okay so imagine enemies to fuckbuddies/lovers with patrick and he pisses reader off so much she pounces on him and chokes him and hes like "are you grinding on me rn...?" Like she didnt even realise and they fuck :3

girl i wanna deepthroat YOU for this suggestion hello. Please. anyways wasn't supposed to yap so much sorry self indulgent i just want him to call me a bitch and then tweak out about it.

warnings: smut 18+ (p in v), dry humping, choking, no proofreading soz

Oh, what a fucking asshole.

You swear your eyes are going to be stuck permanently in your skull with how hard you've been rolling them at Patrick all night. Smug grin and blue collar slightly upturned from a flick of Art's hand—you just wanna choke the life right out of him. Awfully tempting.

"—I just think you're being sensitive," he insists, leaning forward in his beach chair.

The gathering has long died down by now. Most of your friends have 'gone to bed' (are drunkenly hooking up with each other). Art staggered off ten minutes ago claiming something about having a hangover in the morning. Bullshit. He's had two beers at the most; he's just avoiding the bickering still going on in his absence.

Two weeks into the summer and you're regretting agreeing to come along with your friends to the Zweig summer house. You're only here for Art. Sweet boy.

Patrick? A menace.

"Sensitive?" You retort incredulously, setting your drink on the ground with a soft clang.

"Yeah. Sensitive. Sensible," he replies in a very poor imitation of French. "Does that help?"

Your jaw clenches. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

Your dry reply amuses him further, head tilted as he observes your very apparent frustration. "It's just a word. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"I just don't think that men should—"

His groan interrupts you. "Should, what, say bitch? Don't get all liberal on me."

"Liberal?" You bark back.

"Liberal. Feminist. Whatever." A dismissive wave of his hand. "It's all the same."

You rise to your feet, scoffing under your breath about men having zero awareness. He just watches you, smirk still in place as you smooth down your summer dress and prepare to head for the house. Maybe you'll be matching nursing headaches with Art in the morning; you don't understand how he doesn't have a permanent migraine when he's stuck with this shithead all the time.

And then, of course, just as you start up towards the house—

"What, not even a goodnight? You don't have to be such a bitch about it."

You whirl on him in an instant. One, two, three, four long strides before you're lunging at him so hard his chair almost tips over. His smirk melts in an instant, the sound of surprise he lets off breaking into a choked sound when your fingers curl around his throat. You aren't sure whether it's the amount of times you've heard the word bitch tonight or just the complete assholery you've had to put up with for the last few weeks.

It doesn't matter. All you know is you can't take it anymore.

"Shut up, Patrick," you snarl. "Just... shut the fuck up for once in your life."

He's not sure what silences him: the pressure around his throat, or the sheer venom in your voice. But his mouth snaps shut audibly, and you can feel him swallow against your palm.

"You just... you never know when to quit, do you? Do you get off on this? On being a degenerate asshole? Or are you really just so much of a bitch—" He almost cracks a smile when he hears that. For the sake of his poor neck, he doesn't. "—That this is who you really are, huh?"

"I was just joking," he tries to pacify you, his voice strained. He's not sure why his hands stay on the arms of his chair; certainly not out of self-preservation, that's for sure. He should be prying you off him right now.

You take some satisfaction in the way he rasps, and that tiny flicker of fear in his eyes. But you're far from done. "You're so entitled that it's baffling. We get it, Patrick. Mommy and daddy don't love you so you feel the need to take it out on everyone else. But you aren't funny. You're just an asshole. So just... just shut up!"

It's a miracle he can breathe at this point. The way his eyes have widened and his breathing is stilted makes guilt settle at the pit of your stomach. Not enough to remove your hand entirely, of course, but your grip loosens enough for him to inhale a deep breath.

You're expecting either of two things: an apology, or for him to call you fucking crazy. Instead, what you get is:

"... Are you grinding on me right now?"

What? That's ridiculous. Laughable, really. Why would you be—

Oh, shit, you are.

In the midst of your tangent, you'd hardly noticed the way your hips had started to gyrate. Little circles of your hips, just enough to stimulate you. The movement was involuntary; grinding down against the thigh you're perched upon, little sparks of pleasure mixing with that guilt in your stomach. Fuck.

"N-no—" You stammer, cheeks flushed at the realisation.

"I can feel it. You are," he insists incredulously. And when your grip on his throat tightens in retaliation (or embarrassment), he just smirks this time. "Oh my god. You're enjoying this."

"Don't be so fucking ridiculous," you shoot back, your hips stilling. Somewhere deep down, you're disappointed by the loss of friction.

His hands finally leave the tanned wicker of the chair. Not to push you off, though. Instead, you find a pair of firm hands holding you in place, grinding you down hard against his thigh. Your own hand tightens instinctively, a pair of stuttered gasps synchronising between you.

"You're insane. Stop it."

"Am I? You're the one that's wet."

Touché. Your cheeks burn harder. There's just enough light coming from a lamp post to illuminate your mortified expression. All you can do is stammer over your words in an attempt to salvage your dignity.

"Yeah, well... well you're hard!" Good comeback.

You aren't wrong, though. You can feel his cock pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his shorts. You pointedly ignore the little thrill you feel when you realise how big it feels.

"Because you're choking me."

You stare at him incredulously for him a moment. "... You're sick."

"And yet you haven't stopped."

No, you haven't. Your hands are still wrapped around his throat, and you haven't made any attempts to stop the way he keeps grinding you down against his thigh. If you sat up long enough to look, you'd see the damp patch of slick you've transferred onto the cotton.

"Just... just shut up!" You repeat.

He just smiles crookedly. "You gonna keep saying that, or are you gonna make me?"

A moment of staring, and then your mouths are clashing together. There's no method behind it; just teeth and noses bumping together, stray tongues licking at lips and into mouths. Gasps and moans each time you grind against his thigh.

It shouldn't be happening. You hate him. You do. But just because he's an insufferable asshole doesn't mean he's ugly, and there's something oddly cathartic about the way his eyes flutter when your hand squeezes or he groans into your mouth when your knee presses against his erection.

"Sit up," he pants against your mouth. Against your better judgement, you find yourself obliging. One knee on each side of his thighs as he pushes his shorts out of the way.

Between the darkness and the angle, you can't see what he's doing. Your breath hitches when the rubs the head of his cock against your panties. They're so soaked it hardly feels like there's a boundary there at all.

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

Your reply is a little too fast, but he seems too focused on pushing your underwear to the side to mock you. Besides, mocking is what got you both into this whole mess. Your forehead thumps against his when the blunt head slides between your folds to tease at your entrance, breath stuttering.

Your hands slide to his shoulders for purchase, and you swear you see a flicker of disappointment cross his face. It's so brief you can't be sure as you sink down onto his cock, head tilted back with a groan at the sheer size of him. It takes a few moments to ease yourself down, and the stretch is almost blinding.

He waits for your hips to be flush together to make any sly remarks. "Big enough for you?"

"Shut the fuck up," you reply, voice rough.

He laughs. It's equally as strained.

And then you're riding him. It starts off slow enough for you to adjust at your own pace, just grinding back down against him. Patrick lives up to his asshole reputation, though—his hands find your hips to hold you in place and soon enough he's pulling you down against him, his hips bucking up to meet you.

You're vaguely aware of the fact anyone could still be awake and take a peek out the window, but it doesn't stop your hand from sliding down between you to circle your clit mindlessly. Your head lolls back, sweet moans filling the air each time he drives up into you.

Patrick, on the other hand, is watching you with rapt attention. Grunting and panting while he drinks up every sound and expression, his grip just short of bruising every time you're brought back down onto his cock.

"Fuck. You're so hot like this," he grits out.

"Bet you've been thinking about this," you shoot back breathlessly.

"Hell yeah I have," comes his unabashed reply. "Every time you're going off on your feminist bullshit. Or calling me a brat."

"You are a brat."

There's a glint in his eye. "Treat me like one, then."

So you do. Your fingers curl back around his throat as he fucks up into you; his reaction is almost instantaneous. Eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a soundless moan, his pace faltering for just a moment before he catches himself.

"Yeah. Yeah, just like fuckin' that."

It's not long before you're both nearing your peaks. You can hardly focus on keeping a good grip with how desperately your other hand is rubbing your clit, knees digging into the wicker. You can feel the indents forming against your skin.

"Close—" You manage to warn.

"Yeah? Y'gonna cum on my cock?"

"Jesus, stop with the fucking dirty talk."

He laughs. Hoarse. Unrepentant. "Sorry. Used to fucking people that like to hear my voice."

To his credit, he does shut up for the next minute or so. It's just the sound of you both moaning senselessly and chasing your highs, until he shifts the angle just right and—

"G-God, yeah, right there. I'm gonna—"

"Cum?"

You'd glare at him if it weren't for the abrupt fluttering of your walls around his length. "Fuck, Patrick, oh—" And then your vision is whiting out and you're gushing around him.

His name on your tongue is almost enough to do him over. Almost.

"Choke me. C'mon, I'm so close," he whines, hips stuttering upwards into you. You feel like your brains have been fucked out, but you have just enough sense to comprehend the request. And then you're squeezing and watching the whites of his eyes appear.

A few more jolts of his hips and your name is cried out as he comes undone. You can feel the hot warmth filling your cunt, and he continues to pull you down onto him to milk out his orgasm. Moaning pathetically with his head tipped over the back of the chair.

And then it's just the sound of you both panting as both of your hands release each other. You shift off awkwardly, ignoring the whine he makes and the way the sudden emptiness has you feeling the same way. You stumble to your feet, yanking your dress down and peering at the crosshatching on your knees.

At least you're both sporting evidence of the encounter. Patrick's neck is sporting a reddening print, the start of little bruises forming where your fingers pressed too hard. Now you have to look at that for the rest of your vacation.

Great.

You swallow thickly. "Just to be clear, I still think you're an asshole."

He nods, like he hadn't even considered otherwise. "Yeah, I know. But I think you like that about me."

"Patrick—"

"Kidding." His hands raise in mock surrender. "Just get your pretty ass to bed. I've had enough of you yelling at me for one night."

You scoff. You aren't sure whether it's out of contempt or amusement. But you turn on your heels, shaking your head as you finally start back towards the beach house the way you'd intended to fifteen minutes ago.

You're making your way up the steps when he calls out behind you: "But we're doing this again, right?"

"In your dreams." You shoot him your middle finger over your shoulder. His laugh rings out as you trudge up towards the house on wobbly legs.

He watches you go, and it's only when you're safely inside that he mutters under his breath.

"... Bitch."

—

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[santoelle]

Copying others' ideas—like a winner author

Yes, the title is a reference to none other than Oscar Piastri. Stuff it.

People fear the viewers seeing through veil of your writing and accuse of a copycat. The truth may be that you did take that idea to begin with. Now how do you actually do this heinous crime and get away with it?

Deconstruct, Amalgamate, Rebuild

Deconstruct

There's something in specific you like about the story. Find it, and take it apart even more. Often you find out you like Enemies to Lovers and make it your entire personality without knowing it's already been etched into your personality without you knowing. People can love the same trope for different reasons and different aspects.

After all, not every person thinks the same. It makes the deconstructing part even more unique to each author. Here's some scenarios and deconstructing it properly

OG: Harry Potter is the chosen one

GENERALIZE: The character is given a fate before they were even born

DECONSTRUCTED: There is the inevitability of a path, the character has a choice whether or not to continue that or not—how will they get to the end goal if they continue?

Yes, that's one of multiple interpretations of chosen one tropes. If you disagree on that, then that's your first exercise on how to deconstruct something. Once you deconstruct it, not only do you give the reasoning, but the path and the patterns that make this trope work. With your unique interpretation of your own behaviour as to why you like a trope, it's one step to make your idea even more original.

Amalgamate

The plan that once you have a tried and true trope and running with it is comfortable. It doesn't let you experiment. One of my favourite books, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, is a showcase of taking two different tropes into a mix.

The mundane life of offices (though technically not a trope, but a stereotype) and the nitty-gritty of an underground illegal boxing ring made combined with a fight club for boring men with rules they must follow strictly. This idea is done by directly contrasting tropes and finding ways to compliment each other. Something like that can be done with this step.

DECONSTRUCTED: Inevitability of a path. The character has a choice whether or not to continue

COMPLIMENTARY: The villain. It heightens tension and struggles for a supposed prophecy

CONTRASTING: Time loop. The character has all the times to make a choice and nothing moves forward

These two ideas can shape your story in different ways. It can even change the genre. Concepts can work together when you keep trying to mix them; find where they can meet, find where characters struggle to balance it, find the resolve. Your book can change genres depending on how you even execute these events.

Rebuild

This step is the aftermath of your floating concepts, either contradicting or complimenting. Finally, you create your story here. Whether you use a three act structure, a six, a simple outline of "Introduction, crisis(es), conclusion(s)", you finally start the journey of the original idea.

Authors can find the comfort into sticking into one genre, one trope (or multiple tropes that complimentary) that will then rely on world building and characters to make them stand out. Yet, they can find ways to be unique when they originally took this one idea from someone else. Deconstruct, amalgamate, rebuild. Is D.A.R an ugly acronym?

[chipmunkfanno1love]

Sonamy Dance scene for Sonic 4

One thing that most Sonamy fans agree on for Sonic 4 is that they'd love to see a dance sequence between Sonic and Amy. The SCU is known for their adorably dorky yet also suprisingly iconic dance sequences in their films, so it only makes sense that Sonic and Amy get a moment to dance together in the upcoming film. We're hoping that romantic sparks fly as a result.

Here are some potential set ups for a Sonamy dance sequence:

One cute but slightly cheesy idea I thought could work for a Sonamy dance sequence is them doing a spoof of the iconic dance scene from the movie Dirty Dancing. I felt it could work really well with Movie Sonic being a huge film buff and because Movie Amy Rose has been theorised by fans as possibly being into rom-coms (a theory that is yet to be but I hope to be confirmed). I could see the scene being set at a party, maybe set in the 80's if time travel is involved in this film. Maybe I could make the scene extra goofy to fit the family-friendly movie.

I imagine Sonic making a number of goofy but fun moves on the dance floor and Amy laughs at how adorably dorky he is (2:06 to 2:31). I could see Sonic making bold moves like leaping off a high podium or stage, plus his cool moves would get everyone to forget that he's an alien hedgehog and a number of party guests join in with his moves (2:43 to 3:04). Amy may be hesistant to draw attention to herself out of fear of their enemies (e.g. Metal Sonic, G.U.N and/or other antagonists) will discover their whereabouts, but she can't help but be drawn in by Sonic's goofy charm and fun dance moves (2:47 to 2:51). Eventually she joins in the fun and with Sonic's encouragement, the two boldly perform the famous lift scene (3:02 to 3:24), showing the amount of trust that's grown between them, as well as the romantic sparks and intimacy. 😁🤞🥰

It might even be fun if they made a little Dirty Dancing reference like an agent or movie director pulling out an old 80's style cell phone or runs to a pay phone and says "Get Patrick Swayze on the phone!" hinting that Sonic and Amy in their time travels together may have unitentionally but ironically inspired the famous scene. I'm sure Sonic would love bragging rights for inspiring the scene and Amy would be only too thrilled to join him in his glee.

Watch 2:06 to 3:46:

Another option I considered was possibly Sonic and Amy dance to this song "Shut Up and Dance" by WALK THE MOON. It could work either as a quiet moment between the two of them dancing to Sonic's playlist or even at a party scene.

I feel this song suits Sonic and Amy really well. It suits the goofy and passionate spirits I imagine they both are. The line "chemical, physical kyptonite" also matches their status as alien superheroes. Plus, with the possiblity that time travel may be involved in the next movie (if they reference Sonic CD in the movie) I defintely think a number of lines about the future and destiny matching well to their young love storyline. 🥰😁

I hope that Sonic and Amy's dance moves mirror the couple in this music video (in both versions I could see Amy doing a little shimmy with her skirt), including their intimate looks and flirtation. One moment I'd definitely love to see is Sonic and Amy spinning around really fast like in 1:05 to 1:22. I imagine with Sonic's super speed he'd literally send Amy flying (much to her delight and excitement) only he holds onto Amy 's hands really tight so she doesn't crash into the wall. Maybe when Sonic does let go she flies through the air and he has a moment of panic where he worries she will crash into the wall. Luckily he slowed down enough at the end that she starts to fall back to earth and he manages to catch her just in time. At the end he gently dips her. The two are giggly and breathing heavily. They sharing an intimate and longing look, looking deep into each other's eyes.

While they could stick with the original version of the song if they want to go for a mutual/Reverse Sonamy option, I could also see them doing a girl cover for this song instead. I feel this song would definitely fit Amy's point of view if they wanted to fit the original dynamic of her crushing on Sonic first. Lines like "this boy is my destiny" and "my discothèque Romeo teenage dream" could suit her well.

The song could also work well as a duet cover for the film. I haven't found a direct duet cover, but I found a mash-up cover on YouTube, plus a mash-up from Moulin Rouge: The Musical.

(*Warning* - Religious profanity):

Dance wise I could see them sharing playful bumps and twirls together. Sonic could look admiringly at Amy like Blu does with Jewel. Plus the almost kiss at the end could be great. They probably get interuppted by either Tails, Knuckles or maybe even Metal Sonic if they're in a public place.

Watch 1:42 to the end:

I imagine them having the energy and flirtation of both the Big Bad Wolf and Diane Foxington (1:17 to end). The look they share at the end would be adorable, plus I love those dorky but cute moves (2:58 to 3:32, and 3:38 to end):

The look shared between Alex and Gia in 1:22 to 1:34 could also work as a cute shared look between Sonic and Amy:

Maybe Sonic could dip Amy and be shy and awkward about it like Buzz, but then Amy returns the dip passionately and flirts like Jessie. Sonic looks at Amy flitatiously like Buzz does with Jessie.

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to vote your preference on my poll.