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panda-writes-kpop · 10 months ago

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the dreadful need in the devotee ~ lee gahyeon

a/n: sorry for all my international folks, I know I'm late (curse you comp sci homework for taking hours to complete) but happy Gahyeon day!! here's your daily dose of existensial dread and sadness in case you haven't felt that way recently :] (all jokes, but apparently I was in my feels when I wrote this)

tw: fluff to sadness, main character death, car accident, some religious elements, we almost got a happy ending folks

acknowledgements: inspired by hozier's talk and the pjo series on Disney plus!

word count: 2.8k

summary: a recollection of the five times you couldn't look at Gahyeon and the one time you did, but it's staged during a modern retelling of one of my favorite greek myths of all time (5+1 trope my beloved <3)

♡ Masterlist ♡

As the burning taste of alcohol travels down your throat, you think about why you’re here on a Wednesday night.

Here wasn’t home, the place you most often were found. Home was your paradise, your inspiration for your work - but you had been in a rut lately. Nothing seemed to spark your creativity, not even a hot drink and a warm bath would do.

So you wandered down the street, hoping to find something that would make you and your work feel alive again. Instead, the couples you passed on the street only chose to dig at a wound that you had covered with the patchwork of self-isolation.

Since tonight was an utter failure, much like most nights this month, you turned to the one thing that made everything a little better - booze. A drink sounded nice, especially as the last couple you passed discussed their wedding and future together.

You slid into the first bar that you found that was not too far from your apartment. Five blocks was a new record for you, considering that every store you needed was only two or three blocks from your apartment. Maybe you’d print out a certificate so you’d have some marker of success to hang on your wall.

World’s Most Introverted Person Travels Two Blocks Farther Than Usual!

You need another hobby besides drinking and bad jokes.

You’d turn to art, but blank pages and screens peek out at you from every corner of your apartment. That wasn’t an option, and you had already used all your daily wanderlust to find a bar, so drinking would have to do.

It wasn’t like the bar was busy or anything - weeknight traffic was slow, especially on Wednesday. You were sitting at the bar, making occasional idle chatter with the bartender and another patron who seemed to be in a worse state of despair than you.

You were fine in your bubble, and it wasn’t like anything would pop it any time soon-

Then you see her.

Your eyes landed on a group of girls sitting in a corner, but the girl that draws your attention is everything you had imagined and so much more. With bright pink hair, it was impossible to see anything but here.

She was a beautiful white lily among the tall grass, a sweet melody floated over syncopated beats. She was the sun, and you were a comet that was about to crash into her orbit. She was everything, and you were nothing.

…And she was looking right at you.

Fuuuuuck.

You immediately look away when she bounces up to you - she’s probably going to talk to that other person, right?

You couldn’t look her in the eyes, even when she, in all of her beautiful glory, was right in front of you.

“Do you want to join us for drinks?” Her eyes are inviting as she holds her hand out to you.

You try to find a reason to say no, but she sparks something within you. Something warm and kind, buried under the safety blanket that you wrapped your heart in.

She wasn’t your inspiration, not yet, at least. A muse, perhaps?

Whatever divine intervention brought you together was well needed.

Even though you couldn’t look her in the eyes until you were both drunk enough to forget everything but each other.

Gahyeon, her name was.

Even though the headache fucking sucked (but was so worth it, considering the extra phone number in your contacts), things started to look up for you. You could actually produce art, which meant that you could pay your landlord on time.

Your apartment was a mess while you were in a funk - a proper decluttering was in order. If you weren’t inspired to do art, you definitely weren’t inspired to do household chores. You shudder as your mother’s voice reprimands you about keeping your place tidy.

Perhaps sending proof of life would get her voice out of your head. Yet again, she’d probably call you and then want to visit, which would make things worse.

Suddenly, doing the dishes instead of mentally stalling doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Tedious doesn’t begin to cover your feelings towards the stacks upon stacks on dishes, which hadn’t grown mold or attracted flies, thank god. You decide to set your phone aside (you’d checked it three times since you decided to do the dishes, maybe you need to get a safe to throw it into) before filling the sink with water.

As you add soap to the water, your phone chimes. You shut off the water, as flooding your apartment would be worse than cold water, you reason.

You were sober enough to put Gahyeon’s name in your phone, but your capitalization skills were a bit… questionable.

gAhyEOn: hey u up?

some friends and I went drinking last night, and I need a pick-me-up.

you wanna go for coffee?

Coffee? As in a coffee date? As in you’ll be face-to-face with Gahyeon alone, after you probably made a fool of yourself a few nights ago?

Well, you don’t remember much about that night, do you?

God damn you, vodka, you taste good in too many mixed drinks.

You quickly respond with a ‘Sure! What time?’ after contemplating what to say for an uncomfortable amount of time.

gAhyEOn: Does thirty minutes work for you?

I’ll send you the address, see if you can make it there in time.

Your phone buzzes, and afterwards, you plug the address into Google Maps - it’s only a block farther than the bar you met Gahyeon in. If you quickly scrubbed a few dishes and put proper clothes on (the Pokemon pajamas were cute but not ideal for a “first date”), you could make it there in thirty minutes if you run-walked.

You send her a confirmation text, telling her that the time and place will work. You manage to finish a quarter of the dishes (you’ll totally finish the rest of the dishes instead of continuing your latest masterpiece) before throwing on a comfortable outfit that’s perfect for a first date. You grab your wallet and phone before heading out of your apartment.

The walk to the cafe takes a lot less time than you had considered, but that was probably because you were going through a hundred and one different ways that you could make a fool of yourself.

Although you nearly ran headfirst into a pole when you saw Gahyeon waving at you in the distance, you had made it to the café.

Even if you were a bit too embarrassed to look her in the eyes, a bit sweaty from run-walking here, especially after she told you off for being late.

“You’re five minutes late. I thought I told you thirty minutes, not thirty-five-”

“In my defense,” You raise your hands in the air, “I’m worse at directions when I’m sober.”

“If you buy me coffee, I may forgive you.”

“Let’s test that theory, huh?” You open the door for her as she gracefully smiles.

You let out a nervous sigh before closing the door behind you. You’ve got this, right?

Maybe the gods would push some luck in your favor.

Gahyeon didn’t think you were a total loser, so that was a plus.

She even agreed to a proper first date, and then a second, next a third, and you’d somehow convinced her to become your girlfriend… which meant that she would be moving in with you since you’d been dating for a year and a half.

Time flies.

“Can you help me with these boxes, babe?”

After shoving more of your supplies (holy fuck how much shit did you own) into a spare closet, you join Gahyeon at the door to receive the box that she had in her hands.

“I got it,” You say before immediately swearing after the box rests in your arms, “what did you put in here, a bowling ball?”

“Three, actually,” Gahyeon offers a sweet smile as you shake your head, “it’s just the first box of my clothes. You can set it in the bedroom, if you would.”

“The things I do for you.” You scoff before shifting the weight in the box (seriously, what was in here?).

You take a few steps forward as Gahyeon wanders around your apartment. She peeks into the room you just left before letting out a gasp.

“You didn’t move your work so I could have more space, did you?”

You pause, not turning to meet her eye, as she accusingly charges toward you.

“Yah, babe, I told you to leave that stuff there! You know how much I love seeing your work.”

You hightail it to the bedroom before she tackles you into a warm hug. You both dissolve into giggles, heavy boxes and caring anger set aside, as you enjoy her presence.

“I love you.” She whispers before kissing your lips.

You wonder what god of love was paid off in order to match you and Gahyeon, but you didn’t care. Everything worked, you two worked, and your work spoke for itself.

That’s all you ever needed.

A wedding ring was the other thing you needed.

You had fiddled with the ring for ages, wondering when would be the right time to propose.

Gahyeon deserved the best, after all.

So you just asked her one day, when the moment was right.

And she said yes before bursting out into tears. You were quick to comfort her, of course, but you felt like you had ascended to another plane of reality.

Finally, everything made sense.

Your creative energy was at a high, so you were producing plenty of work. You were ahead on rent, enough so that you could save up for a house and a wedding, eventually.

Gahyeon stood in the kitchen, admiring the ring on her left hand, as you wrapped your arm around her waist.

“The ring’s pretty.” She says absentmindedly as you squeeze your arms, which makes her laugh. “What’s up?”

“I got bored. Something told me to go out here and check up on you.” You give a small shrug before kissing her cheek. “What are you up to?”

“I’m going to head to the store by my old place to pick up a few things. Do you want anything?”

For some reason, your stomach sinks. But why, you wonder? She made this trip often, what was so awful about it now?

“Are you sure you don’t want to go down the street, to the convenience store?” You try to convince her as she shakes her head and manages to escape your grasp.

“I’ll be fine, babe,” She turns to give you a quick kiss on the lips before grabbing the car keys on the table, “are you worried about me?”

“Maybe.” You give a noncommittal answer before checking the clock. “Be home for dinner!”

“I will, I promise.” She walks away and grabs the doorknob before turning back to you. “Hey!”

“Hey what?”

“I can’t wait to marry you.” Gahyeon winks at you as you look away in embarrassment.

It’s crazy that she still has this effect on you, years later.

She laughs before shutting the door as you stare at the front door to your apartment like a lovesick golden retriever waiting for their human to return.

You couldn’t wait for her to return back into your arms, so you could make dinner and spend the rest of your night together.

Four hours.

It had been four hours since Gahyeon left.

Should you be worried?

She would’ve texted, called, told you if she would’ve been late. Gahyeon expected the same of you, even though you weren’t the most prompt person at times.

You should stop pacing before you have to add carpet replacement to your laundry list of things to buy. The sun had gone down, but that meant that traffic must’ve been heavy, right?

You need to take a walk before you worry yourself into an early grave.

You grab a light jacket before exiting your apartment. Taking a walk around the block has always helped clear your mind, but your heart pangs with a new hurt as Gahyeon always liked to go on walks with you.

She was fine, she had to be fine.

You round the corner, only to want to immediately retreat back into your home.

A car accident.

The worst part?

Gahyeon’s car was among the wreckage.

Police officers pushed the surrounding crowd back, and you scream when you see an EMT pick a bloody ring out from among the wreckage.

Not just any ring.

Her ring.

You can’t look anymore.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks.

You hadn’t created anything since the day she died.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Five-hundred and four hours.

Thirty-thousand, two-hundred forty minutes.

You can’t breathe, can’t think.

You need to open a window.

The light casts a gentle glow over your apartment.

It’s a wreck. You’re a wreck.

How fitting.

Your phone rings. It’s probably your mother, asking why you didn’t come to Sunday dinner for the third time in a row.

You can’t tell her about Gahyeon, you could barely face her parents and tell them what happened. You were choked up then, and you hadn’t felt much better since.

Your heart had been ripped from your chest.

You pick up your phone anyway.

“Do you want to see her again?” A deep male voice echoes from your phone speaker as you sigh.

“You have the wrong number. Have a good day.” You say with no emotion as the voice quickly replies.

“It’s Gahyeon. I have Gahyeon.”

“Who are you? Where is she?”

“Go to the bar where you first met. I’ll meet you there and take you to her.”

“Hold on, how do I know you’re not-”

You pause as you hear the other line beep repeatedly.

He hung up on me. What a dick.

“What do you want?” You gruffly ask as you slide into a booth opposite a man dressed in an all-black suit.

He fixes his silver locks for a moment before looking you up and down.

“You want the girl back?”

“Gahyeon,” You correct, “and I want her here as much as her family does.”

“Would you do anything for her?”

“Yes.” You answer immediately as the man smiles.

“Good, good.” He snaps his fingers as the scenery around you changes.

You’re forced on your feet as the booth disappears behind you.

“What the fuck-” You look at the walls, which expand in every direction and then disappear behind walls of fire and stone.

The man walks forward as a set of stairs appears before him.

“Who are you?” You ask as the ground underneath you begins to shift.

“Death, not the devil.” He answers after sitting down on a throne made of fire and magma. “I have a proposition for you, since your love for Gahyeon has moved my wife. I’m feeling rather…. generous, shall we say?”

“What’s the catch?”

“You have to take the long way out, with you leading and her behind. You can’t look back to see if she’s there, you have to trust yourself and trust her. Understood?”

“I-” You pause while weighing your options.

Could you lead her out of Hell? A dangerous adventure, sure, but it would be worth it to bring her home.

“I accept.”

Death snaps his finger before a door to your left appears.

“Walk through that door and begin your journey.”

You place your hand on the door before looking back at him.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until you get to the other side.”

You didn’t expect walking through hell to be a cake walk, but you were absolutely exhausted.

Who knows if death himself didn’t trick you in the first place?

You couldn’t look to see if Gahyeon was behind you, and you couldn’t hear her speaking as well.

You just had to trust yourself and trust her.

You trusted Gahyeon, of course you did, but did you trust yourself enough that you wouldn’t have been fooled?

Everyone in hell is looking at you as you climb up towards the exit.

You can do this. You should do this.

Is she really behind me?

You should keep going. You have to keep going.

Your footsteps begin to slow as your breath becomes ragged. You were tired, but you were almost there.

You see the light, see everything that you would have again.

You reach out to embrace the light, you’re almost there.

Is she there?

Gahyeon gasps as your eyes connect with hers.

“You… were there.”

“I always was.” She softly answers before backing up towards the darkness.

“I made a mistake.” You try to reach out and grab her, but she’s fading away from you.

“I know.”

“I love you.” A tear falls from your eye as she disappears into nothingness.

“I know.”

Just like that, she was gone, and you were alone.

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sstormyskyess · 11 months ago

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Pitch Black - Prologue

author's note: hello hello everyone!! welcome to my first long form series on this blog! i'm excited to share this story i've been cooking up since summer last year and i hope everyone likes it as much as i've had fun brainstorming it 😊 this is gonna be a little short prologue to set the mood and give a little context for reader so things make sense later on! please enjoy 💜

cw: descriptions of injury, mentions of vomiting

word count: 1400+

Everyone and their mother knows that Russian winters were ruthless. It was a widely accepted fact, even for those who hadn’t personally experienced one of said agonizing winters. Snowfall was common for six months out of the year, and the temperatures could reach —44 degrees fahrenheit.

Cold air seeped in from under the door of the tiny room you were confined in. You shivered while you sat on the old, flimsy cot against the back wall of the solitary prison cell. Your vision was unfocused and blurry, though it was hard to tell because it was too dark to see anything. The walls were made of dark concrete and half-rotted wood slats. It smelled musty and stale, the air circulation in the room severely lacking.

You wince when the door suddenly opens, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to block out the blinding LED lights beaming into the room out of nowhere. Your breath catches in your throat from the surprise, your chest stinging from the feeling. You peek an eye open when a metal food tray clatters to the floor. The sound was deafening as it cut through the murky silence you had been wallowing in, making you bring your hands up to cover your ears. The man that dropped the tray barks something at you in Russian before slamming the door shut once again.

Konni Group.

An up and coming Russian private military company, the target of your squad’s operation, and the people that had taken you prisoner.

The stated goal of your team was to clear out a known Konni base and to capture or kill the colonel they knew was posted up there. The POI had led a recent attack on a U.S. arms convoy and taken a number of highly lethal weaponry from the wreckage. The weapons were likely hidden somewhere in the base, and it was imperative to locate them before they were used anywhere.

The operation had gone less than optimally. It was doomed to fail from the start; the intel your squad was given was faulty, you had your cover blown by an ambush, and to cap it all off, the chaos allowed for Konni to get their hands on you and whisk you away.

The only thing you could think of was time. How long had it been since you’d been thrown in here? Days, weeks, months? You couldn’t tell. Just thinking about it made your head hurt.

The only measurement you had was how long it was between the miniscule amount of food you were granted by your captors on a seemingly random schedule. You were practically able to feel your body consuming itself, your stomach growling at you angrily. You would cry, but the waterworks had run dry ages ago. You couldn’t afford to lose any more water; you didn’t have that privilege anymore.

Years of active service in the U.S. Marines had gotten you used to grueling conditions, but nothing like this. Even out in the field, dispatched from whatever base you were stationed in, you knew you’d be able to secure some kind of sustenance. Food and water felt like a luxury now.

Despite the cold, the hunger, and the wear and tear on your body, both internal and external, the worst part was the lack of contact. You couldn’t even hear anyone moving outside, no matter how hard you strained your ears. There was no light peeking from under the door, so you couldn’t track shadows moving. The only indication that someone was behind the door was the meager rations being put into the cell. Between those meals, for all you knew, no one was present in the facility anymore.

Too much time had passed for anyone to still be looking for you or trying to rescue you. It hurt, at first. The feeling of being forgotten or being considered disposable had been crippling for a while, so painfully debilitating that it had you weeping endlessly for days, maybe even a week or more. The muscles of your stomach ached afterwards. Mixed with all the kicks and punches you suffered from interrogations, your heaving sobs had you nauseous and throwing up bile frequently.

You ruminated over what could possibly be the reason you were still being kept here instead of being executed. You weren't being interrogated anymore by now. You were just left with the wounds that you sustained from hours upon days upon weeks of interrogation. The bruises had healed, but the cuts were infected from the shoddy cauterizing job they had attempted. It felt like the bones that were broken were healing incorrectly.

You sigh shakily, your perpetually shivering body getting uncomfortable, so you try to shift a bit. The only thing you accomplished by trying to roll over on your tiny stone cold cot was falling face down onto the floor. You wince and give a weak groan, curling up and holding your stomach. You try your hardest to just close your eyes and get some sleep, no matter how restless it was.

When you woke up, you were finally back in the present. You were finally back in the little old house that you found after escaping that Konni facility, the sun just barely rising over the horizon.

It had been two years since you were abducted. The realization hit you hard. Two years you spent in that dark, cold, suffocating cell. Two years you spent withering away, slowly but surely. Two years you spent in your own special hell, alone, battered and beaten, left scarred for years and years to come.

You roll over and get out of the bed, a headache already springing forth in your head, making you rub your temples. You sigh and amble over to your rucksack full of all the essentials—well, most of them at least. You frown at the sight that greets you. Only a few MREs left and all of them were your least favorites. But, you’ve been through worse.

You pace around the room as you eat, reading some of the files you pulled off the rickety table in the corner of the tiny one room cabin. You scan the files and run a thumb over the insignia on the front of the manila folder containing everything you needed for your next job.

Al Qatala.

A terrorist organization based out of Urzikstan, the current boogeyman of the western world, and your current contractor.

The life of a freelance intel agent was an interesting one, to say the least. You had been around the world making problems for a countless number of political and military bodies, but the money was worth it. Not to mention the anonymity that came with not being tied down to any one organization.

You went off the grid after you escaped from Konni. You wanted to go back to normal life, but something in you told you to stay away from it all. Maybe it was the fear of being found and captured again. The logical side of your brain told you that there was no reason they would want you back, but it was hard to reason with a brain torn apart by the sort of trauma you went through.

You hadn’t cared to check up on any of your old teammates. There was an underlying resentment present in the back of your mind. You were betrayed by them, after all. They left you for dead and didn’t look back. Thinking back on it made you frown. You watched them leave you behind with no hesitation, run away without looking back. So much for no man left behind, right?

By the time you snap out of your frustrated thoughts, you’re already finished with your food. Your headache has gotten worse. You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. You would really have to invest in some painkillers.

Based on how high the sun has gotten, you figure it’s about time to get moving. At least focusing on this job would keep your mind off the events that led you here. You flip through a folder and look at the location that was printed on one of the papers. Then, you take a peek at the pictures of the people you were meant to track.

Task Force 141.

A multinational task force recently founded, a team dedicated to making the world a better place, and ones that had been causing problems for your current contractor.

You take a deep breath and pack all your things away, ready yourself for the trek to the task force’s current location, and leave the cabin with the determination that kicks in whenever you set out on a mission.

𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

#tf 141 x reader #konni group #al qatala #mw2 fanfic #mw3 fanfic #mw2 #mw3 #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 3 #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #modern warfare fanfic #cod mw2 fic #cod mw3 fic #mwii #mwiii #sstormyskyess pitch black #storm's creations #sstormyskyess

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cemeteryspider · 4 months ago

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Oh No!

Warnings: Heavy Sibling x Sibling implications. HL is gross and has an odd obsession with himself which will be a part of the story a little bit going forward. There will be nothing explicit but for reference Reader-Insert is of age and I'm thinking mid-twenties and Homelander is a little bit older since I'm pretty sure his age is never stated in the show. If you are looking for a Homelander x Reader THIS IS NOT IT!!!

Summary: You attend and event and try your best to sabotage yourself, Homelander, and Vought in the process.

Trigger Warnings: Abuse, Violence, Mental Health Issues, Controlling Relationships, Gross Sibling Relationship

Word Count: 785

Weeks passed and slowly you started recognizing yourself in the mirror again. You started with the small things at first like the old lipstick you pushed to the back of your cosmetics drawer because John said it made you look like a cheap hooker. Or the perfume he said invaded his nostrils and made him want to laser his own brain.

Still it wasn't enough to satisfy your insatiable need to piss off your brother and Vought International. So, you went all out.

For the premiere of some stupid movie or other you wore a sheer dress with black lace swirls that left little to the imagination. Tall golden heels and had your makeup done by someone who did professional pornstars makeup. It made your back straighten and a real smile across your face for what felt like the first time in an eternity. You felt nothing like yourself, but at the same time you looked nothing like the mannequin Vought often used you as.

You loved it and hated it at the sametime. Nothing was going to get in the way of your night of crossing the line out from under Homelander and Vought’s shadow. Vought would later call this "little stunt", "unbecoming of America's number 2 supe", but you didn't care anymore. So you kept going above and beyond the outfit and makeup, you played the part of a ditzy beautiful drunk.

More importantly you were showing the world you weren't John's little toy to play with nor were Vought's puppet they could make dance. You were someone with thoughts and feelings, and you were going to make sure the world did not forget this.

That night you were all over the big wigs in Hollywood, constantly drinking different drinks from dirty martinis to fruity pink cocktails to Miller Lite to get a buzz that your powers constantly wanted to stamp out. Walking around the party wondering who you would walk up to next, the man in the burgundy suit or the woman with diamond studded earrings. You felt intrigued by these regular people only here because of their lined pockets, and wanted to be able to know them and what their normal lives were like.

Still you went on, laughing too loudly at jokes made by people who didn't like you because they didn't know you. Drinking anything offered by anyone with a tray and casually avoiding your brother who seemed to be tailing you waiting for the right time to stop you from ruining the empire he and Vought had delicately built.

"You know," You slurred to an attractive woman on the red carpet, "We could make out higher than Vought Tower after this. You'd just need to hold on tight."

Her face flushed and you giggled at her sweet tomato red face. Then you felt a rough hand grip your upper arm tightly, "I think it's time to go."

You tried to wrench your arm out of his grip but nothing was working. Short of an all out fight you were not going to be able to free yourself, so you let him drag you out, grabbing a delicate glass of champagne on the way out the back, and waving to the pretty girl you had been flirting with for the past few minutes.

"What the fuck do you think your doing. You're slobbering over our stockholders," He whisper-shouted at you once he dragged you out outside of the event by the dumpsters, but you just let a grin split your face in two.

"This is me John! You're just upset because I know exactly what I want and exactly who I want to be and you're not a part of either of those things. How does that feel, John? Not even your own genetic equal wants anything to do with you!" You full on shouted at him. Part of you hoped that a journalist was on the other side of the door recording the whole thing but you couldn't hear a heartbeat.

"You're drunk, Y/n. I'm not having this conversation with you. You're never going to get anything better than this," He scoffed and gestured to himself and the door. At this point the strong drinks were wearing off and leaving your system to deal with reality as it was and the puny flute of champagne was not cutting it anymore.

"No, John, I'm not. I'm done with this and I'm not going to be Vought's machine pumping out propaganda and fake saves anymore," He laughed in your face.

"Good luck with that. You're nothing without me." He took the door back to the event and you started to walk away.

"Yeah I guess we'll see about that."

#the boys tv #the boys fanfic #the boys amazon #the boys imagine #the boys x reader #the boys tv x reader #the boys homelander #the boys homelander fanfic #the boys homelander fanfiction #the boys fandom #the boys tv fandom #the boys series

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cosmica-galaxy · 3 months ago

Note

Hey Cosmica. I don't know if you got my last two asks but I hope I can send this one on top of them with no issue. What were Cameron, Dj, V, the mimic trio & the human's reactions to the fact that toilets are allying with them against the Astro Toilets?

Camron was heavily conflicted with the new alliance. He can't imagine that they would side with their enemies amidst this war. They just lost their titan and now...this?? His behavior is stubborn and confused. He can't seem to fathom that this is really happening. He was built to fight skibidis...not to become their friends. He's like Veteran at this point. There's so much going wrong...what can go right at this point? DJ is worried about their intentions. The Speaker Titan almost got possessed again, bringing back horrible memories of his corruption, and they also lost the camera titan. Camron has been going through so many emotions, just as he has. There's no telling what is going to happen in this war...when was the last time he played any music for a jovial jamboree? He can't remember. This war has changed...and he feels like the people involved have changed too. For better or for worse. Vee has so much on his plate right now, it's not even slightly humorous. First, his faction superiors and one TV unit talk shit about their allies on live transmissions which strain their relationships with their own allies, the human caught their faction burning their fellow kin ALIVE, and now there's a group of units joining a skibidi rebellion group?! He wants to smash his tv against a brick wall until he collapses. WHAT IS GOING ON?! The mimics are guarded around the new "allies" and they are protective of their human companion. Skibidis are two things, food and enemies. Can their race even know what peace is? They all had peace once. They had their numbers, their human companions, and the sync cycle. Now, they barely have anything and Skibidis have hunted them down till their numbers are minimal. There's a lot of pain to endure and come to terms with...but if any of those skibidis try anything, they will be met with a fate that involves teeth and claws. The human...is so internally conflicted about all of this. Their state has declined mentally and the stress of the war might as well be killing them. They can barely sleep without nightmares of past atrocities coming back to haunt them. The situations of the world are growing worse and more and more bad things seem to be coming out of the darkness to take the world. Days have passed and the sky now runs an inky black and burning red...where did the sun go? What does the world look like now...and can it even be saved anymore? Who is friend and who is foe? Can they trust the skibidis...can they trust their friends? The voice in their dreams is getting louder, telling the human to find them. Who? They don't know. They are lost and are only getting more and more confused. This...doesn't make sense to them anymore.

#haxorus imp #hax speaks #cosmica galaxy #cosmica-galaxy #skibidi tag #skibidi mimic #skibidi toilet mimic #bl1tzm1k3

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lindisworld · 10 months ago

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Close || Matt Murdock x Reader

summary - Soulmate Au! In which [Name] has Daredevil as a soulmate and Matt unwillingly wants [Name] in his life. However Fate does its job and always brings them together.

Chapter One.

It was a couple days after [Name] encountered the trio, once they left the coffee shop. Karen came up to the resister to pay. Luckily for Karen, the shop was fairly empty except one customer who sat at the corner too engrossed in their laptop to even know what happening around them.

Karen questions [Name] about her injuries in a concerning way. [Name] had nothing to hide and told her the truth about the injuries and how she constantly gets them. In result, gaining sympathy from the blonde. Karen gives her a Nelson and Murdock card with her number on it.

“Call or text if anything. I would love to be friends.” Karen smiles and pays for their drinks, thanking [Name] once again for the free box of donuts.

It was a Friday night and Karen had invited [Name] out for a drink at Josie’s, “a girl’s night” as she called it. However [Name] began to notice newer cuts and bruises around her body hours prior so she had to cancel. It’s not that she was in any physical pain, however she didn’t want blood sleeping through her clothing while drinking alcohol.

So here she was on the floor around 1 in the morning, her thigh covered in dried up blood, she did a relatively good job on stitching her skin back together. A skill she had to develop rather quickly due to the surmount of open wounds she’d experience, she couldn’t imagine the pain her soulmate would be in currently. She’s gone to the hospital for the first few times her body was affected by the beatings.

It was almost like a ritual so she opted on saving the hospital’s resources on someone else than her. Bad luck on her end for receiving such fatal wounds at times in return of internal love. An endless cycle it seemed.

Mercifully, the wounds she sustained wouldn’t leave lasting scars on her skin. They fade over time and become invisible to the naked eye, almost as if they were never there. Anything her soulmate endures physically will appear, the invisible bond connecting their bodies.

Any bodily injuries that affects his senses will cause her to have the same reaction as her soulmate. Ranging from a collapsed lung to a head injury causing her ears to ring. Yet, this lack of physical pain doesn't diminish the impact it has on her emotional state.

On worst days, Marci would be called over immediately to babysit [Name] for the severe injuries. Just in case she passes out from the blood loss. On two separate occasions, Marci had a the biggest scare of her life. It got the point where nothing helped and Marci insisted she go to the hospital. Felt like she was close to death without doing anything to get there.

Marci insisted to find a way to stop the soulmate connection but to no avail. [Name] threw the idea to the trash and immediately disagreed causing arguments with the lawyer. However today was one of the easier days, there was no need to call Marci.

She hisses out of instinct, though she couldn’t feel the pulsating sensation of the cut but she did feel the needle go through her skin. It was a sight that was unsettling to anyone who was able to witness.

[Name] patched up her injury and slowly stood up, careful enough not to reopen the stitches. She took some ibuprofen for the swelling and limped her way to bed. A couple of minutes gone by and she dozed off to sleep.

It was once again bustling in the cafe, her staff handling all the business coming in and out. [Name] took the opportunity to sit in her office to oversee some inventory and what’s needed for her shop, also allowing her stitches to heal in the meantime.

[Name] yawns, her arms stretching in the air. She didn’t get enough sleep, considering last night’s event. She hears a knock from her door, a certain knock that only her and Marci know.

“You know, you can always walk on in if it’s you, Marci.” [Name] said before taking a sip of her overly sweet coffee. Some would say it’s not really coffee if there’s more sugar than coffee. “Yes I know, but you like your privacy. I know you well enough to know you don’t like it when people just barge in,” Marci responds.

”You barely respect my own boundaries,” [Name] deadpanned and rolled her eyes causing Marci to shrug. “True, but I’m not a bully.” Marci remarked.

“You kind of are,” [Name] states and stopped her work. “What brings you here today? You miss me already?” She jokes, a small smile evident on face.

“Actually, yes. I’m on my lunch break and I bought you your favorite. I know what it means when you’re hauled up in your office and it’s not good,” Marci explained, her face betrayed a sense of worry. Her worry wasn’t something that she can easily hide.

In the moment, [Name] looked at Marci and empathized with her. Words didn’t need to be spoken in the room. It was like a silent conversation between the two, thoughts and feelings of worry and fear speaking from the heart.

After a few moments of quiet silence, [Name] perked up the sound of her stomach growling. “So what did you bring for lunch?” She muttered softly.

“Chinese. It’s always your go to.” Marci slid into the chair next to her next and placed the food on the table. “The spring rolls are mine, and no, you’re not having a bite.” Marci said and brought out the carton of fried rice and noodles, alongside two chopsticks.

“We’re going to talk about it soon than later, [Name].” Marci told [Name], she didn’t have to say anything specific to hint at what she talking about. The air felt calmer and relaxed but there was still a sense of fear lingering. [Name] nodded and began to dig in her food.

#marci stahl #matt murdock x reader #marvel #matt murdock #karen page #daredevil x reader #daredevil #foggy nelson #matthew murdock #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil x female reader

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sullustangin · 9 months ago

Text

Fluffy February Day 16: Spontaneous

SWTOR

Time: Sometime during KotFE

Word count: About 1200, but Lana does ultimately have fun.

Lana Beniko cursed the day she had met Theron Shan and Eva Corolastor.

She should have drowned both of them at Manaan. Taken their intel and proceeded apace to stop the Revanite conspiracy –

…and as always, her internal rant stopped there, because Lana remembered how green she was at spy games and all the skills she lacked before she went on the run. She had learned all the things she could live without. She also learned about the things that could and did kill her.

As Theron later indicated, it was always important for a spy to know their weaknesses and know when they could not be compensated for in a mission.

The Empire was expert at limiting free will and spontaneity. The Republic apparently tolerated a certain amount of improvisation, which explained not only Theron’s own high-flying achievements but also a good number of his injuries. Nothing truly needed to be said about the constant state of chaos that existed among smugglers; Eva traveled along the ebbs and flows of business and adventure in the galaxy, fluctuating and ever-changing.

Lana did not tolerate spontaneity well, as it gave her ulcers. Eva was the absolute top source for them. Her rescue and insistence upon saving every wayward Zakuulan en route had depleted the bismuth supply Lana kept with her in her medkit.

Eva’s improv skills prevented Lana from accompanying her to the Star Fortresses. Praise the stars for Bowdaar’s return; the Alliance wouldn’t have gotten its kick-start into active operations without Eva having a partner that wasn’t currently guiding her remotely (Theron), an easily disabled droid (HK-55), incapable of doing stealth (Koth), or cramming antacids down her throat in fistfuls (Lana).

The antacids supply in medbay dwindled when Eva went on walk-about; she’d disappear from the base, only to reappear when she felt like it… or when Lana couldn’t take the absence anymore and sent Theron to retrieve her.

This was also why Lana could never own a cat; the requirement to let it do as it pleased at any given moment was overly indulgent, in Lana’s opinion.

The current cause of Lana’s churning stomach acid was Eva’s impromptu decision to say that, as an exercise in counter espionage, the entire base was required to play The Assassins Game. Everyone had a packet of purple dye, and they were to squirt it on their target, assigned to them by the Master Assassin. Those who survived the first round proceeded to the second, until someone was declared the best assassin on base and was rewarded with their choice of liquor from Virtue’s Thief and a three-day leave pass.

That wasn’t the problem.

No, it wasn’t even that Theron Shan was the Master Assassin who had helped Eva arrange the game and the target assignments.

The problem was that Lana Beniko accompanied the liquor with the winner on their three-day leave pass.

This idea apparently had been born overnight, in the short 7 hours Lana had taken to sleep.

She stormed into the war room only to find those two jokers sitting at the war table. “YOU.”

The pair had the audacity to smile at her. Theron’s expression was more akin to a smirk, while Eva smiled with all of her teeth, a bit feral. “In our defense,” Eva began, “it was the only way to exempt you from the Assassins Game.”

Theron indicated Eva. “She can’t play, because she’s the commander of the base – unlimited access anywhere at any time. I can’t play because … well, first, I’d win, and second, I had to make the assignments; I know who has which target.”

Lana could feel the heat just radiating from her eyes. “And you couldn’t come up for anything for me?”

“We did!” Theron and Eva said in unison.

“I’m the prize,” Lana said with dismay. “Along with a bottle of liquor and a shuttle pass.”

Eva waved a finger back and forth. “No, no. You have the most important job of all, Lana.” She exchanged a knowing look with Theron and gave him the floor.

Theron squared up, datapad in hand. “The winner of the competition… has already been contacted.”

Lana tilted her head to the side, wondering if she hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”

Theron launched into his briefing. “You will be accompanying a young Quarren pilot to his planet of choice, which will be Kamino, an ocean world.”

The planet flickered to life on the war table, with a few finger taps from Eva. “And just to remind you, much like Mon Cal, Quarren are biologically incompatible with humans!”

Lana growled at her as Theron continued, unfazed. “Your mission there is to investigate some … disturbances among the local wildlife…” Theron gestured to Eva.

Eva ran her fingers along the edge of the table, summoning up an image of… a Jedi? “So, around 300 years ago, the planet Ossus got trashed by a supernova, caused by our old buddy from Yavin 4, Exar Kun. On the way out, a Jedi master from the Swimmer race called ‘Qalsneek the Bull’ smuggled artifacts off Ossus before the whole place was irradiated. He supposedly hid the loot on Kamino.”

The light went on in Lana’s head. Aha!

Eva cocked an eyebrow at Lana. “I have my suspicions about how ‘Jedi’ this guy was, with a name like that and a bolthole on Kamino readily available to store this stuff.”

Lana nodded. “The entire Exar Kun affair… was highly disruptive to the Jedi Order and the galaxy at large. The histories may not be complete…” She stared at the planet then turned to Theron. “What’s caused the artifacts to activate and cause the disruption, thus attracting our attention?”

Theron gave her a smile, appreciating how she’d knit everything together promptly. “That’s what we need you to find out. And if it’s safe, retrieving the artifacts would be helpful for our little enclave …though we might be able to use them strategically to generate goodwill with the Jedi Order at a later date.”

“Oooor the Sith Order – whoever is the highest bidder in terms of credits or war materiel,” Eva piped up.

Theron gave her a look. “We’ll talk about that later.”

Eva hopped off the edge of the war table. “You’re the only one of us that’s Force Sensitive among us, so you’ve got to go…plus you’re the least believable to have cooked up the Assassins Game –”

“I’ll remind you I made you a cannibal on Rishi,” Lana retorted.

She could be spontaneous! …if she planned it well enough…

“So you’ll take your hot date and your nice booze in stride and … put up a good show for the base, one way or another?” Eva dangled out there.

Lana sighed and blew a puff of hair up at her bangs. “I will be appropriately devastated by my doomed romance with a biologically incompatible Quarren. But I will enjoy the liquor.”

“Thanks, Lana,” Theron said, already burying himself in the next round of Assassin assignments.

“Can’t do it without you!” Eva added. “So, wanna go up to the observation deck and watch our idiots chase each other all over Odessen and squirt each other with grape juice?”

“Absolutely!”

@fluffyfebruary

#swtor fan fiction #lana beniko #theron shan #theron shan x smuggler #oc: eva corolastor #fluffy february

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monster-school-au · 26 days ago

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BSD MONSTERS & HUNTERS (school) AU

SEE CARD: https://bsd-monster-au.carrd.co/#

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

RULES;

chars (ocs and canons) should be 18+ for the most part, w/ few exceptions (carrd elaborates more on exceptions, if you have another idea, feel free to dm me!)

please state whether your char is a student, teacher, or if they have another role!

tag this account or @frenchtoastbites to be added to the masterlist, so i can keep track of what we have

preferably get a wide array of canons before doing repeats, but if thats not possible try to go for alternate versions first (like beast or fem chuuya, if there's already a regular chuuya)

respect boundaries obvi... thats general decency tho

HAVE FUN!!! AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN IM GLAD I FINISHED IN TIME TO SAY THAT

GENERAL LORE / AN INTRO ~

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Focusing on the supernatural creatures of various mythologies and their dynamic with humans, this AU has a lot of creative freedom and opportunities for characters to be... pretty much whatever you want, with only a few limits! I encourage people to make both hunters and monsters, but if you have an idea for something that sooorttt of bridges the gap, please DM me!

The accepted/predicted species list can be found specifically on the carrd! If you have an idea for something not on that list, please dm me.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

In this AU, things are relatively similar to the actual world, but monsters and the supernatural are, indeed, real. The time period is somewhat medieval, and there is little to no modern technology.

Some components and materials that can only come from monsters can better the standard of living for humans-- which is one of the reasons people began to hunt them. For example: selkie (think beautiful seal mermaid) blubber produces much purer oil that burns longer and hotter. Whaling expeditions were costly and the creatures could only be found in certain areas, but originally, selkies could be found anywhere with a rocky coastline. Humans also began to hunt off monsters for religious reasons-- monsters were often seen as synonymous with the demonic, and therefore many of the first proper hunter organizations where closely associated with the church. Others hunted for vengeance or out of fear; some monsters could have violent instincts, and it was possible for certain ones to spread their "condition" to humans.

Some people can go through their lives without knowing about monsters-- the government, which primarily exists in the form of a unified international theocracy-- tries to hide the existence of monsters from the general population. The humans that do know of the existence of monsters typically fall into four categories: higher class, scouted by the government to be a hunter, scouted by the government to be a researcher, or someone who knows about monsters because someone else or they directly witnessed a monster in a way that couldn't be passed off as a simple mistake. (ie; family member was attacked, or was friends with a monster as a child. <-- these things can also happen with your chars!)

In order to protect people from monsters (and hide the truth from the public), large walls were constructed around the major human cities, and the majority of the human population slowly were pushed together as numbers of both humans and monsters generally declined-- monsters from being hunted, and humans from monster retaliations, some of them being transformed into monsters, or killed mistakenly in hunts. Eventually, the vast majority of humans lived in one city-- Salus. (this is Latin for safety.) Of course, some things were still beyond these boundaries-- small farming communities and the occasional chapel in which hunters operated were interspersed throughout the ruins of older settlements and wilderness. For the most part, everywhere beyond Salus was the territory of monsters, which had become more solitary.

As human technology began to advance gradually, with new weapons coming about, monsters needed to learn to help each other and properly use their abilities. Before this, the monsters existed in very spread out communities, primarily based upon their own species. Common leadership only came about officially within the last fifty years or so-- and with it, the prestigious monster university known as Lacrima Academy.

In turn, a human-run university, housed in the shell of an old castle, was formed specifically for training young adults to be well equipped and taught when it came to eliminating monsters. It is called Basilica Academy and is located a bit beyond the walls of Salus. It is rather exclusive, and the school is known for its rigorous practices and harsh training of students. It really isn't too far from Lacrima, which is a few dozen miles from the city of Salus--a choice made intentionally, if human hunters were ever to need to ride toward Lacrima for the purposes of battle on horseback.

MASTERLIST ~

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Changeling Dazai: @no-longer-changing

More TBA

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

AU RAN BY @frenchtoastbites, FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT THERE AS WELL!

#bsd rp #bsd rp au #bsd au #bsd rp community

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justatalkingface · 2 years ago

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I'm rather salty about the class 1a vs. Izuku and the aftermath.

Because to me all that arc showed was that only Uraraka, Iida and Bakugou are important to Izuku, meaning that they were the only ones who at the end of the day got through to Izuku. I mean who else got big moments like them. The answer is no one else.

Okay, maybe it's too much to ask of Horikoshi to give meaningful moments for of all of class 1a. But you know there is one other person I wanted to get big moment, but didn't receive. It was Shoto.

I'm just so mad that Shoto, who always supported Izuku unconditionally, more than anyone else in class 1a, didn't get any recognition. Did Horikoshi have to ignore the friendship that he created between him and Shoto to create this arc? He just completely destroyed any hope or expectations that I had in the manga to be honest.

Am I just frustrated over nothing because it seems no one cares?

Oh, you're not the only one upset about how 1A is being treated. Someone posted recently that Kaminari is one of the favorite characters, but his last big significant moment is what, War Arc? And before him being used for only his Quirk... when was he relevant again? Once the power levels started shooting up, the 'elite' 1A (who's Quriks had to be set up before the power cap was set so damn high) has been less and less relevant as the story continued, and they became less able to compete in the big leagues the story was focusing on.

The thing that comes up with that clusterfuck, beyond how badly it treats Izuku, is how badly it treats 1A as a whole, minus Bakugou, of course. They were there as nothing more than Bakugou's backup, and all their actions just served his agenda, not their own thoughts or feelings. They just... blindly agreed, because.... reasons. Yeah.

Shoto, of course, is also being done wrong, but it's worse on him because he was a main character, but now he's just a part of other people's stories.

When we first met Shoto, Endeavour was involved with him, obviously, but the dynamic was Endeavour was a part of Shoto's story. Endeavour was relevant because how he affected Shoto.

After Endeavour became the Number One Hero, though, it started switching around, and Shoto was sidelined to focus more and more on Endeavour. He featured in that story, sure, but it was as a part of Endeavour's story, not his own. Shoto was, instead of being relevant on his own merits, became relevant because how he affected Endeavour, which only got worse over time as his acceptance of his father was more or less tactly stated as fact, even if it was never said, and so Endeavour's story could focus on Dabi more as part of his development.

Here's where it starts diverging from Izuku, though. Originally, Izuku talked some sense into him, and so they became friends, right? As time passed, though, they spent less and less time interacting on screen, and when Shoto was on screen with him? Even then, more and more of that time was about Endeavour.

They interacted when they interned with Endeavour together. When they ate a meal at Todoroki's house, it was about pushing Endeavour's story, how Todoroki felt about Endeavour, not Izuku, and worse yet Izuku ended up supporting Endeavour's redemption as part of Shoto's 'realization' of that fact he wanted to forgive his father.

So, on one end, his connection with Izuku as a friend got less focus, less screen time spent with the two of them together and they, in the author's views of them anyways, started becoming less important by dint of them just being together less, and less time of that time was spent as friends and more as working towards part of a greater objective, while on the other end, he started getting more and more assimilated as a character in Endeavour's story, not allowed to stand on his own, go his own way.

These two factors carved away at, not even their friendship, but how relevant their friendship was to Shoto and Izuku as characters, as both of them focused on different things.

Then, you know, my favorite phrase becomes relevant yet again: Everything Changed When The War Arc Attacked.

Because Post War, characters aren't relevant for their friendships, just their value for the plot, for moving Hori's agenda to the end as fast as possible, because he doesn't want to flesh out anything beyond the most basic necessities. And at this point, for the greater plot, Shoto only exists as part of Dabi and Endeavour story. So of course, under that logic, he's not a big focus when it's about Izuku. Ochako is part of Izuku's plot, as much as anyone not named Bakugou is, only in so much as she's still somewhat hinted as Izuku's future love interest, but by and by large, Izuku, or rather Deku, has moved beyond 1A, beyond friendships, and what remains of his friendship with Shoto isn't important enough to get even a brief nod too.

Hori didn't need to do this, is the thing. This is just the quickest, easiest option for him.

So... sorry to say, but I'd keep your expectations low about Shoto's future if I was you; he's already had his big fight with Dabi, and now it's Endeavour's turn, and maybe they'll fight him together, sure, but that'll be it. And after that, what purpose is he going to serve in the narrative? It's all going to be downhill for him from here.

#ask #mha critical #bnha critical #class 1a #mha shoto #endeavour critical #izuku deserves better #shoto deserves better #1A deserves better

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yoongisleftshoulder · 2 years ago

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BTS Reacts: S/O Bullied for Having Facial Scars

A/N: This one hit close to home. I have several large scars across my face and neck and I'll tell you what, being made fun of them is probably the one thing that still gets under my skin even as an adult. I inserted an insult I have been on the receiving end of under Yoongi's section. Please never ever bully someone for their appearence, you never know what their story could be.

Seokjin:

During a meeting with some trainees in the dance room, Seokjin had decided to step out for a moment to grab another bottle of water. When he returned, he was saddened to hear one young teenage boy saying that no matter what his s/o did, they always looked bad because of the three-pointed scar that covered most of their left cheek. He left no time for the boy to recover himself, immediately beginning to scold him. Jin explained how disappointed he was in the boy for judging someone he did not know anything about. He demanded an apology and requested that the youngster do better in the future. Think before you speak.

Yoongi:

At first, Yoongi pays no mind to the comments, knowing that they don't mean anything and are just random words of venom. In his line of work, you have to have a thick skin and people like that aren't worth your time. However, when he sees that your expression completely changed when you heard the man say that the scars littered across your cheek and chin made you look like a walking virus, something inside of him snapped. Now, all he cared about was the things he had said about you because clearly, it hurt your feelings. He quickly removed you from the bully's presence, taking you into his private studio room. He sat down with you and began reassuring you that the gross words mean nothing and the man had no clue what he was talking about. A small smile returned to your face when he stated that he felt sorry for the man, assuming he had nothing good in his life so he resorted to talking down on others. You knew that he was trying his best to make you believe that you were beautiful, and you loved him for it. Yoongi was your number one supporter and protector and he wasn't going to let some random asshole ruin your evening.

Hoseok:

What started out as a sweet, romantic date between you and Hoseok turned into a ruined night because of one rude passing pedestrian. The two of you were journeying home, opting to walk and enjoy the scenery, when you became distracted by a flower that you thought was gorgeous. You stopped in your tracks to turn and look at it, not taking note of the person who was close behind you, causing you to bump into his shoulder. Right away, the stranger started going off, even going so far to say that you had a face only a mother could love because of the two long, dark scars running horizontal underneath your right eye. Hoseok intervened as soon as he heard this, telling the stranger that you made a mistake and he went too far. The man simply scoffed and walked away. You told your boyfriend that it didn't bother you but he could tell that you were lying. He spent the remainder of the walk coming up with different ways to make you laugh, getting your mind to forget the bully.

Namjoon:

Namjoon would be furious upon reading nasty comments about his s/o, who just featured on one of his lives for the first time. The main talk of the chat was how supposedly, the large scar starting on your chin going all the way up your cheek made you look ugly. People were questioning how he could be with such a person. Although he felt upset with rage internally, he did his best to keep his cool, being careful not to get him or you in trouble. He comes up with a reason why he has to end the live and immediately begins to reassure you that you were anything but ugly, and that you shouldn't pay any mind to the people hiding behind their screens.

Jimin:

Jimin wasn't usually one to make confrontation or anything of the sort but when he overheard a new staff member saying that the scar running from the corner of your mouth up to your ear ruined your face, he became angry. You were the light of his life and on top of that, he knew all too well what it was like to feel terribly insecure over appearences. He couldn't stand by and listen to her go on and on with increasingly horrible comments. Instead of causing a scene, Jimin asked the woman to step aside with him and began scolding her for her words. He let her know that he would be in contact with her supervisor, not wanting anyone low enough to mock visual imperfections to be around his significant other.

Taehyung:

At a company holiday party, you and Taehyung were having a blast. Champagne was flowing, music was playing, and the sounds of a full room of people chatting contributed to the ambiance. You were having a lot of fun too, a smile rarely leaving your face. Taehyung had never seen you look more beautiful than you did tonight. At one point, you had decided you needed to use the restroom. Taehyung lead you through crowds of people and opted to wait close by, outside of the bathroom. As he was patiently waiting, he overheard an unpleasant conversation about you. A woman was not-so-discreetly spewing out words of hate to her friend, saying that she doesn't know how you could step foot out of your house because of the scar above your eyebrow, ending underneath your eye. She even said that you should be wearing a paper bag over your head. Tae shot glares in the woman's direction, eventually making eye contact. She seemed to get the message when his eyes stayed locked onto hers, and she took her friend in another direction. When you finally came out of the bathroom, he simply gave you a deep and loving kiss on the lips. He chose to shelter you from the unnecessary hate and doesn't mention what happened.

Jungkook:

Jungkook would be flabbergasted that someone called you ugly during his live because of the curved scar that ran from under your eye down to your chin. His eyes would widen for a moment upon seeing the comment before turning back to see if you were paying attention and had also read it. He would mutter out a simple and quiet "that's not okay and not true." without mentioning anyone in particular. After that, he started to feel a little uncomfortable and decided to end the live. You were still blissfully unaware of the insult that had occurred, reading a book peacefully on the hotel bed across from him. Without explaining what happened, Jungkook crawled over to your lap, resting his head on your thigh and wrapped his arms around your waist. For the rest of the night, you wondered in the back of your mind why he was acting even sweeter than normal.

#bts #bts reaction #kpop reaction #jin #kim seokjin #suga #min yoongi #jhope #jung hoseok #rm #kim namjoon #jimin #park jimin #v #kim taehyung #jungkook #jeon jungkook

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kodoku-roxi · 2 years ago

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(1/2)

I said I’d come back with an update, right? Right. This post is about health and i will write another one after this one about the more important things ( i have a new laptop!!! and it’s amazing :DDD )

So my state health is fine, I am fine, I didn’t lose any internal organs, (I just... that was my biggest fear, ok) and my back doesn’t hurt anymore, witch is fantastic!!

I had to stop drinking coffee, and you know, you can’t stop drinking coffee instantly... in a day.... you can’t do that. It was bad.

And I had as well to stop my regular meds so I could take the NEW meds for the problem I was having….. fun! my body didn’t like that. And now it's been a week since I returned to the previous meds, and you know, again, my body didn’t like that. If I had a nickel for every time I stopped taking my meds for a period of time and then went back on them and instead of helping me not to pass out on the middle of the street it made me feel worse.. I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but let’s just say that it happened only 2 times.

I had terrible insomnia. It was worst than ever, literally only one or 2 or 4 hours a day of sleep for like 2 weeks. The walls were moving, and I had the feeling that the door was opening from time to time, sometimes even seeing it opening for a second, and the room was spinning, but that’s normal for me, it happens right now when I’m moving my head

So I was in the kitchen, making some tea and the house owner saw my condition, and that I could barely walk.... she. called. my. mom. Let me tell you something, she almost kicked me out when I had the first dose of the vaccine because I was feeling sick as fuck and I couldn’t take her grandson to the school bla bla, this woman doesn’t give a fuck about my well being. Anyway, her act made me realize how dead I was looking and how serious the problem was.. However, mom didn't help me at all. But I had already talked to the mother of a friend who works as a nurse (as far as I remember…) and she helped me a lot, i mean i knew what i had to do but talking with her (through my friend, i couldn’t talk directly with her...) made me less scared and she told me to take some extra stuff. Even Mariana helped me with the correct painkillers... my mother came to me with some things that didn’t helped me with the condition I had, I told her “ok but at least.. can you bring me some painkillers (i told her the pills i take for pain, she knows well what pills i take for this but noooo she brings me paracetamol sinus instead of nurofen express forte because why the fuck not) and bonus she told me that she will talk to the doctor in more details but she didn’t, and this is the second time when she does this. I don’t have my doc’s phone number, she does, and one day I will ask her to give me doc’s number, one day. Idk what’s with my mom... she’s a smart woman... why is she doin this, she drives me crazy sometimes.

Now I’m doin well, I am ignoring her most of the time since then because it seems to me, more and more, that we are a family only on paper, I will not stop talking with her because she has cancer and i need to know that she’s fine and i have to help her when she needs help

Anyway I’m no longer in pain, i repaired my sleep, kind of, but my mental state is more unstable. Fortunately, i can deal with this, i know what to do, so this is not a problem. I can say that i am ready to come back to share my drawings and maybe i will write some stuff to end a certain story and honestly i will start talking more, most because i will stop stressing about my english, i’m just tired... this was supposed to be my happy place, yeah i will try to control my anxiety, surprisingly im tired of being stressed about anything and everything all of the time

a little bit of everything all of the time, apathy's a tragedy and boredom is a crime, anything and everything all of the time -

#words words la la la

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albatmobile · 2 years ago

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The Art of Rehabilitating Snowbirds Chapter 2

𓅪 Navigating the present is hard when your past refuses to die.

𓅪 After not hearing from Roy or Jason for five years, you suddenly find yourself taking in extra income as a babysitter for Roy and Jason's child.

𓅪 Rated: M | 9.8k fem!Reader x Jason Todd x Roy Harper [masterlist]

Chapter Two: The Wilder Mile | ao3 - wattpad

THEN

Being new (and poor) didn’t help your situation. You figured this out early on.

Somehow, you could all be wearing the same prissy uniforms, but these rich kids could sniff out that you didn’t belong.

Because of this, you spent your first day of freshman year at Gotham Academy with your head down. You only briefly stopped to chat with your locker neighbor, a raven-haired sophomore, about who you knew in common from your old school.

As it turned out, you both had the misfortune of knowing Bart Allen. You had smiled when he said that but didn’t linger much longer as you needed to get to class.

It had gotten out by your second day that you were there on scholarship from Star City, “which makes so much more sense, poor thing!" and, “I knew she didn’t belong.” You heard the whispers in each hall you passed, heard the laughter during each period you attended. Not even in the fucking bathroom, were you safe from the gossip mill.

By your third day, you'd made peace with the fact that you’d be a leper for the rest of your four years. No, really, you were fine with it.

Nothing you weren’t used to at home anyway.

You sighed and snuck to the back corner of the library to eat lunch.

You’d found the spot whilst roaming around in between class periods. Once you’d seen no one go near it, you decided to hunker down and make it your new hideaway, hoping the other students would leave you the fuck alone.

Every now and then, you’d feel a certain scratching feeling on the back of your neck. It was almost as if someone were watching you, but you highly doubted it. The towering bookcases surrounding you did a pretty decent job of concealing you.

You chalked it up to still being paranoid on account of your shit first days at the academy because each time you looked around, all you saw were books.

In the days following, you’d try to talk with your locker neighbor more but ultimately didn’t want to make him feel like he had to talk to you. The number of times you bumped into each other at your lockers was uncanny, but he didn’t have to force himself to talk to you every time.

Ah, yes. The burden of anxiety.

“What’s your name?” the raven asked you on Thursday of your first week. You told him. “Star City, right?” You nodded, retrieving your books silently, giving him the chance to dismiss you, but he prodded on. Did he actually want to talk to you? Maybe he was the weird one- not you. Or maybe he didn’t actually hate you like everyone else apparently did? “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, flashing you his abashed blue eyes, “I never introduced myself and I keep pestering you.”

Damn, should you be asking him about more stuff in return, then?

In your reclusive state at Gotham Academy, you'd somewhat forgotten what normal, friendly (emphasis on friendly)conversations were like. Ultimately, you'd come to the assumption that no one wanted to talk to you, so it was best just to keep quiet and to yourself.

“You’re good.” You gave him an awkward double thumbs up. Damn, that was fucking lame. You cursed yourself internally. The first person who actually wanted to talk to you was, you noted with a slight blush, hot as fuck, and here you were, screwing it all up. “Do you play any games?”

You can't help but cringe. What the fuck was wrong with you? Yes, you should be asking questions, but you didn't need him to know you were a loser this early on.

Instead of looking at you weirdly, the sophomore just nodded excitedly, “For sure. We should game together sometime.” The bell rang soon after and you instantly realized his proposition to be an empty invitation. He shut his locker and stuck his bony, pale hand out to you. “I’m Tim, by the way.”

“Cool.” You nodded, losing yourself in the depths of his hypnotizing blue eyes. “I’ll see you around, I guess,” you said as you motioned around both of your lockers, lamely referencing the fact you’d see him next period to switch out books just like always.

“For sure.”

You stared after his retreating form and sighed, leaning your back against your locker to shut it, “Can I just have one normal interaction for once?”

“Do you talk to yourself a lot?”

You startled, turning immediately to the source of a new male voice.

Your eyes traveled up the form of the skinny, short kid standing next to your locker. His neatly combed ink-black hair contrasted starkly against his tanned skin.

He squinted at you, seeming to recognize you were acknowledging his lackluster stature with distaste.

You blushed at having been caught and hugged your books closer to your chest as if they would somehow help conceal your embarrassment. “No,” you spat out too quickly to be believable.

“Loon,” he responded boredly, continuing to block your path.

You squinted at him. “What do you want?” You attempted to step around him, but he swiftly stepped in front of you again, causing you to huff and back up. “If you want lunch money or some shit, you picked the wrong girl.”

At Star City, sure, people had picked on you, but it was nothing ever violent. This kid, though? This kid looked like the definition of violence.

This time, instead of waiting for his response, you spun on your heel and went, what you realized too late was, in the opposite direction of where you actually needed to go. At least, you thought… You were still very much in the process of figuring out the layout of this giant, castle-like school. Hogwarts and those moving stairs had nothing on Gotham Academy's labyrinth-like hallways.

You heard his light footfall gaining behind you and wondered worriedly if the dude really was going to give you trouble.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said tonelessly after you’d rounded your third random corner.

What the fuck was his problem?

“Yeah,” you said shortly, “some little twerp was blocking my way.”

“Hey!” he hissed before mumbling something under his breath. "You're the little one here, dumbass."

You quickly spun around to face him.

From this close, you could see the annoyance trickling out from his deep honeyed eyes. You hadn't been able to see the extent of their color by your locker, but near the huge glass window you were both facing, you could clearly see the intricate layers of yellow and green hidden within their depths.

You snapped yourself out of it.

Now was not the time to be checking this creep out.

Before he could say anything else, you continued straight from where you’d been heading, hoping you might end up circling back around to your locker. As the environment around you continued to look completely unfamiliar, you began to doubt your logic completely.

At this point, you were totally lost.

The kid appeared noiselessly behind you to grab your lower arm with a sure, strong grip.

You glanced up at him uneasily and your eyes danced with his in some sort of weird battle. With how young he looked, he had to be a freshman like you, though his strength was something someone way out of high school might have.

Definitely weird.

You weren’t going to go cross-eyed over this kid and he could tell. He was the one who ended up breaking the silence. “You’re going to art, aren’t you?” It didn’t seem like a question, but you nodded anyway, already wanting this interaction to be over and done with. “Follow me.”

You sat there for a few seconds as your indecisiveness kicked in.

Stay lost or follow the kid psychopath?

You begrudgingly went with the latter, noting again just how young he looked.

No matter how young he was, the fact still stood that the kid was aggressive and cryptic- something you didn't appreciate in the slightest. You supposed it should be reassuring he knew the way but, if anything, the kid put you on edge.

“I didn’t know they had a middle school here, too,” you jested as payback for his odd, if not hostile, introduction.

“That’s a horrible insult,” he said matter-of-factly, not missing a beat while glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. “There’s also an elementary where you should clearly be right now,” the kid sighed as if unimpressed with your attempt to sass him.

"Please," you continued on, waving him off unperturbed, “my tits would say college, easy.”

You'd been expecting an eye roll or some kind of 'as if' comment, but, instead, his cheeks stained dark red against his dark skin. He soon looked anywhere but at you. You clearly weren’t ready for that reaction as you quickly followed suit, turning your gaze to the polished granite floor below.

With one more turned corner, you finally started to recognize the art wing hallway. “There’s a restroom over there, too, just so you know,” he pointed at a wooden, unmarked door as he broke the awkward silence once again.

“Okay,” you replied blankly at his random advice.

He seemed as sheepish as his RBF would let him as the two of you closed in on your classroom.

He instinctively held the door open for you, something you noted gratefully, though surprised nonetheless. You nodded to him, making brief eye contact again when you walked past.

As soon as you entered the room, the pre-period chatter dulled.

It was a phenomenon you'd become accustomed to at Gotham Academy, though your stomach still clenched subconsciously at the unwarranted attention. As much as you hated to admit how much it affected you, it was hard to have everyone in the school judge you like this without ever talking to you.

You wouldn’t blame the brooding asshole sitting next to you for not liking you after you'd insulted him, but everyone else? They could all straight fuck off.

You brushed off the silence as you sat down at the only empty table left, figuring this was better than the harsh insults and accusations you'd been getting.

The stool beside you scraped horrifically against the cement floor as the creepy kid from earlier took a seat next to you.

You gave him a confused glance, but he merely pulled out his phone and began tapping away at it. In response, you faced forward to stare down at your empty sketchbook.

“I heard she’s not even smart,” one girl said. You look up hesitantly to see her sneering at you with morbid glee.

Oh, great, you thought. Here comes the usual shit.

Just one day. Was it too much to ask for just one day of peace?

“I hear she gave a bunch of blowjobs to get that scholarship,” another kid said.

The kid next to you shifted in his seat, but you didn’t bother to see if he was glaring at you or not. He’d surely heard the ruckus by now; how could he not?

“Her? No way. Who would want… that?” Soon, the entire table and the one next to them were chiming in.

“God, I bet she stinks. Talk about a fucking charity case,” a blonde loudly exclaimed.

“What a whore.”

“She's literally a slut!”

Everyone at the tables flanking yours had joined in at that point, adding to the cacophony of slander.

You weren't surprised but disheartened to hear the name-calling and rumors getting so aggressive. You still didn't understand what you’d done to make these people talk about you in such a way.

After all, how could you help being poor?

The tanned kid beside you seemed to agree with your internal train of thought. When you finally bothered to look over at him, you saw him sneering at the other tables.

“Elliot,” he barked in a way that made you lean away from him. His tone demanded attention and everyone was quick to oblige. “You have no right to talk after the 8th grade graduation party this past May.”

People around the classroom quietly giggled and 'ooo'ed.'

The corners of her mouth instantly dropped at the dig. She gaped at him while her friends, who, in turn, glared at you.

“Big mistake, newbie.”

You were pretty sure her last name was Elliot, not her first, but then again, you knew nothing about Gotham after spending your entire life in Star City.

“But I didn’t say shit!” you exclaimed helplessly.

It didn’t matter anyway.

You hesitantly looked up again to see the entire group still sneering in your direction.

There was a sudden bang and your table shook in its wake.

“You’re a pathetic waste of space.” The kid stood up so abruptly he knocked over his metal stool, leaving it to crash and clank to the ground below. “All you’re good for is spewing slander, you annoying-ass cretin!”

Your eyes widened at the commotion he was causing on your behalf.

Why was he sticking up for you like this?

The teacher appeared out of nowhere, effectively shutting the class up as he finally started the lesson.

About fucking time, you thought to yourself.

“Damian, sit down,” your teacher said exasperatedly.

The tanned kid, no, Damian, you corrected yourself, muttered to himself.

He picked up his seat and aggressively dropped it upright to stand again. The stool screeched obnoxiously as he situated himself with all eyes in the class on him. Most, you noted, looked fearful, while others looked downright offended at his presence.

The gossip continued, albeit in hushed whispers, as the teacher reviewed basic watercolor techniques, something you were already good at.

You zoned out the lesson, only to be brought back into the moment by Damian's huffs of frustration.

Damian, you’d noticed from the corner of your eye, kept peeking over at you occasionally, squinting calculatingly, then would slump as he went back to his canvas. That was how it continued until the bell rang to release you to next period.

“Those inbred, trust fund fucks don’t know what they’re talking about,” it was all Damian said about the incident as you both left the art room.

You laughed at his savageness, "Thanks." You thought you were odd? This kid was way up there with you.

“Are you headed to the library to eat?” he asked nonchalantly.

You raised an eyebrow at him and he blushed in response, completely avoiding eye contact with you. “Uh, yeah,” you hesitated, “I hadn’t realized my lunch spot had been spotted, I guess,” you said, rubbing at the back of your head.

You felt completely off guard, knowing that someone had been watching you. No, not someone; Damian had been watching you.

He looked at you expectantly, but you were unsure as to why. Wouldn't a kid like him have friends already? It's not like he'd be waiting on an invitation to lunch with you. Not like anyone would, for that matter, you thought bitterly.

You continued back to the hallway where you’d met an hour ago and tried to part ways once again.

“See you in class,” you said, going to dial your locker code and grab your lunch.

You added your copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray to the growing pile of supplies in your arms before finally making off toward the library. You wouldn't need anyone's help finding the way, considering you’d already memorized the way... Or so you thought.

You felt Damian’s presence behind you the whole way. You only acknowledged him by thanking him when he’d grabbed some falling textbooks of yours and when he corrected you on which turn to take.

What a fucking creep.

You settled into your hidden lounge area with your newfound friend(?) in complete silence.

He single-handedly slipped your heavy textbooks onto the table in front of you with inhumane ease, reminding you of his strong grip on your arm from earlier. He looked at you with an intensity you were beginning to realize was natural for him as you bit into your sandwich.

“What?” you asked around a mouth full.

He simply tsk’d at your comically stuffed cheeks and began meticulously setting out the compartments of his bento box, then his napkin, then utensils on top, then another napkin to set on his lap.

You rolled your eyes at the cumbersome display before cracking your book open to where you’d last left off.

It was a sad book. One that made your stomach twist in the morbid realization of what true darkness lies within everyone. The dark and the light. The kind and cruel. There was balance and consequence. You’d realized Dorian’s plights against himself are what ultimately caused his undoing and, subsequently, the desecration of who he once was.

“Are you on an internal nerd rant or something?”

You immediately snapped out of your conclusion. You bit off another bite testily. “At least I’m old enough to read chapter books.”

“I do not look that young,” he exclaimed with a hint of exasperation.

You shrugged and held up your book. “Maybe not, Damian Gray.” You wiggled the cover at him condescendingly, much to his chagrin.

“You're a nerd.” Whatever you’d said, it was enough for him to finally be comfortable enough to start eating. You wouldn’t pry. “Besides reading basic literature and being a watercolor Van Gogh, what do you do.”

“Did he even do watercolors?” you questioned his odd logic.

“No, I don’t think he did them,” he said while rolling his eyes. “He used them in over a hundred paintings.”

“So, you like art then?” you asked, half-interested, mostly trying to get back to your book.

“Sure.” It seemed like an understatement, but you waited for him to continue. “I’m not very good at it, though.”

You tried to think back to class earlier, realizing you hadn’t been paying attention to his work as you'd been more occupied with keeping your head down.

“Anyone can do anything,” you said with a tiny shrug. He nodded appreciatively at that and dug into his lunch with more gusto. From there, you sat in companionable silence up until the lunch bell rang. “See you around, Damian,” you began picking up your things and collected both of your trash.

Normally, you wouldn’t do this, but after he'd stuck up for you earlier, you wanted to show him in some small way you were appreciative.

“Would you want to show me watercolors after school?”

You turned around to see a somewhat shy, no, uncertain, looking Damian. You shifted around your books to look at him at his odd request. “Uh, sure.”

You felt a bit anxious being social outside of school for who knows how many hours. Especially with this kid you really didn’t even know. Sure, you’d spent less than an hour with him at lunch and it had been fine, but your social anxiety, coupled with being a social outcast at school, made you extra wary of students here. However, you begrudgingly reminded yourself that you shouldn’t be turning down friends.

That was for sure.

“I remember your locker from earlier.” You smiled at that. “It’s right by Tim’s,” he clarified, somewhat embarrassed.

“Oh, yeah!” you said with a nod as the two of you walked out of the library doors and into the bustling hallway. “He was the first person to talk to me.” You winced as soon as the words came out of your mouth, not knowing if you should’ve revealed that kind of information.

Hell, Damian had seen just how bad it could get in art earlier, so who really cared?

He merely glanced at you out of the corner of his sharp eyes, revealing no hint of emotion beneath them. Creepy. “Tim will walk home with us,” he said. “Probably bringing his annoying friend Brown, too.”

“That’s a weird name.” It reminded you of shit.

“It’s because she’s shitty,” he said simply as if it were obvious.

You laughed at him having practically read your unspoken thoughts. “I’m sure as long as she’s not like the girls in our art class, she shouldn’t be too shitty.”

He smiled at you, leaving you to blush a bit at his odd, somewhat off-putting charm.

“You may be right,” he said your name. “I’ll meet you by your locker. Try to find a good piece of literature in the meantime.”

You gawked at him, leaving him enough time to exit before you could formulate a response, “Hey!” you yelled after his retreating form, earning you multiple dirty glares in the hallway. You sighed and shrugged to yourself as you headed off to your final classes, nothing you weren’t used to at this point.

At least it was looking somewhat up?

•

True to his word, Damian met you by your locker, but not before Tim.

You greeted him kindly as you opened your locker to deposit your books and take home the workbook you would need for water coloring with Damian. Out of nowhere, a blonde girl appeared beside him and began blatantly sizing you up.

“Brown, right?” You smiled as you reached your hand out to shake hers.

She snorted, pointing to Damian, who'd silently snuck up from behind, startling you somewhat more than you’d care to admit. “You’ve been hanging around little bird too long, huh?”

“Hardly,” you both said at the same time in completely different tones. Damian’s annoyed, yours dismissive.

Tim and Stephanie exchanged an amused glance.

She winked at you and nudged your shoulder as you fell into step with them. “It’s Stephanie, by the way.”

“I was completely off,” you laughed sheepishly, but you were glad that she seemed to warm up to you so quickly. “So, you guys are sophomores, right?” you asked as the group exited through the main doors and into the affluent courtyard entrance.

“Hells yeah.” Stephanie nodded from in front of you. “Worst year EVER! Tim already knows that, though, dontcha?” She turned to the raven-haired man and urged him to reply by poking at him until he finally shook off her pestering.

“What does that mean?” You tried to keep the conversation going. You already felt intrusive tagging along; the last thing you wanted was for it to be awkward, too.

“Technically yes, technically no,” Tim replied modestly, finally giving in to Stephanie’s little pokes, “I’m in all junior classes right now, but, yes, I’m almost 16.”

“We get it, Drake,” Damian had his arms crossed as he walked behind him, next to you. You were starting to notice his habit of calling people by their last names, “you’re a lame nerd, and so is she.” He threw a thumb your way, which you quietly protested. “Can we all shut up about it now?”

You’d already seen Damian get hostile in art, but you were starting to see a habit.

“Jeez, Dami.” Tim turned around to ruffle Damian’s dark, perfectly placed hair. “I’m sure she’s not,” Tim said, smiling at you. In that moment, you swore you saw Damian’s eyes flash red.

You didn't know much about your new friend, but you knew enough to know this wasn’t going to end well.

“Fuck you, Timothy.” His voice turned ice cold as he pushed at Tim’s slender back with an unreasonable force. Tim didn’t seem phased in the slightest, yet again, by Damian’s aggressive nature. Instead, he shoo'ed him off like an incessant bug.

It made you chuckle a bit.

Their bickering raged on and you quickly realized, after passing the main streets, that you were headed deeper into Bristol where the super-rich lived.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? Yes, you should have realized that they probably lived somewhere nice since they attended the academy, but the richest area in Gotham? Come on now.

The trees were plentiful in this area and the sidewalks weren’t deathtraps like the rest of the city. There were even people jogging alone with headphones in- what?! In your dangerous side of town, you could hardly walk with your phone in your pocket without becoming a mugging target.

The group made another turn onto a long, grand street where the huge mansions loomed dauntingly over each side of you, snickering that you didn’t belong here.

You looked ahead, straight down the middle, where a giant foreboding… castle? No, mansion? sat affixed with a gigantic monogrammed metal gate.

Tim and Damian were still smacking at each other when Stephanie randomly and quickly decided to turn around to walk in the grass beside you. “You’re new, right?”

You nodded. “It’s still my first week.”

You were expecting the normal ‘how are you liking it?’ or ‘who’s your homeroom teacher?’ type of question, so you weren’t at all prepared for her next question. “I heard.” You tensed instantly, but she either didn’t notice or didn't care. “So, what’s your deal anyway?”

“Please, Brown,” upon hearing what she said, Damian abandoned his bickering to intervene in your conversation. “You may very well be dumb, so don’t pretend to be.”

Stephanie ripped her glance from you to Damian and pinched her face together. “The hell does that mean, asshole?”

“See, you really are an idiot,” he let out an exasperated sigh.

Tim seemed extremely uncomfortable and focused his attention strictly on the insane mansions you were passing. You felt like doing the same, but your eyes refused to leave the pavement to avoid the conflict raging on- something you were having to get used to in Gotham.

“Feel free to explain, baby face,” she taunted.

You felt Damian stir angrily from beside you. “You know what people have been saying.” Damian glared at her menacingly enough to make you glad that you weren’t on the receiving end of it. “Don’t play dumb,” he said simply.

“This is why no one wants to hang out with you except the new girl, hellspawn!” Stephanie spat coldly. “With your angry little outbursts and shit. Makes sense your only friend would also be the only other social outcast at GA,” she added with a huff, deflecting Damian’s attacks that he’d already begun throwing her way.

Damn, that's really what people thought of you?

It had been a mistake to come.

You desperately wanted to tell Damian that you’d just teach him during lunch tomorrow so you wouldn't be intruding, but he was too busy getting up in Stephanie's face to notice you trying to get his attention.

“I should say the same for you, you nosey hag! Why I oughta-”

“It’s true,” Tim said quietly from beside her, causing her to turn quickly and Damian to cease his verbal (and physical) assault.

Now, you felt infinitely more embarrassed. This had definitely been a mistake.

Stephanie perked up at the sound of Tim taking her side, but you felt like complete and utter shit. All those times at your locker, Tim was just being nice to you because he felt like he had to.

Your legs hesitated in an attempt to retrace your steps and go back to your shitty, empty apartment to be alone.

"What does that mean, Drake?" Damian growled, redirecting his assault toward the raven-haired sophomore.

"I mean, what you said is right, Damian." Relief flooded instantly with the realization that, no, Tim was actually just being nice to you because he wanted to.

"Oh." Damian relaxed at the same time Stephanie huffed.

"Whatever." She flipped her blonde hair in Tim's expectant face, though he made no move to dodge the attack.

You didn’t know these people and even though Damian had actually seemed kind, you shouldn’t have accepted a group hangout with people you didn't know after the extreme bullying that had been going on.

The spat then moved from Stephanie and Damian to Stephanie and Tim. Damian used this as an excuse to focus his attention back on you.

“What’s wrong?” You’d never heard his voice sound so soft.

You looked up from the ground. “It’s just,” you paused, not sure if you wanted to continue. Maybe it was the fear of rejection, maybe it was what Stephanie said, or maybe it was something else entirely. “If you have all these friends,” you gestured between the three of them, “why are you being nice to me?”

“Don’t ask dumb questions. It makes you sound insecure.” He seemed to mean it in the kindest way possible, but even still, it did nothing to put you at ease.

Damn, if he hadn’t hit the nail right on the head, though.

You had been feeling insecure recently. It was hard not to with the constant attacks. Not to say you were anybody at Star City, choosing mostly to operate under the radar, but here, not only were you on the radar, but you were a lone dot. These rich kids seemed to get off on treating you like some kind of taboo sideshow.

You'd somewhat expected Damian to act like Bart: say hi in the hall and make sure to give you notes to catch up on when you’d been out sick, but that was it.

That was all you’d known as far as real kindness, even at Star City.

You’d never hung out outside of school, let alone in it. You always focused more on your novels and comic books rather than the petty drama unfolding in middle school.

Damian was basically your first real friend, you realized.

“Okay,” you said, wanting to appease your friend.

It seemed to work because he knocked into your shoulder lightly. In response, you did the same back, this time with more force.

“Careful,” he said your name deeply. He then dug his bony shoulder into your fleshy one, leaving you to yelp. “I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a girl.”

“Damn, Damian,” Stephanie interrupted with a Cheshire grin. “You’re soo smooth with the ladies.” She nudged at him, but he didn’t seem to fall for the bait this time.

He sighed dramatically, distancing himself from beside you, “You’re not worth my time, Brown.”

Tim glanced back between the two of you with a casual calculation that made you wince. Why couldn’t they see you were just friends? More specifically, only friends because everyone else in your grade and others seemed to hate your guts if Stephanie’s reaction was anything to go by.

As you passed the last few houses on the block, you quickly realized you were approaching the biggest one.

Just who had you befriended?

Actually, how were these three even friends? It seemed like all they did was hate on each other and argue about dumb shit, you noted to yourself as you attempted to keep in step with their fast pace.

“How did you guys become friends, anyway?” you asked.

“You mean she doesn’t know?” Stephanie giggled mirthfully.

You were starting not to like this Stephanie girl. First, being called an outcast and now acting like you're dumb? Yeah, not the greatest first impression. Maybe it was just an off day for her, you shrugged internally.

“Shut up,” Damian scowled, glancing between the three of you.

Tim looked back at you with an intensity in his blue eyes that you couldn’t place. “You’ve never heard of Bruce Wayne?”

“I don’t live under a rock,” you said, rolling your eyes lightly, “but what does he have to do with anything?”

“Oh, man,” Stephanie laughed, “this is good.”

You couldn’t tell if you liked her or not yet as you didn’t see what was so funny. Hell, you couldn't tell if she liked you or not as she went from insulting you to messing with you- it was confusing the fuck out of you.

Damian could sense your annoyance. “Tim and I live with him.”

You’d thought back to what the news said about Bruce Wayne. He was rich, a playboy, and he adopted a fuck ton of kids, so WAIT... Did that mean...?

“You live with him, or you guys are family?” You’re shocked at the revelation, looking between the two boys for similarities you’d missed. You noted that, aside from their dark hair and aptitude to bicker, they truly bore no resemblance to one another in the slightest.

“Sure,” Tim said just as Damian replied, “Hell no.”

“They love each other, though,” Stephanie assured you with a snort and a devilish smirk. “Don’t you guys?”

“You are on my last nerve today, Brown.” Damian’s eyes bore menacingly into the back of her head. “That’s not a place you want to be.”

“Seconded,” Tim added, flicking her nose playfully.

You nodded at the information and figured you would do your research once you got home. That and treat yourself to the latest issue of your favorite comic for dealing with this social shitshow. Maybe a face mask, too.

“Jeez, what is this? Hate on Stephanie day?” She swiveled to give everyone her best version puppy dog eyes, but much to her chagrin, your sympathetic smile was the only positive response she was met with.

You’d always been a people pleaser. It seemed Damian was definitely not that and Tim? Tim seemed more distracted by your presence than anything.

“It is now,” Damian muttered as your group approached the daunting gates of what you now knew to be Wayne Manor.

Tim kept glancing back at you sporadically, which had you checking over your uniform and hair. Did you look like shit or something?

Even Stephanie seemed to notice his incessant staring. “You good?” Tim blushed and swatted at her fingers, which poked him all over.

Maybe earlier you’d mistaken her forward behavior as being rude like the rest of the people you’d encountered at Gotham. Maybe she was treating you like this because she liked you?

Girls were too complicated.

“I think for once,” Tim said as Stephanie backed off enough to let him enter the gate code, “Damian and I can agree on something.”

She gasped as your group continued up the expansive driveway, “BITCH!”

You tuned out the screaming as you thought about all the parties you’d read about in the paper. Each of them taking place quite literally where you were stepping. All the elegant gowns and cars that had crossed this very path over the years and now you in your Gotham Academy uniform.

You’d realized that the group was a lot of energy to deal with about halfway through the walk here. Not that it was bad, but after the week you’d had, you already felt so drained.

It sucked because you knew hanging out with people did nothing but benefit everything you’d been experiencing since the move, yet, at the same time, it was so, so much. You reminded yourself of your comic and face mask and persevered while trying not to let your energy bring the group down.

Damian said your last name as you walked into the house- manor, “Let’s go to my room.”

You hadn’t been able to take in… well, anything before Damian was pulling you by the arm like a rag doll.

“HEY!” Stephanie whine-screamed from the foyer. “What if we wanted to hang out with the new girl, too!” You cringed internally at her use of the nickname that others had used as an insult against you all week. After your rocky start with Stephanie, you weren't sure you necessarily appreciated it coming out of her mouth either.

As if her wish had been answered, Damian, along with you in tow, ran right into something- no, someone- as you rounded the corner to get to the stairs.

“Woah there, Dami!”

You and Damian looked up at the most gorgeous, ripped human ever. Your eyes followed a chiseled path upward.

The man’s olive skin glistened wet from whatever pool he’d been swimming in. You had no doubt that this place had a ridiculous amount of them. The man's bold choice to wear a royal blue Speedo was making it difficult for you to swallow, let alone maintain normal, conversational eye contact.

He casually wiped his dark, wet locks off and flipped the matching blue towel he was holding over his muscled shoulder. Who knew you could be so attracted to that shit? A shoulder? Come on, girl, this was too thirsty even for you. One thing was for sure, though; this guy looked like he’d popped straight out of one of your comic books.

“Grayson, move,” Damian demanded with his signature glare. "I'm not kidding."

“Okay, baby bird.” He made to move out of the way, then winked a cerulean eye and quickly shifted back. "After you introduce me to your girlfriend.”

At that, you and Damian both looked disgusted enough that the man burst into a fit of teary laughter.

Damian tried to use the distraction to move past him, but the older man still refused to move, even with tears completely shrouding his eyes.

At this point, Tim sprang up from behind you and Damian to mediate, but Grayson, as Damian had referred to him, barely acknowledged him when he came into view. This all changed when Tim opened his mouth.

“She knows Bart,” it was all Tim said, but it had evidently been enough.

The man let out a long and excited 'ohhhh!' and smiled softly, completely shifting from a menacing annoyance to a charming puppy.

“I don’t think I introduced myself.” He’d crossed his arms to fend off Damian, meaning it now meant that you were face to face with his rippling biceps. Even as he unfurled them, you could still see the full power of their aggressive definition. You were definitely blushing now. “I’m Dick,” he said as he offered you a titan-sized hand to shake.

You took it lightly, not that it mattered with his strong grip while telling him your name. You wouldn’t be able to think of a dick joke until he was way out of your vantage point, let alone say anything intelligent until then.

“You probably never met his cousin, but Wally and I go waaay back, if you know what I mean,” Dick sighed and moved from the front of the staircase as he reminisced. “We used to sneak out on the weekends together to… do homework.” He caught himself quickly enough as he nodded to you and all the rest of the high schoolers in the room. “Oh man, and during prom when we,” he said with a smile before seemingly dropping back into the present again, “danced. Sober. And did nothing else.” He looked pointedly at you and Damian. “Maybe don’t do what I did?” he muttered to himself, lost in thought as he suddenly took off deeper into Wayne Manor, still in a Speedo, you might add, but damn, you were not expecting what was behind him at all.

Your eyes bulged at the juiciest ass you’d ever seen on anyone, regardless of gender.

Damian rolled his eyes at your incessant staring and insisted you follow him. “Now that the troll isn’t in the way.”

"Yeah, troll," you said distractedly, letting Damian lead you up the stairs and down a hallway of dark, wooden doors.

He shook his head at your entranced state as he reached a random door and pulled you inside.

The room was warm and quaint, with light leaking from the undrawn cream curtains. Easels and half-finished work were somehow in an organized clutter about the floor and took up nearly the rest of the room.

He said your name immediately, snapping you out of your thoughts, “Don’t look at my shit.”

You laughed and picked up the closest stack to you. “How can I not?” you said, gesturing down to the very angry acrylic scratches for lines on the thin canvases in your hand. “You fighting some demons, buddy?” you teased his aggressive art style.

“You have no idea,” came his cryptic reply.

You ignored his statement and continued your inspection of the room. “Do you even own a watercolor set?” You looked around and only saw the same types of paint tubes.

He looked proud as he shuffled around stacks of his artwork. “I had Pennyworth order us some.”

Even more cryptic. Awesome.

This family just got weirder and weirder the longer you stuck around. It was honestly a wonder you hadn’t run back to your apartment at this point.

“Okay.”

He smirked as he shoved a Schmincke palette into your face, “Tell me I don’t have the necessary supplies now,” he proudly said your last name. You ogled at the expensive palette, reaching out for it, which he regretfully obliged. “Don’t get your drool on it now,” he warned, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the thought.

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved him off, “only in your dreams, twerp.”

“Enough,” he demanded sternly, effectively scaring the shit out of you.

“Woah, there.” You used one hand to hold the $400 watercolors and the other to imitate a white flag. He’d used that same tone so many times earlier, but never towards you. “I didn’t mean anything by it, s’just a nickname.” You quickly handed him back the palette and made off toward an empty easel in an attempt to change the mood. “Do you want me to teach you or not?”

He crossed his arms and huffed like a child, nay, a twerp, as he disappeared off into the hall to search for more supplies in lieu of a response.

You stood in the room, unsure of what to do with yourself, when you heard the door open up again.

Instead of Damian’s short stature, it was Tim.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him. “Hey,” you said. Your hands fiddled anxiously behind your back as Tim's unreadable face scanned the room and you.

“So, you guys are really just painting?” He picked up some of Damian’s work, something you would never tell your friend, seeing as you liked Tim and wanted him to remain alive.

“Duh.” After all those nasty rumors spread about you, suddenly, any proximity to a boy was considered promiscuous. You’d never even had your first kiss anyway, which was the most embarrassing part about the whole rumors ordeal. You glanced back at Tim to see him staring at you like he’d been on the walk here. “What?”

He chuckled, running a loose hand through his dark locks. He looked effortlessly, yet somehow understatedly, gorgeous. “You owe me for earlier down there, by the way.”

“Sure,” you said, “whatever you say, Tim.”

“See you around?” It comes out like a question.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you laughed at his small frown. “We’re locker buddies. Of course, I’ll see you, loser.” You quickly smacked your hand over your mouth. “Sorry, I was just joking!”

“You’re the nerd here.” He shot you a cheeky smile before moving towards the door. “See ya.”

You waved back at him as he left, then immediately felt around your cheeks for any sign of heat.

Damian reappeared moments after Tim left, plopping a pad of watercolor paper in front of you with an expectant stare. “Well?”

Damian really was a funny kid. Whether he meant to be or if this was really just how he acted, you didn’t know yet, but you couldn’t help the snort that erupted unexpectedly.

“Are you just going to stand behind me like a fucking voyeur?”

He blushed and tugged at his collar. “Of course not,” he said, referring to your last name—another quirk of his you were already getting used to.

It was almost endearing.

Almost.

He snatched a nearby easel and set it down next to yours, noticeably not behind it, you noted with amusement. Damian then grabbed the pad of paper he’d stuck in front of you and split the thick book in half with an ease that left you speechless. Literally. What do you say after someone does something mundane so savagely yet so casually?

“Uh.”

He glared at you as if to warn you to drop the whole thing. “You may have talent, but I don’t have all day.”

“Whatever,” you dismissed him, still not over him ripping the book.

This must be how he bantered. You realized that, while you may have noticed some of his personality, you definitely were nowhere close to understanding the true breadth of it. Yet, you added hopefully.

You both quietly fell into a companionable silence as you showed him certain tricks he would replicate on his half of the watercolor paper pad. You noted that the silence only lasted so long, as Damian’s aggressive style still wasn’t transferring to the watercolors.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered as he scrapped yet another piece of paper.

“Maybe it’s just not your style?” you tried, but the glare you were met with left no room for debate. “Okay, okay.” You moved beside him and put your hand over his to control the movement. His body wash or whatever cologne he was wearing smelled amazing, but damn, did the kid overdo it. “See how light I’m pressing?” He nodded as you did the movement again, releasing more of his intoxicating scent that you were forced to ignore. “You want to paint with the tip of the brush mostly and you can’t do that if it’s smushed against the paper,” you said. He replicated your light movement with your hand still on top of his, creating a thin, delicate line. “Come look,” you said as you stepped back to fully view his canvas and motioned for him to do the same.

“You’re right.” He inspected his previous work to the one you had just worked on with him. He said your name suddenly, causing you to turn towards him.

You hoped you weren’t blushing, but the close proximity, his scent and him saying your first name for once? It was a bit too much for you.

Before you could reply, a resounding bang crashed throughout the room, seeming to have come from somewhere downstairs. Damian remained perfectly still but seemed unsure of the comeuppance, which did nothing to comfort you.

“Damian?” you asked, unsure of what to do.

Then the yelling started.

You couldn’t hear much of it at first, but it quickly became a booming screech, then even louder to the point the two of you couldn’t ignore the ruckus any longer.

“Stay here,” was all he said. He got up swiftly to shut the door behind him, effectively leaving you to listen blindly to the crashes and bangs from below.

You easily could’ve listened to Damian's demands, but you didn’t.

As soon as he left the room, you waited only a moment before opening the door to follow after his retreating form. Once you reached the end of the wall, you crouched down to peer through the banister down into the entryway below.

You held back your gasp at the sight of a hulking Bruce Wayne, who was much larger in person than on TV and the papers, towering menacingly over yet another dark-haired kid.

You couldn’t see Damian, but you peered close enough to catch Tim and Dick attempting to intervene with the rampaging kid.

Where had Stephanie gone to? You searched around with wide eyes but found her nowhere. You couldn't lie that you wished she were here to witness this crazy shit go down with you.

Speaking of Damian.

“I told you to stay in the room,” he grumbled, suddenly appearing behind you to grab your hand.

You stumbled as you fell into step with him while he pulled you back towards the direction of the art room. Instead of taking you back there, he stopped just short and tugged you down a different staircase from the main one.

“Where did you even come from?” You hadn’t heard or seen him sneak up on you at all. He was like a fucking ninja. “Who is that?” That being the more important question to ask, you realized.

Tim was already waiting for the two of you halfway down the stairs while an older gentleman waited down at the base. Tim looked haunted, but it seemed like, at the very least, he was holding it together for you. Damian, to the untrained eye, seemed as unbothered as ever, but you picked up on the way his actions bordered on robotic more so than usual, meaning he was also putting on a calm facade for you.

You realized you wouldn't be getting any answers any time soon.

“Miss,” the older gentleman stated your last name as you came to the end of the stairs and found yourself in a huge kitchen that would be any chef's dream. “I will be the one escorting you home this evening.”

The guttural screaming and banging sounded close, so you nodded and swiftly followed behind. All the while, Tim and Damian remained protectively on either side of you.

Flanked and covered on all sides, you made your way out a back exit where you assumed a car would be waiting.

You don't know what made you do it, but you turned your head at the last minute to see the new raven-haired kid stomping directly across the hallway that led right to you.

Your eyes took him in, trailing helplessly over his larger form while your fight or flight kicked in.

“Another one?” he screeched, his seething green eyes locking onto your own with a fiery rage. “ANOTHER FUCKING REPLACEMENT, BRUCE?”

You startled backward into Tim’s chest as your eyes refused to leave the active threat in front of you.

Bruce came into view, noting your presence briefly with a quick but sorry gaze. It was enough to make your stomach flip at the acknowledgment.

You were shaking, you realized, just as Dick yelled at him to get back.

He and Bruce had the kid held back by both of his arms as he attempted to come closer to you, but scar-face continued to struggle violently against their inhumanly strong grip.

“TOO MUCH TESTOSTERONE, SO YOU HAD TO GO ADOPT SOME FAT BITCH?” From this close, you noticed the angry scars cutting across the fleshiness of his boyish cheeks and his odd white tuft of hair. The scars bent and morphed with every exaggerated expression.

Damian snarled from behind you while Tim and Alfred both placed gentle, guiding hands on your shoulders to lead you outside and into a blacked-out sports car.

What even was that dude talking about? Replacement? Adopted?

After quick goodbyes to Tim and Damian, you were left alone in the back of a Rolls Royce, wondering what the fuck you’d just witnessed.

•

About a week after your first visit to Wayne Manor and only a few days into your second week at Gotham Academy, you were still finding a routine.

Every morning started off by seeing Tim (and sometimes Stephanie) by your locker. The three of you would chat for a bit about classes until Damian would stop by to walk you to your first class, only because the rumors still hadn’t quieted.

If anything, the gossip had only gotten worse after you'd started hanging around the Wayne family.

You were a grade ahead in English and had confided in Damian after a few days of pretending like you didn’t know where the classroom was and him insisting you did, that you were actually just anxious. He’d looked at you like you were dumb until you explained your dilemma of having to cross through the older kid hallways to get to the classroom.

He hadn’t needed you to elaborate further to understand that the kids were still making fun of you. Thus, he began to walk you to class every day.

It wasn’t like Damian’s presence stopped the taunting; it just made it less directly aimed at you, which worked just as well. Plus, Damian ended up being funny as hell, so just having his presence helped keep you calm through it all.

It was... sweet.

Another new routine was that you now had Damian to eat lunch with and Tim and Stephanie as well. After your first hangout, you started seeing more of them in the hallways and eventually at lunch. It turned out both had the same lunch period and, after discovering this fact, would try to sit at the lunch table with you guys most of the time unless they had projects and such to complete.

Long gone were your days of hiding out alone in the library.

Today had been much of the same.

You were at lunch with Damian and Tim (Stephanie had to stay over in chemistry to finish an assignment) when a familiar and not in a good way, green-eyed face plopped down. The force was enough to shake the entire table.

His very being demanded attention, you realized with a gulp as you took in his messed-up uniform collar and, even more pressing, the deep-set scars that ran across the majority of his face.

Your fearful glance bounced between an annoyed Damian and tense Tim while the kid who’d screamed at you appeared sheepish.

“What’s up?” he tried with a deep voice that sounded extremely different from the angry yells you'd heard during your first visit to the manor.

When no one responded, he scoffed and pulled out a packed lunch that matched Damian and Tim’s sophisticated own. Though it looked insanely good to you, he pushed around at it. You looked down at the pathetic leftover pizza you’d ordered two days prior with severe disdain. Definitely not as appetizing as their gourmet sandwiches and pastries.

As if sensing your envy, the kid from the manor pulled out a red Tupperware container and scooted it cautiously across the table toward you.

You eyed the container skeptically before squinting at him.

“I made you scones.” You didn’t bother responding once again, but, nonetheless, he continued, “I’m Jason.”

“Okay,” you drawled out, wishing he would just leave you alone.

He looked unsure of you now, eyes widened and searching Damian and Tim’s faces for the right thing to say, but neither offered any help, let alone return his anxious gaze.

Why did he care what you thought of him or whether or not you accepted his apology?

“You’re not fat, by the way,” he added hastily, realizing too late that it had sounded a lot better in his head than it did coming out.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped from your lips, not having expected his forwardness. You cleared your throat after catching the incredulous looks from everyone else at the table, but Jason seemed pleased.

You rolled your eyes a bit, hesitantly accepting his peace offering, when your stomach growled, revealing just how disappointed with your lunch you were. You couldn’t deny that his scones looked fucking bomb and the piece of pizza you’d eaten left a lot to be desired.

You took out a chocolate chip scone and toasted it in his direction. “Nice to meet you, Jason,” you told him your name before biting into the heavenly pastry. The insane taste alone had you moaning. “Holy shit,” you opened your eyes to see everyone at the table bright red and refusing to make eye contact with you, that is, aside from Jason’s stark green ones, “these are awesome."

You weren’t lying, either.

You knew how to cook and bake and all (when you were able to get the ingredients, that is), but it never came out anything like this.

“I made them.” He smiled at you a bit hesitantly. You could imagine why after such a violent introduction (if it could even be called that) and now here he was with a complete 180, gentle disposition and scones. “I could show you too?” It came out as more of a question.

“Careful, Todd,” Damian warned, “she’s my friend, not yours.”

You would later ask Jason for his scone recipe and curse him when you realized that, of course, he hadn’t given you the exact recipe and your scones came out tasting like shit. All those wasted ingredients for nothing, the fucking asshole.

You were going to get that recipe.

•

The same week Jason started school, you returned to Wayne Manor for the second time. This time, without all the hostility, though it seemed like any time the Wayne siblings hung out, there was some sort of quarrel.

This time, it was over who kept dropping all the green shells.

Damian was convinced it was Stephanie, who was convinced it was Barbara, who was convinced it was Dick, who was convinced it was Tim, but it had been you. Jason, who refused to play and insisted on posting up against the game room entryway, knew it'd been you.

What were you supposed to do when they were apparent Mario Kart gods while you were more like a toddler chewing on a console?

Finally, after Stephanie, Barbara and Dick had each won twice in a row, Mario Kart was rage quit by Damian, who demanded the group play something else.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his petulance, “At least you came in second once.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to be last place,” he said your last name.

“Maybe not every time, though,” Tim teased you with a nudge from beside you on the couch you were both sitting on with Damian.

“Well, then. Let’s play something I’m good at,” you said as you flipped through their virtual game library until you came across Injustice 2 and launched it. Everyone in the room boo’ed. “What?!” you asked incredulously. “You guys bought the game, not me!”

Luckily, Damian came to your rescue. “I want to play."

“You gonna be Batman, little bird?” Stephanie teased him.

“Please, Brown,” Damian maneuvered his controller to click on player two just as you picked player one, “I actually want to win.”

You played as Catwoman, while Damian selected Robin.

“They should have some relevant dialogue when they appear too!” You wiggled excitedly in your seat in anticipation.

It'd been a while since you played the first game and you’d never had the money to buy the second game, so all the game content was all new to you.

The characters loaded in and true to what you said, they began to taunt each other. You tried to turn up the volume, but before you could, Damian clicked 'A' and skipped through the intro, leaving your mouth to drop at the audacity.

Stephanie and Barbara cackled at your offended face while Dick got up to try and smooth things over with a placating grin. "Woah, there."

“Fucking asshole!” you cut Dick off, dropping the remote as Robin began beating the shit out of Catwoman before you could get a proper hold on your controller.

“Fuck your dialogue,” Damian said as he sat hunched over with his hands rapidly pounding buttons while you attempted to catch up to his onslaught of attacks. Stephanie, Barbara and Tim were hooting and hollering at Catwoman's whip assault while Dick sat back down to politely cheer for Damian, who quickly shut it down. "You're distracting me, Grayson."

You end up kicking his ass, but barely. Still enough of a beating for him to throw the controller out of the room past Jason's looming body.

You laughed as he pushed into your shoulder, “So much for last place, huh?”

He stuck his tongue out and you don’t know why your first thought was to grab it, but you did.

You stared at him while he stared at you, tongue still between your pointer and thumb, neither of you (or anyone in the room) saying anything. You were equally surprised he hadn’t reclaimed his tongue by pushing you or whatever Damian’s aggressive ass would normally do.

Jason, somehow, is the one who ended up breaking the weird, no, awkward tension you’d created by clicking on rematch. This time, you noted, without skipping the dialogue.

You nodded appreciatively in his direction, but he just shook his head with a roll of his eyes. "Psycho."

You dropped Damian’s tongue immediately, flush with embarrassment you were desperately trying to quell into a cool nonchalance and joined the game.

Within a few seconds, you used Catwoman’s whip to knock Robin on his ass with ease. "That's rich." You shot him a pointed eyebrow that you knew he understood.

“Jeesh!” Stephanie exclaimed now on the edge of her seat as Robin teleported behind Catwoman, but you dodged his sword attack and retaliated with a headlock followed by a body slam. She ended up blocking Dick’s view, leaving him to shuffle across the room near Jason in order to see past everyone who’d collectively gotten up from their seats.

Jason, who was on the left side of the couch, didn’t seem too bothered by Dick’s presence, but you knew it was throwing him off a little. As soon as Dick entered Jason's personal bubble, he was no longer able to dodge your Super Move like he'd done countless times before.

In the end, Jason beat you with a wink and left the room, leaving you more confused than ever about your rocky relationship.

From screaming to scones to winks, all in a few days. You were getting severe whiplash from this family when you weren’t even sure why they all even wanted to keep hanging out with you, least of all why you kept coming back.

Maybe it was a bit dysfunctional, maybe you were all dysfunctional for that matter, but for the first time ever, you felt like you kind of belonged.

It was… nice.

A/N: hope ur enjoying so far!

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#my fic:ars #my fic: the art of rehabilitating snowbirds #reader x jason todd x roy harper #reader x jason todd #reader x roy harper #damian x reader #dc batman #slow burn #ages: you/Damian 14 freshman; Tim/Steph 15/16 Sophomores but Tim takes all Junior level classes; Jason/Roy 17; Dick/Barb 23 #Jason gets held back so he's a junior taking some Sophomore level classes

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il-predestinato · 2 years ago

Text

Some of my favourite passages from the GQ article featuring Charles Leclerc:

Leclerc, an alert and adroit 24-year-old from Monaco, got only as far as one of the entrances when he first came here. He was 11 or 12 at the time, brought along by a family friend who worked for Ferrari, but he was unable to enter the complex. “So I sat in the car park for two hours,” he remembers, “trying to guess what it was like inside. I imagined Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, y’know? With Oompa Loompas running around.”

In the hangar, as classic cars are spruced and renewed all around, I ask him about that juvenile first image he had of the Ferrari compound. He once pictured Wonka-like magic taking place beyond the gate, industrious Oompa Loompas everywhere. Has the adult reality been underwhelming, set against an adolescent’s imagination? Leclerc, in answer, gestures around the garage, where seamstresses restitch ancient leather seats and a convertible worth $8 million has been plucked to bits by mechanics, its engine forged over from scratch. Wonkas, Oompa Loompas all, the employees here help turn unlikely ideas into something tangible. “It’s beyond what I imagined,” he says.

In a pristine hangar that’s devoted to the restoration of collectible Ferraris, a white-haired crew of veteran mechanics whistle to express satisfaction at the current state of affairs. Their swift boy racer, Leclerc, is a special favorite.

Leclerc’s famous good looks are sleeker and more polished than those of his teammate. You can easily imagine him as the prioritized singer in a boy band. He is well-liked by colleagues, and insists he would race in a lucky golden necklace that his mechanics clubbed together to buy him if not for the fire-safety regulations that forbid F1 drivers their jewelry. “When you’re seven years old, you win two races in a row, you think you’re unbeatable,” Leclerc says. “My father told me: Always be humble, even in good moments, and especially when you feel you are unbeatable.”

Every team in F1 fields two drivers. Except in rare cases, one or the other of these drivers is favored internally. There is a number one. There is a number two. While Ferrari insists that they do not have a number one driver, it appears to those on the outside that Leclerc is the preferred son, and Sainz, older by a few years, must play sidekick.

Racing, Leclerc agrees, offers the ultimate reset. He was a teenager in Formula 1’s feeder series when his beloved father, Hervé, passed away. Leclerc entered the next scheduled race, days after his bereavement, and won it, Brett Favre–like. You sense these drivers will bear losses, disappointments, and indignities Monday through Thursday, as long as they get to pare away the blues at 200 mph on the weekend. For Sainz, the minor insults are everywhere if he cares to look. Handed a stack of pristine baseball caps in the garage, he scribbles his signature on the far side of each peak, automatically leaving room for Leclerc’s name to appear before his own. Although they are practically the same height, a cut-out tableau of the two drivers in central Maranello romantically imagines Leclerc a whole head taller.

And were Leclerc to win the title for them!…You feel sure this kid would do it with qualities much lacking in Maranello: a bit of cheek and an appreciation of F1’s absurdity. Like many elite competitors, Leclerc has a high tolerance for repetition, technical data, seated strain; yet to his credit he has not let this deaden a mischievous streak. As soon as he gets his helmet off, postrace, he likes to look around the weighing room and see from the other drivers’ faces, Who’s up for a chat? 🦁😂 When he was about to win his first race of the 2022 season, this past spring, he radioed his pit crew to yell that he’d suffered a mechanical fault (no-o-o!). It seemed like he wouldn’t make the finish line after all. There was a moment of stunned horror in the pit wall. Leclerc was messing with them. Never make this kind of joke again, he was ordered.

“So it’s tough on my mother,” Leclerc says. “And I don’t know what to tell her. Other than: I love what I do. There’s nothing in particular I can say to make her feel better. I’m not going to say I’ll be careful. That wouldn’t be true. I’m going to give it my best, whatever. She knows: It’s a dangerous sport. It got massively safer through the years. But it will remain forever a dangerous sport.” Leclerc offers an incongruous smile. There’s a faint piratical glint in his eye. “She knows,” he says, “I’m the happiest once I’m in that car.”

#charles leclerc #interview #*#gq #it is so beautiful to see how loved and important he is to everyone in maranello #i'm the happiest once i'm in that car 🥺🥰#elle.txt

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leslie-lyman · 3 years ago

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Stranger At My Gate - Chapter 9 (Pero Tovar x modern!OFC)

A time-traveling Pero. A modern woman trying her best. A kitchen full of possibility. A helping of Midwest kindness. A dash of magic. And a lot of Christmas spirit.

pairing: Pero Tovar x modern!OFC

rating: E 🚨 [18+ ONLY, minors DNI]

warnings: so there’s no actual smut in this chapter, sorry y’all, but we’re just keeping the rating where it is; like the smallest possible lil allusions to sexy times; probably super inaccurate depictions of how book publishing actually works; aaaaaaangst

word count: 6.4k

a/n: 😶

Previous chapter.

Masterlist.

———

Nine.

Henry comes to pick Pero up just after 8 the next morning. Tessa hopes she’s adequately hiding how nervous she is. She has no reason to believe Pero won’t want to stay. That he wouldn’t choose to be with her. But the imminent prospect of having that conversation with him and finding out for sure still twists her gut and makes her hands shake.

“Pero,” she says out loud to her empty kitchen, wrestling with herself and trying to rehearse what she’s going to say.

“Can we talk?”

No, sound like you have some confidence, come on.

“We need to talk.”

No, any conversation that starts that way never ends well.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

Better.

“I think you should stay. With me. And not go back through the Gate. I want you to stay.”

Not the most eloquent you’ve ever sounded. Didn’t you used to argue in courtrooms for a living?

“Ugh, fuck me.”

That’s more direct, at least.

Barely ten minutes have elapsed since Henry’s car left her driveway when Tessa’s internal debate is interrupted by her phone ringing.

The number of people Tessa would actually answer a call from would not require all her fingers to count, but her agent is absolutely one of them.

“Rachel?”

“Tessa!” The other woman practically yells, instantly reminding Tessa that Rachel Owen’s default state is best described as exceptionally caffeinated.

“Congratulations on finishing the first full draft of your book last week, that is fucking huge.”

Talking with Rachel always made Tessa feel like she was catching up with an old friend - if that catching up were taking place inside a tornado. Rachel was a born-and-bred New Yorker who used her seemingly endless energy to both go to bat for and fiercely protect the authors she took under her wing.

“Listen, I’m calling with glad tidings of great joy. You will never ever guess what I got you for Christmas.”

“Oh, Rachel, you didn’t have to -“

“I got you a meeting with Ed Finley.”

Rachel pauses for what feels like dramatic effect.

“Rachel, am I supposed to know who that is?”

Her agent huffs and Tessa just knows she is rolling her eyes.

“Ed. Finley. The editorial director of Hachette Livre UK.”

Tessa’s gasp is audible. Rachel’s just named the second-largest publisher in the United Kingdom.

“Does that mean - ”

“We’re selling the international rights to your book! Well, almost, it’s not a done deal, but I sent your manuscript to my contact over there and they passed it on up to Ed and apparently he loved it. He wants to meet in person before anybody signs anything, though. Very old-school that way. But I’m sure after a few minutes in your charming company we’ll be dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.”

Tessa half-collapses down onto her couch. Her current contract was just for the book to be sold in the United States. Publishing outside the country, as Rachel had walked her through more than a year ago when Tessa had signed with her, was a completely different process. Selling the international rights to a book meant new separate contracts, sorting out translation rights, another advance paycheck, a whole new audience and potential source of royalties. And getting published in the UK meant getting a foothold in Europe, not to mention the British Commonwealth, making it easier for Rachel to generate additional interest in the book and for contracts to publish in additional countries in additional languages to follow, even contracts for books beyond this first one. The potential professional and financial implications were huge.

And if Ed wants to meet her in person, that’s more than fine. Tessa’s head spins for a moment with ideas of flying to London to chat with him, presumably after the holidays. It’s been over a decade since her semester abroad there and she’s missed it dearly. Maybe she could even figure out a way to have Pero come with her -

“I - oh my god, Rachel, I don’t know what to say. This is amazing. When does he want to meet?”

“Okay so don’t shoot the messenger but - today at four.”

Tessa swears she can hear the cartoon sound effect of tires screeching to a halt.

“Wait, what?”

“I know! Apparently he’s in New York right now for a few days and can squeeze you in this afternoon. I know it’s last-minute but this all just came together so fast - ”

“Wait, wait, wait, Rachel. He’s in New York? He wants to meet, with me, at four pm today…in New York?”

“Yes, haven’t you been listening? Don’t worry about it, it’s all being arranged by my assistant as we speak. Plane tickets, hotel, the works. Just throw some shit in a bag and get your ass to O’Hare pronto.”

“Hotel? Rachel, I can’t just, I can’t just leave, I have - I have something I have to -“

“Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, can’t it? Look, if it will make you feel better, I promise we will get you on the first flight home in the morning. Come out here, meet with this guy, and then while you’re here let me take you to meet with some other folks. My agency’s big annual Christmas party is tonight - people from all over the publishing world are going to be there, I’m talking publicists, food writers for national outlets, buyers for booksellers of all sizes. You’ve done the hard part, you’ve written the thing, now it’s time to really start hyping you up. Especially if you have a freshly signed international rights contract to brag about! And all of this happening on the same day? It’s fate, Tessa. Kismet. Meant to be.”

Tessa cycles through a litany of responses but can’t quite articulate any of them. Rachel must be able to tell that she’s floundering, because the next time she speaks, it’s with a quiet reassurance.

“Tessa, honey, this is a great thing. I know it’s sudden, but it’s going to be fine. I will be there with you every step of the way. That’s my job, remember?”

Nerves. That’s what Rachel thinks it is. That the meeting is the source of Tessa’s trepidation, rather than the timing. Tessa lets herself fall back against the cushions with a heavy exhale.

“It has to be today?”

“Gotta strike while the iron is hot, babe. Plus I already told Ed’s assistant yes.”

Tessa can hardly fault Rachel for that. The process of publishing may be lengthy, but there are moments where things move fast. And if you didn’t act right then to meet the moment, it would pass you by. It reminds Tessa a lot of her previous profession, the way cases could drag on for years but when the circumstances were just right to reach a deal, you acted, and hoped you were quick enough.

“I want to be on the first flight out tomorrow, Rachel. I have to be back as early as possible.”

“You got it. Check your email, all the details should be there in the next few minutes. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ends.

Sure enough, flight and hotel confirmations are already in Tessa’s inbox. Tessa does the math in her head. The flight from O’Hare leaves in three hours, factoring in the change to central time. On a decent day the drive from Grennich takes just over ninety minutes. She factors in ten minutes to pack a bag, another ten to get from the parking lot to the main terminal once she gets to the airport, a solid thirty for security given the probable start of the holiday crowds…

She can make it. But there’s no time to stop at Henry’s on the way, no way she can have the conversation she needs to have with Pero before she gets on a plane. And this is not the kind of chat she should be having over the phone. Even if it were with someone who understood how to use a phone.

Her return flight gets her back mid-morning. If all goes smoothly she could be right back where she’s currently sitting just after noon tomorrow.

She can do this. She can make this work.

It’s with crossed fingers that she throws her overnight bag into the passenger seat twelve minutes later, hoping she’s packed all the things she needs through the blind panic of trying to race against the clock.

She calls Henry from her car.

“Tee, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he says when she’s done catching him up.

“I know.”

“I mean, this is amazing, and I’m so happy for you, you know that I am, but the fucking timing - ”

“I know. Just…just tell Pero I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? And that there are tons of leftovers in the fridge?”

Henry’s sigh is a crackle of static over the phone.

“Tee - ”

“Please, Hank. It’s not like I meant for all this to happen today. What else am I supposed to do?”

Tessa hears a faint rumble of noise in the background followed by the loud squeak of brakes releasing.

“Shit, the delivery guys are here. Yes, alright, I’ll tell Pero you’ll be back tomorrow. But then you need to tell him everything else the second you get back, okay?”

“I will,” Tessa vows.

“And Tee?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really fucking proud of you, y‘know?”

Tessa’s vision goes slightly watery.

“I know,” she says. “But look, I’m about to merge onto the tollway so I can’t get all mushy. Just keep Pero in one piece for me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, quit your worrying. I promise I won’t let Pero throw his back out or anything over the course of the morning.”

Tessa grins.

“Well good, cause you know, throwing his back out is really more my job - ”

“Good-bye, Tess.”

———

She makes her flight, but it’s a near thing.

In the blink of an eye her plane is landing, and her cab gets her to her hotel in Manhattan with just enough time for Tessa to drop her bag and spend two minutes attempting to no longer look like she’s spent the last several hours rushing across nearly half a dozen states to get here.

Rachel meets her in the lobby, the much taller agent leaning down to immediately fold her into an embrace.

“You look great,” Rachel assures her. “You ready?”

A quick Uber ride drops them off in front of what looks like a private townhome near Gramercy Park. When they enter, it’s clear that it once was indeed a stately residence, but its rooms are now filled with intimate tables and clusters of plush antique furniture.

A tea house, Tessa realizes, biting back a small smile at the slightly cliché notion that her meeting with an Englishman is to be conducted over afternoon tea.

The Englishman in question is seated at a table tucked into a corner near an elaborate antique fireplace. Ed Finley is a balding man in his late fifties. He has the lean build of someone with the dedication and discipline to get in an early morning swim more days than not. His gray tweed jacket and maroon sweater call to mind images of the ivy-covered walls and wood-paneled offices of many English literature departments. If such things were still allowed indoors, Tessa imagines he’d be smoking a pipe.

He stands to greet them with a warm hello and a friendly handshake. Tessa likes him immediately.

For the next hour she, Ed, and Rachel trade pleasant conversation over tea sandwiches of smoked salmon and cream cheese, cucumber and mint, and coronation chicken, raisin-studded scones with dollops of clotted cream and raspberry jam, colorful macarons and chocolate petit fours. Tessa tries not to devour everything with inelegant speed, having not eaten since breakfast many hours before. She orders a pot of Earl Grey and, as her British compatriots taught her during her semester in London, pours a splash of milk into her cup first before filling it the rest of the way with the tea. Ed, she notes with some satisfaction, appears pleasantly surprised at her process.

When the three of them are down to their last lukewarm dregs of tea, Ed finally broaches the subject Tessa has come all this way to discuss.

“I appreciate you coming out here on such short notice, Ms. Walsh. You may think it strange to ask to meet in person - I already have your manuscript, and Ms. Owens here was kind enough to provide extensive information about your career thus far and metrics on your substantial online following. But I find that it is always better to speak to someone face-to-face before agreeing to take them on as an author. There is no substitute for basic human connection, for time spent together when deciding to enter into business with a person, and that strategy has not steered me wrong in thirty years.”

Tessa thinks of her Gift, currently manifesting as a contented flicker of warmth somewhere in the vicinity of her now-full belly as she speaks with Ed, quiet and calm like a cat lazing in the sun.

“I don’t think it’s strange at all, Mr. Finley.”

He swirls the remaining tea around the bottom of his cup, then drains it.

“There is something in the way you write about food, Ms. Walsh, and the preparing of it. Uncomplicated, approachable, earnest. And such a sense of, well, I suppose I’d call it a sense of love. Particularly in the last few recipes you’ve posted on your site this month.”

Tessa’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

“You’ve read those?”

“Indeed,” he nods. “The love you have for this craft comes through quite strongly, but also the love you seem to have towards those for whom you are cooking. You write as though you treat food as a gift, as an act of service, as an expression of love for those with whom you share your table. Whoever that is, I find myself somewhat envious. They must surely have been eating exceptionally well of late.”

A heated blush creeps into Tessa’s face.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Mr. Finley. I believe, well, I certainly hope you are right.”

Ed pulls a pair of thick reading glasses from his breast pocket and fishes several sheets of paper from the briefcase resting on the chair next to him.

“I sent this over to Ms. Owens for her to review earlier today, but this is the contract to purchase the international rights to your book that we’d like to offer you.”

Rachel had told her in the car ride over that there were no red flags in the fairly standard contract; if anything, it was generous, especially for a first-time author.

Tessa reads it over. The additional advance for the international edition of her book is healthy, healthier than she’d been expecting.

It’s scary, sometimes, to have your dreams come true. When she’d signed her original contract Tessa's hands had been shaking so badly with nerves and excitement and disbelief that she’d needed two tries to successfully write her signature. But this time, it’s with confidence and a steady grip that she inks her name on the contract, then passes it to Rachel so that she can do the same.

“I look forward to working with you, Ms. Walsh,” Ed says with a kind smile as he gathers the papers together and stands to leave. “And have a merry Christmas.”

Tessa somehow waits until she and Rachel are back in an Uber before burying her face in her hands and emitting a high-pitched squeal.

“That could not have gone better, babe!” Rachel says, triumphant and pulling Tessa into a hug. “Now, we celebrate. Properly, with booze. The second you get changed we’ll head to the agency’s party, where I believe there will be a number of glasses of champagne with our names on them.”

Tessa can only nod against Rachel’s shoulder, not trusting herself to speak, and only thinking of how much she can’t wait to tell Pero.

———

The party passes in a blur.

It’s in some fancy hotel ballroom just north of Midtown, blue and purple uplighting reflecting garishly off the silver-edged mirrors lining the walls. A live band plays jazzy covers of Christmas songs interspersed with Top 40, and there are no fewer than five full, open bars. Tessa clutches a glass of champagne and tries not to tug nervously at the hem of her dress. It’s been too long since she’s done this, since she’s made herself all fancy and socialized with people. Since she had to be on. She actually put on a full face’s worth of makeup for this and she’s pretty sure her mascara expired sometime around last Easter.

She falls back into a technique she hasn’t used since her days of navigating Chicago’s high-profile, money-soaked legal scene and lets her Gift guide her, letting it dictate her reaction to each new person Rachel introduces her to. She can’t force her Gift into action, but instead tries to open herself up to that sense of intuition, not questioning the way she just knows that this person appreciates a particularly firm handshake, or the feeling that this woman genuinely wants to know about her book while another is just asking to be polite, and Tessa tailors her answers accordingly. She dedicates more time to chatting with a writer for Cherry Bombe when her Gift gives her nothing but a feeling of warmth and trust when the person introduces themselves, and excuses herself from a conversation with a publicist as soon as possible when her Gift immediately morphs into a queasy, slimey notion in the pit of her stomach the moment he walks up to her.

For all she frets about the timing of this trip, there’s no denying her excitement about the things happening with her career. Anxiety about the timing of it all interrupting her plans to ask Pero to stay hasn’t diminished the pride and elation she feels about the new contract, or the thrill of what might come of the conversations she’d had and contacts she’d made at the party tonight. Rachel had been right to convince her to come out for this.

Tessa also thinks about the possibilities for Pero. What would he think of being in a big city? She’d likely be traveling a bunch in the fall when her book came out to promote it - maybe Pero could come with her. The places she could show him, the foods she could introduce him to. The things they might be able to do, together.

After several hours, two full rounds of the ballroom, and three total glasses of champagne, Tessa makes her excuses to Rachel and extricates herself from the party. It’s late for Tessa but still early for New York, and her hotel is a short enough distance from the party that she chooses to walk. It’s a cold but clear night in the city, the street lined with storefronts that boast impressive holiday window displays that blaze brightly even at the late hour.

The bright twinkle of lights catches Tessa’s eye a few blocks from her hotel and she makes a detour, not having realized she was staying so close to such an iconic Christmas landmark.

The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree towers over its accompanying ice rink, which is still open and full of skaters. The tree is even bigger than it looks on television, thousands upon thousands of lights working valiantly to keep the second-longest night of the year at bay. A speaker system is blaring Christmas music and Tessa joins several other passersby at the railing above the ice rink to take in the unmistakable, unavoidable, overwhelming sense of Christmas the scene imparts upon even the most casual, fleeting viewer.

She fishes her phone out of her pocket and snaps a few pictures, and a series of desires rolls through her with increasing speed and force, like a snowball gathering size and momentum down a hill. Wishing that she could send these to Pero, that she could call him, talk to him, hear his voice -

That he were here.

This last one sticks in her throat. God, she misses him. For as much as she’s resisted having the conversation about having him stay, suddenly, it’s all she wants to do. For one crazy moment, she imagines calling Henry and asking him to drive to her house and wake Pero up, the thought of having to wait another twelve hours at minimum to tell him how she feels all at once seemingly unbearable.

The old-timey, slightly uncomfortable romanticism of Baby, It’s Cold Outside playing over the speakers fades away, replaced by the decidedly unromantic tones of Alvin and the Chipmunks harmonizing about how impatient they are for Christmas to arrive. Tessa shakes her head and smiles to herself, letting her own moment of impatience subside, resolved that her feeling from earlier this morning (and god, had it really just been this morning?) that this was a conversation that should only be had face-to-face is still correct.

She lingers for a few more songs, basking in the slightly hypnotic radiance of the tree, before making the rest of her way to her hotel. The full weight of the day finally hits her as she gets back to her room and peels off her dress, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. It takes several attempts with the hotel soap to wash her makeup off, and even then she doesn’t feel like she’s gotten all of it. But her face looks and feels more like her own now, even if a smudge of eyeliner still lingers.

After several years of sleeping alone, it’s remarkable how odd it now feels to be in bed by herself after just three weeks of sharing her bed with Pero. It doesn’t feel right; there should be a wall of solid warmth stretched out alongside her, the broad planes of Pero’s chest pressed against her back. An arm draped over her stomach, fingers brushing the underside of her breasts. The steady sound of his breathing in her ear. The impressive outline of his cock nestled against her ass. That intangible sense of being safe, of being wanted, of being cared for that settles over her like a favorite blanket whenever Pero is near, even as he sleeps.

One night, she thinks. One night without him, and then, hopefully, never again.

———

Pero cannot believe that he once found Tessa’s house to be full of noise. Sounds made by the modern comforts of the house have faded into the background for him. And without Tessa occupying it, it seems quiet, dull, empty, the person who breathed life into the house, that made it a home, no longer there.

Henry does his best to explain to Pero what’s happened, the circumstances leaving Tessa with little choice but to leave with no notice and a promise to return the following day. Her brother offers to host Pero for the remainder of the afternoon, but Pero politely declines, not wanting to intrude on Henry and Martin’s last bit of time together alone before heading, as Henry had told Pero as they wrestled the new treadmill into place, to spend the rest of the week with Martin’s extended family.

But after Henry brings him back to Tessa’s house, Pero isn’t sure what to do with himself. If Tessa were here, he might help her in the kitchen with a few last batches of Christmas cookies she’d been planning to make and deliver to some of her friends in town as early gifts. Maybe he’d watch her work on a few end-of-year posts for her blog before coaxing her away from her computer and onto his lap, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings to give her a well-deserved break. Or maybe he’d simply tuck her beneath his chin and ask her to put on a movie to watch before dinner, the soft presence of her cuddled against him its own kind of pleasure.

But without her, there’s no routine, no tasks, no work, no pleasurable activity to be had. He considers what he’d used to do in such situations: care for his horse, clean and sharpen his weapons, worry about where he was going to sleep that night and where his next meal was going to come from. But none of those is an option now, the realities of Tessa’s time rendering them all moot.

The hours pass slowly, the only eventful moment the one where Pero digs into Tessa’s fridge to find some kind of meal for himself, a pale and meager imitation of what Tessa would no doubt pull together if she were here.

When he decides to turn in for the night, he automatically heads for Tessa’s room, but pauses in the doorway.

It feels so different without her here, and for the first time since she led him into her room he has doubts about whether he’d be welcome. This space is hers more than anywhere else in the house, even the kitchen, and while he’s always eager to share it with her, he’s not sure it’s right for him to sleep there without her. It feels like he’s intruding.

He retreats to the other bedroom and it seems so bare and cold and impersonal, an assessment of his sleeping quarters that would never have bothered him in the past. He slips between the sheets and they smell only of the soap they’ve been washed with, no hint of Tessa’s floral shampoo or the sweet cherry-scented lotion she always puts on before bed.

The tiny clock on the bedside table ticks away the minutes in the darkness and sleep refuses to claim Pero. He considers getting up and padding across the hall to the other room, trying to reason that Tessa most likely would not mind at all, and in any case, would never have to know.

It wouldn’t be the same, it wouldn’t be anywhere near the same as her being there, but he wonders if there’s enough of a ghost of her presence in the space to quiet his mind and soothe his restless body. But as the clock ticks steadily onward, he ultimately stays where he is, finally drifting off into a restless sleep.

———

Pero wakes the next morning to cold, gray skies. Little sunlight makes it through the clouds, leaving the house full of lingering shadows.

Tessa will be back today, Henry had said, though he’d not indicated precisely when.

Tessa had mentioned the likelihood that she’d need to travel more once her book came out. It makes somewhat intuitive sense to Pero, for it seems difficult to gin up interest in and sell a book to many people from the comfort and confines of your own home.

How long she would be gone, she hadn’t said. But is this what it would be like, he wonders? Him, alone in this house, idle and dependent and useless? Just waiting for her to come back?

Perhaps he could go with her.

But this scenario fills Pero’s head with troubles too. Tessa has worked so hard and so long on her book. She deserves for it to be a success, to keep making her way in the world on her own skills and her own merit so that she never has to return to the kind of work that had made her so unhappy before.

Pero fears she cannot do that if he were there. She’s been so patient with him, so endlessly patient during his time here. Every time they go somewhere, she’s always so attentive, making sure he understands things, that he’s not confused or scared or alarmed by anything he encounters, and making sure no one else has reason to be suspicious of his reactions to elements of modern life.

But it also means he’s a distraction. He would not want to pull Tessa’s focus away from her work and he cannot decide what might be worse: that she would never waver from her dedication to looking out for him, even at the expense of other parts of her life, or that one day…one day, her patience might run out. That one day, the care and kindness in her eyes might be replaced with resentment.

He fears that no matter how much time he spends in this century, he will never truly adjust to it. That he will never know enough about this world to move through it with any sort of ease.

That he will never be enough.

You really think you can hold onto her? Be there for her? Keep up with her?

Take it from someone who also couldn’t measure up in the end: one way or another - next week, next year, someday - you will lose her.

He knows he should not allow Ryan’s words to affect him so. He knows what kind of man Tessa’s ex-fiancé is, he knows just how little value he should assign to his judgment.

And yet.

He can’t help but feel something about Ryan’s harsh assessment struck true. Pero replays their encounter over and over in his mind.

Take it from someone who also couldn’t measure up.

But oh, how Pero wants to. How he wishes he could.

He’s gotten used to the sight of his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink over the past seven weeks. Seeing his every feature in crystal clear detail is no longer a shock, but for the first time since he arrived here, Pero stands at the mirror this morning and looks, really looks, at himself.

Weeks of rich and regular meals have softened his body; there’s a little extra padding along his belly that wasn’t there before. The harsh lines of his face have been smoothed out somewhat, the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones blunted.

But no amount of Tessa’s cooking can erase the scar from his face, the thick red line of tissue still marking him as a man who has seen far too much violence. Nearly two months of idleness hasn’t coaxed the harsh, untrusting glint from his eyes, nor untwisted the near-constant scowl from his lips. The more he looks at himself, the more the changes his time with Tessa have wrought look and feel like an ill-fitting mask, a hastily constructed facade that does a poor job of hiding the true man underneath.

You’ll never get what you want from this, he had once told William when his friend had tried to convince him to stay and defend the Wall and its people. You think they see you as some kind of hero? A man of virtue? Maybe you can fool them, but I know what you are. You know what you are: a thief, a liar, and a killer. And you can never undo the things you have done.

He’d been trying to goad William into a reaction. He’d been trying to convince him not to stay and fight in a situation where death seemed all but certain. He’d been trying to hide how afraid he was that William would refuse to leave anyway. It had been a purposefully harsh judgment of his friend. Unjustly so.

But even if the things Pero had said hadn’t been true about William, he knew they were true about himself.

And he knew there were no happy endings, not for men like him. Not for thieves, liars, killers. Not for cowards. There was only survival until your luck ran out. The past seven weeks had been a sort of dream, a wondrous fantasy of the kind of life he might have been able to lead had he been born in a better time.

If he’d been born a better man.

But all dreams must come to an inevitable end.

Pero had been alone before. He could learn to do it again.

———

The morning of the solstice finds New York blanketed in the kind of gray, grimey cloud cover that embodies the phrase in the bleak Midwinter. Freezing rain begins to fall during Tessa’s cab ride to the airport and, in hindsight, was probably the first sign of how this day was about to go.

Tessa’s flight, as Rachel had promised, is an early one. But winter weather stretching across the Midwest and along the East Coast has delayed incoming flights to New York despite the local conditions being merely cold and annoying, not debilitating. Fortunately the plane Tessa is meant to get on makes it in from Nashville, albeit an hour or so later than intended.

Time slows to a crawl. Once she’s finally on the plane, Tessa knows it can’t be taking any longer than usual to get everyone settled on the 737, but it feels like the least efficient boarding process of all time. They push back from the gate nearly ninety minutes off schedule.

Then they wait for another twenty minutes for the plane to get de-iced.

Then there’s another nearly half an hour of sitting on the tarmac waiting for the backlog of planes lined up next to the runway to take off.

By the time her flight actually gets into the air, Tessa is clenching her teeth so tightly her jaw begins to ache, the frustration of being helpless to make the process of getting home to Pero go any faster making her want to tear her hair out.

On top of all of that, she spends most of the two-hour flight gripping her armrests for dear life, the rough weather across the Midwest offering no smooth path for the plane no matter the altitude.

It’s not until she makes it to Chicago, gets into her car, cranks up the heater, and starts navigating her way out of O’Hare that she realizes that what she’s feeling isn’t just lingering anxiety over the rough plane ride. It isn’t just nervousness about her conversation with Pero, or leftover adrenaline from yesterday, or a desire to get home after being delayed.

Underneath all of those things is her Gift, trying to warn her that something is wrong.

It’s the tell-tale feeling of cold, black dread hooking itself into her lungs, of ice spreading up her spine and lodging in her throat. It’s the feeling of invisible smoke and grit surrounding and covering her that makes her want to scratch and rub at her skin to make it go away.

It steals her breath and only years and years of learning to live with and react to her Gift keeps Tessa steady at the wheel.

Fear wraps itself around her heart.

Who? She silently shrieks at her Gift. Who am I going to lose this time?

But somewhere, down deep in her being, Tessa already knows, even if she doesn’t have the strength to admit it to herself.

She considers calling Henry, or Amie, or Moira, and asking them to check on Pero. But her phone is some side pocket of her bag that’s sliding around in the backseat, and Tessa doesn’t dare attempt to fish it out while she’s driving. She could pull over, she could take two minutes to stop and find it, but the idea of even the smallest additional delay makes her want to scream. Instead, she flexes her hands against the steering wheel and resists the urge to obsessively count each mile marker she passes.

There’s no denying the holiday travel rush has begun; there’s definitely more traffic on the tollway than there was yesterday, enough to slow things down. Tessa hits thirty minutes on the road, then sixty, then ninety, each half-hour feeling like a year, and she’s still a good distance out from home. She flips through radio stations constantly, no song or commercial or DJ able to hold her attention for longer than a few seconds. Even Christmas music neither distracts nor calms her the way it usually does, not with vehicles constantly surrounding her on every side, hindering her ability to push past the speed limit.

Ninety minutes becomes two hours. Then two and a half. This day is starting to feel like a terrible dream, the kind where you know you have to be somewhere, you have to do something, but the more you fight to move the more the universe pushes back against you until you feel like you’re trying to run through a swimming pool of molasses. The kind of dream where you always wake up before you get to where you need to be.

Storm clouds building off Lake Michigan start to roll across the sky like an omen, chasing away what little sun there is even earlier than usual on the shortest day of the year. Mid-afternoon starts to rapidly feel like twilight and Tessa is twenty minutes from home when the wind picks up with a sudden newfound ferocity. Snowflakes begin to fall and Tessa drives as quickly as she dares, trying to make it home before conditions deteriorate too far.

Hurry, hurry, hurry the gray-blue wall of clouds seems to say as it pushes unceasingly across the horizon. Hurry home, little witch, and hope you are fast enough.

Finally, finally Tessa turns into her driveway, the back end of her car threatening to fishtail at her speed and increasingly slick conditions. She barely takes the time to throw the vehicle into park and turn it off before racing up the steps to her front door.

“Pero, I’m home!” She calls as she bursts in, trying to keep the panic from her voice. But the house is dark and silent, the only lights on are the ones on her tree, set to a timer.

Something is definitely wrong.

“Pero?” Tessa shouts again, hastily checking the rest of the house. There’s no sign of him. And even more worrying, everything he’d arrived on her doorstep with is gone: his swords, his dagger, his clothes.

And the pendant.

No, no, please, no -

Tessa runs back outside and stands under the eaves of her porch, squinting out into the dim remaining light where the snow has now begun to come down in earnest.

When she’d left the day before, the existing snow cover across her front yard had been undisturbed. Now, there is a single set of footprints leading away from the house and towards the woods. Towards the Gate.

Her Gift is a dull roar in her ears as Tessa comes to the inevitable, unmistakable, undeniable conclusion it’s been trying to warn her about:

Pero is gone.

Chapter 10.

———————————————————————

a/n: I know. I know. But reminder that this is not the end. There is one more chapter left, folks. Deep breaths.

#pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the great wall fic

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