#is when even the good guy heroes. the ones who are supposed to be kind and compassionate and wise. see him as dirt

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : Mark Loves You. He Loves You So Much. But You Don't. And Yet You Agree To Go Out With Him. Maybe Because No One Else Wants You. Maybe Because You Were Lonely...

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You remember the first time Mark Grayson asked you on a date.

It was embarrassing.

Not for him, no. For you. Because he did it in the middle of the school hallway, right when you were already feeling like shit, surrounded by people who immediately turned to stare like this was some kind of rom-com moment. Like you were supposed to blush and giggle and say yes because Mark Grayson was the loser who somehow still managed to be well-liked.

And you? You weren’t special. Not in any way that mattered. You weren’t pretty enough to turn heads, not hot enough to make guys stumble over themselves. You weren’t the girl anyone fell in love with. So when Mark fucking Grayson—big smile, nervous hands, that stupid blue-and-yellow jacket—asked you out, you just blinked at him.

"Are you serious?" you had asked, voice flat.

His expression faltered for half a second before he recovered. "Yeah! I mean, I think you're really pretty, and, uh, I'd love to take you out. Like—dinner, movie, whatever you want."

You wanted to say no. You really did. But then you thought about it—about how the guy you actually liked barely knew you existed. How you were always the afterthought, the last pick, the option. No one was lining up to take you out. But here was Mark, all bright eyes and open hands, so eager, so desperate.

So you said yes.

Dating Mark was easy. And awful.

He was in love with you.

Not in a normal, lovesick puppy way. No, Mark was something else. He looked at you like you were air and he was drowning. He texted constantly, always wanting to know where you were, who you were with, if you were okay. He remembered everything you ever said—your favorite color, the way you hated cold weather, that one time you mentioned wanting to try some random Thai restaurant downtown. It was suffocating.

And the worst part? You liked it.

Not him, though. Just the way he needed you. The way he worshipped you.

You let him hold your hand even though his palms were always a little too warm. You let him kiss you even though he always lingered too long, like he was memorizing your lips, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped. You let him call you pet names that made your skin crawl—"baby," "angel," "my girl."

You never called him anything but Mark.

Then, of course, came the worst part.

The superhero bullshit.

The time he told you, it was supposed to be some big moment.

He sat you down in his bedroom, looking at you with this nervous excitement, like he was about to give you the best news of your life. Then he told you.

"I'm Invincible."

You blinked. "...You're what?"

He grinned, all proud, like an idiot. "Invincible! You know, the new hero? Yellow suit?"

Oh. Oh, that was him?

The guy flying around looking like a blind bee?

Invincible. What a stupid fucking name.

You had so many questions. None of them were good.

"You're telling me you willingly wear that suit?" you said instead, voice dripping with disgust.

His smile faltered. "I—I mean, yeah, it's kind of cool, right?"

You stared at him. Stared at the boy you were dating, who was apparently running around in an ugly-ass yellow and blue suit with those stupid fucking goggles like he was actually blind.

"You look so dumb," you muttered.

His face fell. "Wait, what?"

"Yellow? Seriously? Who the fuck told you that looked good?"

"Babe—"

"And the goggles? Are you blind? No, actually, are you?"

He looked heartbroken. Like you had just kicked a puppy. It was honestly kind of funny. But then he smiled again, weaker, like he was trying to brush it off.

"You’re not... mad?" he asked hesitantly.

Oh. Right. That was what he was expecting, wasn’t it? Screaming, crying, breaking up because oh no, my boyfriend is a superhero, it’s too dangerous, I can’t handle it!

You just shrugged.

"Why would I be mad?" you said. "Not like I actually care what you do."

He just stared at you for a long time. Then he smiled.

Too wide. Too happy. Like you had said something perfect.

God, he was pathetic.

Mark loved you too much. And you let him.

Every date was his idea. You never asked. He was always the one picking you up, texting first, clinging to you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You tested him constantly, just to see how much he could take.

Ignored his texts? He sent more.

Canceled a date? He rescheduled immediately.

Made fun of him? He laughed, like it was endearing.

You let him kiss you, let him touch you, but never too much. Just enough to keep him hooked. You never said "I love you." He said it all the time, and every time you just looked at him, blank, and let the silence stretch until he got uncomfortable and changed the subject.

And god, he never gave up.

He looked at you like you were the fucking moon. Like you hung the stars in his sky. Like he needed you just to breathe.

You hated it.

You loved it.

Because you could never have what you really wanted. No one had ever loved you like this before. So you let Mark do it.

Even if you could never love him back.

Mark never noticed when you looked at someone else.

Maybe because he didn’t want to notice.

Or maybe because, in his head, you were already his. Permanently. Like he had claimed you the second you said yes in that stupid high school hallway.

But you noticed.

You noticed him. The guy you actually wanted.

He was everything Mark wasn’t—cool, confident, effortlessly charming. When he walked into a room, people turned. Girls actually wanted him. They laughed at his jokes, flipped their hair when he talked, hung onto every word. He could have anyone he wanted.

But he didn’t want you.

That stung. Even though you knew it shouldn’t.

You had Mark. Mark, who worshipped the ground you walked on. Mark, who held your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. Mark, who would probably die if you asked him to.

And still, you wanted someone else.

You tried. For a while.

It happened on a random night—Mark was picking you up from class, his stupid yellow goggles shoved into his pocket, hair still messy from whatever dumb hero thing he had been doing earlier. He grinned at you, all excited like always.

"You hungry? We could get that ramen you liked."

You weren’t in the mood. Not for him. Not for his stupid, endless happiness.

But then you thought about it.

You thought about how it would feel if he—the one you actually wanted—looked at you like that. You thought about how you were being handed something most people dreamed of. Unconditional love. A boy who would do anything for you.

So you tried.

You smiled—tight, forced. Let Mark hold your hand as he walked with you. You let him talk, rambling on about some new villain he fought, how he was getting better at flying, how his dad was actually talking to him about superhero stuff now.

You nodded at the right times. Gave him a few mhms and oh, really? Like a normal girlfriend would.

But it didn’t last.

Because Mark wasn’t what you wanted.

And because you were fucked in the head.

It always came out of nowhere.

One second, you’d be fine. Barely tolerating him, but fine. The next, something small—something stupid—would set you off.

Like tonight.

You were sitting in his room, scrolling through your phone, only half-listening as he went on about his superhero bullshit again. And then he said something—some dumb, innocent comment.

"I know I’m not, like, the coolest guy around, but—I dunno, sometimes I wish you’d talk about me the way you talk about him."

Him.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Mark looked nervous, like he regretted saying anything. Good.

"What?" Your voice was sharp.

Mark hesitated. "I—I mean, I know you think he’s, like, really handsome and—"

"Are you seriously bringing this up right now?"

He blinked. "I—"

"No, really, Mark, really? Jesus Christ, I can’t have one fucking conversation without you getting all insecure?"

Mark flinched. Like you had actually hit him.

And fuck, that only pissed you off more.

"You always do this," you spat, voice venomous. "Always. Acting like I’m the fucking bad guy when all I do is put up with your bullshit, your stupid works, your pathetic little—"

You stopped.

Because Mark was looking at you like a kicked dog.

Like he had just realized something awful.

And fuck.

You felt sick.

The guilt hit fast.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. "Fuck."

Mark swallowed. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Just—just shut up, okay?"

You didn’t want to hear him apologize. Not again. Not after this.

You weren’t a good person.

And Mark wasn’t good enough to fix that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 2. Part 3.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[deadsetobsessions]

It’s been months since he’s settled into life at Wayne Manor. It’s hilarious that they don’t think he knows about their obvious nightlife (and that’s coming from someone whose hero name was just their last name spelled differently) but they don’t know anything about his own past as a vigilante. To be fair, a dimensionally displaced Ghost King wasn’t really on the board for reasonable guesses. Danny Fenton blinked innocently at Duke, blue eyes watery and oh-so-trusting of his adopted older brother when Duke claimed that his bruising came from getting caught in Ivy’s attack on the busses today.

(“Oh my god he’s so trusting and pure what the hell?” He heard Steph whisper to Dick, who nodded emphatically.)

“Oh man, you should get some rest. You guys are seriously unlucky, you know? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Danny asked Duke, his core trilling as he allowed himself to fuss over a member of his ‘fraid.

“Nah, man. I’m good. I think I’ll take a nap and sleep it off.”

“Okay. Oh, here!” Danny fumbled for his bag, grabbing his prescribed pain meds- for his chronic pain, but they don’t actually do anything for him since his ectoplasm burns away most of it- and handed it to Duke. “Take one, and only one. Those bruises look nasty.”

And then Danny gave him the puppy dog eyes and Duke folded, because Danny knew that he wasn’t supposed to hand his meds out but these situations were kind of the reason he claimed chronic pain to being with (even if it was true and his hands shook with aftershocks).

“Thanks, Danny. I feel like death warmed over.”

Danny laughed, the opportunity to mess with the family sparking in his head. “Yeah, I’ve died before. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

With that, Danny threw Duke an easy going smile and walked towards his room, bag on his back.

From his peripherals, Danny watched Jason drop his bowl of snacks, Dick’s pale face, and the concerned and shocked look of everyone else. Except Damian, who just kind of scowled thoughtfully. Tim looked like he was going to rip Danny apart like an interesting puzzle, Cass sat up straight (and he made sure every micro expression he caught on others stayed unconcerned on his own body), and Duke froze.

He snickered- well out of regular earshot- as whispers and whispered shouts rung out after he left the room.

He can’t wait to drop the “I know you’re vigilantes” bomb on them. It’ll be hilarious.

[ponderingmoonlight]

How you accidentally made Dante look like a hero again

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: All you wanted was to outsmart Dante and prove he was setting you up for demon attacks in order to get closer to you. Instead, you ended up buried under library rubble, fighting off scorpion demons, and getting saved by him — again. This is why you have trust issues.

Warnings: swearing, kinda enemies to lovers dynamic, I just love Dante y'all need to have mercy with me lol

You’re starting to think you’re cursed.

That’s the only explanation for it. How else do you keep ending up in demon-infested alleys, haunted casinos, and - once - dangling upside down from a stolen motorcycle, twice in the same week? No average person deserves so much distress.

But even worse: every time - every damn time - there’s Dante.

Bursting in like he’s auditioning for an action movie. Guns blazing, coat flaring behind him, a cocky smirk plastered across his stupidly handsome face.

God, how much you hate that guy.

…do you?

"Oh no," you mutter under your breath when you spot him swaggering through the chaos yet again.

"Not this asshole."

"Miss me, babe?" he calls, spinning his sword once before cleaving a demon in half like it's no big deal.

You barely dodge a flying claw, pretty used to almost dying by now.

"Dante, why are there hellhounds in the laundromat?! I just came here to do my laundry!"

He winks at you like this is all part of some grand romantic plan.

"You know. Crazy city. You never know what’s gonna happen. Nice panties by the way, wish I could see them up close."

You stare at him, sceptical to say the least, as he shoots a demon that was two inches away from biting your head off.

"This is the fourth time this month. And every time you're 'coincidentally' nearby!"

He strolls over, casually beheading something with his sword like he's just stretching his legs. How many times have you seen this already? Probably like a hundred times.

This month.

"Fate works in mysterious ways, sweetheart."

You gawk at him. No, the thing he calls fate can’t be an accident. There is literally no way in hell that you get attacked even more often than himself. There has to be another reason. Could it be that…?

"Are you setting this up?!"

He gives you a look, all fake innocence and devilish grin.

That bastard.

"Who, me? Nahhh. Demons just have a thing for damsels. Lucky for you... I'm a professional knight in shining armor."

A piece of ceiling collapses dangerously close to you. You flinch for once. Dante doesn’t even blink, just throws an arm around your waist and throws you out of the way with way too much enthusiasm.

You land on your back with a grunt, staring up at the cracked ceiling and wondering what life choices led you here. Where did you take a wrong turn to deserve this? Being liked by a hot guy is all fun and games until the name of that jerk is Dante Sparda, apparently.

Dante leans over you, upside-down, grinning like a maniac.

"You good? Need mouth-to-mouth?" he offers helpfully.

You shove him off you, the heat of his body almost devouring you whole.

"I’m getting a restraining order."

"You say that, but then who’s gonna save you next time you almost get eaten by a possessed vending machine?"

You open your mouth to argue - and realize you have no idea how to deal with possessed vending machines. You groan, burying your face in your hands.

“Maybe you’re the one who possesses everything around me…”

Dante pats your head fondly like you’re some kind of beloved but very dumb kitten.

"You mean like your thoughts? Most definitely, yeah. But don't worry, babe," he coos cheerfully, "I'll always be there to save your pretty little ass."

You’re pretty sure that’s supposed to be comforting. Instead, you start mentally drafting your will.

“Get off me now, I need to get going jerk. And stop staring at my panties”, you hiss through gritted teeth while getting up, packing your things and leaving.

No, this isn’t an accident, not your fault by any means. Dante is the one who sets all of this shit up.

“That fucker…”, you mutter to yourself, slamming the door shut in fury.

You can’t do this anymore, can’t take seeing a demon each time you leave your house. You’ll have to teach him a lesson.

Yes, there has to be a way to stop this madness once and for all.

“I’ll catch you mid-act, Dante…”

You hatch a plan.

A pretty simple one: bait Dante into showing up, catch him red-handed, and finally prove he's arranging all this chaos.

You pick the most boring, demon-unfriendly place you can think of: the public library. No shady alleys, no creepy neon signs, no way in hell anything supernatural is hanging out between the tax law section and the dusty romance novels.

You text him a fake tip, something about "possible demonic activity" near the library, totally urgent, definitely needs his professional attention.

Then you sit back, tuck yourself into a corner with a stack of books, and wait.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty.

No Dante.

You start to relax. Maybe he finally got the hint. Maybe he's actually busy for once. Did your words from yesterday finally stir something inside of his brain?

And that's when the ceiling caves in.

You shriek as a massive scorpion demon crashes through the roof, scattering books and terrified civilians everywhere. Librarians are running for their lives. An entire row of encyclopedias explodes in a puff of dusty chaos, taking your sight while you desperately try to crawl out of the scene.

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen. That definitely wasn’t written on your bingo card for today.

"What the hell?!" you shout, diving behind a bookshelf just in time before a whole fucking shelf bumps onto the ground next to you.

"HEY BABY!" a too-familiar voice yells from somewhere in the smoke.

You peek out and see Dante standing atop the checkout desk, dual pistols in hand, grinning like this is the best day of his life.

"Miss me?"

You stare at him, speechless. No, this has to be a dream. This was supposed to be a trap, you set him off in order to finally find him guilty. And now this?

"HOW?!"

He jumps off the desk, unloading a round of bullets into the demon's face like it’s a casual Tuesday.

"You sent me the text! Good instincts, by the way - I was gonna ignore it, but then I figured, ‘Hey, if my girl’s around, probably gonna be some action.’ And look! Action!"

You dodge a flying claw and seriously consider strangling him with a library card cord.

"I SENT YOU A FAKE TEXT!" you shout over the sound of gunfire.

"THERE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE A REAL DEMON!"

"Aw," Dante replies, kicking a demon minion into a copy machine, "you’re so modest. You’re like a magnet for this stuff."

You have no time to argue. The giant scorpion is bearing down on you. You grab the nearest weapon, a hardcover dictionary about curse words in Spanish, and hurl it at its head. It bounces off harmlessly. Yeah, what a surprise, actually.

Dante whistles low, impressed.

"Good arm, babe. But here - lemme show you how it's done."

Before you can blink, he’s in front of you, sword flashing, doing some ridiculously show-offy spin move that absolutely wasn’t necessary but looks cool as hell anyway.

The demon collapses with a final screech.

Silence falls over the destroyed library.

Books smolder, paper flutters in the air like sad confetti. Somewhere, a printer makes a pathetic beep before dying.

You sit down heavily on the floor, dazed.

Dante strolls over, all proud, offering you a hand up.

"No need to thank me. It’s kinda my thing."

You stare at him, mind still processing what just happened. Your mission failed – miserably, so say the least.  

"I literally TRIED to set you up."

"And look how well it worked!" he declares brightly.

"You lured out the bad guys! You're a natural at this demon-hunting stuff. I'm so proud."

You want to punch him. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him then kiss him.

Instead, you let him pull you to your feet, dusting off your scorched jacket.

"I'm never texting you again," you grumble.

"Sure you will," Dante coos, flashing that stupid, charming grin.

"You can't resist me."

You open your mouth to argue - and immediately get tackled to the ground as a second, smaller demon leaps from the wreckage.

You land with a painful thud, pinned beneath Dante’s weight as he shoots over your head, finishing off the last monster.

When the danger’s over, he stays there for an awkward beat too long, smirking down at you.

"See? Told ya. Always there to catch ya when you fall."

You groan, covering your face with your hands while absolutely hating how good his body weight feels on top of you, how surprisingly good that asshole of a man smells.

"I'm going to die of second-hand embarrassment."

"Nah," Dante retorts confidently, getting up and pulling you with him again.

"If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be something way cooler. Like a demon. Or a possessed espresso machine."

You squint at him.

 "You’re not gonna let this go, are you?"

He slings an arm around your shoulders like he owns the place, like the ablaze library isn’t his fault at all, and leads you toward the exit.

"Nope. You're stuck with me, sweetheart."

You sigh.

Maybe getting a new phone and a new name wouldn’t be the worst idea.

…Or just giving in.

[wonderjanga]

When Billy was a Newbie

I like to think some of these scenarios happened when Billy was first starting out as a hero.

Villain: *monologging*

Marvel: *doesn’t even let them finish and socks the shit out of them and takes them to the police department*

This happens a good twenty times until one villain has enough.

Villain: *monologging*

Marvel: *about to attack while they’re talking*

Villain: “OKAY WAIT WAIT WAIT, STOP RIGHT THERE YOU BASTARD.”

Marvel: *stops, confused*

Villain: “I know you’re new to this whole thing, but you do realize you’re supposed to let us monologue and tell you our evil plan, right?! You’re not supposed to cut us off!”

Marvel: “I’m not?”

Villain: “No!”

Marvel: “Oh. I’m sorry about that, Mx. Supervillain. I’ll let you and the other ones talk next time.”

Villain: “Wait, really?”

After this, he actually does end up letting them talk and all that.

I also think something like this would happen when he was getting used to fighting crime.

Marvel: *throws one of the big blue mail boxes at some low level, human, emphasis on human, crooks* “Oh… my bad, guys! I was a little too harsh.”

Crooks: *severely injured* “What do you mean ‘your bad’?!?????? That was a little more than harsh!”

Then, there’s the fact I think he wouldn’t care about where he’s saving people. By that I mean, Billy has a lot of free time because he doesn’t go to school. Because of this, you’ll casually see Captain Marvel in flipping Milwaukee helping some people who got into a car crash, then in Orlando helping out with a fire, then in San Jose helping someone who lost their dog. Point is, if there’s someone to help out, he’ll help. Through this, he met Superman actually. Funnily enough, it was while holding up a building.

Marvel: *holding up a building*

Supes: *flies down* “You’re Captain Marvel, right?”

Marvel: “Huh? Uh yeah?” *looks over Superman, seeing his suit and thinking he’s another hero (Billy doesn’t know most heroes because this was when the time bubble recently popped)

Supes: “You need a hand with that?”

Marvel: “Yes, please.”

Supes and Marvel: *work together to move the building to somewhere safe so it won’t hurt anyone*

Marvel: “Thanks.”

Supes: “No problem.”

*awkward silence*

Supes: “If I can ask, what brought you to Metropolis?”

Marvel: “I’m here to fight crime…?” *says like it’s super obvious*

Supes: “Wha? Don’t you have your own city?”

Marvel: “I mean, I guess. Fawcett isn’t really my city though. I just protect it.”

Supes: *blanking and trying to come up with something to say* “Captain, you can’t just go around in other hero’s cities and fight crime for them. It’s a breach of territory.”

Marvel: “It is?”

Supes: “Yes, it is. Honestly, I’m just happy you didn’t do this in Gotham. Batman would’ve been furious.”

Marvel: “Oh. Okay then… so just stick to cities that don’t have heroes?”

Supes: “Well, I guess but don’t you normally-”

Marvel: *beaming smile* “I appreciate the advice, Mr. Superman.”

Supes: “Your…welcome? Wait, what do you mean ‘stick to the cities that don’t have heroes’?”

Marvel: “Oh, well, when crimes slow and nothing’s going on in Fawcett, I kind of just fly around everywhere looking for stuff to do. Just the other day I helped these two old, farmer people, husband and wife, lift their tractor out of some mud.”

Supes: *a little astounded he has that much time on his hands* “Really? Where was that?”

Marvel: “Kansas. I think the town they lived in was Smallville or something?”

Supes: *nearly shits himself* “Ah… I see.”

Then there was the time he met a random Green Lantern. He had no idea what the Lantern Corp were, but any information Solomon gave him made them sound cool though. But you want to know the worst part of this interaction? The Lantern was trying to give Marvel a ring.

Random GL (RGL): *talking about how he wanted to give Billy the ring and yadayadayada*

Marvel: *not even listening due to the Gods talking a whole lot*

Mercury: “BILLY STEAL THE RING!”

Marvel: *saying this out loud* “What? What ring?”

RGL: *confused, says something Billy isn’t paying attention to*

Mercury: “THE RING ON HIS FINGER. KEEP UP WITH THE PROGRAM.”

Marvel: *still talking out loud* “Oh okay okay… how do I do that?”

Solomon: “You are supposed to use your will.”

Marvel: “Huh? Solomon there’s no way that’ll wor…” *trails off as he wills the ring off the lantern’s finger* “I take back what I said.”

RGL: *starts to fall*

Marvel: “Holy moly!” *rushes down to catch him*

RGL: “Earthling what the hell is wrong with you?! Why would you do that??!?”

Marvel: “I’m sorry! The voices has told me to.” *gives them back their ring*

RGL: *flies off grumbling how he’s a psychopath*

Then there was when Marvel joined the Justice League. When he got the communicator, he put it in his pocket dimension and promptly forgot about it.

Marvel: “The Justice League hasn’t contacted me. I wonder if I’ve done something wrong…”

Meanwhile…

Batman: “This is like the third meeting he’s missed, Clark.”

Supes: “I know, I know! I’m sorry! He didn’t seem like the type to skip out on meetings. He talked like he had a bunch of free time.”

WW: “You should go talk to him. You are the one who invited him.”

Supes: *sighs* “I will.”

Back in Fawcett…

Marvel: *helping a cat down from a tree*

Supes: *flies down when he sees him* “Captain! Can we talk?”

Marvel: *hands cat back to its owner* “Mr. Superman. Of course! I’ve actually had something I’ve been meaning to talk about with you too.”

Supes: “Right, well I guess I’ll cut straight to the point. Is there a reason you haven’t shown up to the last meetings?”

Marvel: *stares at him with the most confused face* “Meetings?”

Supes: *confused at Billy’s confusion* “Yes? You get notified on your comm about them.”

Marvel: “Comm… Comm?” *thinking face before recognition flits across his face* “Wait, this thing?” *reaches hand into pocket dimension and pulls out his JL comm*

Supes: *slightly horrified when he saw his arm disappear for a moment* “Yeah. That.”

Marvel: *taps comm and sees over 45 unread notifications* “Oh.”

Supes: *wondering how in the world Marvel never checked his comm* “Oh indeed.”

[coldilikeit]

Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

DC x Pjo

Part 3

___________________

"Missing: If found dead or alive, please contact the authorities"

Dick feels like he's about to puke, every time he sees that fucking poster, every time it's played in the news

He feels like he failed, not just as Nightwing, but as a brother, he was supposed to be a protector, projecting you as a vigilante and as a hero

Everything keeps replaying in his head, how you were always out of theme in family photos because Damian keeps telling you the wrong one, but no one bothers to tell you the real one

How in a single day, everything you've ever built was abandoned, your room, your school, your friends (he wasn't sure if you had any) (ps: you didn't, Damian wouldn't let it happen)

How no one was there to help

And he saw another poster "bring back dead or alive"

He wasn't sure how he's going to accept if you're actually dead

Because if you're alive, there could be a chance, he'd apologize to you, and he knows you're kind enough to accept it, he'll spend lost time with you, and everything will be fine

But with every minute that passes, it feels like slowly you are pulling away further from him (if it's still possible that you could be pulled further than you are now)

________________________

2 years ago

"How long are you gonna keep disappointing me like this...?" Bruce sighed deeply

He got your report card, funny enough, the only time he sees you is when you do something wrong

And it wasn't like you failed either, it's just that it's lower than what your siblings got, it's lower than his standards

Well sorry you're not Tony Stark level, am I right? Ahaha-

You weren't stupid, you just weren't as smart as your siblings, in your defense you were smarter than them at some other stuff, it's just that it's the stuff your father didn't care about

"Dad are you finally throwing out the anchor?" Damian snickered

You huff at the insult, knowing if you insult him back you'll get in trouble "it's not even that bad-"

Jason furrows his brows "yeah, but it's not good enough, I hope you realize how lucky you are compared to the other kids in Gotham, you should repay it by being outstanding"

"And not to mention as the first born biological child you should uphold yourself to the standards given to you, if you can't do that then stand down" Tim scoffs at you

That comment may or may not be from an insecurity that he isn't Bruce's real kid (despite being more loved than you)

"don't you think you're being too dramatic? I don't even want that stupid company" you grit your teeth

"that stupid company is what keeps a roof over your head, stop being so ungrateful"

Damian's face has that shit-eating grin once again "throw it out the streets maybe then it'll know"

It's always that fucking suggestion that throws you off, every fight, they call you a burden in this house, they want you out

You feel like if it weren't going to be a legal problem Bruce would have done it

"you guys are so full of yourselves, I don't know where you pull the 'i'll fix Gotham' mentality when you can't even fix your own issues" you grab your grades and leave

"You fucking-" you hear Damian say but you ran to your room, to the far corner of the Manor, a guest bedroom (you were kicked out of your master bedroom when Damian came, his reason was "it's too stressful seeing it everyday", so they moved you)

______________________

Present

"Diana...?" Bruce calls

"Diana!, what is it!?" Bruce yells "What do you see?"

Diana looks like she's about to cry, as she examines the footage in front of her

another demigod dead

She thinks, her hands shaking at the sight of another child, like she once was, dying at the hands of those monsters who hunt them down

Does Bruce know? It didn't seem like he did, if he knew- he would have protected the kid right?

Then she sees light, she sees the little kid run into the garden, and meet nymphs, she sees the kid escape

"oh thank the gods..." She whispered

Without saying another word, she left the tower, leaving the others confused, she knew where the kid was

(Name) was safe at camp

_______________________

I just finished an exam and the entire time I was taking it, the edit of "dynamic duo", starring Nightwing and Redhood kept playing in my head

Also this series is gonna have multiple parts, I wanna make things easier for you guys :3 , how do you make a masterlist?

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

@bat1212 @vanessa-boo @sweetconnoisseurgardener

[ijustwannabecool]

The Wrong Letter

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?

Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!

THE WRONG LETTER

The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent

⸻

The flat is still.

There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.

Exhaustion lives in your bones now.

Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.

You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.

It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.

You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.

You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.

You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.

I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.

Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.

But that version of you never existed, did he?

No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.

I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.

So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me

⸻

You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.

M. Hamilton

312 Grafton Way London NW1

You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.

You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.

It says:

L. Hamilton

213 Grafton Lane London NW1

You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.

But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.

It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”

⸻

A Week Later — Monaco

He notices the envelope right away.

It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.

L. Hamilton

He sighs.

Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.

Still, something about it makes him pause.

He’s been restless lately.

Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.

And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.

Then twice.

Then again—slower.

By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.

The words dig beneath his ribs.

It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.

The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.

He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.

He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.

And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.

⸻

He stares at the letter again the next morning.

He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.

But he did.

Twice.

And now—again.

He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”

Same.

Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.

The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.

And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.

She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.

She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.

Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?

He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.

Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.

It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.

And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.

You didn’t do that.

You just wrote.

And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.

I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.

If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.

Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.

If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.

—L

He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.

Just an initial.

Nothing else.

No fame. No clues.

Just words.

He hesitates before sealing it.

He could throw it away.

He probably should.

But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.

The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.

⸻

Back in London – Three Days Later

You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.

It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.

Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.

You write back that night. Just one line:

Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.

⸻

It becomes a ritual.

You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.

Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.

⸻

Letter #2

Dear L,

I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.

And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.

You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.

I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.

⸻

Letter #3

Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:

I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.

I forgot how much I hate almond milk.

As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.

My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.

(...That’s probably too much information.)

This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.

And I think that says something.

Still writing, —L

P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.

⸻

It keeps going.

Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.

You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”

You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.

He picks up on it. Of course he does.

⸻

Letter #5

Dear Y/I,

I think we forget how brave softness is.

Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—

You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.

Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L

(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)

You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.

You don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s becoming something you need.

You write back the same night.

⸻

Letter #6

Dear L,

It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.

I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.

I wanted to tell you.

And I don’t even know your face.

But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.

So I’m sending you something too.

It’s small. But it made me think of you.

— Y/I

(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)

���

And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.

You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.

Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.

⸻

Letter #12

Dear L,

I thought about deleting this letter.

I still might.

But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.

There was someone.

He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.

But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.

But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I

He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.

He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.

He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.

But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.

⸻

Letter #13

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know if this will help, but...

You don’t speak in whispers anymore.

Not to me.

Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.

And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.

But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.

You’re not nothing.

I hope you never forget that

—L

And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes raw.

Always honest.

⸻

Letter #15

Dear L,

I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.

To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.

You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.

Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.

It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.

And I think... that’s more important.

— Y/I

⸻

Letter #16

Dear Y/I,

There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.

But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”

I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.

But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe it just has to be honest.

Like us.

—L

(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)

⸻

You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.

And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.

⸻

You don’t set an alarm anymore.

Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.

You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.

It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.

You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.

You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.

It holds his letters now.

You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.

⸻

Your day unfolds the way it always does.

You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.

You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.

You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”

You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.

⸻

At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.

“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.

You fight the smile. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”

She gives you a look but lets it go.

⸻

The school day ends.

You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.

And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.

Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.

You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.

Inside?

A note.

And a photo.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.

But I found a little moment of stillness.

I thought you might like it.

You feel like stillness, sometimes.

Like breath.

More soon.

—L

(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)

You press the photo to your chest. And smile.

⸻

He wakes up in yet another hotel.

He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,

it’s Barcelona.

The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.

He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.

Another debrief after that.

Then sim work.

Then setup.

Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.

He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.

There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.

Always does now.

Wherever he goes.

Just in case.

He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.

“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”

He smiles.

And exhales.

⸻

The paddock is chaos.

People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.

He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.

He does the dance.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.

Back to her.

To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”

He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.

⸻

He takes photos quietly.

A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)

He frames the shot. Clicks.

And hears a voice behind him.

“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”

He jumps slightly, turning.

It’s Charles.

His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.

“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”

“Yeah. Personal one.”

Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”

“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.

Then, without thinking, he adds:

“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”

Charles tilts his head. “She?”

Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”

Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”

But he’s smiling.

Because that’s what she does to him.

Makes the world feel quiet again.

Even here.

⸻

That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

Today was loud.

The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.

But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.

I think you’re right.

This isn’t much.

But it made me feel quiet.

And when I feel quiet, I think of you.

—L

(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)

He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.

He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.

⸻

The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.

⸻

Letter #28

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know what this is anymore.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way.

It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.

I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.

(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.

Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.

Still yours,

—L

⸻

You read that letter three times.

Then again the next morning.

You walk through your day differently now. More alert.

More tender.

You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.

⸻

Letter #29

Dear L,

You said you don’t know what this is anymore.

I don’t either.

But I know what it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.

Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...

You already saw it.

You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.

And that scares me.

But it also makes me feel whole.

— Y/I

P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.

⸻

Letter #30

Dear Y/I,

This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.

I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.

So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.

But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 

To just be a man next to a woman he respects.

Not a name.

Not a brand.

Just L.

(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)

— Still just L

⸻

You reread that paragraph.

“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”

Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.

You could.

But you don’t.

Because whatever this is—it’s enough.

And you trust him.

⸻

Letter #31

Dear L,

When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.

“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”

I found them again last week.

And I cried.

Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.

You didn’t fix me.

But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.

You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.

And still—you see me.

More clearly than anyone else has.

— Y/I

⸻

He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.

The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.

But none of it matters.

Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:

That he matters without being anyone else.

That she wants him, not the idea of him.

That she’s ready.

And just like that—

He knows.

It’s almost time to tell her who he is.

⸻

It was raining the day you wrote the draft.

Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.

This was the kind of rain that felt mean.

That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.

It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.

You were already crying before you picked up the pen.

And you shouldn't have written it.

But you did.

Not to him.

Just... to yourself.

A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?

You wrote:

Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.

You folded it.

Slid it into your drawer.

You didn’t sign it.

Didn’t intend to send it.

You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.

You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.

⸻

Four days later — Monaco

He gets home late.

The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.

He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.

Her letter is there. Waiting.

He smiles before he even opens it.

But the smile fades.

Line by line.

Word by word.

He reads the first sentence.

And stops.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”

It feels like a slap.

Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A test.

But it’s just... her.

Questioning all of it.

All of him.

And he—

He doesn’t know what to do.

⸻

He doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Not at all.

He wants to write something. Anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.

So he doesn’t write.

He disappears.

⸻

A Week Later

You feel it before you know it.

The silence.

It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.

You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.

And then it comes.

One envelope.

No letter inside.

Just a photo.

A paper airplane.

Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.

And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:

I didn’t know I was disposable.

You sink to the floor.

The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”

Because it wasn’t meant for him.

That letter—

That damn letter—

Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.

You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.

And there it is.

The real one.

The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:

You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.

You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.

Too late.

You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:

“Please come back.”

⸻

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then two.

You don’t write.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?

“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?

“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?

“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?

You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.

You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.

But tonight—

You do.

You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.

And then...

You write.

⸻

Letter #32

Dear L,

I sent you the wrong letter.

That’s the truth.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.

But I sent it.

And I know how it must’ve sounded.

Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.

But I didn’t. I don’t.

I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.

I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.

You gave me my voice back.

And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.

I understand if that’s unforgivable.

But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:

You are not disposable.

You never were.

You are everything.

And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.

Come back. — Y/I

⸻

You don’t send it.

Not right away.

You fold it.

Place it inside the box. And wait.

⸻

Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco

He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.

Even though it hurts.

He’s been quiet too long.

Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.

Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.

But then—

He finds her real letter.

Not on purpose.

It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.

He flips it open.

And there it is.

The handwriting.

His heart stops.

He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.

And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.

She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.

And that—

That’s what finally breaks him.

He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.

⸻

The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.

Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.

And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.

He won.

But it feels empty.

⸻

TWO DAYS EARLIER

“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.

“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”

He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”

Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

It’s been almost two months since her last letter.

Or rather, since his last letter.

The one he didn’t send.

He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.

⸻

Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.

They’ve got a shot at pole.

Maybe more.

Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.

His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He finally lifts his eyes.

She softens. “Still thinking about her?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer.

“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”

Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”

He looks away.

⸻

RACE DAY

The car feels good.

Better than it has in weeks.

Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.

Maybe it's adrenaline.

Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.

He takes the win.

First place.

Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.

And maybe he did.

But it’s not the world he wants to save.

⸻

That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.

And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.

And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.

Because I was a coward.

Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.

But if I’m being honest? I

stopped writing because I was scared.

I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.

I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.

But you didn’t leave me.

I left you.

And I’m sorry.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve asked.

I should’ve told you the truth.

—

I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.

—

You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.

—

I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.

I miss you.

Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 

You.

Whatever name you wear.

Whatever face you have.

You are already mine in every way that matters.

—

I got something.

A tattoo.

I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.

You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.

A becoming.

And I want you to see it.

—

If you never write back, I’ll understand.

But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—

I’m ready.

I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.

I want all of it.

Not in fragments.

Not in metaphors.

You.

Please let me come home.

—L

(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)

⸻

You wake up with paint on your hands.

Dried glitter on your temple.

Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.

It’s been 51 days since your last letter.

52 since you heard from him.

You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.

You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.

But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.

You still miss him.

And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.

⸻

8:02 AM — Your Classroom

“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”

You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.

“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.

“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”

You smile, and feel your throat close.

You used to write like that.

⸻

10:14 AM — Playground Duty

You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.

Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”

Ana stays quiet.

Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”

⸻

12:45 PM — Staff Room

You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.

“Delivery for you.”

You frown. “Here?”

She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”

Your heart stops.

You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.

It’s heavy. Dense.

Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.

Just your initial.

Your hands shake.

You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.

Ten pages.

Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.

The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.

Tears fall silently.

You clutch the pages to your chest.

You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

And for the first time in 52 days—

You let yourself hope.

⸻

6:04 PM — Your Flat

You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.

Your hands are still shaking.

You grab your best pen.

A blank page. And write.

⸻

Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.

I think I do.

It’s real.

It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.

It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.

It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.

It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.

Because you heard it.

And then you answered.

You said you want to hear my voice.

You said you want to see my face.

So let’s.

Let’s stop hiding behind paper.

Let’s meet.

Let’s begin.

You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.

And I think we’re meant to do it together.

— Y/I

P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.

(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)

⸻

Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply

You don’t expect a response this fast.

But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.

You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.

⸻

Letter #33

Dear Y/I,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.

But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”

So here’s the truth:

I want to see you.

I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.

I want to meet you too.

And I think we’re ready.

So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.

Saturday. 11AM.

There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.

I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.

If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.

That way... I’ll know it’s you.

And if you don’t come—

I’ll sit there for an hour.

I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.

But if you do come—

Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L

P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.

⸻

You press the letter to your chest.

Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The Night Before

You can’t sleep.

You try. God, you try.

You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.

Your mind won’t stop.

What if he’s not what you imagined?

What if you’re not?

What if it’s perfect?

You finally fall asleep around 3AM.

You wake at 6.

Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.

The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.

⸻

Meanwhile — Monaco

Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.

His hands are shaking.

He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”

He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.

The tattoo is healing.

He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.

It’s not for her.

It’s for him.

Just four words:

"Be who she knows.”

⸻

Back to Present – The Bookstore

You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.

You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.

You check your reflection in the bookshop window.

You look the same.

But you’re not.

Not since him.

Not since the letters.

The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.

You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.

You sit.

And wait.

⸻

11:08 AM

He’s standing outside the shop.

His heart is a percussion instrument.

He walks past once.

Then again.

He almost turns back.

But then he sees it—

Through the window.

You.

Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.

And he knows.

⸻

The bell rings.

You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like

something tectonic shifts.

Your mouth parts just slightly.

He’s real.

More real than you ever imagined.

He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.

His lips lift, soft and unsure.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper, standing.

Neither of you moves.

Then—he laughs once.

Nervously.

“This is weird, right?” he says.

“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.

He glances at your necklace.

“You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”

You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.

You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.

“Disappointed?” he teases gently.

You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”

He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”

You nod.

And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.

⸻

You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

You’re trying to breathe normally.

“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Your heart drops slightly.

“You’re... more.” he finishes.

You smile. “That was a save.”

“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”

“And now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“You’re better than magic.”

Your throat catches.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”

He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”

You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.

“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”

You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”

You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.

Then you grow serious again.

“This... is real,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

You look down. “So what now?”

He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”

You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”

He grins.

“I’ll write the first line.”

⸻

EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED

The flat is quiet.

Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.

But the house always feels different when he’s gone.

He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”

You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...

...and there it is.

A folded note.

His handwriting.

You already know what it is.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.

Mostly because I get to tell you now.

But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—

God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.

And who we still are.

You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.

And I’ll write you forever.

— Me

⸻

You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.

He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”

You don’t say anything.

You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”

⸻

Later That Week

It’s raining.

You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.

And you find it.

Tucked in a notebook.

No envelope.

No note.

A Polaroid.

Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.

A letter on a table.

Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.

You flip it over.

Two words.

“I waited.”

And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?

He’s here.

THE END.

⸻

THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK

1. His First Polaroid

Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."

2. Hers

A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."

3. His – From Somewhere Quiet

A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.

→ No words. Just breath.

4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention

A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."

5. His – The Near Reveal

A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."

6. Hers – Come Back

Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."

7. His – The Tattoo

Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

→ No caption. Just the truth.

8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”

[smileysuh]

dumb frat boy - TEASER

🌙 starring. Lee Donghyuck x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “I’d ask what you want me to do to you, but I did some research last night, watched some of that Hentaid shit you were talking about. It’s a lot of bondage, isn’t it, Angel? A lot of… creampies. You’ve got a thing for being held down and filled, huh? I guess…” he lets out a small laugh, “I guess I’m a little shocked, seeing as you’re so sassy with me. Guess you just want someone to put you in your place. What is it you called Johnny? A good daddy dom? I might not always be a dom, but for you, I can make it work.” 

tw/cw. yandere/stalker sub themes, ‘unknown’ caller, he’s horny, mentions of porn/masturbation, weed/alcohol use, unprotected sex, oral (m/f receiving), deep throating, face fucking, nipple pinching/nipple worship, fingering, dirty talk, praise, hyuck has a thick cock, cum/fullness kink, creampie, etc… I pet names: (hers) Angel (his) baby.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 9.1k

🍭 aus. uni/frat au, yandere subthemes, Halloween, etc…

☀️ mlist + an.  We're back in the Ghostie au! I'm so happy to be able to put out a fic for Hyuck a year after the original story captivated so many of us <3

“Burner phone, baby.”

“And what would be the point of getting a burner phone just to call little ol’ me?” you sigh, relaxing against your pillows and pinching the bridge of your nose in annoyance. 

“Why so serious, Angel?”

“Jeeze, dude, if you’re going to do the whole creepy caller before Halloween cliche, at least stick to your character.” You can’t believe he’s quoting Health Ledger’s Joker at you now. “Who are you even trying to be? Ghost Face is so last Halloween, we all know Johnny knocked that shit out of the park. A copycat sequel is just… early 2000’s.”

“Okay, let me drop character for just a second,” the man on the other end of the line sighs, and you giggle at how his voice modulator emphasizes his own exasperation. “Think, horny telephone guy.”

“I wouldn’t call Ghost Face particularly horny, he was just a nerd.”

“I’m not Ghost Face!” he insists. “Scream came out in the mid-nineties, think earlier than that.” 

“What, am I supposed to be some kind of horror movie expert?” you scoff. 

“Fine, I’ll just tell you,” the guy sighs. “Have you seen Black Christmas?”

“Never even heard of it.”

“Fuck,” he curses. “Well, don’t go watch it, it has some cult following but it’s not even one of my favourites- the reason I chose the dude from that movie is because he’s a horny little fuck and calls a sorority house and some shit- and also, don’t look up the second movie, I don’t claim the sequel.” 

“Wow, I love that you chose a character based purely on horniness and not if the movie is even good,” you giggle.

“Well, Johnny took the best slasher caller! What was I supposed to do? Go all ghost child from The Black Phone movie?”

“What’s The Black Phone movie?”

“Ethan Hawke? Horror veteran, who plays the hero author in Sinister, turned bad guy in the 2021 film by the same director?” 

You let out a whistle. “TBH, dude, it sucks Johnny got to Ghostie first last year, because I’d bet money you know more about horror movies than he does.”

“I one hundred percent do!” 

“Okay, so back to the point,” you laugh. “You’re calling me as this horny dude from some Halloween Christmas movie- for what?”

“To talk to you?” he suggests. “To uh… be horny… at you?” 

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[cherriibombfics]

"ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ"

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 613

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴀ/ɴ : ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴏʟᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ

ꜱᴛᴀʀᴅᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ x ʙᴀᴋᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Long before the fallen heroes disappeared from the land of Earthbread, there were legends of a being unlike any witch in existence. An entity that could grant powers beyond comprehension to even the smallest cookie, and could crumble even the most powerful, and despite no evidence ever supporting this, this tale had very few skeptics. And he wouldn’t dare to be one of them.

But alas, as he continued his journey through the western sky, attempting to find the wizards that had a hand in creating him, he couldn’t stop thinking about that same being. Perhaps that’s what led him to the infamous Cookie Kingdom, founded by that young gingerbread cookie and his friends. For a cookie so fresh to create something so beautiful was incredible to him.

"So, any cookie is welcome here?" He asked, looking down at the young cookies beside him.

“Of course!” Gingerbrave smiled, “There are all kinds of cookies living here now, you’ll find your people here eventually, you just gotta look around a bit.”

It took a lot longer than “a bit.”

Most of the other cookies were uneased by his presence, the only exceptions being the ones who already knew, but the young cookie insisted that he’d find someone eventually. He sat on the swings- berry churro swings Gingerbrave had called them- questioning whether coming here was a good idea at all.

“Hey, you doing okay there?” He looked over to see a cookie standing in front of him, somehow not even slightly intimidated by his existence. “You looked like you could use a friend.”

"Yes, I'm having a bit of trouble in that department. The others here are, unnerved by me."

“Did Gingerbrave invite you here?” The cookie sat on the swing next to him, “The kid means well, but he probably should’ve eased them into this first. I mean it was a wild day when the ancients first started coming around here. I wish I could have helped a bit with that Stardust.” He gripped the swing chain a bit harder.

“How do you know my name?!”

“Oh right…” They smiled, although he could tell there was something beneath it. “I’m sorry, somebody must’ve told me your name. I’m [Name] if that helps.”

"I suppose it does," He sighed, "I apologize for my outburst. That was unbecoming of me."

“Nah it’s alright, I get it. First impressions are always hard, you should’ve seen me when I met Hollyberry for the first time, lost my marbles!” The cookie was very talkative, but he supposed his voyage across the cosmos made him appreciate a good conversation once in a while. Their ramble was cut short by two children approaching them, one a young girl donning pumpkin-themed attire and the other a young boy in a blue jumpsuit and helmet.

“Oh, hey kiddos, you guys need something?”

“We just wanted to ask you to join us, Pom-Pom and I were planning on throwing a party.”

“Yeah!” Gumball Cookie pointed at his gumball cannon, “I’m thinking of helping with the decorations, but I dunno which color gumballs to use.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll come over in a minute. I’m just welcoming our new friend here.”

"That's okay, they seem like they need you right now." The cookie smiled at him, gesturing him to follow them as they helped the children.

They ended up deciding on a spring theme, pink and green to signal the beginning of the season. They were so patient with them both, talking to them as though they were their parent. They were such a nurturing soul with a shining aura, almost as though they were-

“Thank you, Baker!”

He stopped.

"I'm sorry WHAT?!"

[ccupcakeyss]

can i req mha boys with a sunshine partner that goes through severe depressive episodes if you’re comfy with that

okay lowkey this sounds so cute for fluff esp for katsuki OKAOKAY thank you for ur request!!!

˳　 ⊹ IN THEIR ARMS, I HEAL 𓏼 𝜗℘

SUMMARY: this story follows the reader as they navigate depressive episodes, finding comfort and support from the MHA boys.

CW: depression, emotional struggles, anxiety, feelings of isolation, mention of self-doubt, and potential triggers related to mental health challenges. please read with caution if these topics are sensitive for you. this is super repetitive; so it can get boring but enjoy while you can!!

NOTES: including: katsuki bakugo, izuku midoriya, kirishima eijirou, shoto todoroki, denki kaminari, hanta sero, tenya iida and hitoshi shinso! please enjoy! btw, i literally made every story start the same js with diff characters HELP so... YEAH ANYWAYS ENJOY READING

KATSUKI BAKUGO

Katsuki Bakugo was never one to show weakness. To him, emotions were a distraction, a vulnerability that could get in the way of his goal—becoming the strongest hero. That’s why he kept his distance from everyone. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need their pity, their concern, or their soft words. He didn’t have time for people who couldn’t keep up with his pace.

But there was one person who was different. You.

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t fragile or weak. You were… sunshine, a light in his life that made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. You had this ability to make him want to protect you, even when he didn’t understand why. Even when he told himself over and over again that he wasn’t the type of guy who needed to be there for anyone.

But the thing was, you needed him. He saw it in the way your eyes lost their usual sparkle, how you would shut yourself off from the world, retreating inward whenever things got tough. And today? Today, it was different. You’d been so distant lately, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

It was after class when he saw you. The common room was nearly empty, and you were sitting in one of the far corners, curled up on a couch, your knees pulled tightly to your chest. You didn’t even look up when he walked in—just stared blankly at the floor, lost in your own world. The usual lightness you brought to the room was gone, replaced by a heaviness that hung in the air.

Katsuki’s heart skipped a beat, but he refused to acknowledge it. He hated feeling this way. He wasn’t supposed to feel bad for you. He wasn’t supposed to care. But fuck, he did. And that pissed him off.

He gritted his teeth as he approached you. “Oi, Y/N,” he called, his voice sharper than he intended. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a damn zombie all week. Say something.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes barely flicking in his direction. That was when he felt it—this weird lump in his throat, the kind he hated. Why the hell did he care so much? Why did it bother him so much to see you like this?

He stood there for a moment, staring down at you, feeling the frustration bubbling up inside. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dropped down onto the couch next to you.

You didn’t move away from him, but you didn’t lean into him either. The space between you felt… different. It wasn’t like before when you could laugh together, joke around, or just enjoy each other’s company. Now, everything felt so damn heavy, and it crushed him to see you like this.

“I’m not gonna sit here and let you fucking ignore me,” Katsuki said, more forceful than he meant. He wasn’t good with soft stuff, and god knows he hated it. But seeing you like this, looking so lost, made him feel like he was going to lose his mind.

You finally glanced at him, but it wasn’t the usual look of affection or playful teasing. No, your eyes were dull, and your lips barely formed a faint, tired smile. It made his stomach twist.

“Y/N…” His voice softened. He didn’t know what to say, but the words spilled out before he could stop them. “Don’t hide from me. I’m not fucking stupid. I know when something’s wrong. I’m not gonna leave you alone like this.”

You blinked at him, almost surprised by the intensity in his voice. He could feel his chest tighten. He wasn’t good at showing this side of him—wasn’t even sure if he wanted to—but with you? With you, it was different.

For a moment, he was frozen, unsure of how to proceed. He was so used to being alone, so used to pushing others away. But now, with you sitting beside him, so fragile, so broken, he couldn’t just turn his back.

Katsuki reached out, his hand shaking just slightly as he grabbed your wrist gently, pulling you toward him. It was an awkward motion—definitely not smooth, definitely not how he’d imagined it. But it didn’t matter.

You tensed for a second, and for a heartbeat, he thought you might pull away. But then, slowly, you leaned into him. Katsuki could feel the weight of your head rest against his shoulder, your breath shaky as you held back the tears. He clenched his jaw, feeling the pressure build in his chest.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered gruffly, even though he didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t good at this comforting thing. Not like Deku, not like Kirishima. But he was good at protecting you. That was what mattered right now. He could give you that.

You didn’t say anything. You just cried, silently, your body trembling as you let the emotions spill over. Katsuki, despite everything, couldn’t stop his hand from moving to your back, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re going through,” he said quietly, his voice surprisingly soft, “but I know you’re stronger than this. I’m not letting you just fall apart and pretend it’s all fine.”

You snuck a glance up at him, eyes filled with a mix of sadness and gratitude. The sight made his chest tighten, but he wouldn’t pull away. No, not now. Not when you needed him. Not when you were his person.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he continued, voice firmer, though it trembled at the edges. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m not gonna let you.”

You nodded against him, the tears starting to slow, though the ache in your chest didn’t seem to go away. But with him here, with his warmth surrounding you, you didn’t feel so lost. You didn’t feel so alone.

Katsuki didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. He just stayed there with you, holding you as you cried, as the storm inside of you slowly started to calm.

Even if he hated it. Even if he couldn’t understand it. He would never let you go through this alone. Not now. Not ever.

⸺

IZUKU MIDORIYA

Izuku Midoriya had always been the type of person who cared about others, but when it came to you, his affection for you went deeper than anything he’d ever experienced before. You were his light, the one person who made all the battles and struggles of his daily life feel worth it. You brought him peace when his mind would race with worries, and when things got tough, your smile would always be the thing that helped him keep going.

But lately, Izuku had noticed something—something he couldn’t ignore. The sparkle in your eyes, the warmth of your laugh, the way you’d joke and lift others up—all of it had faded. It was as if you were carrying some heavy weight, and no matter how hard you tried to smile, the light was gone. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he could see it in the way you acted. He could feel it in the silence that seemed to hang around you.

It wasn’t until that afternoon, after class, that he finally found you alone in the common room. The space was mostly empty, save for a few students working on assignments, but you? You were sitting on one of the couches, your posture slumped, your eyes unfocused. You didn’t even look up when he entered. The air around you felt thick, heavy—like the world had gotten too much, and you were too exhausted to fight it anymore.

Izuku’s heart sank when he saw you like that. He knew this wasn’t the bright, bubbly person he adored. You were still his sunshine, but the darkness surrounding you was making it hard to see the warmth he loved.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft but full of concern, almost shaky as he stepped closer. “Are you… are you okay?”

You didn’t respond right away, and that made his anxiety grow. He knew you weren’t one to hide your emotions, to bottle them up like this. Something was wrong, and Izuku couldn’t just stand there and pretend it didn’t bother him. He took a deep breath and walked over to you, sitting down beside you on the couch. He could feel the tension between you two, like there was a distance he couldn’t cross, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Y/N, you’re scaring me,” Izuku admitted, his voice shaking slightly. He tried to sound strong, but the sight of you like this was breaking his heart. “I don’t like seeing you like this… You’re not yourself.”

You finally looked up at him, but it wasn’t the look he was used to—the sweet, gentle gaze that always made him feel like the luckiest guy in the world. No, today your eyes were dull, hollow, and full of sadness. It made his chest ache to see you like this.

“I’m fine, Izuku,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… tired. I’ll be okay.”

Izuku’s eyes softened. He knew you were trying to brush it off, to make him think everything was fine, but he knew better. You weren’t fine. He could see it in the way your shoulders were tense, in the way you avoided looking at him for too long.

Without saying a word, Izuku gently placed his hand on yours, his fingers lightly brushing against your skin. The simple touch was enough to make your eyes well up. You weren’t sure why, but the kindness in his touch, the care in his eyes, made it all feel too much.

“I don’t want you to pretend to be fine,” Izuku said softly, his thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand. His words were genuine, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache even more. “You don’t have to hide from me. If something’s wrong, I want to know. I’m here for you, okay?”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The dam broke. You let out a soft sob as tears started to fall, and Izuku immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His embrace was warm, safe, and unwavering. He didn’t let go. Even when you started to tremble in his arms, he held you tighter, not saying a word, just letting you cry.

“I’m sorry, Izuku,” you whispered between sobs. “I don’t want to burden you. I just feel so… overwhelmed. Everything’s too much right now.”

Izuku shook his head, his voice firm and full of compassion. “You could never be a burden, Y/N. Never. I care about you more than you’ll ever know. Whatever you’re going through, we’ll get through it together. You’re not alone.”

You buried your face in his chest, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as you let the tears flow freely. Izuku’s hand moved to the back of your head, gently stroking your hair as he whispered words of comfort, words that felt like they were healing the cracks in your heart.

“Take all the time you need,” Izuku said softly, his voice full of love and patience. “You don’t have to be strong right now. I’ll be strong for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound of his words, the warmth of his touch, made you feel like maybe, just maybe, things could get better. With him by your side, it felt like there was still hope, even in the darkest moments. You let yourself lean into him completely, your body relaxing against his, as if you could finally breathe again.

Izuku didn’t push you to talk, didn’t pressure you to be okay. He just let you be, let you release everything you’d been holding inside. And when you finally pulled back a little, looking up at him through tear-filled eyes, you saw nothing but love and support in his gaze.

“You’re so strong, Y/N,” Izuku whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And I’m proud of you, no matter what you’re going through. We’re in this together.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude. Izuku was right. You weren’t alone anymore. And for the first time in days, you allowed yourself to believe that things could get better. With him, you didn’t have to fight the darkness alone. He would always be there, shining his light for you.

⸺

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

Kirishima Eijirou wasn’t the kind of guy to leave things unsaid or leave people to suffer alone. He was a natural protector, always putting others first and ensuring that the people he cared about felt safe and loved. But there was one person he cared about more than anyone else: you.

When he first met you, you were full of energy and positivity, always lifting him up, always there to share a laugh or a kind word. You were the kind of person who could brighten up even the darkest days with just a smile. And Kirishima had always admired you for it.

But recently, things had changed. He had noticed the way you withdrew more and more into yourself, how your usual spark seemed to fade with each passing day. The laughter wasn’t there. The light in your eyes was dimming, and no matter how much he tried to reach out, you pulled away. It had hurt him, not because you were pulling away from him specifically, but because he could see you struggling. And that hurt him more than anything.

He had tried to talk to you, to ask if everything was okay, but you’d always just brush him off with a forced smile and a “I’m fine.” He knew that wasn’t true, but he also knew you didn’t want to burden anyone. That was the kind of person you were—strong, independent, but maybe just a little too stubborn for your own good.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, when he returned to the dorm after training, that he found you sitting alone in the common room. He had expected to see some of the others hanging out, but the place was eerily quiet. Then he saw you, curled up on the couch, looking small and fragile. You were staring out the window, but your gaze was distant, unfocused. The world around you seemed to be moving on without you, and it hurt him to see it.

Kirishima’s heart immediately dropped at the sight of you like this. He didn’t care how many times he had to face his own fear—he couldn’t leave you like this. Not now. Not ever.

He walked over to you, his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room. “Y/N?” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge of concern in it. “Hey, what’s going on? You haven’t been yourself lately.”

You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t even look at him. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He hated seeing you like this—so quiet, so distant. It made his chest tighten.

“Come on, you know you can’t ignore me,” Kirishima said, sitting down beside you. He leaned in a little closer, trying to catch your eye, but you still avoided him. “I can tell something’s wrong. You’ve been pulling away. I don’t want you to deal with this alone, Y/N.”

You let out a soft sigh, almost inaudible. “I’m just… tired, Kirishima. I don’t want to drag you down.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He could hear the pain in your voice, the exhaustion that was so much more than physical. It was emotional, a weight that was suffocating you, and it killed him to know he hadn’t been able to help you sooner.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not a burden. You never could be. I don’t care how tough you think you have to be, but you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. Always. And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

His hand reached for yours, gently lifting it to rest in his palm. His thumb brushed across your skin, the warmth of his touch grounding you, reminding you that he was right here beside you, even if you didn’t feel strong enough to face the world.

You finally looked up at him, your eyes red from the tears you had been holding in for so long. You hadn’t realized how much you needed someone until now. The exhaustion, the emotional toll of pretending to be okay—it all came rushing in at once.

“I don’t want to be weak,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, especially not you.”

Kirishima’s heart ached as he watched you, and before you could say another word, he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up in his warmth. His embrace was strong, secure, the kind of embrace that made you feel like you could rest, even for just a moment, and let the world slow down.

“Stop that,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’re just going through something tough right now, and that’s okay. But you don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to pretend for me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, Y/N.”

The words were simple, but they were all you needed. You didn’t have to fight it anymore. You didn’t have to be strong all the time. You could just be, and Kirishima would be there to catch you if you fell.

His arms tightened around you, his warmth spreading through your body. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm that reminded you that you were loved, that you were cared for. You let yourself relax into him, surrendering to the safety of his embrace, the safety of someone who would never let you fall.

“It’s okay to let go sometimes,” Kirishima whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You’re not alone in this. I’ll be right here. We’ll figure it out together.”

You nodded against his chest, the tears falling once more, but this time they weren’t tears of sorrow—they were tears of relief, of comfort. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe. The weight on your chest didn’t feel as heavy, and you allowed yourself to lean into Kirishima’s strength.

He held you until the tears subsided, rubbing your back and murmuring sweet words to reassure you, to remind you that it was okay to not be okay. Slowly, you began to calm, feeling the warmth of his love and his unwavering support fill the empty spaces inside you.

Kirishima didn’t expect you to suddenly be okay. He didn’t expect you to bounce back and be the same person you were before, but what mattered was that you didn’t have to face it alone. With him by your side, he would help you through it, no matter how long it took.

⸺

SHOTO TODOROKI

Shoto Todoroki wasn’t one to express his feelings easily. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel deeply; on the contrary, he felt everything intensely. His past had taught him that emotions were complicated, often painful, and so he learned to bury them. But you… you had changed him. You had shown him that it was okay to feel, to let someone else into the quiet parts of his heart.

You were his calm, his balance. When the storms of his thoughts would cloud his mind, you were the one who cleared the skies with your warmth and your smile. But recently, something had shifted. You weren’t the same bright and energetic person he had grown to love. The change was subtle at first—just small signs of weariness, but now, it was undeniable. Your smiles were forced, your eyes distant, and your usual laughter was replaced with a quietness that made Todoroki’s chest tighten.

He had tried to approach you gently, to ask if everything was alright, but each time, you’d reassure him with a tired smile and say, “I’m fine.” Todoroki knew better. He knew you weren’t fine. The last thing he wanted to do was make you feel worse, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

That’s why, when he walked into the dorm’s common room that evening and saw you sitting alone in one of the corners, he knew something had to be done. You weren’t crying or visibly upset, but the way you held yourself—slumped in a way that made you seem so small—broke his heart. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he stood frozen, unsure of how to approach you.

He was a man of few words, especially when it came to matters of the heart, but for you, he was willing to push past his discomfort. He couldn’t let you suffer alone, especially not when he cared about you more than anyone else in the world.

“Y/N?” Todoroki’s voice was quiet, but his concern was evident. “Are you… okay?”

You didn’t immediately look up at him. Instead, your gaze remained fixed on the floor, and he could see your hands trembling slightly in your lap. He took a cautious step forward, not wanting to startle you but needing to make sure you knew he was there.

“I’m fine, Todoroki,” you said, the words sounding almost mechanical. “Really. I just need a little space.”

Todoroki felt a pang of frustration. You weren’t fooling him. He had been through enough internal battles himself to know when someone was hiding the truth behind their words.

He didn’t push. He simply sat down beside you, close enough that his presence was undeniable, but not so close that he invaded your space. He respected your need for distance, but he also knew you weren’t going to open up unless he made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The silence between you stretched on for a few moments, but then, with a small sigh, you finally spoke again, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Todoroki,” you murmured, not looking at him. “I don’t mean to push you away. It’s just… everything feels too much right now.”

Todoroki’s eyes softened as he turned to face you. His expression was calm, but his heart was heavy. He wanted to reach out, to take you in his arms and tell you everything would be okay, but he knew that words alone wouldn’t fix what you were feeling. Still, he couldn’t just sit idly by.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly, his voice steady, though the sincerity behind it was clear. “I understand more than you think. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re carrying everything by yourself.”

You blinked up at him, surprised by his words. The truth was, Todoroki wasn’t one to talk about his own struggles. He kept everything bottled up, never wanting to burden anyone. But when it came to you, he couldn’t help but open up in ways he never had before.

“I know you’re strong,” Todoroki continued, his voice softening even more. “But you don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to lean on others, especially the ones who care about you.”

You felt your heart swell with emotion, and for the first time in days, a lump formed in your throat, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of relief. He was here. He wasn’t pushing you to be okay. He was letting you be—letting you just feel.

“I don’t want to drag you down,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Todoroki’s gaze softened, and he leaned slightly closer to you, his warmth radiating even through the distance between you. “You could never be a burden to me,” he said, his words firm, but with the gentleness only he could provide. “You’re the last person I would want to lose. I care about you, Y/N. More than you know.”

His words broke through the walls you had built around yourself, and suddenly, the dam of emotion you had been holding back for so long came crashing down. Tears welled up in your eyes, and despite your best efforts to hold them back, they spilled over. But this time, they weren’t tears of despair. They were tears of release, of letting go, of finally allowing yourself to be vulnerable with the one person who had always made you feel safe.

Without thinking, you leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder as the tears continued to fall. Todoroki didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer to him, his warmth enveloping you like a shield from the world. His embrace was quiet, steady, and completely secure. It was everything you needed, even though you hadn’t known how badly you needed it until now.

“I’m here,” Todoroki whispered, his voice barely audible as he pressed his cheek gently to the top of your head. “You don’t have to face this alone. Not anymore.”

You nodded against him, your breath hitching as you tried to calm down, but it was hard. The weight of everything you had been carrying had been so heavy, and now, in his arms, it felt like the world wasn’t quite so impossible to bear.

Todoroki held you for what felt like hours, letting you cry, letting you let out everything that had been building up inside. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fix everything in an instant. He just let you be, let you heal in the silence of his presence.

When the tears finally stopped, and your breathing steadied, Todoroki pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands gently cupping your face. His eyes were soft, filled with understanding and care.

“You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing away the last tear from your cheek. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I just want you to be happy again. And I’ll be here to help you through it, whenever you’re ready.”

You met his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. With him, you didn’t have to hide. With Todoroki, you could let go, be yourself, and heal. And maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay again.

⸺

DENKI KAMINARI

Denki Kaminari had always been the kind of guy who wore his heart on his sleeve. He was outgoing, always cracking jokes and pulling pranks, his infectious energy lighting up any room he walked into. Most people knew him as the class clown, the goofy guy who could always be counted on to bring a smile to someone’s face. But the truth was, Denki cared more deeply than most realized. He cared about his friends, his classmates, and especially you, the one who had captured his heart in a way no one else ever could.

When you and Denki started spending more time together, it was like you brought out the best in each other. You were his sunshine, and he was your reliable source of laughter and light. His presence made everything seem a little less daunting, a little brighter. He loved making you laugh, loved seeing your eyes light up when he did something silly. You were his constant reminder that life wasn’t all about battles and struggles—it was about the little joys, the moments of peace.

But lately, he noticed something. It wasn’t as obvious at first, but it started to become more and more apparent as time went on. You had stopped laughing quite as easily, stopped cracking jokes with him. Your energy, the vibrant spark that always seemed to surround you, had started to dim. Denki noticed the little things—the way you’d avoid eye contact, the way you’d pull away when he tried to make you smile. It hurt him to see you like this, and it made him feel helpless.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, after a particularly grueling training session, that Denki found you sitting by yourself in the common room. Most of the others had gone off to do their own thing, but you were still there, sitting alone by the window, staring out at nothing in particular. The usual spark in your eyes was gone, replaced with a faraway look that made Denki’s chest tighten.

“Hey, Y/N,” Denki called softly as he walked over to you, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of concern. “You’re looking a little down today. What’s going on?”

You didn’t look at him at first, and for a second, Denki felt a pang of worry in his chest. You had always been open with him before, always eager to share your thoughts, but now you were closed off. He knew something wasn’t right.

“M'fine, Denki,” you said quietly, but Denki could hear the tiredness in your voice, the way your words didn’t quite match the heaviness in the air.

Denki sat down beside you, not taking no for an answer. “You don’t look fine. I know you, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend to be okay around me, alright? I’m your boyfriend. You can tell me anything.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared out the window, the cool evening breeze rustling your hair. Denki’s heart ached at the sight of you like this, like the vibrant person he knew and loved was slowly fading into the background.

Finally, you sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems, Denki. You’ve got enough to deal with already. I’m just… exhausted.”

Denki’s eyes softened, and he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re never a burden, Y/N,” he said, his voice sincere. “You never have been. You’re literally my girlfriend, and if something’s bothering you, then I want to be here for you. That’s what partners do. And besides, I’m really good at cheering people up.”

He gave you a goofy grin, his trademark goofy smile, but you didn’t smile back. He could see the sadness in your eyes, the way you were trying to hold it all together but just couldn’t anymore. Denki’s smile faltered slightly, but he refused to give up on you.

“You know,” he continued, his voice a little softer, “I may not be the best at all this serious stuff, but I know you. And I know you’re going through something tough. You don’t have to go through it alone, though. I’m right here, and I’ll do whatever it takes to help you feel better, even if it’s just hanging out and making dumb jokes. You don’t have to carry this weight on your own.”

You finally turned to look at him, your eyes filled with unshed tears, and for the first time in a long while, you let down your guard. Denki’s heart skipped a beat as you opened up, telling him about the overwhelming pressure, the feelings of exhaustion that had built up over time. It felt good to finally say it all out loud, even if it was to someone who, for all his goofiness, genuinely cared about you.

Denki listened, really listened, his eyes locked on yours as you spoke. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to fix everything in a moment—he just sat with you, supporting you in his own quiet way. And when you finally finished, when the tears began to spill over, he was there, his arms wrapping around you in the most comforting embrace.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I just… I don’t want to burden you, Denki. I don’t want to be this person.”

Denki pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft and full of empathy. “Hey, hey,” he said gently, his hands cupping your face. “You’re not a burden. You’re not a ‘this person.’ You’re just… you. And that’s enough for me. You’re amazing just as you are, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this together.”

You nodded slowly, the weight on your chest feeling a little lighter. Denki’s words, though simple, were all you needed to hear. He was there, and he always would be, no matter what.

Denki smiled again, this time more warmly, and without warning, he pulled you into a big hug, squeezing you gently but firmly. “I promise I’ll do my best to cheer you up. You deserve to feel better, and I’ll do whatever it takes to see that smile on your face again.”

You chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with a bit of sadness. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know.”

“Hey, I’m always up for a challenge!” Denki winked, his usual playful energy creeping back into his tone. “And making sure my favorite person in the whole wide world feels better? That’s the best challenge ever.”

As he held you in his arms, you allowed yourself to relax just a little, feeling the warmth of his affection wash over you. Maybe you still had a long way to go, but with Denki by your side, you knew you didn’t have to face it alone. You could let him be your light when everything else seemed too dim, and in return, you’d do your best to keep his brightness shining.

⸺

HANTA SERO

Hanta Sero was known for his ability to lighten the mood. Whether it was pulling pranks on his classmates, making witty remarks, or just being his easy-going self, he always knew how to bring a smile to people’s faces. He wasn’t the loudest guy in the room, but he had this effortless charm that drew people to him. And when it came to you, Sero was nothing but gentle. You were his sunshine, the one who made him feel like everything would be okay, even when things got tough.

But lately, he noticed a change in you. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t something that could be pinpointed with one specific moment. It had been a gradual shift, a quiet change in the way you carried yourself. You’d stopped laughing at his jokes, and your once-vibrant smile had faded into something more reserved. Sero wasn’t oblivious—he could see the signs of someone who was struggling, and it made him worry.

He’d try to get you to talk, try to make you laugh again, but you always brushed him off with a soft, “I’m fine, Sero.” And that made him frustrated. He wanted to help, but he wasn’t sure how to break through your walls.

One evening, after training, Sero was walking back to the dorms when he spotted you sitting alone in the courtyard. It was quiet, the only sound being the soft rustling of the trees in the breeze. You were staring off into the distance, your body hunched slightly as if the weight of the world was on your shoulders.

Sero’s heart sank. He could tell you were holding something in, something heavy, and he hated that he couldn’t fix it immediately. But he wasn’t going to just leave you there, alone, battling whatever was going on in your head. He walked up to you slowly, his sneakers making soft sounds on the pavement, and when you heard him, you turned slightly, giving him a small, tired smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sero greeted, sitting down beside you without asking. He always felt comfortable with you, and he hoped you felt the same. “You okay?”

You didn’t immediately answer, and Sero could tell you were trying to find the right words. The silence between you stretched for a moment, but Sero wasn’t going to rush you. He knew you’d talk when you were ready.

“I don’t know,” you finally said, your voice quiet, like you were still trying to figure out how to say it. “Everything just feels… too much right now.”

Sero didn’t have all the right words to fix what you were going through. He didn’t pretend to understand exactly how you felt, but he did know one thing—he would be there for you, no matter what. That was a promise.

“Hey, that’s okay,” he said gently, his tone serious for once. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You don’t even have to tell me what’s going on if you don’t want to. But you do have to know that I’m here, alright?”

You gave him a weary look, your eyes flicking to his face, and for a second, it felt like you were trying to figure out if he was being serious. And then, slowly, you let out a sigh, a little shakier than you meant it to be.

“I feel so tired,” you whispered. “Like… like nothing I do is enough. Like everything’s just… overwhelming.”

Sero’s heart ached at the sound of your voice. He knew what it was like to feel like you were losing control, like the pressure was building up and you couldn’t handle it anymore. He’d been there too, struggling to figure out how to keep everything together while everything felt like it was falling apart. But the one thing he’d learned? It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about having people around who cared about you, and being willing to lean on them.

“You’re more than enough, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering. “You’re doing great, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. And I know I’m not a therapist or anything, but I’m a pretty good listener, and I’m definitely here for you. I’ll always be here for you.”

You blinked, feeling a warmth spread through you that you hadn’t realized you needed. It wasn’t a grand gesture, nor did it need to be. It was just Sero, being the person he always was: honest, straightforward, and with the unwavering assurance that he’d stick by your side no matter what. It felt good to hear, even though you knew you didn’t have all the answers yet.

“I don’t want to drag you into this, Sero,” you said quietly. “You’ve got your own stuff to deal with.”

Sero shook his head, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Not even for a second. I care about you, Y/N. And I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to face everything alone.”

He nudged you gently with his shoulder, his playful side creeping back in despite the serious conversation. “You know, if you want, I could always tell you some terrible puns to cheer you up. Or maybe I could just let you throw a couple of dodgeballs at me. I can take it.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at his antics, even though it felt shaky. The smile that pulled at your lips was a weak one, but it was there, and that meant something. Sero smiled back, his eyes soft with understanding.

“You don’t have to force yourself to smile,” he said, his voice kind and patient. “But you are going to be okay. I believe in you.”

The way he said it, with so much sincerity, made you feel like maybe you didn’t have to have everything figured out just yet. Maybe, for now, you could just lean on him a little more, let him help you through the hard moments.

“Thanks, Sero,” you whispered, the weight on your chest easing just a little. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sero’s smile widened, and he gently ruffled your hair, a gesture that was both comforting and lighthearted. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got each other’s backs, right? You’re not alone in this.”

And just like that, as the evening sun dipped lower in the sky, you found yourself sitting there with Sero, feeling a little less burdened by the weight of everything. It wasn’t a magic fix, but with him by your side, you knew you’d get through it, one day at a time.

⸺

TENYA IIDA

Tenya Iida had always prided himself on his sense of duty. As a class representative, he was responsible for ensuring everyone followed the rules and that everything ran smoothly. He was disciplined, organized, and serious about doing his best, both as a student and as a friend. There wasn’t much that could shake his composure—except, of course, seeing someone he cared about in pain.

And lately, it was you. It wasn’t sudden, but Tenya had noticed the changes. The way you would become quieter, less enthusiastic, and the way you started withdrawing from those around you. He’d catch you staring off into the distance during lunch breaks, or when you’d force a smile whenever he’d try to make small talk. He had seen this before—he had seen students struggle, and he knew it wasn’t something that could be ignored.

Though Tenya was aware of your struggles, he also understood that you had a tendency to push people away when you were hurting. You didn’t want to burden anyone, and he respected that. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. He wasn’t someone to sit idly by when someone he cared for was in distress. He would find a way to help, no matter how long it took.

One evening, after a long day of training, Tenya found himself walking back to the dorms. He had finished his tasks for the day, but there was something on his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t done enough for you lately. He wanted to speak with you, to make sure you were okay. So, he did what he always did when he was feeling uncertain—he followed his sense of responsibility.

When he entered the common room, he spotted you sitting alone on one of the couches. Your shoulders were slumped, and your gaze was distant, staring at the floor. Tenya’s heart tightened at the sight. He had been trying to respect your space, but it was clear now that you needed him more than ever. He took a deep breath and walked over to you, trying to stay calm and composed, though a part of him was worried.

“Y/N,” Tenya said softly, kneeling in front of you so he could meet your eyes. “Is everything alright? You’ve seemed… distant lately. Please, talk to me.”

You lifted your gaze slowly, and for a moment, Tenya saw the exhaustion in your eyes. He could tell you were struggling to keep up appearances, trying so hard to act like everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

“I’m fine, Iida,” you replied, your voice soft but strained. “I just need some time to myself, that’s all.”

Tenya didn’t move. He knew this was the part where you would try to push him away, to convince him that you didn’t need help. But Tenya wasn’t going to let you go down that path alone. Not this time.

“I understand the importance of personal space,” he said with a steady, reassuring tone. “But I also understand that sometimes, we all need someone to lean on. You don’t have to go through this by yourself, Y/N. I’m here for you.”

You were quiet for a moment, looking down at your hands. Tenya’s eyes softened, and he gently placed his hand on your shoulder, offering his warmth and presence as a reminder that you weren’t alone.

“I know you don’t want to burden anyone,” Tenya continued, his voice sincere. “But you are never a burden to me, Y/N. Not now, not ever. I care about you deeply. You don’t have to carry this weight alone.”

The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and for a moment, Tenya simply sat there, allowing you to cry. He didn’t try to rush you or tell you to stop. He simply let you feel what you needed to feel, knowing that the release was just as important as the comfort.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice calm and soothing. “You don’t need to explain. I’m not going anywhere. Just let me be here with you.”

After a while, you stopped crying, your sobs tapering off into soft, shaky breaths. Tenya remained by your side, rubbing your back gently and offering silent reassurance. His presence alone was steady, unwavering, and it made you feel just a little bit lighter.

“Thank you, Tenya,” you whispered, your voice raw but grateful. “I didn’t know how much I needed someone to just… be here.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Tenya said, his voice filled with warmth. “It’s my responsibility to be here for you, just as you’ve always been there for me. Friends help each other, no matter what.”

He smiled at you then, the usual seriousness in his expression replaced with a gentleness that only appeared when he was completely at ease with someone he trusted. His hand squeezed your shoulder, a small but comforting gesture.

“If there’s anything else you need—whether it’s to talk, to distract yourself, or even just to sit in silence—I’ll be here. You don’t have to face this alone.”

You looked at him, your heart swelling with gratitude, and though you still felt the weight of your emotions, there was a small glimmer of hope in your chest. With Tenya by your side, you knew you could take things one step at a time.

“Thank you,” you said again, this time with a small, tentative smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And Tenya’s heart swelled at the sight of it. He would always do everything in his power to make sure that smile remained, even if it was small and fleeting.

As the night continued, Tenya stayed with you, his presence solid and comforting. He didn’t pressure you, didn’t try to force you to talk if you weren’t ready. Instead, he simply made sure you knew that no matter how dark things seemed, he would always be there, a steady, unshakeable force in your life.

⸺

HITOSHI SHINSO

Hitoshi Shinso wasn’t one for crowds. He preferred his space, the quiet, and time alone to recharge. His sarcastic humor and aloof attitude often gave people the wrong impression, and he had learned to be okay with that. He didn’t need anyone’s approval, nor did he particularly care for the company of people who didn’t understand him. But when it came to you, things were different.

From the moment you had started talking to him, he’d felt something shift. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t treat him like an outcast or judge him based on his quirk. Instead, you saw the person beneath the aloof exterior. You’d smile at him like it was nothing, like he wasn’t someone to be feared or misunderstood. And it made him feel… seen.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about you drew him in. You were the sunshine in his otherwise gloomy world. Your laughter, your bright energy, and your genuine kindness made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to hide behind his walls all the time. You made him feel like he was worthy of being cared for.

But lately, he’d noticed a change in you. The smiles had become rarer, and the spark in your eyes seemed to fade each day. You started pulling away, retreating into yourself, and it hurt him in a way he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t great with feelings, never had been, but this was different. It wasn’t just the usual loneliness he’d been used to—it was something deeper, something darker, and it gnawed at him.

One night, after everyone had gone to bed, Hitoshi found himself walking through the dorms, unable to sleep. His mind kept drifting back to you. He wanted to help, wanted to pull you out of the place you’d been slipping into, but he wasn’t sure how. His usual methods of deflecting and staying distant didn’t seem to work with you. And it frustrated him, more than he cared to admit.

As he passed by the common room, he stopped when he saw you sitting by yourself, curled up on the couch. You looked so small, so fragile, and it broke something inside him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix it, but he knew he couldn’t leave you there alone, not like this.

“Y/N?” he called softly, his voice low, but with a hint of concern. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, he thought you hadn’t heard him. He stepped closer, and when you looked up, he could see the heaviness in your eyes, the way you were struggling to keep it all together.

“I’m fine, Shinso,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just need some space.”

He sighed, a soft exhale of frustration. He wasn’t going to let you push him away this time. He may not have the perfect words, but he knew one thing: you didn’t have to go through this alone.

“No,” he said quietly, sitting down beside you on the couch, a little closer than he usually would. “I’m not letting you push me away. You’re not fine, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

You stiffened slightly, clearly caught off guard by his insistence. But Hitoshi wasn’t backing down. He wasn’t going to let you hide from him anymore. He might not have a perfect track record when it came to comforting people, but when it came to you, he’d try.

“I don’t want to burden you with my problems,” you finally said, your voice thick with emotion. “Everyone else has enough to deal with.”

Hitoshi turned his head to look at you, his eyes serious, yet gentle. “You’re not a burden. You never have been. You don’t have to deal with this alone, and you don’t have to pretend everything’s okay around me.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you tried to hold back tears. But Hitoshi, as awkward and reserved as he was, didn’t look away. His gaze was soft, patient. He might not have had the perfect words, but his presence was enough to let you know that you were seen, that you mattered to him.

“I’m here, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice lower than usual, almost like he was letting down a wall for you. “I don’t need you to be happy all the time or put on a brave face. I just need you to know that if you need someone to sit with you, even if we’re not talking, I’m here. You don’t have to push me away.”

Your lip trembled at his words, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself break. You leaned into him, just a little, but it was enough to let the tears fall. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t try to stop you or tell you to calm down. Instead, he sat there, his arm gently wrapping around your shoulders, offering you the quiet comfort you had been craving.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “I just feel like everything is too much to handle. Like I’m drowning in it.”

Hitoshi didn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, he just pulled you in closer, his body warm against yours. He didn’t need to fix everything. He didn’t need to say the perfect things. Sometimes, just being there was enough. And that was what you needed the most.

“You’re not drowning,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re just… tired. And that’s okay. You don’t have to carry it all at once. You’ve got people who care about you. You’ve got me.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes, and though the pain in your chest didn’t disappear, it felt just a little lighter. Hitoshi didn’t expect you to heal overnight. But as long as you had him by your side, he would make sure you never felt like you were facing your struggles alone.

“Thanks, Shinso,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you cared this much.”

“I care more than you know,” he replied quietly, his arm still around you, pulling you in a little tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In that moment, with his arm around you and his quiet support, you knew you didn’t have to face the darkness alone. Hitoshi might not show his emotions the same way others did, but he was there, steady and unwavering, and that was all you needed.

[cy-cyborg]

How your disabled character's allies react to their disability can make or break the representation in your story: Writing Disability Quick Tips

[ID: An image with “Writing Disability quick tips: How your character's allies react to their disability matters” written in chalk the colour of the disability pride flag, from left to right, red, yellow, white, blue and green. Beside the text are 2 poorly drawn people icons in green, one is standing with their hand up to the face of the other, who is in a wheelchair. /End ID]

Something I brought up in my big post about Toph Beifong was how the other characters reacted to Toph pointing out that things were not accessible to her and setting boundaries regarding her disability, which were ignored. I had more to say about it than I thought I did, as it turns out (when isn't that the case lol) but I feel like this is an important aspect of disability representation that is all too often over looked.

You can write the best, most accurate portrayal of a specific disability ever put to screen or page, but it won't mean much if all the other characters, specifically those we're supposed to like and empathise with, treat your character terribly for being disabled and having needs relating to said disability, especially if the story justifies their behaviour.

You see this most often with autistic characters and especially autistic-coded characters. The character in question will be given a bunch of autistic traits, most often traits relating to not understanding certain social dynamics or sarcasm, and when they get it wrong, the other characters we are supposed to like jump down their throat, tease them or outright abandon them. Autism isn't the only disability that gets treated this way, but it is one of the more common ones that get this treatment. It doesn't matter if you do everything else right when creating an autistic character if the other "good guys" constantly call them annoying, get angry at them or laugh at them for the very traits that make them autistic, or for advocating for their needs.

Likewise, if you have a leg amputee character who is otherwise done well, but is constantly being criticised by their allies for needing to rest their legs or taking too long to get their prosthetics on, it undermines a lot of the other work you've done. Same goes for having a wheelchair user who is accused of being a bore or a stick in the mud because they point out the places their friends want to go to on a group holiday have no wheelchair access, or a deaf character who is accused of being entitled for wanting their family to learn to sign, or anything else.

This isn't to say you can never have moments like these in your stories, but its important to remember that a) people with the same disability as your character will be in your audience. If you spend a whole season of your TV show shaming your autistic character for real traits that real autistic people have, they're not exactly going to feel welcome and may not want to hang around. b) it's going to very, very heavily impact people's perceptions of your "heros" who do this, especially in they eyes of your audience members who share the character's disability or who have had similar experiences. This isn't like calling someone a mean name or being a bit of a dick when you're sleepy, it's going to take a lot to regain audience appeal for the offending character, and depending on exactly what they do and how frequently they do it, they may not even be able to come back from it at all. And finally, c) there should be a point to it outside of just shaming this character and saying the other guy is an asshole. Like I said before, you're character is criticising real people's real disabilities and the traits or problems that come with them, things that they often have no control over, it shouldn't be used as a cheap, quick way to establish a quirky enemies to lovers dynamic or show that one guy is kind of an ass before his redemption arc. If you really must have your characters do this, be mindful of when and how you use it.

[startheskelaton]

Can you tell us more about Landlot(Sparkplug's ex boyfriend)please?

Oh gosh I'm gonna go on a huge tangent about this guy, mostly because I feel like it.

So Landlot is the newest version of a character that belonged to my own ex boyfriend. However I was the one to properly flesh out his character, the most my ex did was give him a color pallet and basic personality.

For context, One Spark first started as a fanfiction called "End of the rode" made by my ex. It was a post apocalyptic transformers au where the Optimus and Megatron are dead, the autobots are trying to make another arc to get to Cybertron and the decepticons are now led by Starscream. The story only really got a proper threw line when I suggested adding a character I had thought up, Sal Witwicky, the orphaned daughter of Spike Witwicky. Sal's deal was that she resented transformers because they not only destroyed her world, but let her family die, now she's one of few surviving humans. She gets found by Hound and reluctantly agrees to go back with him to the autoboot base.

At one point, Sal was supposed to be horribly injured by Ravage (who was only there because I really liked Soundwave, and his addition helped fill in plot gaps), to the point she was about to die. However they put her in a experimental protoform body... she would now be known... as Sparkplug. (I also came up with this plotline)

Why am I going on about this? Well because it's important to why Land lot exists on my current story. Landlot in the old fanfiction was a twin and was one of the first transformers built on earth, post Sparkplug getting put into robot body. He was supposed to be the leader of his group, as he was kind of a hotrod wanna be. He was also vary clearly a self projection character for my ex, similar to how I tend to project onto Sparkplug. I had offered the idea for Sparkplug and Landlot to be a couple, I can't remember if my ex was on board for the idea or not, however I do remember it being the only thing close to romance in the whole story.

So here we are a good maybe 6 years later. I had a lot of trauma from that relationship to the point I still dream about him, and the moment I realize it's him in my dream, I try and get away from him, not wanting to be with him at all. I won't say I was a saint during that relationship, but I do resent him for being able to find some sense of peace with intimacy. A lot of shit happened... So when I decided to remake the Transformers AU, I was mean to Landlot.

So who is Landlot in the One Spark AU?

Well he's a 1970's Plymoth GX, who emerged with his twin sister, Defender. They emerged pretty soon after the matrix awakened the energon on earth. They emerged vary close to the autobot base and were taken in and trained like any normal sparkling would be trained back on Cybertron. He fit in vary well as he remined a lot of the autobots of the older days, just a bunch of guys who turned into cars acting like heroes and messing around. He would become a poster boy for the transformers born on Earth.

How did he end up dating Sparkplug? Well I'll tell yah. Despite a lot of my art showing people dotting over Sparkplug, that wasn't the case for a majority of the autobots, yes a good amount of them formed bonds with her, but it was only because they were related to prime. Bot's like Ironhide, sideswipe, Blur, Proceptor and a good amount of other autobot's being vary against Megatron and Soundwave being allowed to join, and some are still convinced that Sparkplug is just part of a secret plan of Megatron to try and take over earth again.

So a lot of bots stayed away from her, and this bias would trickle down to the new earth born bots on the base. So Sparkplug never had any friends her age, the closet being Rumble and Frenzy who were basically teenagers when she was born. However Sparkplug did grow up to be rather pretty... well... as pretty as you can be while being a weird combination of two bots. Even though she tried to talk to the other young bots, her awkwardness and bluntness only made them stay away from her. However Landlot slip in, seeing an opportunity to have a cute/shy girlfriend. Sparkplug fell hard and fast for him because she had never had anyone interested in her romantically. He would try and mold Sparkplug into a sweet, dotting and helpless shy girl that would hang on his arm to make him look cooler. Because how badass would it be to show that he was able to get the notorious Megatron's daughter to be his side chick.

Eventually, Sparkplug got tired of getting the short end of the stick and decided to break up with him after seeing that he was trying to get with other bots behind her back, bot's that vary clearly didn't like her.

So that's where they stand as of now. Landlot is still a celebrated leader for his heroics and fun personality, while Sparkplug just only got passed to go on missions and was put on the most mind numbing job imaginable.

sorry that this is so long, I just really wanted to share all this info

[mirai-e-jump]

Uchusen Vol.186 (Autumn 2024) Kamen Rider Gavv | Detail of Heroes ft. Main Cast Interviews (other pages and translations below)

Publication: October 1, 2024 (between episode 5-6)

Chinen Hidekazu (Shouma)

"Which shows from the Kamen Rider series have you seen?"

Chinen: From my generation, I watched "Kamen Rider W," "OOO," "Fourze," and "Wizard." I've been watching "Kamen Rider Zero-One," a masterpiece by Director Sugihara, who also directed the pilot of Gavv, and recently I watched "Kamen Rider Den-O" for the sake of studying.

"Who would your all time favorite Rider be?"

Chinen: Including OOO, I like alot of them, but lately I've been particularly fond of Den-O. It was really amazing to see each of the Imagin's personalities being performed by Satoh Takeru-san, the lead actor. The theme song is good too. I listen to the OP every episode without skipping it.

"Please tell us about the time of your audition for Gavv."

Chinen: We were put into pairs, one would play a role reminiscent of the food lover Shouma, and the other played a cool role similar to Hanto. During the first audition, I made a mistake. When I was supposed to do a performance where I entered the room from outside, I mistook the door for an outward opening one instead of an inward one, so I kept trying to pull it when I should've been pushing, and it ended up making alot of noise. I also heard the Producers laughing because I was having trouble getting in, but when I finally did, I continued the performance as if nothing had happened. Thinking about it now……I guess maybe that feeling of disconnect was also linked to Shouma's.

"We're sure you must've been quite flustered at that time"

Chinen: I was really flustered because of that (laughs). I was panicking quite abit because it wasn't an act, I really made a mistake. Still, I thought, "I've come this far, so let's do this!," so it might've been a good thing that I was able to accept it and give an earnest performance.

"How were you informed that you had been chosen?

Chinen: One day, my manager called me and said, "I need you to come to the office after work." I went to the office thinking, "Maybe they're upset at me for failing something?," but they said, "We have a report. We're disappointed to tell you that the final audition for Kamen Rider is no longer available." I was frustrated because I thought I had been rejected, but I still said, "I understand, I'll do my best next time." At that exact moment, the staff came through the door and shot off party poppers. That's when I asked my manager, "This isn't a dream, is it?" I pinched myself just to be sure (laughs). Even though it hurt, I couldn't believe it, and when I finally became aware of it, I felt like, "I'm the happiest guy in the world right now!"

"How did you inform your family?"

Chinen: I immediately called my mother about it. She said, "Hide, will you be okay with having the lead role?" Ever since I was little, I always said I wanted to one day play the main character in Kamen Rider. Both my mother and father supported this dream and saw me off to Tokyo. However, I really didn't think it would come true, and I think I was more worried about whether I'd be able to play the main character in such a big title before I was happy.

"Please tell us your impressions when you learned that Gavv was a Kamen Rider with a sweets motif."

Chinen: I received the proposal at the same time I was chosen to play the lead role, so that was the first time I learned about it. My first thoughts were, "A sweets Kamen Rider?" and "What will the gummies be like?" I didn't immediately understand the concept. It was the same kind of impact I felt when I first saw the orange and armor motif of "Kamen Rider Gaim." Still, when I read the proposal, it was very original and interesting. I could really feel the passion of the creators in wanting to create such a hero needed in the era we live in. I thought, "I want to be that kind of hero, and I also want to do my best!" I was impressed by the way the Rider's design incorporated gummies and potato chips, and I thought, "The person who thought this up is a genius."

"What's your absolute favorite form?"

Chinen: As of right now, it's Zakuzaku Chips. I'm a big fan of dual wielding swords, as I often use dual wielding characters in games. Also, I like the jagged potato chips on its eyes. From a distance, doesn't it look like Kamen Rider OOO? I like that about it too.

"Due to the complicated background of the character, we feel that Shouma, who you're playing, requires difficult performances. What kind of orders did the Director give you?"

Chinen: Director Sugihara said, "While he is a young man, I want him to retain a part of his innocence," and that, "He's friendly, but there seems to be a wall between his heart." He said, "He has a bright side and a dark side that he doesn't show others. I hope you can show us how well you can switch between those two personalities."

"Shouma's upbringing is one thing, but it's also cruel that the enemies he's fighting against are his family."

Chinen: Yeah, I personally think it's so cruel, that I pity Shouma. It's a harsh story for a show that's meant for small children to watch. I personally feel like it's mentally draining to play the role of blood related brothers fighting against each other as enemies. What's more, there's no escape from that fate. However, while the story and Shouma's circumstances are hard, the eating of sweets and poppin scenes help soften the situation. The gap between those scenes gives more depth to the hard story. I also try to be conscious of this when I act differently.

"It seems to strike a good balance between the poppin imagery and the hard content."

Chinen: Some fans predicted, "Is it going to be a show like Gaim?," when they saw the official announcement before the show aired. Kamen Rider productions that start out appealing to the "pop" part tend to have harsher developments (laughs). I myself don't want it to be too serious, so through trial and error, I'm still trying to figure out how to make the "pop" in Gavv stand out.

"The role sounds like a pretty high hurdle to clear."

Chinen: Still, I think it was the same for my seniors who performed in previous Riders. I believe that it's Kamen Riders who overcome their troubles, conflicts, and ordeals.

"How was filming for the transformation pose?"

Chinen: The pose was decided on three or four days before we started filming. We agreed on it through discussions among myself, Action Director Fujita-san, and Director Sugihara. In the first episode, there was no proper pose, as the transformation was done during a pinch, so the pose wasn't done until episode 2, but the transformation scene in the first episode was also very cool. Shouma's body slowly changes, and at the end, we get a closeup of his face and Gavv's mask, but he doesn't change all at once, leaving the eyes unchanged. It was very cool, and I was trembling by the way they showed the expression in my eyes until the very end! This is a special version that's only found in the first episode, so I hope you'll watch it again.

"We think that there'll also be action scenes before the transformation, but what about you?"

Chinen: The action is alot of fun……that being said though, I struggle with it quite abit. Action isn't just about being good at punching and kicking. I have to make the action visually appealing. Despite all that, I of course have to put my feelings into it. Fujita-san was by my side the whole time, and Gavv's Suit Actor Nawata Yuya-san was also always near the cameras, and he was very helpful and gave me advice like, "You did it this way before, but why don't you try it this way?" Also, I practice kyokushin karate, so that might be why I was praised for my kicks. So, when it came to direction, we also had an increase in kicking scenes. Over the next year, I'd like to improve my action skills more.

"How was post recording?"

Chinen: It was my first time, so it was much more difficult than filming. Director Sugihara spent alot of time with me for episodes 1 and 2 in particular, since they're the ones the viewers would see for the first time. After that, Director Sugihara gave me some advice. Shouts like "Hah!" and "Tah!" tend to become monotonous as it goes on, so he said, "I want to see some variation." He recommended the game "Street Fighter" as a good reference. I wrote down the shouts I thought were good in a memo and did them my own way. Naturally, I also referred to the shouts of my senior Riders.

"What's been your most passionate scene so far?"

Chinen: It would have to be the transformation scene in the first episode. Until then, the wind had been blowing so strongly, that it was like a cloud of dust, but it stopped right as it came time to do my performance. Thanks to this, we were able to shoot the cut where the wind makes Shouma's hair rise up and reveals his eyes. I also talked with Director Sugihara about it, saying, "It's a scene where the wind was on our side."

"How's the teamwork with your costars, Hino Yusuke-san and Miyabe Nozomi-san?"

Chinen: Both of them are usually friendly, but when they get in front of the cameras, they quickly switch into their roles. They're the type of people who can clearly switch on and off. Not just for Shouma, they're also my own reassuring friends.

"We were told that among the three of you, Chinen-san's plays the role of the funny guy, while Hino-san's the straight man."

Chinen: Sometimes I'll derail the conversation or make bombshell statements (laughs). Each time, Hino-san puts us back on the right track. Miyabe-san watches from a slightly removed position, but will sometimes react.

"By the way, Chinen-san, what's your favorite sweet?"

Chinen: It's gummies, naturally! However, since I'm from Okinawa, I'd also like to promote "chinsukou" and "sata andagi" (laughs).

"We'd also love to see those two appear as Gochizou."

Chinen: Will they appear?! It seems like they'd be limited to Okinawa. Of course, I'd be happy if they come out, but for now I'll just hope for it within my heart.

"Finally, please give a message directed to all the fans of Gavv."

Chinen: The story of Kamen Rider Gavv began with a young man coming from another world to the human world. I hope that you'll pay attention to how Shouma meets unique friends in the human world and grows. Especially the bond he has with his mother, family bonds is one of the themes, so if possible, I'd like you to watch it with your loved ones. If you watch it, you'll definitely want to show your love and respect to your parents. I'd like to make this a show that you can support throughout the year. I hope you'll pay attention to and enjoy the activities of not only our cast, but also the Gochizou. I look forward to your support throughout the next year!

Hino Yusuke (Hanto)

"Have you watched the Kamen Rider series?"

Hino: I have an older brother, so we had alot of transformation belts from "Kamen Rider Kuuga" and other early Heisei series at home. In terms of my generation though, it would've been "Kamen Rider Den-O." After that, I watched "Kamen Rider Kiva" and "Kamen Rider Decade."

"Who's your all time favorite Rider?"

Hino: I watched it with enthusiasm, so it'd have to be Den-O. When I was in elementary school, I commuted to school by train and was once stopped by a station attendant when I tried to walk through the ticket gate with the pass for the transformation belt (laughs).

"Did you play the role of Hanto during the audition?"

Hino: I also played the role of who I later found out was the main character, but in the end, I was frequently assigned the role of Hanto. Still, I thought his character had a cool position when they explained him to me, so I wasn't sure if he'd fit with my everyday self.

"How was it when you learned that you had been chosen?"

Hino: I was shocked because I wasn't expecting to be picked. The way my agency informed me also startled me abit. I was so happy and shocked, that I was in a state where I couldn't think straight for about five minutes.

"Did you contact your family right away?"

Hino: I was told it was okay to contact my parents as soon as I could. My mother cried and was delighted. Hearing my mother's tearful voice on the other end of the phone caused me to cry as well. My father never seemed very interested in my work, but when I told him that I had passed the audition, he exclaimed "seriously?!" in the loudest voice I had ever heard (laughs). It made me really happy when I heard that. My father's always worrying about me. I started this work when I was in high school, but was told, "You're a student, so your priority is your studies and to then go to college." However, my work became so busy, that it became difficult for me to attend college, and my parents were constantly worried about me. That's why I think I was finally able to reassure them by passing this audition, and it's a new starting point for me as well. In this day and age, TV dramas that run for a year are rare, so I'm grateful for the opportunity to participate in one, and I'll do my best this year without forgetting to keep my mind fresh.

"What was your first impression when you read the script?"

Hino: When I first heard about the motif, I thought, "What would a sweets Rider be like?" I think everyone's first guess would be a poppin, cute hero. So, while yes, the designs give off a cool, cute and modern feel, the story is very dramatic. The lives of Shouma and Hanto, who I play, will gradually overlap, and many other appealing characters appear, which always makes me wonder what will happen next. I myself look forward to the next script whenever I receive one. How will Hanto become a Kamen Rider, and how will he relate to Shouma after becoming one? I hope that you'll look forward to that.

"Did the Director give you any orders regarding your performance?"

Hino: I was told, "It's good to be more flexible." There's the way he approaches people with his fake smile when he's a freelance writer, and his "I'll crush you" anger when he confronts a Granute. It didn't matter what others would think, he told me, "I'd rather you vary his strengths and weaknesses so that he looks like a different person." At first, I thought Hanto was a cool character. It certainly looks that way when compared to Shouma and Sachika, but there are surprisingly few scenes resembling that in the show, it's more like he's clumsy around people. The Director raised the mood of my first appearance scene, up to the point where it felt like a silly older brother had appeared. That part changed the impression I had when I first received the script considerably.

"We have the impression that freelance writers are prone to being disliked, as they're always snooping around and are persistent in pestering the main character."

Hino: While I can't speak for myself, Hanto himself is a character who's teased during the show, so he's the most lovable character. He acts with conviction, and I think that's what makes him so cool, but he sometimes ends up getting nowhere, so he gets teased. And yet, when he's teased, he'll get angry and say, "Don't screw with me!," but he doesn't deny it (laughs). The reason Hanto's slowly becoming more like that may be due to the fact that my own character is starting to come out. In this sense, I feel that the synchronization with the role has risen. This way, Hanto's character has a wide range, so I'm able to play him rather freely.

"After this, Hanto reaches a major turning point when he becomes a Kamen Rider, so did you switch up your performance there?"

Hino: For Hanto, it's not so much a situation where his fate has taken a turn for the worse, it's more like his connection from the past has further unfolded. That's why rather than switching between before and after he becomes a Kamen Rider, I tried to separate his role as a freelance writer from his desire for revenge against the Granutes. To tell you the truth, after I learned about Hanto's early life, I tried to avoid "seeing" his family as much as possible in order to understand his loneliness alittle better. That's why when he confronts the Granutes, I think his eyes are pretty much burning with anger. It is of big help for him that he's surrounded by cheerful characters like the Gochizou and Sachika.

"How was the first transformation scene?"

Hino: Before his first transformation, another major event happens to Hanto which leads to him becoming a Kamen Rider. With the power he's acquired for the first time, Hanto's first transformation is a scene where he shows the anger and hatred he's been holding onto for such a long time towards the Granute. Trying to convey those emotions through my performance was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I think that Valen's transformation itself was also unrefined, unlike the image of a perfect hero with overwhelming strength. Still, he's unrefined but works as hard as he can, so I'd be happy if everyone who watches the show can feel that there's a cool feel to him. In a scene where "tears" are an important point in the direction, I was so emotional, that tears genuinely ran down my face as well. I still remember this because it was a moment when my emotions and my performance matched up.

"As Hanto, did you feel like he reached the climax from the earliest stage?"

Hino: No, no! This isn't the end of his story! (laughs). I'm sure there'll be many more climaxes from now on, and I'm personally looking forward to them.

"What did you think of Kamen Rider Valen's design?"

Hino: There was more chocolate than I expected (laughs). Despite that, it's cool. I also like that Valen is a "helmet type," while Gavv is a "mask type."

"By the way, Hino-san, what's your favorite sweet?"

Hino: Chocolate of course!

"Do you have a favorite secondary Rider from previous Riders?"

Hino: It's Kamen Rider Zeronos from Den-O. I love his "I'm pretty strong!" catchphrase! In terms of actors, I like Yoshizawa Ryo-san, who played Kamen Rider Meteor in "Kamen Rider Fourze." When you're that cool at giving a performance, you can't be beat. Director Kamihoriuchi previously told me that when Yoshizawa-san was told to "do something like this," he instantly made it his own performance instead of following instructions. He also said, "His ability to adapt was exceptional." It made me want to be an actor like him. He's a respectable person.

"We'd like to see a catchphrase from Valen as well."

Hino: Yeah. He currently doesn't have any lines that he's always saying, but I'll try to bring out Hanto's human appeal while standing beside Shouma, the hero from another world.

"Do you want to film some action of yourself before transforming?"

Hino: Action is fun! I do voluntary training on a daily basis together with Valen's Suit Actor Kaji Kotaro-san, Gavv's Nawata Yuya-san, and everyone else on the Action Team. The day before an action scene is set to be filmed, they would assist me in practicing for it. With the exception of impossible scenes, I've been challenging myself to not use a stand in.

"How's the teamwork with your co stars, Chinen-san and Miyabe-san?"

Hino: We get along very well. They're both really adorable, but they're professional actors who are reliable on set. In a good way, we're rivals and friends. I hope I can build a better relationship with them from now on.

"Not long ago you said, "It might be his own fault that Hanto's become a character who's teased," but is Hino-san himself a character who's being teased?"

Hino: Basically, I play the role of responding to Chinen-kun's jokes (laughs). However, including Miyabe-san, when the three of us are together, I sometimes play the role of a fool, and will often be the one saying, "Hey, cut it out~." That's the way things usually go. Just so you're aware, I am the oldest (laughs).

"And now finally, please give a message to all fans of Gavv."

Hino: For me, Kamen Riders are the heroes I've dreamed of being since I was a child, so I'm very happy that I'm able to be involved in this historic series. Over the next year, I'll do my best to meet and exceed everyone's expectations with sincerity, and without forgetting my original intention. I look forward to your support!

Miyabe Nozomi (Sachika)

"First, please tell us about the time of your audition for Gavv."

Miyabe: I'll be honest, the audition was a disaster. The audition script contained several assignments, each being individually numbered. At that time, act 2 was a fainting performance and act 3 was a conversation between two people, and even though I thought, "I absolutely have to pass!," I was so incredibly nervous, that I ended up doing a fainting performance for act 3. The other actor spoke to me according to the script, and that's when I realized, "This is wrong!," but it was too late. The final audition didn't go well either. The Director told me, "Act like an aunt from Osaka," but I wasn't confident that I could pull it off, and that's when I became depressed and thought, "This is a lost cause." In spite of all that, I was surprised that I was chosen.

"How did you receive the report that you had been chosen?"

Miyabe: After the audition, my manager called me to come to Ginza. As I headed there and thought, "I wonder if they're upset about something?," they messaged me with, "Take a selfie with your phone." I didn't understand what they meant and was like, "Eh? Did I gain weight or something?" but then I got a message saying, "You passed the audition." It seems that the selfie was to document me going from freaked out to smiling. I had never been so emotionally moved as I was at that moment. This video captures a memorable moment in time, so I hope to be able to release it in some form someday (laughs).

"Have you watched the Kamen Rider series?"

Miyabe: I have a younger brother who's eight years younger than me, so we watched "Kamen Rider Drive," "Ghost," and "Ex-Aid" together. After I passed the audition, I watched "Kamen Rider Gotchard" in order to study.

"We're sure your brother was happy to know that his sister was going to play a role in Kamen Rider."

Miyabe: I still haven't told my brother yet (at the time of this interview). I was given the okay to talk to them about it, so I did contact my parents right away. I plan on surprising my brother by not telling him until the official announcement.

"What were your impressions of Gavv from reading the script?"

Miyabe: Each and every character has a story to tell, so I thought it was a production that'll keep you interested even early on. That's why I can never wait for the next script. I'm sure all the viewers feel the same way.

"Did the Director give you any orders regarding your role?"

Miyabe: Along with Shouma's Chinen-kun, Director Sugihara gave us acting lessons even before filming began. Each time, I was told, "Cheerful, cheerful." It was required at the auditions, so I always try to have the cheerfulness of an Osakan aunt and the kindness that seems to embrace everyone. Sachika is a gyaru president, but I've personally lived a life with no connection to gyarus. I also wasn't the type to stand out in class. That's why after I was chosen for this role, I learned to be more like a gyaru by listening to songs with a cheerful tempo, reading gyaru magazines, and watching official Youtube channels and TikToks.

"What does Miyabe-san think a gyarus mind is?"

Miyabe: I wonder…….No matter how difficult a situation may be, you can always think, "Well, I'll figure it out!," and in a positive sense, I think it's important not to "overthink" things. A friend of mine often says, "Keep a gyaru in your heart,” and I thought it was a very good saying. Thanks to those words, I'm now able to have a gyaru named Amane Sachika reside in my heart.

"Playing the role of Amane Sachika is also a "transformation" for Miyabe-san."

Miyabe: You're right! There's quite a gap between myself and Sachika, so I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that it's a transformation for me. I've never played a role so different from my own self before, so it's fun (laughs). It's not just acting that I enjoy, but also doing alot of research for the role.

"Did you also make your hair blonde for the role of Sachika?"

Miyabe: I did. I've always had black hair, but I bleached it three times to make it blonde. At first, every time I looked in the mirror, I was like, "Who are you?" (laughs). Still, once I got used to looking at it, I started to see myself in photos as a different person from who I used to see when I had black hair. Sachika also wears heavy makeup, so you might not even notice me when I walk down the street during my private time. That's why I'm thinking of wearing colored contacts and false eyelashes in my private time so people will notice me (laughs).

"Sachika isn't a fighter, but are there any plans for action scenes?"

Miyabe: There are no particular scenes set for me, but I was once allowed to participate in an action session. I didn't do very well at the time, but I'd be happy if they could prepare some action scenes for Sachika too! Since I went through great lengths to appear in Kamen Rider, I'd like to try my hand at action.

"Would you like to transform into a Kamen Rider like Shouma and Hanto?"

Miyabe: I'd like to do that too! Recent series always have female Kamen Riders, and my dream is to be one of them. However, Sachika's a woman with a strong heart, so even if she can't transform, I'd like to use the strength of her feelings as her "weapon."

"Miyabe-san, which Rider do you like more, Gavv or Valen?"

Miyabe: That's a tough question! (laughs). Gavv's a Rider from another world, so he's incredibly strong, but when he's alone he usually ends up in a pinch. And since Valen's the one who helps him, it's like they're one and the same. So, I guess I'd go with both.

"Have you ever directly seen the Kamen Riders on set?"

Miyabe: They're so cool! Being able to see those forms up close and personal will definitely motivate me for the next year. Before I entered this set, I thought the camera work was what made the action so powerful. Naturally, there are scenes like that, but the action itself is very powerful. When I watched episodes 1 and 2, I was surprised to see that the scenes that were already powerful without CG were even more powerful with CG.

"Were there any other spectacles unique to tokusatsu heroes?"

Miyabe: The Gochizou are made by using both props and CG, so during filming of the CG scenes, Chinen-kun talks to Gochizou that aren't there. I thought that kind of performance was difficult. Still, Sachika doesn't know that the Gochizou exists. She also doesn't know about the Granutes, or that Shouma and Hanto are Kamen Riders. They're so close, yet she only knows about Kamen Riders through gossip. I can only imagine what would happen to Sachika if she knew of the Granute's existence. She might want to try to get along with them instead of fighting. Of course, she'd become angry if someone she cared about got hurt by them.

"What's been the most impressive scene up to episode 5?"

Miyabe: Sachika runs a general store, so she and Shouma do alot of jobs together. I enjoyed the scene where they were handing out flyers to advertise the ramen shop. I'm looking forward to seeing what other jobs they do in the future. I also like the scene in episode 3, where Hanto comes to Hapipare and Sachika pokes him with a toy. I thought it was a good representation of their relationship. It's not that Sachika can't read the room, as when she has to do something, she'll do it, but the mood of the place comes first (laughs).

"Hino-san himself said that Hanto's a character that everyone teases."

Miyabe: Hino-kun himself often makes the set feel more relaxed when he's teased. I also mess around with him alot (laughs). It's kind of easy to tease him, almost like there's a sense of security and that it's okay to tease him. He's the oldest out of the three of us (laughs). Chinen-kun lightens up the mood with his interesting remarks, like when he says, "That's one way of thinking about it!" Once Hino-kun gets into it, it becomes really noisy. We screw around when it's time to screw around, but we're very serious when we have to face our roles. They'll suggest things like, "Let's try this here," or "Let's practice this alittle." I'm glad that the three of us will be together on this set for a year.

"Miyabe-san, what kind of sweets do you like?"

Miyabe: I like plum types of sweets, like crunchy plums and dried plums. On days when we have filming, I'll stop by a convenience store and buy one of those before heading to the set. However, the makeup artist pointed out to me that I should be careful not to eat too much, otherwise my face might puff up (laughs).

"And now finally, please give a message to the fans of Gavv."

Miyabe: Kamen Rider Gavv is poppin and cute, and I think it's a show that'll be easy for all kinds of people to relate to. I really hope that people of all ages will watch it. Since I'm also "armed" with a gyarus mindset, I'll do my best to cheer up tons of people. I look forward to your support over the next year!

[somewhereincairparavel]

Alright. I came across someone saying that Rick "put Jason in a pedestal" and "overhyped" him by emphasizing how good looking he is and that Jason shouldn't have been so attractive looking. (Tbf tho that person made it sound like they seemed more mad bc their least favourite character was considered good looking lol) but I'll yap about the significance here anyways. Beware of a very long yapping session below.

I do understand their frustration though, because jason getting told that he looks good all the time makes it seem very shallow and unfair to the others.

And let me tell you, Jason is SUPPOSED to be gorgeous looking in everyone's eyes. He is supposed to be conventionally handsome, Rick didn't intend for his looks to be "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder " or something like Percy's (like how Piper didn't find him as impressive) Percy's is supposed to be more authentic. Percy's character isnt centred in people idolizing him, everyone can acknowledge that he's handsome looking, but it isn't in a "perfect" type of way, he's a carefree spirit and that reflects on his looks. While Jason is hardwired as this ethereal looking hero in people's eyes that not even ONE can deny that he looks good, bc ppl in Rome had set him as the "standard". Jason said this before in the lost hero, that him being a son of Jupiter, makes him feel like the support he gets is only because his dad is a very regal and intimidating figure.

That's kind of the whole point, he's supposed to look like this perfect man who can do no wrong. His "Golden noble boy" arc is literally the whole concept of his character. Why else do you think rick wrote Aphrodite approving of Jason's looks saying that he needed no improvement (which she rarely does) ?

Because Jason is supposed to be put like a statue to admire and idolize, that's ALSO why rick made sure to add that Jason looks like a Roman sculpture, bc that's like a metaphor for his inner conflicts. The guy was put like an artifact for people to ogle at in camp Jupiter ever since he was a kid of 4. That's part of the tragedy.

Annabeth said it perfectly “Annabeth tried to hide it, but she still didn’t completely trust the guy. He acted too perfect - always following the rules, always doing the honorable thing. He even looked too perfect. In the back of her mind, she had a nagging thought. What if this is a trick and he betrayed us?” Mark of Athena, page 6.

His mother, whom he's supposed to look like, is also a literal world wide tv actress. So you can't expect anything less either.

Also, Jason is supposed to mirror Percy. And let's be real. Rick put Percy in a VERY high pedestal looks wise, aswell, Not just Jason. And that's okay.

Rick made Hazel mistake Percy for a literal god because he was just that good looking (tbf, in a way, when I was younger, I found this to be a little bit of an exaggeration, bro was covered in mud and seaweed and was compared to a god, it was rlly funny to a 10 year old me 😭 yeah but don't mind this though, this was just a younger me jealous that I couldn't be as pretty as Percy was in mud lol) If Percy can be "hyped" up so "unrealistically" in that particular situation then so can Jason. They are both literal half gods, so unrealistic praise is very normal) and rick also made sure to emphasize that almost all the teen characters had a crush on Percy. So apparently that isn't called putting a character in a pedestal but Jason's is? They are BOTH put in pedestals, because they're both heroes.

Jason and Percy are supposed to be equals, so both of them being in the top two when it comes to looks makes SENSE. Because people are supposed to argue about who is better looking, since they're written as foils.

You cannot expect rick to make Percy look like a god and Jason look like a rat 😭 then there's no point of having them as parallels if one has the upper hand in something. Rick did a good job by conveying that they are BOTH attractive, but in different ways. That's why the Percy/Jason looks debate always have mixed answers.

Jason getting complimented by Aphrodite, the GODDESS of beauty, for his looks and her saying that he didn't have anything to "fix" in his face BC it already looks gorgeous = Percy getting compared to a gorgeous Roman god by hazel. They are both equal comparisons in slightly different tones.

[werezmastarbucks]

the girl with expensive earrings

masterlist - part 1 of 6

in which you get what you deserve for saving Namjoon's sister

yoongi x clueless!f!nonKorean!reader

i gotta start adding tags because these stories literally come to my head like: dogsitting; party; girl code; confusion; shy!yoongi; setting ppl up; hurt/comfort

author's note: for the sake of being a better person i changed Namjoon's sister's name. not my fault they ALL have siblings already. also as usual i thought it'd be a oneshot, but the story turned out longer. sorry for the beginning: it drags out a little, but i had such a blast writing Minji and also I had to establish... stuff

word count: 4135

warnings: language, mentions of a car accident, overcoming trauma, mentions and depictions of abusive relationship

music: intro: ringwanderung by bts, delicate by taylor swift, girls by the 1975, meanswear by the 1975

You lived hard. Allowing yourself to celebrate sometimes was easy, especially now that you moved to Seoul. Still kind of new to the city, to its spicy food by default, with no warning or label; to its bity weather in December, to its people who never laughed hard in the streets, to the 'take off shoes everywhere' rule, and to the breathtaking beauty of Seoul in early spring. The latter was an ever pleasant awe: seeing the sun coming back again, seeing trees wake up. Seoul was good like honey for the soul that's been shredded to pieces.

The differences in cultures kept you busy, together with your new tight work schedule, so you didn't have a lot of time to ponder on your sad moments. The differences in cultures, that is, some of which shocked you to your core.

The complete absence of girl code on the streets. It became especially evident in Itaewon every weekend. Girls left alone, passed out on the sidewalk, their friends hopping into taxis to go home; the indifference of passing people when a girl yelped in pain as her boyfriend pinched the soft skin on her forearm; friends retreating when a smug and unknown guy approached a drunk lady to try and chat her up. This all made you feel uneasy. As a solo drinker on a Saturday, you noticed these things every time, and always tried to insert yourself into the situation, to an extent. You'd sit on the ground with a sleeping girl and wait for her taxi with her, not even sure she managed to mumble you the right address. You'd call her a made up name and wave your hand from across the street as if you knew her and see her eyes light up in relief, and the eyes of her pursuer go darker. You didn't think yourself a hero for that, mostly you were kind of terrified in those moments.

But there happened only one moment when you got so absolutely furious that you forgot fear.

This little girl, dollfaced and well-dressed, with her long shiny hair, against her supposed boyfriend. The guy was about three times bigger than her, with that kind of pig face that always told you about the character. The golden chain around his neck on top of white tee was nauseating to look at. He was stretching the wovels in his curses towards her, grabbing her by the hand, by the shoulder. The girl wasn't panicking yet, but was attempting to fight him off which he barely noticed. He was probably intoxicated as it was eleven at night in Itaewon. Neon orange, pink and red lights above your heads, noisy torrents of people pushing through to disperse into bars and karaoke places. And nobody paid attention to one girl struggling to get away from an abuser swearing like he stepped out of a cheap drama they produce in bulks every year. Opening his mouth wide, showing teeth. Textbook TV show villain, thinking that nobody would help her anyway.

You were about to leave the street when you spotted them, and, tuning your head around, realized you found yourself in the same pickle as the last time, when you watched a woman jump out of the fifth floor window. Street full of people but everybody is blind. You shrugged your shoulders, pumping yourself up. You're drunk, Y/N, you urged yourself, and when you're drunk you can kick anybody's ass. The fear gets an elephant dose of anesthesia and checks off. There's only them fighting next to an ice cream parlour, and your three cocktails bloodshot eyes. You made your move, bumping into bodies as you tried to cut the short distance. Spotted a bottle half empty on an unoccupied table. Itaewon was beautiful. Cherries in full bloom with wine red light shining through their petals, giving them an ethereal halo, and the distant small pecks of stars, like the girl's earrings. The last second before you intervened, you thought, she's too well dressed and they might be rich, and you might get in trouble. But your mouth was already open.

"Get away from her!" you barked, bottle in your hand, and as you twisted it, the alcohol sipped onto you hand. The guy moved his swollen red-drunken eyes on you and continued his rant with a different recepient. Korean language normally treated you well because most people who spoke it to you were doing it gently, with a mellow hiss, not chewing up their words. The way this person was expressing himself was far away from the romantic murmur you were used to hearing so you didn't understand a word. Except a couple of curse words that usually get memorized first in any language.

The girl though. She immediately moved towards you and stood at your side (but not hid behind) and her eyes stared with slight surprise and undying gratitude.

She replied to her boyfriend in a confident tone, as if you were any taller than her.

The guy reached for you two, and you stroke him on the arm. Your new companion yelped and barged into the fight, crashing down on him with her small and swift fists, the gems in her rings throwing flashes of iridescent fire.

You became friends after that night. Her name was Kim Minji and she was exactly the person deserving to be saved: exhaustingly happy, jovial, enthusiastic, a l i v e. She was going through that breakup with the force of all that was female in her. Drinking on her kitchen at nights opened up all the sides of her: she'd laugh hysterically, remembering the night when you met, calling you the paragon of solidarity, and then she'd throw herself onto your shoulders, squeezing you with all her surprising might, and then break into tears, because she used to love that man. She'd get serious while telling you about all the abuse she'd suffered at his hands, then get hysterical again thinking about it, thinking what it meant for her to break free. Then Minji would look at you with her huge watery eyes, light shivering inside the pupils, and whisper,

"If it hadn't been for you, who knows how long more I'd stay with him".

She was going through her emotions in circles, slowly healing, for three weeks, and almost every night you came over to console her, and it was beautiful. Perhaps the freshness and loneliness of a new country weighed on the closeness you felt for Minji: for a whole year people around you were reserved, collected and formal. And this insane girl reciprocated all the hidden desire to connect in less than a month. She needed her hand held; and she needed a hug every other hour; and she needed an ear to listen. At times she'd repeat herself, and you'd just nod. It was an unusual position for you because you weren't the background dancer. In life, you were usually the one who came to your best friend for help and she'd be forced to listen. But here, you were the new Y/N. Life had slapped you on the face so hard that everything before burned. You inhaled, exhaled, and went with the flow, forming this tight, unexpected and very intimately understanding, very unlikely friendship with the girl from Itaewon.

Minji had a flat in the Gangnam district and wore nine hundred euro earrings. When you admired them, saying that the glow was throwing sunspots onto the table, she smiled in the sweetest way and said that she just-

"ADORE Pandora. I don't know what's with me, but I am obsessed with their jewelry. My brother gave these to me for my birthday. Do you wanna see the others?"

You weren't by any means poor. The offer for a job came straight from Sogang University and made it possible for you to rent a reluctantly cosy apartment in Seodaemun. Yet you didn't have an array of diamond earrings in silk-bound little boxes in the drawer of your desk. You had a glimpse into Minji's wealthy life by looking at her jewelry. Not all of it was to your taste, but Minji was unapologetically in love with all of them and even tried to see if some would match your face. She was sincere, simple, emotional, and she completely won you over. The natural lack of curiousity and caution stopped you from asking who the hell her brother was, and what she did for a living, although you probably should have.

Finally came the time to open up to Minji, after you learned half of her life story during the long Gangnam nights.

You told her about the reason you came to Korea which was, except for the job offer you broke all your bones for, the death of your best friend. Minji could be very collected and quiet when she needed to; for about twenty minutes at a time. She had a big heart, really, and never made you feel small, and never pulled the blanket of attention on her when it wasn't her turn to pour her soul.

She probably realized why you two clicked so well and what even made you stand up for her in the first place; her tears of sorrow as she empathized with you were as rainbowy as her expensive earrings, as clear as her ceiling-high windows overlooking a busy intersection and the skyline; as melodic as the confident and telling purr of her Porsche Macan. You got yourself involved with some rich people, you were thinking, on the way to yet another coffee and gossip girldate, and you were highly suspicious of Minji's unwillingness to speak about her family.

"Oh, they are great, you know", she'd sing, "but you know, I am not a fool myself. I landed a great job at Samsung. I know, maybe my connections helped, but, ugh, and I might not look like it, but I am smart".

You'd never told her she didn't look smart. She looked expensive, and sweet, and high maintenance for any guy who'd take a burden of listening to her every day.

"What do you do there?" you finally asked her.

"I make ads. I'm in marketing", she replied shortly and you didn't mistake this for sheer shyness. Maybe she didn't want to make it awkward between you, maybe she found it plain boring. Minji liked talking about boyfriends and your job more. She'd ask about the kinds of projects you do at university and always make the landmark adorable face - Ö - when you told her funny stories about your students.

Friendship like this was probably unbelievable, but cinematographic cirucmstances collided you together, and the ultimate action you'd undertaken had to have certain consequences, right? Not even once did Minji act unpretty or smug; she didn't do drugs like you imagined rich young people did, who have a lot of pressure at work; her drug was gossip, and who sleeps with who, and what they wore, and what they posted on twitter seven years ago during a rain on a Monday. She had excellent memory for drama and no patience for self-belittlement.

"My brother always tells me that girls like you and me should live with our heads up high", she said. You snickered.

"How does your brother know I am like you? I am quiet and you're extraverted".

Minji shook her head furiously and pushed the chewing gum around her mouth with her little tongue. Her pearl-white teeth sucked in the air.

"No, I know who you are. You were the only person in the whole fucking Itaewon to care about little me getting smacked around. You're the person who listened to my bitching and moaning about a short dick of a douchebag for a whole month-"

"Three weeks", you corrected her. She waved the correction away like it was cigarette smoke.

"You are one fine ass woman with a steel core. After what you've been through; and still you choose to help fools like me", she gave you a strange, deepening look that was too momentous for her usual self.

You shrugged. She was right. That was the moment Kim Minji has decided your fate.

Minji called on a Sunday, a little distressed, and you felt scared that she got into a drama again. But she sounded reserved and somewhat business-like while having this sickening finality to her voice. So, maybe something even more serious. There we go, you thought while dressing up in front of the mirror you scooped up in a second hand store in Seochon (very beautiful, reminded you of old Seoul). There we go, her and her rich ass got into trouble with mafia and now she wants me to wield a half-empty soju bottle into the mafiosi faces. As you left the building, to the sound of the train rushing above your head matching your steps, you were creating wild scenarios in your head where the whole time Kin Minji was evil after all and she is going to sell you instead of herself to the black organ trafficking market; or she'll sell you into sex slavery to the people she owes money to; or to one of the K-pop idols; what if she is involved in a Burning Sun type of scheme? Sometimes you had to pull your mind by the reins and shut it up. The apocalyptic tales it spun in the moment of hesitation scared you to no end. You looked at the late summer Seoul sky while waiting for the taxi. Something /still/ was so important that Minji didn't want to speak about it over the phone.

You were biting your lips as you pushed the door of a coffeeshop and spotted her at the table, furiously writing something on a piece of paper, a phone pressed to her ear. She nodded at you; no need to say in what manner. She did everything furiously whereas you did things spontaneously. You were written in different fonts.

"Heeey", she stretched her back, clutching her little fists. You looked at your own nails, freshly done, to avoid going first. But Minji didn't seem too pressed about it.

"So", her eyes were searching your face, "have you seen the MAMA yesterday?"

You frowned,

"What is that?"

She shrugged like it didn't matter.

"The music awards ceremony".

"Oh. Did anybody fall off stage? Did that hilarious guy perform? The one who always gives joke performances?"

Her face twisted in a giggle,

"Oh, no, but there were some funny moments. Not enough drama, though. No secret touches, you know. I scanned the twitter like a hound for fancams, and nothing. BTS swept all the awards, as usual".

You nodded. You've seen the celebrity faces occasionally on the streets; the buses usually had their cutesy images slapped on the sides, and that's how you knew that a certain SUGA had his birthday in March, and that you all loved Lisa. Sometimes Minji mentioned something about the turbulent and never-ever scandal-dry world of K-pop, but you listened to different music and just got used to hearing their upbeat melodies on the background wherever you went. In fact, if you strained your memory, you could recall a couple of explosive controversies in the year and a half you've been living here. But they all looked the same to you; glitter and shiny clothes, dancing in synch, melodic voices, songs about... jeans? You were sure you were on the right track.

You sucked on the straw of your drink, thinking about it, then caught Minji staring at you with a smile.

"Anyway", she said, "don't get mad with me, okay? Promise".

Your frown returned and you felt the hairs of your eyebrows stand a little.

"What did you do?"

She put one arm on the table and started working her fist, nervous.

"My family is not the most ordinary, and we are usually cautious about new people, we have to be. It's not easy for me to warm up to someone like I did to you. I just", she puffed, "like you so much that I really wanted to give it some time to see how... you were?"

She winced with the last words.

"So far I have no goddamn clue what you're talking about", you replied, the bubbles in your drink flowing up. "Unless you're telling me your family is famous".

She sighed with relief.

"Yes".

"Don't tell me you're related to the North Korean leader or I'll flip the table", you said from under your lowered lids. This was horrifying and equally exciting. All you wanted was to start anew, and a good friend.

"No", she laughed.

"Kim Nam Gil?" you asked with hope. The only actor whose name you knew because he was your official crush of the year.

For some reason Minji blushed a little.

"No, but my brother, the one who..."

"The one who gives you diamond earrings because you're his little sister", you said, internally tender about it.

"Yes, he's an idol".

This didn't make much of an impression as you could name about two of three of them. You were a little embarrassed about not knowing more, but again, your world was so different from Minji's; and a year and a half is not nearly enough to completely assimilate into a country when you work every day except Sunday, from morning until six. Not much time for pop culture left.

"I only know Jungkook", you said with resolution. Minji giggled.

"Well, close. Anyway, I'm saying this to you so that there's no unspoken secrets between us".

You shrugged and smiled.

"Thank you. Um. It's cool. I think you get to see shows for free? I'm not mad about it. I hope your idol brother buried your ex's body somewhere in the sea?"

This provoked a short laugh.

"God, I barely ever spoke to him about Taejeong, because he'd lose his freaking little mind. Nam is way too protective of me, I don't know where it's coming from, but he was usually livid when I told him we fought".

She pushed her empty coffee cup around the table.

"I did tell him about you saving me, by the way. I had to explain why and how we broke up".

You got hung up on the livid part. Holding your chin with your fist, you said, dreamily,

"Wow, you're the forever baby sister. That is so marvelous. I always wanted a male twin when I was little".

Minji tried to comfort you, as always,

"It's not all that great. He was an ass to me when we were growing up".

"Still", you looked at her and saw that she wasn't finished. She bit her lower lip seeing your raised eyebrows:

"I also had to warn you about it because I wanted to beg you to come with me to his birthday party".

Before you could answer, she went on, using her weapon: throwing her head into her hands like she was a dying servant from a sixteenth century royal household.

"Oh, Y/N, it's such a boy club every time. They never take their sisters with them, and I am alone, or like if someone is dating at the moment, he brings along this girlfriend, and what's the point of partying with her, if she's going to be gone in a week, you know? I just know they will drink all the whiskey on the boat and start doing the maknae throw again..."

Her eyes were begging you.

"What's a maknae throw?" you whispered, horrified.

"You'll see... if you come with me", she promised. Minji was so good at this subtle manipulation. She left just enough of the information hanging so that you'd get interested. Your nostrils flared. You weren't of their kind. Frankly speaking, you didn't think much of the celebrities in flesh: you believed them to be jaded, dangerous and boring. You had no ultra expensive clothes to matched their lush lifestyle. You didn't know how idols celebrated birthdays and what presents they were used to receiving.

Looking at Minji, you probably looked more and more scared, so she reached across the table and grabbed your hand with her warm, moisturized palm:

"They are good boys. But they are that... boys, you know? I need a gal to save me again... please come to Nam's birthday with me... you'll have fun, I promise".

You pouted.

"We're not even dating and I can't resist your whining, Minji. How are you even real".

She threw her hands in the air.

"What does your brother like? Except you", you asked, tired already of the upcoming thought battle you'd have to engage into. Not even a small part of you wanted to see idols. Might seem insane, but life was just beginning to look stable again: you started sleeping half a night, every other night. You had someone to talk to, like a normal person, about your normal human life. A small part of you was hoping that, since Minji was so down to earth and kind, maybe her brother was, too. Maybe - just maybe, idols are also humans and not sillicon, flesh eating, brain consuming monsters?

"He is artsy. Likes... fine things. Collects vintage prints and figurines".

"What a delicate flower", you approved, "there's this antique store I found in Seochon where I think I saw cool looking old Japanse vases".

Minji nodded confidently:

"Grab them. Grab all of them".

Minji said it's a boat birthday. You settled with your favorite high-waist jeans, a comfortable top and a jean jacket in case it gets cold. September was still a summer in full swing, even if with a moan. The skies were getting more and more orange every day. The dude was a Virgo which meant nothing to Minji since the Koreans didn't care about the Western zodiac.

"He's a dog", she said with the feeling and held the taxi door for you as you managed out of the car. You nearly forgot your jean jacket inside, balancing the three vases wrapped in colorful paper in your arms.

"What does it mean to you?" you inquired. Minji hummed something. The embankment was empty save for a couple of slick unoccupied cars and a mid-sized boat of brown wood, glistening in the late afternoon sun, her bow proudly poking in the direction of the western side of the harbour. This baby could easily contain around thirty people, you thought, and your stomach dropped. You regretted not having cuffed yourself to Minji because you were so uncomfortable thinking about such gatherings. The parties. You were too much of a yes person. You really didn't want to go, but Minji said 'boys club' and made these pity eyes, and you couldn't in good conscience leave her alone. She must have other, more glamorous girl friends, no? you thought, looking at her from the side while she folded your jean jacket in her hands. Maybe not. She did say she has to be cautious of people.

"So", she said, inviting you onto the dock.

"So?" you repeated, a bit feverishly. The boat was getting closer and closer. You could already hear the muffled music coming from the inside.

"You never asked me which band", she said, too excited, in your humble opinion.

"Wait, you're not gonna pimp me to them, are you?" you demanded, and Minji burst into snickering.

"Oh, you really hate all the idols, don't you?"

"I don't hate- I don't know them. Dude, I only heard about the Burning Sun stuff!"

Minji sighed, somewhat tragically, and at that instance, a guy emerged from the boat and ran down the gangway.

"Minji-ya!" he screamed. Didn't yell or call her out, he outright screamed when he saw her. This tall guy, heavy blinking watch on his wrist, in a light, Hawaiian-style shirt on top of a beige tee, ran towards you with his arms outstretched and grabbed the whole of Minji so that for a second she completely drowned in the hug.

"Namjoon", she uttered, fighting him off in small, goofy motions. You tried to hide your huge clunk of a package behind your back, with no visible success. A second Nam spent looking at his sister and mingling with her hair, and then turned to you and said, with strong American accent:

"Y/N, thank you so much for coming".

You couldn't really contain the good mood you got into upon seeing this family reunion. Maybe it's not that bad, you thought. The guy kept respectful distance and didn't say anything else, waiting for your move. You just stood there, smiling.

"Happy birthday, Nam..."

"Joon", he bowed slightly, like a very luxurious, dreamy waiter. You bowed in return out of habit.

"Joon?" the smile was growing stupid.

"Namjoon".

"Oh".

Someone's head poked out of the boat entrance and immediately disappeared. Namjoon laughed the way people laugh, when they give their sisters nine hundred euro earrings for holidays.

"She's a little gobsmacked, because she thinks you'll eat her for dinner..." Minji explained.

"Minji, you and your fucking mouth", he suddenly said, and dimples appeared on his cheeks. You sighed internally.

"She doesn't even know who you are", she continued, giving you a partner-in-crime cheesy look.

"You don't know BTS?" Namjoon gasped, with an air of playful mockery.

"I know Jungkook", you reported faintly.

The Kim siblings laughed in unison in their wealthy ha-ha-has.

[bananababblegigglemuffin]

Claws, Diapers, and Daddy Duty

Logan’s gruff voice boomed from the nursery. “Darlin’, is it supposed to smell this bad?!”

I chuckled from the kitchen, setting down the baby bottle I’d been warming. “Welcome to parenthood, Wolverine!”

Let’s back up a bit. Being married to Logan wasn’t exactly what I’d call conventional. For one, his idea of “domestic bliss” involved flannel shirts, beer, and the occasional uninvited guest in the form of a random mutant needing help. But when we decided to adopt a baby—because Logan swore he wanted to give someone the stability he never had—life took a turn I never expected.

Daddy Logan: The Adjustment Period

From the moment we brought little Ellie home, I saw Logan try harder than he’d ever tried in his life. I mean, this is a man who’s fought Sentinels and survived wars, but one tiny infant had him more rattled than Magneto ever did.

The first night was… interesting. Logan insisted on taking the first shift, grumbling something about how he “never sleeps anyway.” I woke up to find him sitting in the rocking chair, holding Ellie, his claws accidentally out because he was too tense.

“Logan,” I whispered, trying not to laugh, “she’s not gonna hurt you.”

“She’s tiny,” he muttered, staring down at her with an expression I can only describe as pure terror. “What if I drop her? Or—or sneeze? Do babies survive sneezes?”

I kissed his forehead. “Relax, tough guy. She’s sturdier than you think. And you, believe it or not, are softer than you look.”

Diapers and Danger

Day three was when Logan truly met his match: diaper duty.

“Alright, bub,” he said, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to take down Sabretooth. “How hard can it be?”

Turns out, very.

I peeked into the nursery to find Logan standing there, holding Ellie at arm’s length, his nose wrinkled like he’d just walked through a sulfur pit.

“She pooped up her back,” he said, looking at me like I was supposed to explain how this was biologically possible.

“You’re the one with the healing factor, Logan. You’ll live,” I teased, tossing him the wipes.

It took him twenty minutes, two shredded diapers, and one very judgmental look from Ellie before he finally got the job done.

Superheroes Don’t Do Nap Time

Logan was not a fan of nap time—mostly because Ellie refused to go down without a fight. And by fight, I mean she screamed like a tiny banshee every time we put her in the crib.

One afternoon, I came home to find Logan sprawled on the couch, shirtless, with Ellie snoozing on his chest. His claws had popped out and were stuck in the arm of the couch, presumably because he’d been startled by her screaming earlier.

“You good there?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t say a word,” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “She’s finally asleep.”

I couldn’t resist snapping a photo. “Superdad, saving the day one nap at a time.”

The Soft Side of Logan

For all his grumbling and growling, Logan had a way of melting whenever Ellie giggled. One evening, I found him sitting on the floor of the living room, holding one of Ellie’s stuffed bears and making it “fight” her other toys.

“Take that, bub!” he growled in his Wolverine voice, making Ellie squeal with laughter.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, leaning in the doorway.

He looked up at me, a sheepish grin on his face. “Yeah, well… she likes it.”

A New Kind of Hero

One night, after Ellie had finally gone to sleep, I found Logan standing over her crib, his arms crossed.

“You okay?” I asked, stepping beside him.

He nodded but didn’t take his eyes off her. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever get this.”

I slipped my arm around his waist. “Get what?”

“This,” he said, his voice soft. “A family. Someone to protect who’s not a mission or a fight. Just… her.”

Tears stung my eyes as I rested my head against his shoulder. “You’re doing great, Logan. She’s lucky to have you.”

He snorted. “Lucky? Kid’s stuck with a grumpy old man with anger issues.”

“She’s stuck with someone who’d claw through hell for her,” I corrected, squeezing his hand.

He looked down at me, his smirk softening into something tender. “Yeah… guess she is.”

And that’s how I knew Logan wasn’t just a dad—he was her dad. The kind of dad who’d grumble about diapers but stay up all night to rock her back to sleep. The kind of dad who’d teach her to fight but cry when she scraped her knee. The kind of dad who’d make you laugh, cry, and want to throttle him all at the same time.

Logan wasn’t perfect. But to Ellie—and to me—he was everything.