#maybe one day the will understand each other

[sheepispink]

lt simon riley x puppy hybrid!reader in which you're forced into his life and he cant handle it, ignoring your existence until you talk to inanimate objects to make up for it. angst ofc

sorry if this is lowkey bad, my writing has been flopping rn, alsp insp by this (it said mdni so i didnt tag, sorry bro i read the summary and was like woah)

Ghost hated it, hated everything that related to the thought, and he made sure everyone knew that. Still, somehow, he ended up with a pretty little hybrid on his couch when he came home. He didn't think twice before walking straight past you, ignoring how you reached your hand out to greet him and locked himself in the bedroom. “Price, I told you—”

“She’s a rescue, just needs a place to stay for a little while. You’re a lieutenant so you’re technically qualified, it won't be long.”

“I’m not the only lieutenant.”

“You’ll have a budget for food and clothing, just let her stay till I can find another.”

Ghost hangs up right there and then, incredibly pissed by anyone and everyone who decided this was a good idea of any sort. But what he hates more is the way you’re sitting outside his door when he opens it again, wide eyes trying to entice him to your outstretched hand. Though unfortunately for you, he just closes the door again.

For the first week, you tried over and over again. He didn't seem to want to talk to you at all, let alone acknowledge that you were in his house. The only instructions he ever spoke was to not leave the house nor damage anything inside the house. It wasn't like you’d attempt to test either rules on purpose anyway. Instead, you tried to be useful by cleaning up where you could, even if you couldn't help but get distracted by how fun sliding across the freshly mopped floors were. Plus, blanket forts were so fun to make, what do you mean they made more mess? You switched to cooking soon after, attempting to make him breakfast except every time you tried to wake up early, he was always already gone. So, you wake up extra, extra early, finding out he wakes at five and so you wake up at four the next day. You decide on sizzled meat rashers, a fried egg and a toaster waffle because you don't really understand how the oven works. It’s not your fault he has so many funny buttons.

Unfortunately for you, his hearing is almost as good as yours, or perhaps he just never sleeps properly. That’s why he walked in just when you were nodding off in a bowl of cracked eggs, the time too early for a young pup like you, even if you were well into your twenties. He left the house with a slam that day.

After that you stopped trying, noticing it to be clearly obvious that he didn't want anything to do with you in the slightest. He didn't even glance at you, or ask if you wanted to eat anymore. The only reminder that you actually lived here were the remnants of your fur on the fluffy pillow that was your bed, and your name written on your pre-bought meals since he didn't trust you in his kitchen anymore. Questions were left to hang in the air, soft whines echoing around the empty room each night and only the dim TV for company.

Ghost had returned early today, a problem in base had left the place in slight disarray and the task force thought it’d be better if they just packed up for the day, maybe do paperwork at home instead. He clicks open the door, surprised to actually hear noise in the usually silent flat, though he’s already dreading whatever mess you’ve cooked up. As he enters the hallway, the noise becomes clearer, sounding like a voice, your voice, actually. “This is a super secret covert meeting, alright everyone? No one can know!” You squeak, and he’s raising a brow, mind already jumping to conclusions of you being a double agent sent to spy on him. He should’ve known they’d pull a dirty trick like that, especially with how Graves has been acting, there’s bound to be others to follow.

But to infiltrate his own home is something that brings him great anger, making him all the more silent when he sneaks around the house, mind running through potential ways he’ll interrogate the information out of you. He's thinking torture if you end up being a little too problematic, maybe even a shock collar if worst comes to it. It's not like he ever like you much anyway, he's almost glad for every neglect he's caused so far. He saved the entire militar--

A double agent was far too much credit. You were just a silly puppy who was sitting on the sofa opposite a tatty teddy bear, a pillow with a messily drawn paper face stuck to it and one last t-shirt that you had draped over a pillow, the cartoon cat staring back at you. They have mugs in front of them, albeit not full of anything apart from your own mug of tea. “Just kidding, let’s order then we can start.”

You hum, pretending to take a list from the bear though it’s actually those takeaway menus that come through the letterbox. He watches carefully as you pick up one at random, eyes squinting as you attempt and almost fail to read the text. Facilities never bothered with educating their hybrids, only intent in teaching them the arts of being loyal and desirable so they’d get their pay. 

“Men….u? St.. art…eer?” It’s near impossible to understand any of it, and eventually you have to put it down, huffing out a complaint. “Okay fine, i can't read at all.” Frustrated, you pull off the t-shirt, leaving the pillow to fall on the floor. You’ve watched countless videos, only with the help of the voice recognition function on the remote control, and have attempted daily for this whole week. “So what have you guys done this week?”

He notices now that you have the tv displaying an episode from those random TV series, you probably don't even know the name of it. You’re almost attempting to recreate the same scene of the friends sitting around the table, eyes flickering at the TV as you eye how they sit. You mimic a squeaky voice, holding the teddy bear by the scruff as you move its head around. “I went to the park with my handler.”

Somehow your eyes light up despite the fact you had made that up yourself, clapping your hands together. “Wow, I love the park! I wish I could chase the squirrels…” Your expression falters for a second, eyes drooped until you shake your head, moving to puppet the pillow in the middle instead. “I went grocery shopping with mine, and we cooked a meal together.”

You smile again, retracting your hand and placing them on your hips. “A meal together?? Um.. It doesn’t matter what I did. We should do something together, but it has to be something easy.. and not too fun because if we leave a mess Simon will be mad.” He almost feels bad, but it’s not his fault, you will make a mess, and he’s already tired enough as it is. What he hadn't expected was what you’d say next.

“I don't think we’ll be able to do these meetups anymore guys.” You mumble out, frown growing on your lips as you puppeteer the bear. “What, why?”

“I-i think I’ll be getting kicked out soon. Or maybe I should just run away.. Should I? I mean, it’s not a totally bad idea and Simon won't have to deal with me!”

You stare back at the two fake people in front of you, the silence hanging heavy in the air until you reach forward, plucking the paper smiley face off the pillow and sticking on a sad face instead. “I know, I know— running away is bad and I'll only get hurt. What else then?”

The silence is long again and for once Simon can feel the distraught look on your face as you clench the hem of your loose sweater, nose wrinkled. It’s clear you’re not feeling too good, especially if you’ve resorted to talking to your own stuffed animals about running away to make him happier. It’s a pitiful sight to say the least but he can't blame you either, he’s purposefully ignored every single one of your feeble attempts to talk to him. It’s not like it helps that you’ve been cooped in a house for two weeks straight, not able to talk to anyone else. Now that he’s forced to notice, forced to think about it, it’s clear he’s torturing you, in some sick unintentional way. You’re locked away, a prisoner, a ghost— someone no one even knows exists despite how much you cry and beg for a sound to be made. 

The small shuffle of your steps is sad, the way you put everything into position perfectly in case he gets annoyed, not that he’d ever express it anyway– sometimes you wish he just would say something, anything. But he doesn't, and you take the tatty teddy bear, hugging it to your chest. Not even your tail can bring you much warmth, the matted fur rough against your skin as you’ve failed to upkeep it’s maintenance the more miserable you grow. 

You wont stay here for long, you’ll be moved elsewhere and grow older, less ‘desirable’ as you look at your puppy cuteness until you’re finally left on the streets, scavenging bins for food like your parents did. A cycle that only repeats for you.

—————-

part 2 (coming soon, ask to be tagged)

other hybrid drabble i did

[marscardigan]

freak like me

ellie williams x fem!reader

summary: since you started dating ellie, you always wanted to do something with her. so, when one day, she asks about your favorite fetishes, you decide to show her yourself.

word count: 0.9k

content warning: smut (minors dni), kind of exhibitionism(?, porn with plot, don't know what this is I just had to write it down

You loved your girlfriend. You loved how caring and understanding and kind she was. How she would never judge your actions, and how she always made you laugh.

You also loved how she supported every crazy idea that ran through your mind. But maybe this idea was sick and twisted.

But how could you lie to those pretty eyes? Ellie kept looking at you with a sly grin, cheeks flushed from her previous comment.

"C'mon babe, I already told you mine" she whined, hiding her pouty face in the crook of your neck.

You scoffed, "Ellie, you just said you like being praised while you fuck."

"So? It's still something that turns me on!" You could feel her shy smile hiding beneath your touch. "You need to tell me."

"Nah, I'll pass."

"Come on! Is it really that bad?" She looked at you like a kicked dog, caressing your inner thigh softly.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to see her face because you knew you would surrender. "It's so embarrassing."

"I'm sure I had worse thoughts, try me."

Her cold fingers touching your skin didn't help. At all. After opening your eyes and seeing her soft gaze towards you, you knew you were a goner.

Fuck it.

"I had like this thought about... Us making out on patrol..." Ellie kept her eyes locked on yours, shifting only to see your lips for a second. "While some infected are like... close to us? I-ugh, I don't know, it's fucking weird- I don't know why-"

Ellie's hand stopped right above your belly, making you dizzy. Both of you stayed quiet, but for different reasons.

You were so ashamed of saying that out loud, that you would've gladly died in that exact moment. Ellie, on the other hand, couldn't erase that dirty image from her head.

Neither of you spoke about it anymore, and you thought Ellie might have forgotten about it, but you were so wrong.

The next time you had patrol together was nine days later. Ellie counted them.

The plan was easy: clean infected from a mall close to Jackson. But the auburn had other plans. She'd have time to kill them after.

She promised you not to talk about it any time soon, but it was hard when it was all Ellie could think about.

When you first entered the mall, you killed a few from the first floor. But when you entered the parking, you could sense Ellie's focus was... indistinct, to say the least. On patrol, she was always behind you for security, but you could tell her eyes were definitely not on the possible threats. When you caught her staring at your ass for the second time, you knew this wasn't a coincidence.

"What are you thinking about?" Your funny tone only worsened the redness on her face.

Ellie could not believe how naive you sometimes were. "You should know what I'm thinking about."

Oh.

She smiled at your reaction. "Yeah, you know."

Was she teasing you know?

A clicking sound interrupted your conversation, and Ellie's smile only widened.

"Ellie." You warned, but she didn't notice the alert in your tone. She only noticed the need. She whispered your name back, grabbing your hips and trapped you between her body and the wall of the parking.

"You do remember what you told me the other day, right?" She whispered in your ear, making your legs shake.

You couldn't answer her, even if you really tried. You pushed your thighs harder against each other, almost moaning her name. Ellie whimpered.

"We should focus on the-ahm...the infected..."

Her hand ran lower every breath you took, getting closer and closer where you needed her the most. You kept calling out her name, and just before you close her eyes, you saw a clicker on the end of the hall. Ellie kissed you before you could alert her, and she kept swallowing every cry of pleasure your body echoed. Her knuckle kept brushing your panties as you nodded at her, the pleasure building inside your belly.

You were shamefully wet by the time she lowered your jeans. She laughed with pride at the sight, and looked up at you, her index finger brushing her lips. "You'll need to be quiet f'me, okay?"

You nearly came at the sight. You nodded, and brushed your fingers through her auburn locks. The finger that was just in her mouth brushed your core just the slightest, and you had to cover your mouth, but Ellie was quick to stop your action, shaking her head, “No-huh, baby, you need to keep making those pretty noises f’me.”

Her tongue slid through your cunt repeatedly, as if she was a starved woman. She grabbed roughly your thigh and pushed it above her shoulder, forcing you to keep it there.

A sob left your lips at the sight of Ellie on her knees, her strong arms making your whole body feel like jelly.

If you died here, you would die happy, you thought.

Your clit throbbed when she put the first finger, her eyes not leaving yours. The clicking sounds only made you harder to think about what was happening.

As she whimpered, her other hand between her legs, your walls finally broke down, and Ellie kept watching.

Your head was still numb when Ellie cleaned the corners of her lips, she pushed you gently and helped you put your jeans back, and a glass shattered.

A gasp sounded, and a clicker came running and-

A gunshot. Ellie’s grunt. The clicker fell right to the floor.

“Oh my god.”

“Shit, I think I came too.”

“Fuck off!”

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 11

Ch 12 is done and I'm kinda foaming at the mouth to give it to y'all- but I need to wait to finish ch 13-

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 11 >>next

Finding The Immortal was harder than expected but you weren’t surprised. Cecil worked The Guardians to the bone, you were sure. Nevertheless, you found him in the end, quickly flying next to him to greet him.

Surprised, the man looked at you before giving a small, weary smile while greeting you back. “This may sound crazy and like I’m digging into your life, and I understand if you don’t wish to speak about it, but I really need-“ You stopped as soon as he grabbed your shoulders, making you both stop midair and face each other. “It’s okay, take a breath.”

“See- that’s the thing! I don’t need to breathe, I don’t need to eat, I can’t die because I’m immortal like you due to magic and I need to talk to someone who gets it because this past week I feel everyone’s been acting crazy and it’s making me feel crazy- And- and I’ve lost you.” You looked at the shocked man. “You’re immortal?...”

“Yep.” You nod. “… Long story?” The Immortal asks slowly, getting the same response in return. His beeper goes off and without even looking at it he turns it off. “That may have been important.” You pointed it out, but he just chuckled and smiled. “This is important too. I’m sure the others can do well without me for a bit. Now, how about we talk over some food? I know this little family dinner in Las Vegas.” You relaxed, nodding at his suggestion.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“- and then he just tells me to be careful around certain magical weapons because they might hurt me- Like dude, you told me I’m immortal, taught me a bit of magic, and then dipped telling me to see him in a week at the same spot- he could have at least given me a way to contact him after telling me that something might kill me!” You sigh and take a bite of your burger and fries. “You were right, by the way, this is a great spot.”

Immortal chuckles at your complaint. “At least there is someone who is helping.” He furrowed his brows as he also ate bits of his steak. “Or is trying. I had a mental breakdown the first time I realized that I’m not aging and keep defying death.”

“Two days after I had a panic attack thinking about how everyone I love will eventually die, even Nolan and Mark- sure it’ll take a few centuries but that’s still nothing to immortality! The old bastard has been acting weird since I told them too, and Luthor keeps annoying me about his blasted party- which I’m like 90% sure is a front for my birthday- and today I’m supposed to meet the British bastard, but before I have to visit someone else-”

“Breathe, it’ll be fine, you’ll live.” The ancient man tried to reassure you with a small joke about the situation. “I can’t give much advice about this- your immortality seems very different from mine, and to be honest, I never actively think about it considering how sensible of a subject it is. Especially the ‘how many people will pass right by you’ topic. It’s…”

“Terrifying?” He sighs and nods at the completion. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone anymore, and that you thought I’d be the best person to talk about it with.” He plays with his food. “Therapists say that it’s good to talk about your feelings, right? I think it will be great for us both to talk openly about it- I don’t have a phone, but I do hang by the hero memorial stone every other Sunday- if, you know-“

“I’d love that, thank you Immortal…Abraham? Have you chosen a new name?” As your soft smile turned to a confused look the man only laughed, assuring you to call him whatever. Perhaps after that many years, names do lose their importance, or maybe it was the fact that he never had one when he was born in the Stone Age that could be translated to New World speech. “The honey pancakes are to die for, by the way.” His choice of words makes you snort with amusement.

“…You and Lex Luthor are friends?” He asks, a mix of confusion and surprise filling his tone. You just give a long sigh. “Friends is such a strong word…”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You waited patiently in front of the manor’s front entrance, smiling once the doors opened, immediately being greeted by the butler. “I’ll never hear you call me by my first name, will I Sanford?” You teased the older man as he led you through the halls. “I fear not, ma’am.” He smiled as he bowed, leaving you once you walked by him, getting closer to Samson.

You set the little box of treats on the accent table in between the two armchairs as you took your place across Samson while you both greeted each other. “How have you been? How’s that suit going?” Your soft-spoken questions are met with a defeated sigh and a shrug. “It’ll take two more days.”

“You know… You don’t need the suit or powers to do some good. Let me finish, please-” You quickly interrupted. These men were always so quick to jump the gun. “You’re rotting here. I’m not telling you to drop the suit but in these two days, you could go see the outside. It won’t kill you. There is this kid, Adam. He is staying at the hospital I volunteer at and he’s quite a big fan of Black Samson-“

“He’d be disappointed to see me-“ You swiftly but gently tapped his foot. “He’s one of the kids you saved when you lost your powers, Sam. He saw you lose your powers and still hold up kilograms of ruble just so he could have a chance at escape. That boy admires you now more than ever. You need to face things and it’ll be better for you if you do it before you feel like you’re worthy again just because you’ve got powers again.”

“That’s harsh, kid.” Samson almost pouted. “Learned from the best.” You shrug and he smiles. A moment of silence passes between you two before he finally asks where the hospital is.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

John was on his tenth cigarette, he was showing great restraint, really. He knew he made a mistake in asking Zatanna for help, but he seemed unable to do the opposite lately. They both had been arguing for an hour, Constantine knew that the girl would take to Zee like a cat to catnip, but this was making him regret letting Zatanna know more beyond a magical kid needs help. “I’m just saying- maybe Batman should know, she’s his kid-“

“The numpty has been locking her up in his mansion and ignoring her for years, her daft siblings too. The rogues had to raise and give her the attention Bruce wasn’t willing to.” He scratched at his chin before taking another puff.

“Maybe Bruce-“ John didn’t let her finish. “Don’t. Don’t you dare finish that, Zee. She’s just a kid- a kid who ran away because she thought Batman would kill her. Between the two of us, you should know better. You’re giving him too much grace.”

“Are you two mind reading or just mean mugging each other? Sorry for being late, by the way. Was finishing my project and lost track of time.” Your voice broke the two from their argument.  Zatanna looked at John with a raised eyebrow. “She doesn’t look like the little kid you described.” John clears his throat, brushing off the comment on his manipulation before he introduces the two. “I thought it would be good to expose you to different kinds of magic-“

“You’re ditching me.” John choked on his words as you crossed your arms, quickly denying the accusation. “- It’s just- I- Zatanna is a great Elemental mage, I thought you’d like to learn more about Umbrakinesis-“ Zatanna, at John’s rambling and pleading look, stepped forward. “It’s nice to finally meet you, John spoke highly of you.”

You gave her a gentle smile as you came closer and landed in front of her. “I doubt that, though, it’s nice to meet you too. Love your shows.” Your eyes moved to Constantine. “So, you two are going to teach me how to manipulate shadows? Can I learn the other elements and the mind-reading thingy you both were doing?”

“Telepathy, love.” John sighs as you give him a blank stare and double down. “Mind-reading thingy.” Zatanna chuckles softly at the look of pure defeat on John’s face.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Dinner was quiet. For the past week it’s been awkward, especially as Nolan kept missing dinners and breakfasts, and seemingly avoiding you and Mark specifically. “So… how has your day been?” Debbie asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“Amber and I got together, like- for real. And I mostly dealt with small stuff today. Robberies, Elephant Man, three times, the sort… Did dad text or- call, at least?” Mark mumbles, tired and slightly sore. Debbie shook her head. “No, but I’m sure he’s fine.”

You shrug once all eyes are on you. “Talked to Immortal about- you know. Also trained my magic some more and found out some elemental magic just hates me. Water tried to drown me…” You glared at the glass as you spoke, getting up with a groan after you finished half of the food. “My everything hurts. I’ll go sleep, thanks for the meal mama.”

“Aren’t you going to wait for dad?” Debbie asks softly, trying to hide her worry. You just shake your head and take your plate to trash the remains and put it in the sink. “Nah. He wants to act like the sperm donor, he’s going to get treated as such. Besides, gotta check up with my friends in Gotham. Good night.” You waved her off, not noticing Mark’s brows furrowing.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

While Hal was gaging as he encased the mangled body of The Joker, calling for the Watchtower to notify Batman that Joker had been found, Red Hood and the Sirens were celebrating, well- Jason and Harley were.

“Batman is going to be angry.” Pamela sighs in her wine glass. “Batman? Angry? Why, he’d never.” Selina joked, laughing before sipping on her own wine glass. “He’ll bust a vein when he finds out it was our little hero who did it.” Selina’s eyes catch Jason’s figure as he tries to climb onto her coffee table. “Wait- No! It’s-“ She and Pam cringe as the table wrecks to the side, the man’s body making a loud thud as he kisses the ground.

“Broken.” Catwoman sighs. “You good kid?” Ivy asks, almost being drowned by Harley's hysterical laughing. “I’m amazing! Best day of my life!” He slurs, giving two thumbs up before dropping his hands and groaning. “B-man is going to be so mad.”

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[hotchnersangel]

OUR PAST, PRESENT AND FOREVER

Aaron Hotchner

cw: fem!reader, wedding, crying, emotional hotch.

a/n- this one is super cute, surprise at the end but you can pretend it isn’t there if you don’t like it.

Meeting Aaron Hotchner for the very first time was like breathing fresh country air after being stuck in the city for your whole life. Though your life was arguably more chaotic after knowing him, you never doubted any part of your relationship, neither the good or the bad. You had disagreements but Aaron has never shouted at you and he never will, nor have you at him. Around each other maybe you have, but never to each other. Maybe that’s because of his understanding of your past but also due to the immense respect and love he will always have for you. He never wants to be the reason you cry. Yet, today he was the exact reason you were crying.

Your wedding day, a day you have been dreaming about since you were a little girl. You always wanted the traditional wedding dress, the big but intimate ceremony, the hundreds of thousands of flowers, the awkward and laughable dancing. You wanted and dreamt about it all.

When you met Aaron, you knew you wanted these dreams by his side. You wanted them to turn from your dreams to your shared memories, which is exactly what the day had been.

The ceremony had been indescribable, the feeling of walking down the aisle and Rossi handing you to your soon- to-be husband was overwhelming in the best way. Though, the moment those doors opened, Aaron took one glance at you and your emotions flood from your eyes and you didn’t bother wiping them, just let them fall. His smile was like no one but you had ever witnessed. Full of utter love and affection. Your vows illicited more tears from you, but Aaron was yet to cry. Close, very close he had come, but he had not shown a droplet until you stand up during the after party.

Everyone was sat round their tables and you go to make your speech following the maid of honour and groomsmen’s talks.

“If I could have your attention for a moment,” you say, everyone now looking over you, whose hand was still entwined with Aaron. “Since before Aaron and I were together, I made something hoping this day would one day come and I could finally be able to show him.” You start with a bright smile, looking down at him softly as everyone waits in anticipation.

“So here it is, the day we officially become one, this is my present to you honey.” You smile and wipe your eyes from the falling tears. “This is The Story of The Hotchner’s”

You look at Aaron who watches you place the scrapbook in front of him and he gets teary eyed, his lip wobbling as he looks up at you. He knew he chose the right one. His thoughtful, breathtaking, ethereal piece of art. His wife. The love of his life.

He stands up and pulls you into him, holding you in the tightest embrace you thought you were going to be squished. “Baby, oh my god.” He says, looking deeply into your eyes.

“I haven’t even gone through it yet.” You grin, kissing his cheek and wiping a stray tear from his eye before continuing through the book.

‘To my beloved husband, let’s us never forget our past, our present or our forever.’ Was inscribed into the first page, you’re sat down now, watching as Aaron flips to the first page.

It showed an image of you awkwardly standing behind Hotch from around three months into working at the bau, pointing at his back which was firmly behind you as you pulled a funny face to the camera. It was taken by Penelope, you remember it so vividly, she had been the one to take a lot of these photos, along with JJ. Stuck closely on that page is another image of the same few months where he was staring at you with a straight face but you were grinning at him.

Aaron looked up at you and raises an eyebrow. “Did I always look so miserable around you?” He chuckles softly.

“You did, but I knew you never disliked me. No matter how hard you tried to conceal it, I always knew.” You grin back at him and he kisses your nose. “Now carry on.”

The next page brought a photo of Aaron slightly smirking at something you said but trying to conceal it behind his mug, it was a perfect candid photo. The next was an image of you two conversing on the first press conference with the two of you. Professional and hot.

The memories continued as you slowly see a change in the dynamic of your relationship, at first it’s like you’re both there but just simply there, then you see how Aaron opens up to you slowly and starts to lose his cold front with you. Over time it’s obvious that the distance between the two of you disappears and your smiles grow ten times larger. Then, it gets to recent photos and you stop him before he can flip the page again.

“There is so much space to add more photos of our journey together but I thought today was the perfect day to share this with you.” You grin at him, fully beaming as tears kiss your cheeks. As you look at Aaron, he pulls you to sit on his lap and he looks directly at you. You notice that tears were streaming out of his glassy eyes with very little shame. You laugh at the sight and it makes the emotions bubble more in your chest and he pulls you closer to him by your waist, hugging you so tightly. He kisses your head.

“I’m so beyond in love with you. Thank you. Thank you for having the most thoughtful, generous, beautiful soul both inside and out.” He says letting tears stream down as he doesn’t bother wiping them. Not even considering hiding or getting rid of the evidence of his complete and utter devotion and appreciation of you.

“There’s one more page.” You whisper to him and he looks back at the book, you both flip the page together and it reveals a photo of a baby scan. He freezes from under you and looks at the photo, bringing the book closer to him and looking back to you. Switching his gaze between the photo and you like a tennis rally.

“Is this…”

You nod and laugh, tears falling from your eyes as he pulls you into the biggest hug ever, his hand at the back of your head as it against his chest.

“Our family.”

[gf2bellamy]

hiiii hun💗💗 i love your spencer fics so much i literally get giddy when i open tumblr and i see you’ve put up new ones 🥰🥰

can i request a spencer x neighbour!reader like maybe one of them knocks on their door to complain about noise or accidentally closes the elevator door on them and initially don’t like each other and then they run into each other again and get talking and invite them in for a drink or dinner?

idk if you’ve written something like this already if u have then nvm haha thanksss take careeeee

-🍓

neighbours — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: spencer sort of being dry / cold ( only in the beginning ) , mention of reader having a bad day a/n: thank you so much that makes me so happy :( <3333 - i hope you like this !! also i had to mention of mice and men i love that book so so much

You were having a terrible day. The kind of day where nothing seemed to go right. Your morning coffee had spilled all over your favorite sweater, your boss had dumped an unreasonable amount of work on your desk, and to top it all off, you’d gotten stuck in the rain on your way home. By the time you walked through your front door, you were soaked, frustrated, and in desperate need of some comfort. 

That’s why you had your music turned up loud, the bass thumping through your small apartment as you stood in the kitchen, staring at the oven.

The scent of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the air, but they weren’t baking fast enough for your liking. You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter, tapping your foot impatiently. If you stared hard enough, maybe they’d bake faster.

You were so lost in your thoughts that the knock on your door startled you. You straightened up, frowning. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your friends usually texted before showing up.

Wiping your hands on your apron, you walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Standing on the other side was your neighbor—the tall, lanky guy from across the hall. You were pretty sure his name was Spencer. You’d seen him around a few times, always carrying a stack of books or muttering to himself as he fumbled with his keys.

Your friends had heard you refer to him as “the cute neighbour” more than once, and you never felt the need to correct them.

You opened the door slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Hi?” you said, your voice tinged with confusion. 

He stood there, looking slightly awkward and not particularly happy. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and he was wearing a sweater that looked like it had seen better days.

“Hi,” he replied, his tone flat. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding direct eye contact. “Could you, um, lower your music? It’s… kind of loud.” 

You blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things you’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it. You crossed your arms over your chest, your frustration from the day bubbling to the surface. “It’s not that loud,” you said defensively, your voice sharper than you intended. “I’m just trying to unwind after a really crappy day.” 

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before darting away again. He looked uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation.

“I understand that,” he said slowly, his voice softer now, “but it’s… it’s really distracting. I’m trying to work, and I can’t focus with the bass vibrating through the walls.” 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that you had every right to blast your music in your own apartment, but the look on his face stopped you.

He didn’t seem angry—just tired and a little stressed. Still, you weren’t ready to back down completely. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped. “I’ll turn it down. But just so you know, it’s not like I do this every day.” 

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.” 

You didn’t respond, just closed the door a little harder than necessary and leaned against it, letting out a frustrated groan.

Great. Now you were the bad guy. You stomped back to the kitchen and turned the music down, the sudden silence making the apartment feel eerily empty.

The timer on the oven dinged, and you pulled out the cookies, setting them on the counter to cool. The smell was heavenly, but it did little to improve your mood. 

In the days that followed , things between you and Spencer were… awkward. Not hostile, but not exactly friendly either. You’d pass each other in the hallway, exchanging the briefest of glances before quickly looking away.

There were no greetings, no small talk—just a dry, unspoken tension that hung in the air.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. He was just your neighbor, after all. Sure, he was cute in a nerdy, endearing kind of way, but that didn’t mean you had to be friends.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed every time you saw him and he didn’t so much as smile in your direction. 

A week later, you found yourself in the cozy little bookstore across the street from your apartment. It was one of your favorite places to escape to.

You’d been searching for a specific book for ages—Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. You’d read it before, years ago, but something about the story had stuck with you, and you’d been itching to revisit it.

As you wandered through the fiction section, your eyes scanned the spines of the books until you finally spotted it. There it was, sitting on the shelf like it had been waiting for you.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you reached for it, but just as your fingers brushed the spine, another hand reached for it at the same time.

You froze, your eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s. He looked just as surprised as you were, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Sorry,” you mumbled finally, dropping your hand and taking a step back. “You can have it.”

Spencer blinked, his expression softening. “No, no, it’s okay,” he said quickly, his voice quiet. “You were here first. I can find another copy.”

You shook your head, gesturing toward the book. “Really, it’s fine. I’ve read it before. I was just… in the mood to read it again.”

He hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the book. “It’s a good one,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful. “The themes of friendship and sacrifice are really compelling. And the ending…” He trailed off, his gaze distant, as if he were reliving the story in his mind.

You couldn’t help but smile, surprised by how easily he’d opened up about it.

“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice softer now. “It’s heartbreaking, but in a way that makes you think. I remember finishing it and just sitting there for a while, trying to process everything.”

Spencer nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Exactly. It’s one of those books that stays with you long after you’ve read it.”

The tension between you seemed to melt away as you talked, the conversation flowing more naturally than you’d expected.

You found yourself leaning against the bookshelf, your arms crossed as you debated the symbolism of the rabbits and the dream of owning a farm. Spencer, for his part, seemed to relax too, his gestures becoming more animated as he spoke.

At one point, he paused, his expression turning slightly sheepish. “I, um, I wanted to apologize for the other day,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean to come off as rude when I asked you to turn the music down. I was just… stressed, and I didn’t handle it well.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt. “No, I’m the one who should apologize,” you said quickly. “I was having a bad day, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

The conversation lulled for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Spencer shifted his weight, his fingers tapping lightly against the book he was still holding. “So, um,” he began, his voice hesitant, “if you’re not in a rush, there’s a coffee shop next door. I was going to grab a cup, and… well, if you’d like to join me, we could keep talking about the book. Or, you know, whatever.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the invitation.. “Yeah,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’d like that.”

His smile widened, and you could’ve sworn you saw a faint blush creep across his cheeks. “Great,” he said, his voice a little brighter now. “Let me just, uh, pay for this first.”

He turned and walked toward the register, leaving you standing there, slightly stunned. You watched as he handed the cashier the book. When he turned back to you, he held the book out, his expression soft.

“Here,” he said, offering it to you. “You should have it. You were looking for it, after all.”

You stared at him, surprised. “But… you paid for it,” you said, your voice tinged with confusion. “I can’t just take it.”

He shrugged, his smile shy but persistent. “Consider it a peace offering.”

You hesitated for a moment before taking the book, your fingers brushing against his briefly. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your cheeks warming. “That’s… really sweet of you.”

He nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. “So, coffee?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Coffee,” you agreed smiling, tucking the book under your arm.

[hirayalore]

you and SIRIUS never discussed it out loud, but you both knew that you didn’t want to have kids after everything that happened in the last 13 years.

it wasn’t always like that, though (contrary to popular belief). he could faintly remember back then when both of you were still studying in hogwarts that you’d open the prospect of having children with him and having a family someday—and sirius, although scared to death at the thought of ever raising kids his own when he didn’t even grow up with good parents himself, was amicable with the idea if it meant that he’d see little versions of you running around in your future home.

but then he was imprisoned for 12 years, and that was 12 years of not spending every single day with you, of not waking up in bed beside you, of not being able to share meals, of not being able to do the most normal things that young couples did in their twenties… of not being able to propose, of getting married, of having a family together…

so, when he came back and got his name cleared by the ministry, all he wanted was to make up for that lost time. you and him were already 37 years old after all, and although it wasn’t relatively old, he still felt like both of your years ahead would never be enough to compensate for what has been taken—making the prospect of having kids and having to think of someone else other than yourselves unappealing.

until one night, he decided to make a bold step in knowing whether you two were truly on the same page like he was assuming. you never told him about your opinion regarding it, but in the way you were with him after his return, he could feel it in his bones that you didn’t want to focus on anything else other than your rekindled relationship with each other.

but he just had to make sure.

“darling,” he murmured, as you two were trying to fall asleep, his arms around you while your nose was nuzzling his throat, “do you… still ever think about having children?”

you raised your head up almost immediately, meeting his gaze. “what’s with the question?”

“nothing. it’s just that—it’s something we used to talk about. ages ago, really.”

“yeah, it was.” your eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if you were trying to recall the times you did talk about it. “we used to plan that we’d buy a flat in london and live in a muggle city, just to piss your parents off further.”

he chuckled. “we did.”

“and we’d have two kids. one girl and one boy.” you smiled, faintly remembering now.

sirius nodded. “they’d both should have my eyes—”

“and then have the rest of my features, with the nose being a requirement.” you finished for him, saying the exact line he used to tell you back then. 

the two of you laughed at the memory, fascinated at how the teenage mind works when you’re in love. at that age, you always felt invincible, like nothing could ruin the plans that you and your lover have made for yourselves. you would always believe that everything would go smoothly and that happily-ever-after was right next door, never ever thinking that adulthood could potentially drive you crazy or in this case, a dark wizard was going to try to seize control over your people.

when the laughter died down, you gazed deeply at each other, understanding that just as the times have changed—so have the circumstances and ultimately, your decision.

you ran your fingers on the side of his head, combing parts of his hair, admiring the manner in which his face showed nothing but quiet contentment.

“maybe in another life,” you began, voice coming out as a whisper, “we’d have those things. we’d have kids, and have a big home, but right now…” you leaned closer and pressed your forehead against his, savoring the proximity you once longed for in thousands of nights. “i’m happy with just the two of us. with you, sweetheart.”

sirius smiled and nodded, a hand gently rubbing along the expanse of your back, tugging you closer. “me too, love.” he sighed. “me too.”

with no other words needed to be spoken, you pressed a brief yet firm kiss on his lips before sinking back in your previous position, embracing him and nestling in his arms, knowing that even an eternity of making up for what fate had stolen would never feel enough.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[forthefictionallesbians]

Andy stared pointedly into the glowing eyes of the affini sharing her table, daring them to prove her right. It would be an easy victory for "Wisteria Salashi, Fourth Bloom," should she decide to take it. Andy was under no illusions about her ability to resist any of the countless tools Wisteria had at her disposal--the xenodrugs, the hypnosis, even just prolonged exposure to her biorhythm. But if she could count on anything, it was her domineering friend's pride. That was the game, and she was winning.

Wisteria just sighed, the scarlet vines composing her chest folding inwards slightly along with the loud exhalation. All five of the eyes embedded in her "face" closed, and one titanic hand reached up to rub the bridge of her not-nose. It was a shockingly human gesture. Proof of how far Wisteria had come since moving into terran space.

"What's wrong, Wist? Afraid of showing your empire's true colours?" She tried her best to sound innocent, and failed. Each word dripped with the smirk slowly pulling at her lips. Behind her friend, a set of floret servers in overly cutesy orange-and-pink floral dresses had paused their rounds to gape. A few of the diner's other patrons, humans and affini alike, had also glanced after hearing the sigh. No matter. Witnesses would just make the victory all the sweeter.

"Really, Andy? You're taunting me with a feralist talking point?" Wist's response came slowly, as she completed her exasperated display and stared down at Andy with disbelief and... hunger? "You do understand that I could use that as a reason to domesticate you, without violating your rights as an independent at all?"

Ooops. "Ah, but we both know I don't really believe that," she retorted in a sudden flash of anxiety.

"Then why, dearest acorn, did you think this was a good idea?"

Her mind reeled slightly. What did Wist mean? It felt like the whole impulsive plan was crumbling around her. But she had known why she'd pushed when she had. This had seemed like a good idea then. Frost and fire, it could still be a good idea. She just had to make it work, and then she would finally be the winner in their daily sparring matches. Time to dig in.

"If you're so frustrated by this, then what's stopping you from domesticating me?" Wisteria's eyes were unreadable, dazzling ovals that seemed to dance as Andy resumed glaring. That wasn't fair. Hers couldn't do that. And they were so beautiful. And deep. And wow. Wisteria blinked with a slight chuckle, forcibly breaking their eye contact for a second. Wha- right. Andy continued. "I know you want to, so desperately. It's why you come here every day. And all that's stopping you is my explicit lack of consent." She folded her arms over her chest, the sleeves of her jacket making a satisfying rustle as a flared nose finished her picture of defiance.

Wisteria leaned forwards, towering over Andy as she closed the distance. The expression on her face had turned distinctly predatory. Andy yelped despite herself, before returning to her best facsimile of resoluteness. "Do you want me to domesticate you?"

The way her voice squeaked in response was horrifically undignified. "N- no! No, I don't! I-"

She was cut off by a purred pronouncement, silenced by the forest of thorny teeth curling into a cruel smile. "You've been coming here too, little one. Every day, just to meet with me. I think you do want it."

"You- you can't! Unless you break the rules! Which-"

"Which means you win? Because you've proved I don't care about them?" Her voice rolled like sap, slow and irresistible. Andy had the horrible feeling that she had messed up somehow. "Isn't it cute that the only way for you to win is on my leash?"

Frost. Frost frost frost frost. How had this gotten so out of hand?

"It's almost like you want me to take you."

Maybe she could still pull this together? Not be the flustered one for once in her storming life?

"To wrap my vines around your neck and never let go."

No. She didn't want that. Didn't she? Wisteria was so close, her eyes were so bright. The rest of the restaurant had stopped existing.

"Turning you into my little pet, my little plaything, forever and ever."

She was blinking so fast. It didn't help. Her mind was filling with that light.

And then it was gone. Andy shuddered, confused, the world slowly fading back in. What had happened? Wisteria was sitting back, leaning away from her, a satisfied expression on her beautiful face. The glow in her eyes had faded, and they were back to their normal burnished sheen. Part of Andy twinged in disappointment at that. But that didn't matter. As memories slowly folded back into her mind, she realized she'd lost. Again. Frost, she was hopeless.

"It's funny, you know?" Wisteria was speaking. Andy's head whipped up towards them, gaze refocusing.

"Wuh-- huh?" Eloquence had always been once of her strong suits.

"You could already be my floret, domesticated and then hypnotized to not remember it. And you would have no idea." Wisteria wasn't even looking at her while talking, focusing instead on swirling an oversized glass of some affini beverage. If Andy wasn't so busy panicking, she would have found the image strikingly beautiful.

Full consciousness crashed back in an instant, mind returning and immediately flying into overdrive. "I'm not, am I?" Andy frantically began searching through her memories, desperately hunting for proof of her lauded independence. What had she eaten for breakfast that morning? Where did she work? Were the answers real? Could she know??

Wisteria chuckled, still looking away. "There's only one way to find out, my acorn."

"And what's that?" Her heart felt tight. Panic still held her in an iron vice.

The towering affini pushed the chair back, and stood. However much she had dwarfed Andy while sitting, standing just made it worse. She held out a hand. "It's time for us to go now, pet." Her voice was iron, commanding, sweeping through Andy. With the turmoil in her head, there was no refusing the order.

Tentatively, anxiously, but obediently, Andy stood and walked over to take Wisteria's hand. Vines snaked out, binding her wrist and upper arm with a surprising gentleness that still lacked any give. There was no escape. Wisteria started to walk. Andy quickly began jogging along, barely keeping up with her friend's(?) massive strides. After the hypnotic display, a solid third of the patrons watched them go. Most of the humans were gaping in open desire. She blushed, hard.

Wisteria swung the door open, and Andy quickly followed out into the street. Her mind was still churning, struggling to catch up with how quickly things had gone wrong. Wrong? Had they gone wrong? She didn't know anymore. Gathering enough thoughts to ask a question took until they reached the train station, where she was picked up and placed firmly on a viney lap. That silenced her for another long moment, until she finally spoke up.

"Wist?"

There was no response; Wisteria didn't even acknowledge that anything had been said.

"Wisteria?" Andy turned to look up at her. Still, nothing. Her shoulders clenched. She had lived in under the compact her entire life, she had been surrounded by affini media and books, to say nothing of having watched many of her friends and acquaintances fall to domestication over the years. She knew what Wisteria was waiting for. And as hesitant as she was to say it, she had to know.

"....mistress?"

A wide grin spread across the affini's face, and she looked down at the girl in her lap. "Yes, my acorn?"

Andy felt herself tremble. This was not how she had imagined the conversation going this morning. But nothing felt real anymore. She didn't even know if her hab unit was real. The train was traveling the wrong direction for her, but she didn't know if that was right either.

"Did you-- Am I a floret?"

"Not yet, dearest. But we're going to change that right now. After how adorable you were today, I couldn't believe I'd held myself back for so long."

Andy whimpered, but did not resist.

[liyliths]

.˚𓅆࿐ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 an aot au / inspired by the hunger games

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

summary: survive. that's all you've known you're entire life - to survive. survive district 12, survive the reaping, and survive the capitol. but when you're reaped for the 98th annual hunger games alongside levi ackerman, will you seize the opportunity of rebellion when it arises? the mockingjay is singing, dear reader, please choose wisely.

“Pretty.” A voice calls from behind you, and your gaze catches the reflection of light ginger hair in the mirror. “You look pretty.” You turn around, but can’t quite come up with the right words to say. “Thanks,” you muster up, meeting the girl’s amber eyes.  “Are you ready?” The ginger tentatively asks. Judging by the dread hidden beneath her eyes, she doesn’t look like she wants to face the reaping either. “I guess so.”

pairings: levi ackerman x reader

contains: fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, hurt and comfort, semi canon compliant, character death, descriptions of blood, phycological trauma, rebellion, this is gonna hurt but be so rewarding, and any other warnings that come with aot characters/the hunger games universe

word count: 6.5k

playlist

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You've hated the capitol for as long as you can remember. You hate them for everything they've taken away from you. The people you've lost, the cruelties woven into everyday life, the way you've had to survive, and the games. The Hunger Games. Who came up with them anyway?

You know better than to ever dare say anything out loud about it.

It was all about control. After the thirteen districts were defeated in the rebellion, twelve remained. The capitol created the Hunger Games—a brutal punishment for the districts, forcing their children to fight to the death in an arena every year on the anniversary of the capitol's victory. The games are broadcast across Panem, turning slaughter into spectacle, while the people in the capitol sit comfortably with their champagne, watching children kill each other for their entertainment.

It was cruel. You hated how you couldn't do anything about it, how you couldn't save any of the innocent children sent to be slaughtered. All you could do was live with it. That's all anyone could do—and hope to hell they wouldn't be selected for the games.

You don't think the people in the capitol quite understand what the districts go through, especially in the slums of District 12. You can't remember how long it's been since you've been fending for yourself... it feels like that's how your entire life has been. All you know is survival.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, fidgeting with the collar of your blue blouse, styled with a neat beige skirt you borrowed from the mayor's daughter. Even though you've never been particularly close, a few years ago she was kind enough to offer you presentable clothing for this dreadful day every year. It became a tradition between you two.

Perhaps she pitied you, or maybe she is genuinely kind. Probably both.

The reaping was today. Today, they gather all the children from each district to their town center and draw two unlucky names from a bowl to fight to the death. You know better than to expect to see someone from twelve make it back from the games. No one in District 12 comes back.

"Pretty." A voice calls from behind you, and your gaze catches the reflection of light ginger hair in the mirror. "You look pretty."

You turn around, but can't quite come up with the right words to say.

"Thanks," you muster up, meeting the girl's amber eyes.

"Are you ready?" The ginger tentatively asks. Judging by the dread hidden beneath her eyes, she doesn't look like she wants to face the reaping either.

"I guess so."

This was the last year either of you were eligible for the games, with the cutoff age being eighteen. The final reaping you'd ever have to endure. You're not sure if that's a relief or a curse because after this, you can't put your name in for extra rations anymore.

You've put in extra entries since you were twelve for more rations, or tessare. As they've stacked up over the years, your odds are now seventeen times worse.

That means nothing to lose, right?

One thing about District 12 is that it's never quiet. Usually, the bustling sounds of conversation come from the market, along with the sound of pickaxes against coal, and kids running around with the town strays. The only sounds you can hear today are the dread-filled footsteps of children and anxious parents walking toward the town center. Everyone takes their time heading to the reaping.

Not even the birds sing today.

-

The peacekeepers with ugly white suits stare, making sure everything is going smoothly. You see two girls holding hands. The mayor's daughter walks in silence beside you. Her father said his goodbyes, he said he'll see her for supper and she believes it. You know better than to tell yourself you'll be back, just in case the worst happens. Boys and girls alike between the ages twelve through eighteen file into the town hall after getting their identities verified by the peacekeepers.

Everyone is quiet.

After the children get checked in, everyone settles to their selective spots—the girls and boys in opposite sections and parents nervously waiting for their children on the sidelines. A tap on the microphone in center stage rings through your ears from the speakers, startling you amidst the silence.

"Welcome!" A lady beams with a twisted smile, excitedly surveying the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games! And, may the odds be ever in your favor."

You feel yourself scoffing at that. This lady recites the same shit every year, with the same bright ugly hair and outfit, although they change colors each time. You always wonder what she's going to wear next.

"Now, before we begin, we have a very special film brought to you all the way from the capitol!" The lady announces, shifting her focus to the projection screen strung up in the town center for all to see.

You tune the video out every year. You don't want to hear the capitol bullshit about "generosity" or "forgiveness", you find it rather ironic. If this was about a lesson for the districts after the rebellion, why carry it on for generations?

You don't think you'll ever find the answer to that, that is just how it is. However, one thing is certain—you know the capitol is twisted.

"Are you alright?" The amber-eyed girl whispers to you, genuine concern etched on her face. She is nervous too—you notice the way her hands fumble with the insides of her skirt pockets.

"I'm ready to get this over with," you lean over, whispering to the girl. You see her nod in agreement out of your peripheral vision. Soon enough, the bullshit video was over and the bright-haired lady's insufferable voice echoed through the town hall once more.

"I just love that!" The lady gushed, but was quick to move on to the next "exciting" order of business. "Now, the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 98th annual Hunger Games!"

She paused, as if waiting for some sort of applause. She didn't get one.

"Well, as usual... ladies first." She flashed a bright smile, disappointment lingering on her face. It makes you wonder if she enjoys being the one picking children to be sent to the games, as if she should be praised.

You watch her waddle to the left side of the outdoor stage in her heels, oh-so-gracefully dipping her hand into the reaping bowl for the girls and filing through the pieces of paper with entry names. You look at the ginger next to you, she looks even more nervous than just a few moments ago. You want to comfort her, but before you can say anything, the capitol lady on the stage pulls out an entry and waddles back to the microphone.

Seventeen entries. Your name is entered in that bowl seventeen times.

The bright-haired lady awkwardly fumbles with the paper and squints through the sunlight beaming under the clouds as she reads the entry. She takes a deep breath before she announces the name. Everyone is holding their breath. It's quiet.

"Petra Ral!"

You think you can feel your heart stop.

The ginger next to you, Petra—froze in place. Everyone knew her as the mayor's daughter, which meant everyone knew exactly where to look for her in the crowd. All eyes were on her. You glance up to the stage where you saw her father, the mayor, stand up in his seat to protest, but was quickly blocked by peacekeepers.

"Come on up, dear." The bright-haired lady quips, beckoning the ginger to the stage with an oh-so-welcoming smile.

You glance at Petra, and your eyes lock with her amber ones. You think the look on her face might haunt you for the rest of your life.

She knows she's going to die in those games. You know she's going to die in those games.

The crowd around you and the selected tribute clear the way for the two peacekeepers marching toward the ginger. You can only watch as they grab the side of her arms and escort her toward the stage. She tries to thrash away from their grip, but it's useless.

She won't last a day in that arena. Between the careers, the mutts, and whatever else the gamemakers throw at her, she won't make it. It's not fair.

It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not...

"I volunteer as tribute!"

The words burst from your mouth before you can even think about stopping them. The peacekeepers stop in their tracks. It's quiet again.

"Oh! I believe we have a volunteer!" The capitol lady claps enthusiastically from the stage.

You feel a new set of peacekeeper's arms wrap around yours. Your limbs feel practically numb as they drag you up to the stage. You pass Petra as the other peacekeepers take her back to her place in the crowd. You don't even look at her. You have to stay strong. You know every camera in the town hall is on you.

It just shows the capitol doesn't care who gets picked for the games, mayor's child or not.

She has everything to lose. What do you?

"This is District 12's very first volunteer!" The bright-haired lady announces excitedly, putting her hand on your back once you bring yourself up the steps to the stage, carefully guiding you toward the center.

"What is your name?" She asks, her colorful eyelashes batting at you.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. "Y/N L/N."

"Well now, let's have a big round of applause for our very first volunteer!" The lady requests, but no one follows her as she begins to applaud.

Your eyes lock with Petra's from the stage. Then, something unexpected happens. Three middle fingers of her left hand touch her lips, and she raises them to the sky. The rest of the crowd follows Petra, one by one, putting three fingers in the air as a salute.

You know what that gesture means. It's an old and rarely used sign of your district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.

You can tell the bright-haired lady doesn't know what to do at this point. She pauses for a moment, but quickly moves on. She's good at deferring. "Now, for the boys!"

This time, she doesn't take her time grabbing an entry, most likely eager to get the ceremony over with. She hastily waddles in her stilettos back to the microphone from the entry bowl, unfolding the paper and putting on a gleeful smile.

"Levi Ackerman!"

You watch the tension among the crowd of boys visibly drop, a collective sigh of relief settling over them, except for one. His posture remains rigid, muscles tight as all eyes shift to him. He's lean, with dark raven hair that looks vaguely familiar. His gaze darts around in disbelief as peacekeepers move in, gripping his arms. He brashly jerks against their hold, trying to break free, but it's no use. His expression shifts sharply, anger flashing across his face like a spark ready to ignite.

You wonder if he'll accept it—his fate. You don't even know if you have. No one from District 12 comes back from the games.

The black-haired boy is placed beside you as the capitol lady reapproaches the microphone after greeting him, rather cheerful. You think her voice might give you a headache. "Here they are, our tributes for District 12!"

You know what everyone's thinking. I'm sorry it was you, but I'm grateful it wasn't me.

You flinch at the feeling of a hand on your shoulder, turning to see the bright-haired lady grinning at you. "Well, come on you two, shake hands!" She says and takes a step back, allowing you to get a good look at the boy next to you.

Now that you've met his eyes, the unmistakable silver-blue irises staring back at you—you do recognize him.

He wasn't much better-off than you, he was an orphan too, fighting to survive in a world that gave him nothing. One night during a terrible rainstorm, the bakery burned a batch of bread, and that's when he saw you, hollow-eyed and starving. Despite his own hunger, he was able to salvage one loaf of bread out of the pigs pen and shared it with you after getting chased off by the bakers. He split it with you without a word, expecting nothing back in return.

You're forever grateful for that.

He is the first one to reach out his hand, his eyes carefully gazing into yours. You wonder if he remembers too. You raise your hand and return the handshake. You grip his hand, rough calluses brushing against yours, and he gives you a reassuring squeeze. The bright-haired lady starts to speak again before you two can finish.

"Happy Hunger Games! And, may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Though, you both know your odds are fucked.

The guards escorted you and your district partner to waiting rooms inside of the town hall to say goodbye to anyone who might want to, usually family or friends. You're only given a handful of minutes, but you don't exactly expect anyone to walk through that door. Hell, you wouldn't even blame Petra if she didn't.

With your hand on the windowsill, you rest your weight against it, taking in these last few minutes until you're hauled off to the capitol. You know you aren't likely to ever see your home again. You know you'll miss it, the woods have always been home. Unexpectedly, the doors burst open and you're met with none other than the mayor's daughter, Petra.

"You didn't have to," you whisper. It's no use. Although you two were never particularly close, she still rushes up to you and scoops you into a big hug. Your arms reluctantly reach around her back, taking a shaky breath.

Petra pulls back from you, her expression almost in shock. "I thought—I thought I was... I don't know how I can ever repay you for this!"

You can't help but smile at her generosity. "You don't need to. There's no use anyway."

The ginger shakes her head furiously. "I've seen your hauls when you come back from the woods! You can hunt," she speaks quickly, she knows she's running out of time with you. "You can hunt, and you're a survivor. You can win this."

Your smile fades, and you feel yourself sigh. You don't want to let her get her hopes up for your return. You can't.

"Petra, you and I both know no one from District 12 comes back—"

"Don't you dare speak of such things. Make them pay," she interrupts, her voice lower. She nods, almost to herself, cautiously scanning her surroundings before reaching into her dress pocket to pull out a shiny pin.

She hands it to you—it's gold, with a bird in motion of flight in the center. It's a Mockingjay.

The Capitol originally engineered a mutation known as the Jabberjay, designed during the rebellion to eavesdrop on rebels and spies by recording and repeating conversations. However, the districts quickly caught on, using the Jabberjays to spread false information. Once they outlived their usefulness, the capitol abandoned them in the wild, expecting them to die off. Instead, the Jabberjays mated with female Mockingbirds, creating an entirely new species—the Mockingjay.

You're not quite sure what Petra meant by 'they', either, but before you have the chance to ask, or rather, thank her for the pin—a peacekeeper barges through the door announcing your time is up, and begins to escort Petra out of the room. You shove the pin in your skirt pocket, hoping to the gods the peacekeeper didn't see it, only able to watch as Petra gets dragged away from you.

"You have to try!" She says one more time, but this time, you give an optimistic reply, though you can't help but doubt yourself. "I will!"

As soon as you finish your sentence, the door is slammed shut behind the peacekeepers as they drag Petra out. You are left alone in the suffocating silence of the dim room once again, aside from the sound of your uneven breathing.

You hate this. You hate knowing that you're never going to see her or your home ever again.

-

You and Levi are hauled in a military vehicle to the bullet train along with the annoying bright-haired lady. You can't help but tune her blabbering out, and judging off the look on Levi's face, you think he's doing the same. After a short while, you are escorted onto the train that travels between the districts and to the capitol.

You'd never seen it in person, but it definitely exceeded your expectations. The train's shiny silver metal reflects against the sunlight, almost blinding you. It is infamous for the high speeds it travels at. You're not exactly sure how fast it goes, but you know it can reach the other side of the country within a day.

When you step inside of the train, you're met with the most luxurious interior you've ever laid your eyes on. There are sets of velvet furniture, walls adorned with exclusive wallpaper, paired with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A delicious scent overwhelms you, and your mouth waters at the next thing you lay your eyes on—food. Practically enough to feed the entire population of District 12 if rationed out properly.

There are pastries, plenty of fruit, along with a great selection of cheese and meats. The only time you've been able to eat meat was when you caught your own in the woods, usually squirrels or rabbits, but on rare occasions—deer.

The dark-haired boy beside you seems just as stunned as you are, both of you frozen at the sight of the food laid out before you. It feels almost selfish to have this much when everyone back in District 12 is starving. Guilt knots in your chest as you hesitate before slowly stepping toward the table overflowing with beautiful dishes. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your district partner fall into step beside you, just as hesitant.

It's not fair.

You both eat anyway.

The first thing you reach for is a fresh roll of bread, still warm, its soft crust glistening with a light coat of melted butter. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Levi picking up a pastry—a cheese danish. You'd had the chance to try one once, traded by a kind woman at the market for a couple squirrels. To this day, you think it was the best thing you've ever tasted.

As you're stuffing your face with bread rolls, a bubbly voice chirps from behind you. "Pace yourselves, you two!"

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. It's not like she'd understand—raised in the capitol, she's so out of touch it's almost humorous. Nothing you can do about that.

"Good grief," a gruff voice follows after the sound of a door opening. You turn from the table to look at the man, his expression almost as unimpressed as you feel. "Let them eat."

The first thing you notice about him is the unsteady way he staggers toward you, followed quickly by the sharp, rancid scent of alcohol hitting your nose. He's drunk, no question about it. As he draws closer, you get a better look at him. Short blond hair, fair skin, and hazel eyes that flick lazily between you and Levi, sizing you both up disinterestedly.

"Congratulations," the drunkard slurs, snatching a glass from the nearby table, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he hovers over the selection of bottles. After a brief, careless scan, he settles on an amber-colored liquor, filling it to the brim without a second thought.

You and Levi exchange an uncertain glance before shifting your attention back to the man, watching as he stumbles toward a seat beside you. He drops into it with an exasperated sigh, taking a long swig of his drink before grandly gesturing for you and the dark-haired boy to sit across from him. Hesitant, but with little choice, you both obey, sinking into the stiff cushions of a square sofa.

The man says nothing—just sits there, staring at the two of you. You grow uncomfortable underneath his gaze, but before you get the chance to break the silence, your district partner does it for you.

"You're supposed to be our mentor?"

The drunk lets out a low chuckle, taking another swig of his drink before setting the glass down with a dull thud on the table beside him. From behind, the bright-haired woman pipes up, her voice demanding. "Show Hannes some respect! He's won these games before!"

You scoff under your breath. Respect? You're expected to put on your best manners while being shipped off to the Hunger Games—on top of discovering your mentor is a washed-up drunk? What a joke.

You doubt this guy will even try to be of any help, but it's worth a shot. You lean forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow. "So, what great advice do you have for us, Hannes?"

The drunk smirks. "Well sweetheart," he exaggerated, "the best advice I can offer you is to accept, deep in your heart, that you will not be making it out of that arena."

The bright-haired lady, whom you have yet to figure out the name of, gasps. "Hannes! Don't be absurd!"

Levi's jaw tightens, a scowl settling across his face as he stews in silence. Then, without warning, he shoots up from his chair, reaching to snatch the glass from Hannes' hand. You can only watch as the drunk resists, gripping the glass stubbornly until Levi yanks it free with more force than necessary. The amber liquid sloshes out, splattering across Hannes' white button-up, leaving dark stains that will definitely not wash out.

"Sober up, then we can have a mature conversation." Levi hisses, his glare burning into the drunk's hazel eyes.

Hannes lets out a frustrated huff, snatching the now-empty glass from Levi's hands before storming off from his seat through the automatic door, disappearing into another room. Shifting your gaze, you glance up at the dark-haired boy as he settles back into a seat across from you, looking surprisingly content after the outburst.

"What?"

You can't help but roll your eyes. "That went well."

"He'll come around! I'll be back," the bright-haired woman chirps, her arms swinging dramatically as she strides after Hannes, disappearing into the other room and leaving you alone with Levi.

Silence settles between you. You don't know what to say to him—not that it would matter. You're both thinking the same thing anyway. Hannes was probably right. The odds of either of you making it back home are slim, between the careers, mutts, and whatever other nightmares the gamemakers have waiting.

"Do you have anyone back home?" You break the silence, solely in an attempt to escape your thoughts, even if it's just for a moment.

"No," he says without looking at you. "You?"

You purse your lips together. "Nope."

Silence suffocates the room once more. You figure there's nothing more to talk about at this point, it's just a matter of getting through the week until the games commence. You're not exactly eager to get close to Levi. What's the point? Neither of you are making it out of the arena. And even if you did, it wouldn't be together. One of you might turn on the other. The idea sounds ridiculous, but when it comes to survival, you can't doubt the intentions of anyone.

As your eyes drift to the wooden grandfather clock by the automatic door, you can't help but wonder—is there a way out? A way out of the games, a way out of the system. But after 98 long years of their existence, you're certain the capitol has thought of everything. Every possible scenario, every desperate attempt a tribute might make to escape—it's all definitely been accounted for.

-

Later, the bright-haired woman whose name you learn is Valerie, returns alone, clearly unsuccessful in coaxing Hannes back. To pass the time, she decides to give you and Levi a tour of the train. You can't even begin to fathom how much one room might be worth, let alone the entire bullet train. When she finally shows you to your bedroom, offering some privacy, you almost gape at the sheer luxury laid out before you.

Dark wallpaper with undecorated walls surround the room, with a chandelier reflecting a beautiful dim yellow glow in the center. The bed is massive, you figure you could fit about six people on there if they squeezed together, and the decor is nothing you've seen before, rich with details you can't even name. Off to the side, you have your own luxurious bathroom with unlimited warm water, along with a huge walk-in closet, its walls lined with endless amounts of clothing. It's overwhelming, to say the least.

You find yourself shuffling toward the bed laden with silk sheets, taking a seat as the canvas of the bedframe embraces you. As you sat, you felt something in your pocket prod at you—the pin Petra gave you. Carefully, you pull it out of your pocket, examining the details. You were never sure about Petra, but you suppose that maybe after all... she was the closest thing you had to a friend.

Your fingers delicately trace the pattern of the Mockingjay on the gold pin.

It brings back memories of simpler days, sitting beneath the trees, listening to the Mockingjays sing alongside your younger sister in the forest sometime after you both lost your parents. You remember it was her favorite bird—you'd listen to her hum melodies, and they'd sing the tune right back.

Those days weren't exactly simpler. Food was always scarce. Your mother wasn't around, and your father was always too busy in the mines to help with food. You managed, but once your parents were gone, it was your responsibility to keep you and your sister alive.

And it was hard. Really hard.

Your father had taught you how to use a bow and arrow. On rare occasions, he'd sneak you past the electric fence into the forest outside District 12, strictly forbidden territory, to hunt a few squirrels for supper.

Once, you snuck out into the forest on your own without his permission. When you returned with two squirrels in hand, proud of your catch, your father was furious. You knew it was because he was scared for you and your family, worried about what could've happened if you'd been caught. You understood the risks—but you also understood the consequences of coming home empty-handed.

You stopped sneaking out into the forest, and yes—your family barely scraped by. Once it was just you and your sister, you had no other choice for your survival to go back into the woods just to eat. Sometimes, if you got extra game, you would sell or trade it at the market, and that always helped.

The winters were always harsh. So harsh.

You and your sister were lucky enough to keep living in your parents' house, but luck didn't mean much when there was hardly any food or warmth. By the time winter crept in, the rations from extra entries were nearly gone, and the thick layers of snow drove all the animals into hiding. You were only thirteen, just a kid when you had to fend for you and your sister.

That was your only job—keep yourself going so you can keep your sister alive. Yet, you managed to fail.

The winter was particularly terrible that year, you and your sister were living off just about nothing. You had no firewood, no food scraps, and no warmth—just each other. But it wasn't enough. She fell ill and you did everything you could. You tried to access medical assistance, which was practically unheard of in District 12, so you did what you could with what little you had, trying to nurse her back to health on your own.

But it wasn't enough.

One morning when the sun rose, you went to wake your sister before you planned to go beyond the prohibited fence into the forest, desperate to find any signs of game. She had been sick—terribly sick, and deep down, you knew it. When you tried to wake her, gently cupping her cheek in your cold hands—you found no signs of warmth in her skin. You felt her hands. Her arms. Her body. Everything was frozen cold.

You tried to shake her awake. But she didn't stir. She never woke.

So yes, the capitol never did anything to you, but you've seen the way they've neglected your family, children, the homeless, the starving, exploited the districts—everyone. Even the privileged among the districts, such as Petra, the mayor's daughter—were not safe from the capitol. No one was.

It's not fair.

So yes, maybe they have done something to you. Maybe it is personal.

You remember Petra's words. "Make them pay," she said. You didn't understand what she meant back then, but now you think you do. You're not sure how, but you know you want to.

You need to make them pay.

-

"Rise and shine, dear!" A jarring voice ruptures you from your slumber, forcing you to rise from your bed with a gasp—only to see the bright-haired lady... what was her name again? Oh... Valerie.

"Breakfast is getting cold!" She adds with a sing-song voice as she draws the blackout curtains open, revealing the mountains you're passing through in flashes of speed your vision simply cannot keep up with. You groan as the morning light meets your eyes, covering your vision with your arm for some relief as your senses are overloaded.

She prances out of your room, only before adding in a quick, "chop, chop!"

That was the best sleep you think you've gotten in years. Though, today is the day you arrive at the capitol, one day closer to the games. You take your time getting up, you don't really care if your food is cold—food is food. You can't complain, long story short. Finding the bathroom connected to your room, you turn on the warm faucet water and splash it onto your face, refreshing yourself before you make your way to the dining room with the others.

When the automatic door slides open, you're met with Valerie who flashes a polite smile at you whilst sipping on a fancy cup of warm coffee, along with Levi and your bright mentor, Hannes, sitting at the wooden dining table. Your presence catches Hannes' attention, and he beckons you over to the table.

You grab a pastry before sitting down with the two of them. You're not sure what it is, but it's still warm, fresh out of the oven, melting in your mouth with the first bite. Sliding into a seat across from Hannes and beside the dark-haired boy, you catch the fresh, crisp scent of clean fabric—briefly comforting—before it's quickly overpowered by the sharp, bitter sting of alcohol wafting from Hannes, making you grimace.

You scoff, gesturing at the empty glass sat in front of the blonde mentor. "Really? Starting off your day strong, I see."

He chuckles at that, shaking his head lightly. "It's not the strong stuff dear, relax."

"Levi here was the one to convince the man to lay off, be sure to thank him." Valerie chimes in from across the room, sitting in a velvet chair as she sips her coffee.

You steal a glance at the boy beside you, meeting his sharp, silver-blue eyes. He's clearly holding back a scowl, though his face doesn't seem built for anything resembling a warm expression. You guess you can't really blame him.

As you settle in your seat, you're suddenly swarmed with enormous plates of food placed in front of you from the maids. There's eggs, sausages, and even pancakes with a side of syrup. They set two glasses of juice in front of you and Levi, and you can't help but give a small nod as a thank you when they depart.

You gratefully accept the plate of food set in front of you, digging into the pancakes first. They remind you of a Christmas morning long ago, when your mother had managed to gather the ingredients for a special breakfast. These pancakes don't taste quite like hers, but it's a rare treat nonetheless. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Levi beside you, silently forking a sausage and slicing it apart with precise movements of his knife.

As the two of you ate, Hannes couldn't help himself but watch you and Levi try and act polite before the abundance of food, because he too lived in District 12, starving like the rest of you. He knew what it was like, but he wouldn't judge the tributes that ate like it was their last meal, because likely—it was.

"So," you mumble as you chew. "You sober enough to try and actually help us out now?"

Your mentor can't help but stifle a laugh as he refills his beverage with some sort of new red colored alcohol—you have no idea what it could be. He simply ignores your question, reaching for a fabric napkin to wipe the few drops of alcohol he accidentally spilt on the table. You see an opportunity to get his attention.

If you want a shot at this, you'll have to make him realize you're serious about it.

Swiftly, your hand reaches over to Levi's table knife and you clutch it in a fist, plunging it into the napkin Hannes tried to lift. It gets pinned to the wood of the table just right between his fingers. Your mentor's eyes go wide, shock plastered across his face as if you've completely lost your mind. Beside you, Levi fights back a grin, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You hear a gasp across the dining room from Valerie, who slammed her almost-empty cup of coffee on the table beside her. "That is mahogany!"

You watch her get up and storm off to the other room. You're not even sure what that word is supposed to mean, but you realize she was talking about the wood that the table was made of.

"Well then, look at you!" Hannes raises his eyebrows, yanking his nearly punctured hand back from the table. "You killed a napkin."

With an exaggerated sigh, he pulls the knife from the wooden table, setting it neatly back with Levi's silverware. His expression shifts, growing slightly more serious. "You really wanna know how to stay alive? You get people to like you."

You don't respond, your gaze locked on his with quiet defiance. Hannes gestures to the center of the room, his patience thinning. "Stand over here. Both of you."

Reluctantly, you and Levi obey. He rises from his seat, moving to circle you and your district partner. Surprisingly, he's not stumbling like he was the day before. You guess he is in-fact a bit more sober, although it is just the beginning of the day. His eyes rake over both of you, scrutinizing every detail—your features, your posture, the tension in your muscles, examining everything visible on the surface.

"You're not entirely helpless," he mutters, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Once the stylists clean you up, you might even secure a few sponsors." He pauses, then smirks. "Though, you both have about as much charm as a dead rat."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "Gee, thanks."

Levi's glare sharpens, but Hannes ignores it, leaning in slightly. "Listen, if you can agree to not interfere with my drinks..." His eyes narrow, reluctantly finishing his sentence. "...I'll help you, but you have to do exactly as I say."

You raise an eyebrow at that as you feel a pair of eyes on you. You turn to Levi, exchanging a quick glance before he turns back to face Hannes. "Fine."

"So what do we need to do first?" You ask. "How can we—"

"The first thing you need to do is comply with your stylists," Hannes starts, grabbing the glass left on the mahogany table to take a swig of his red drink. "We'll be at the capitol station in a few minutes, and you'll be put in their hands. You're not going to like what the stylists do, but don't resist."

You furrow your brows together, shaking your head in confusion. "But—"

"No buts, just trust me." says Hannes. He takes his glass drink along with a new bottle of amber alcohol, treading toward the automatic door to the other room, leaving you and Levi alone.

As the door slid shut, the windows in the dining room darkened. You realized you're in the tunnels of the mountain that lead into the city of Panem, just where the capitol and all of its citizens reside. The chandeliers in the room still keep it well-lit, but it is still dark enough to assume it's night if you weren't paying attention.

Both you and Levi can't help but feel yourself drawn toward the windows, tentatively walking to them. As you watch the tunnels blur past, a sudden burst of blinding light floods your vision, forcing you to squint against the harsh glare. When your eyes finally adjust, the sight before you steals the breath from your lungs.

You're in the heart of the capitol—a bustling city with modern buildings and skyscrapers stretching as far as you can see. It's overwhelming, far more vibrant and abundant than anything you've ever seen broadcasted back home. You realize now just how much you underestimated it.

The train begins to slow, and soon you're met with the sight of the capitol's grand train station—along with swarms of people, hundreds of capitol citizens gathered outside, cheering wildly as they catch sight of you and the dark-haired boy through the window. Their outlandish outfits are a chaotic blur of colors, so bright and jarring it's almost blinding. Each shade is louder than the last, a dizzying mess of vibrance that's almost too much to take in all at once.

You shake your head, watching as the swarm of capitol citizens wave and cheer at you while the train grinds to a halt. "I can't believe they look at us like we're..."

"Animals in their zoo," Levi finishes your sentence, his stoic eyes meeting yours.

"Yeah," you breathe, fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the small pin tucked into your skirt pocket.

Levi gives you a slight, reassuring nod, his silver-blue eyes steady on yours. "You ready?"

You can't help but feel nostalgic at those words, remembering it was just yesterday when you told Petra you were ready to leave for the reaping. You thought you were. And even this time, you're not entirely sure.

"I guess so."

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[solvisun]

tender is the hand.

your hands have a strange clarity, have you been walking among the stars?

dulce maría loynaz, tr. james o’ connor, from absolute solitude: selected poems

cw. angst no happy ending. 1.4k wc. less dialogues.

with you, or rather, through you, tsukishima kei understands how important the hands could be.

before anything else, he takes care of his own. one that’s littered in dried or broken skin, visible scars, rougher palms and long, callous fingers. has the purpose to block to secure his win, with tight, determined fists. and this is how he’s known that to find meaning, doesn’t necessarily have to be rational.

sometimes, the passion comes in the form of a child still believing stars can fall from the sky, or in each night one can pluck the moon and let it glow on the ceiling before they sleep. sometimes, you find love in the most mundane, and incomprehensible ways.

from simpler things like, patting yamaguchi through his anxiety, writing with his penmanship you always ogle in awe—it’s so pretty and neat, you’d mumble under your breath—as well as helping his mother through the kitchen even though he finds them tedious (he can’t admit that he sucks). where the first was to offer support to a friend, the other a basic skill taught since three, and the last his responsibility as a younger sibling. they’re all incredibly common, something that he perhaps could never in his lifetime wonder; who would even notice these things?

the answer arrives at eighteen and he’s holding your hand for the first time on new year’s eve, where there are fireworks in the making inside his melting ribcage, where your palms are pressed warm and— fuck, why are you so soft?

suddenly it becomes so apparent in the face of something new that there’s so much more he can do with the hands, so much more he can learn because of you.

with you, they become something else entirely. in brushing your hair out of your face when you doze off on the couch. in rubbing slow, absentminded circles on your back when you lean against him after a long day. in discerning and memorizing by heart the way you like your drink. adjusting the way he kneads dough when you try baking together. in picking up the softest, warmest gloves for you when winter rolls around.

he used to think that strength was only in how firm his grip was, in how tightly he could hold onto things he’s afraid to lose just to keep it from slipping. but oh, with you, he learns that strength is sometimes weaved in your name, in the feeling of your pulse on your wrist against his thumb when you pass him his glasses, hands lingering on the taste of your tangible presence, in the way he turns goo for no reason other than you call him kei so intimately, in the way he loves without restraint, without any fear of losing.

that the most meaningful victories aren’t about blocking something out—but about letting something in.

at nineteen, and then twenty. he commits himself and permits his hands to become instruments of care, of love. they wipe away stray tears, thread through your hair, adjust the blanket over your shoulders when you’re sick. or when you threaten him to wake you up after 30 minutes to continue your studying, only to grace you a forehead kiss and leave you snoring soundly.

at twenty-one, he almost forgets what life was like before you.

it’s second nature now, the way his hands search for yours, the way he instinctively reaches out—to fix your scarf, brush an eyelash off your cheek, squeeze your fingers when you mumble about a long day. his hands soften overtime, you comment, even though he's still playing volleyball and his skin still bleeds and he's still so humanly and awkwardly tender. you say, as if forever is a thing that exists with you, that he'll always remain soft in your heart.

he wonders when exactly he decided he would marry you. maybe it was the first time you said that to him on a random tuesday, or the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder, or when you sat on the floor with him after a rough game, your shoes and his shoes and all the stuff in your apartment haphazardly thrown everywhere, too tired to clean up tonight, linking your pinkies together in quiet communication. i’m proud of you through and through. i root for you. i love you.

maybe it was always meant to be you.

the ring is in his pocket. has been for months.

but there’s time.

(there’s always time.)

until there wasn’t.

life doesn’t pause for him to find the confidence to be ready—dreaming is nothing compared to having the will to chase it. and he dreams of a life with you, had a future laid out, tucked away in the lines of his palm as if it will preserve you too, he dreams so much that he takes time for granted, and time has come to bite him next.

because a week later, he was kneeling on cold hospital tiles, hands gripping onto yours, desperate, trembling. he wasn’t sure what he was praying to—science, fate, some cruel god—but he was praying, because your fingers were limp in his, and this wasn’t supposed to happen, not now.

he didn’t even notice anything at first. you’re so you—still laughing, still teasing, still fitting against his side like you were meant to be there. but the signs are there. a cough that lingers too long. the way you press your fingers into your temples as if trying to will away the exhaustion. the quiet, tired smiles.

and then there’s your hands.

the ones that have always known him. the ones that traced over his knuckles absentmindedly, the ones that fit so easily in his own. they’re colder now. thinner. your grip not as strong as before.

something in him starts to panic. but you smile, and you kiss the inside of his wrist, and you tell him,

don’t look at me like that, kei.

but how could he not?

when the hospital visits start, it becomes real. and kei, at twenty-one, who is committed to love you and have your tomorrows and maybe forever and hopefully forever, realizes that nothing he does can stop what’s coming. he can hold you. he can lace his fingers through yours. he can press his hand against your back as you sit through test after test, but he can’t fix this.

he asks you anyway.

because if there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that you are the only person who has ever made him want more. more than just the court, more than just winning, more than just the quiet loneliness he once thought was enough.

he asks. maybe he does it in the hospital room, voice quiet and firm, surprisingly calm despite the quiver of his lips and his dry mouth and tight chest, and cold, shivering fingers. trying to pretend like things are normal. maybe he doesn’t even get the words out, just slides the ring onto your finger with the softest touch and watches the way your eyes widen.

and you smile.

and you kiss him.

and you say yes.

and for a little while, he lets himself believe in forever. in your existence where forever is a thing. in your eyes that held him captive since the fireworks burst his chest. since he was eighteen and navigating how love can be both easy and not.

you grow weaker. your hands—your hands, the ones that have always reached for him, always held him steady—can barely grasp his own anymore. because there are nights when he watches you sleep, watches your chest rise and fall, and prays to a god he doesn’t even believe in to let you stay a little longer.

he wakes up to god’s answer that forever is cruel.

just like that.

and tsukishima kei, who has always known the weight of losing, has never felt anything like this. because no loss on the court, no failed block, no missed point, nothing could ever compare to the unbearable emptiness of his hands without yours in them.

and the ring. the ring is still on your finger. maybe it’s selfish, but he doesn’t take it off. he lets them. because you said yes. because with you, he learns that he doesn’t have to clench his fist to keep something that’s already his.

he does tighten his grip at some point, through the pool of tears, as if holding on hard enough might somehow bring you back.

the last thing tsukishima kei learns from you is the unbearable, stabbing beauty of hands. they hold things. and they let things go.

pls don’t kill me i’ll write a happier version of this 🥹 if u wish

[dreamersworldduh]

Heyyy love your work so much!! It’s so hard to find male reader writers and I’m so glad I found you! :] I have a request for a Bruce Wayne fic maybe reader is like a nurse for the justice league and starts to connect with Batman or something where reader is a interviewer and Mets with Bruce Wayne and Bruce actually feel like they care or something. I honestly just would like any more works by you!!!!

HEALING TOUCH

• BRUCE WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You never expected to end up here—working alongside the Justice League, stationed in the Watchtower, healing the world's greatest heroes. For most of your life, you had resisted the idea of becoming a healer, rejecting the weight of legacy and expectation. But fate had other plans.

What began as a reluctant acceptance of your gift soon turned into something more. The work was unlike anything you could have imagined—treating injuries that defied science, facing wounds no medical textbook could explain. And among all the heroes you encountered, none fascinated you more than Batman.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy patient. He was guarded, stubborn, and treated pain like an old companion. He never offered more than necessary, never shared more than a clipped response. Yet, over time, something shifted. Through late-night treatments, quiet moments, and unspoken understanding, a connection formed—one built not on words, but on trust.

This is the story of how you, against all odds, found your place in a world you never intended to join. How you became more than just the League's healer. And how, without meaning to, you found yourself at the center of something unexpected—something unbreakable.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 4.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with a long awaited request! Thank you so much for the support🫶🏽 Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! ✨

For as long as you could remember, you had been absolutely certain of one thing—you did not want to be a doctor. This wasn't some fleeting notion, nor was it the rebellious whim of a child trying to carve out an identity separate from their family. No, this was something deeper, a conviction that had been rooted in your very core from the moment you were old enough to understand the expectations placed upon you. It was an unshakable truth, one that clung to you throughout childhood and well into your teenage years, as persistent as the heartbeat in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you had spent your entire life surrounded by medicine, watching as it consumed those around you. Your parents were revered figures in their respective fields, their names spoken with admiration and respect in hospitals and academic circles alike. Your siblings—each one older, seemingly more accomplished, and unwavering in their purpose—had followed suit, slipping into white coats as though they had been born wearing them. The family legacy stretched back generations; your grandparents had been pioneers, their contributions to medicine immortalized in textbooks and medical journals. It was, as far as the world was concerned, an unbroken chain, a lineage of healers whose purpose was clear from the moment they took their first breath.

And then there was you.

The youngest, the outlier, the one who had always felt like an anomaly within your own family. Everyone assumed your path had already been decided for you, that one day, you would take your rightful place among them. It was expected, as if it were written into the fabric of your very being. But no matter how many times you heard the words—"When you become a doctor..." or *"It's only a matter of time before you realize it's in your blood"—*you never once felt the pull they did. While your siblings devoured medical textbooks with a hunger for knowledge, you found yourself drawn elsewhere. Science never fascinated you the way it did them; anatomy and pathology felt like foreign languages that you had no desire to learn. Instead, you lost yourself in books that spoke of worlds beyond your own, of stories woven with magic, adventure, and possibilities unbound by logic. You longed for something different, something more.

Then, one day, everything changed.

You discovered you had the ability to heal.

It wasn't something you had asked for, nor was it something you had ever imagined could be real. It wasn't the practiced skill of a surgeon or the carefully calculated knowledge of a physician—it was something else entirely. It was a gift, an inexplicable force that pulsed beneath your skin, ancient and powerful. And though you had spent your entire life rejecting the path of a healer, the ability had found you anyway.

At first, you tried to deny it. You told yourself it was impossible, a trick of the mind, a coincidence. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn't some fluke. This was something that had always been inside you, waiting. Your grandparents had possessed it, this extraordinary ability that defied the rigid boundaries of science. But then, it had skipped a generation—bypassing your father, eluding your siblings—and somehow, impossibly, it had chosen you.

When your family learned the truth, their reactions were a storm of emotions. Your father, a man of unwavering logic and discipline, was furious. He had dedicated his life to medicine, to the pursuit of knowledge grounded in science, and now, his own child stood before him wielding a power that defied everything he believed in. Your siblings, who had spent years honing their skills through study and relentless practice, regarded you with a mixture of jealousy and resentment. To them, it was unfair—this gift had come to you, the one person who had never wanted to be a part of their world.

And yet, here you were, standing at the crossroads of fate, faced with a decision you had never expected to make.

Would you continue running from the destiny you had spent your entire life rejecting?

Or would you embrace the power within you and become the kind of healer no one had ever seen before?

It was never supposed to happen this way.

You had spent your entire life avoiding anything remotely connected to the medical field, distancing yourself from the legacy that loomed over you like an unshakable shadow. Your family had long since carved their names into history as healers, doctors, surgeons—people who dedicated their lives to saving others through science and skill. And yet, you had never once felt that calling, never once been drawn to the weight of responsibility that came with the profession.

But fate had a way of making choices for you.

It had started as an ordinary night, no different from countless others. The city stretched before you in its usual haze of neon lights and restless energy, the rhythmic hum of distant sirens blending into the background like an ever-present melody. The cool night air carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and the streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the pavement.

You hadn't thought much of the darkened alley at first. Gotham was full of them—silent corridors of forgotten corners, places most people knew better than to wander into. But something caught your eye, something that sent a ripple of unease through your gut. A figure slumped against the brick wall, partially obscured by darkness, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

At first, you assumed it was just another casualty of the city's merciless grip—an unfortunate soul lost to the harsh realities of Gotham's streets. But as you stepped closer, your breath hitched in your throat.

It was him.

Batman.

The Dark Knight, the legend, the untouchable force of Gotham, reduced to a broken, bleeding man before your eyes. His armor was cracked in places, deep gashes running along his arms and torso. His cape, torn and soaked in blood, lay in ragged folds beneath him. Bruises had already begun to form along his jaw, painting his skin in shades of deep purple and black. And his breathing—God, his breathing was shallow, each ragged inhale a battle against the pain threatening to consume him.

If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't survive the night.

Panic surged through you. You weren't a doctor. You had never studied medicine, had never once held a scalpel or stitched a wound. And yet—

Yet, you could help him.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible force. This was Batman. The man who had survived the worst Gotham had to offer. The man who had always stood between the city and the monsters lurking in the dark. And now, he was dying.

Doubt clawed at you. What if it didn't work? What if, after all these years of trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you were just an ordinary person, your ability failed you now?

But there was no time for hesitation.

With a steadying breath, you reached out, pressing your hands against his battered torso. The warmth came almost instantly, blooming from within, spreading through your fingertips like liquid fire. It seeped into his wounds, into torn flesh and bruised bone, knitting them back together as if they had never been broken. The deep lacerations closed before your eyes, the jagged cuts smoothing into unblemished skin. The harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing deepening as strength slowly returned to him.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

Even injured, even weakened, his gaze was sharp, piercing. A predator assessing a new, unexpected variable in the equation. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, his voice, rough but steady.

"What did you do?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I healed you."

The words felt foreign, like an admission you had spent years refusing to say out loud. But there was no denying what had just happened. No more running.

That night changed everything.

Word of what you had done spread faster than you could have anticipated. Batman was not a man who let the impossible go unquestioned, and he wasn't about to let you disappear into the shadows. He found you, sought you out, his mind already working through the implications of what you could do. He wanted answers—how your ability worked, what its limitations were, whether it was something that could be controlled, replicated, weaponized.

And before you even had time to process it, you were standing in the heart of the Watchtower, surrounded by legends.

Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash—names you had only ever seen in news reports and whispered about in awe—now stood before you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of wariness. They wanted to understand you. They wanted to know if your abilities could change the way they fought, the way they protected the world.

They wanted you on their team.

You—the person who had spent a lifetime running from the expectations of being a healer—were now one of the most valuable assets the Justice League had ever encountered. You weren't a doctor, not in the way your family had always envisioned, but your gift was something beyond science, beyond anything medicine could explain.

And for the first time, you weren't afraid of it.

For the first time, you understood.

You had never wanted to be a healer. But maybe—just maybe—you were meant to be one all along.

The job was nothing like a traditional nine-to-five. There were no scheduled shifts, no structured hours, no neat boundaries separating work from the rest of your life. The moment you agreed to join the Justice League Medical Team, you knew things would be different, but nothing could have prepared you for just how much your world would change.

The Watchtower—an advanced orbital station, the Justice League's headquarters in the vast emptiness of space—was now your home. You told yourself that the decision to live there was purely practical. Emergencies didn't wait for convenience, and every second counted when it came to saving lives. Being stationed on the Watchtower meant you could respond immediately, without the delay of transport from Earth. You understood the necessity of it. And yet, despite the logic, there were moments when you would stop in the middle of a corridor, staring out through reinforced glass at the planet far below, and feel the weight of it all settling in.

You lived in space.

More than that—you lived in the same place as the world's greatest heroes.

At first, it was overwhelming. Every hallway you walked down, every turn you made, you found yourself brushing shoulders with living legends. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern—names that had once seemed larger than life, figures who had saved the world countless times over, now passed you in the halls as if this were any ordinary workplace. Except it wasn't. There was nothing ordinary about it.

In the beginning, you kept your head down, strictly professional. They were the Justice League, and you were just their healer. You addressed them by their codenames, adhered to protocol, maintained the careful distance expected of any League-affiliated personnel. You did your job, and you did it well, ensuring that no matter how powerful they were, they had someone looking out for them when even their abilities weren't enough to keep them unscathed.

But things changed, subtly at first, in ways you barely noticed until, one day, you realized how different everything had become.

It started with the little things. The Flash—Barry, though you hadn't started calling him that yet—lingered after check-ups, cracking jokes, making it his mission to coax a laugh out of you. Wonder Woman, impossibly kind yet formidable, took it upon herself to check in on you just as often as you checked in on her. She would stop by the medbay, not just for treatment but to ensure you were eating properly, resting, taking care of yourself as much as you took care of them.

Even Batman, the most elusive of them all, had a habit of appearing unannounced. At first, you thought he was simply observing, studying you with that ever-calculating mind of his, trying to understand your abilities. But eventually, you realized that, in his own way, he was keeping an eye on you—not as an asset to analyze, but as a person he had come to trust.

And then came the moments that shattered the invisible walls you had unknowingly kept around yourself.

The first time Superman addressed you by your first name instead of "Doctor" or "Healer," it caught you off guard. It was such a small thing, and yet, the warmth in his voice, the familiarity, made it clear that you were no longer just another recruit to him. You were one of them.

Green Lantern—John Stewart—had been the first to insist you call him by his actual name, brushing off formality with an easy camaraderie. Soon, the others followed.

"Wonder Woman" became "Diana."

"The Flash" was "Barry."

"Green Lantern" was "John."

"Superman" was "Clark."

Even the most guarded of them, Batman, eventually became "Bruce"—though that one had taken significantly longer. And even then, you still only used it when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't expected any of this. When you joined, you had assumed you would remain in the background, tending to wounds and then retreating into solitude, never truly stepping into their world. But they had never seen you that way.

To them, you weren't just their healer.

You were one of them.

And despite all the years you had spent resisting the idea of being a healer, of belonging in a role that had always felt like a burden—you couldn't deny that being here, with them, felt right.

Months into your new job, you had seen injuries that defied all logic, wounds that no medical textbook could have ever prepared you for. Burns not from fire, but from alien energy blasts that left strange, unidentifiable scars. Fractures that should have been fatal, caused by impact forces no ordinary human should have survived. You had learned to treat injuries inflicted by magic, reinforced skin, and even Kryptonian physiology. Each case came with a story, and while some heroes eagerly recounted their battles—often in absurd, almost comical detail—others remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest explanations.

But no stories captivated you quite like Bruce's.

Batman was a different kind of patient. He never wasted words, never offered unnecessary details unless they were vital to treatment. He arrived in the medbay with injuries that should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet he treated them as minor inconveniences. A cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, deep gashes that would have incapacitated anyone else—he sat through it all in silence, barely flinching as you worked. If you asked how he got hurt, his responses were clipped, single-worded: "Joker." "Bane." "Scarecrow." No elaboration, no unnecessary details. Just cold, factual acknowledgment.

At first, you didn't push. You had worked with enough patients to know when someone wasn't ready to talk. But you were curious—perhaps more than you should have been. It wasn't just the injuries themselves that intrigued you; it was how he carried them. The weight of Gotham clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like an unseen shroud. He didn't just fight crime in that city—he bore its darkness, absorbed it into his bones.

And Gotham was your hometown.

You knew the streets he patrolled, the alleys he disappeared into, the villains he faced. You had grown up hearing about the chaos, the crime, the myth of the Bat who prowled the city's rooftops. You knew the fear Gotham instilled in its people—the way sirens became a nightly lullaby, the way danger lurked just out of sight. So when Bruce finally started talking, when he finally let slip the stories behind his injuries, it felt as if you were reliving every nightmare Gotham had ever breathed into your bones.

Of course, Bruce didn't start sharing because he wanted to. It wasn't in his nature to open up so easily.

Somehow, you made it happen.

Maybe it was the way you never treated him like an untouchable legend. Maybe it was how you never hesitated, never looked at him with pity when he sat on your exam table, half-broken but unwilling to admit it. Maybe it was your patience, your ability to hold your own in the long silences he used as armor.

At first, it was just small things—offhand remarks, fragmented pieces of information he let slip without thinking. "The cut isn't deep. Killer Croc caught me off guard." Or, "I didn't expect Scarecrow to use a new formula."

Then, slowly, those remarks turned into something more.

One night, while resetting his shoulder, you had casually mentioned remembering the sirens wailing across Gotham the night the Joker flooded the city with gas. Bruce's gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you thought you had crossed a line. But then, in that same low, controlled voice, he started talking.

He told you how he had chased the Joker across the rooftops that night, how the fight had left him with a broken rib and a chemical burn that had taken weeks to heal. He spoke in his usual detached, analytical manner, but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down your spine. The way he recounted it—haunting, precise, methodical—made it feel like you were right there with him, watching the city descend into madness.

And once he started, the stories didn't stop.

Every now and then, after particularly grueling missions, when exhaustion cracked through the iron barriers he built around himself, he would speak. Never too much, never sentimental, but enough. Enough to paint a picture. Enough to make you see Gotham through his eyes—the way the Narrows pulsed with desperation, the way Crime Alley still held ghosts, the way the shadows stretched long beneath the neon lights, swallowing everything whole.

He never told you why he shared these things with you, and you never asked.

Somehow, against all odds, you had become someone he trusted enough to talk to.

And in return, you listened.

The dynamic between you and Bruce was something different—something undeclared yet undeniable. It didn't happen overnight, nor was it something either of you had planned for. Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man who let people in easily. He kept his distance, his trust locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence, sharp glares, and an ever-present scowl. It was his armor, just as much as the cowl he wore. To most, he was untouchable, unreachable.

But somehow, despite all of that, you had found a way in.

And against all odds, he didn't seem to mind.

If you paid close enough attention, you might even say he enjoyed your company.

He would never admit it outright—Bruce wasn't the type for grand gestures or sentimental confessions—but over time, the signs became impossible to ignore. He lingered in the medbay longer than necessary, always finding some excuse to stay behind. A question about his injury, an offhand remark about the latest mission—little things that didn't warrant the extra time, yet he remained. He had a habit of showing up when the medbay was empty, as if he preferred your presence without the distraction of others. And when you teased him, poked at his brooding nature with easy charm and wit, the heavy silence that usually clung to him began to crack.

The first time you caught him smirking, you almost thought you imagined it. It was quick, barely there—a flicker of amusement before his mask of indifference settled back into place. But it happened again. And again. Until eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice.

And the stories—he liked yours just as much as you liked his.

You rarely spoke about your past, your family's legacy, the weight of expectations you had spent so much of your life trying to escape. It wasn't an easy thing to share, nor was it something you ever felt the need to explain to others. But with Bruce, it was different. He listened—not out of politeness, not to fill the silence, but because he genuinely cared.

He understood.

Of course, he did.

No one knew better than Bruce what it was like to be weighed down by ghosts, to live under the constant pressure of a name, a reputation, a path carved out for you long before you ever had a say in it. He never said it outright, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he regarded you—not with pity, but with understanding. With respect. For the choices you had made. For carving your own path despite the pressure to be something else.

But more than anything, what Bruce appreciated most—whether he would admit it or not—was your touch.

It wasn't just your presence, the way you fit into his life without demanding more than he was willing to give. It wasn't just your sharp mind or the way you always saw through his carefully constructed barriers.

It was your hands.

Your gift.

The thing that made you unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Hal Jordan, never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, had once dubbed it your "healing touch."

Bruce had scoffed at the term when he first heard it, muttering something about Lanterns talking too much. But that didn't change the truth of it. Your hands, your power, were something he had come to rely on—not just because they mended broken bones and sealed wounds, but because, for a man who had spent his entire life in pain, your touch was the closest thing to relief he had ever known.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly beneath your fingertips, in the way his breath steadied when your power coursed through him. He never flinched under your touch, never pulled away like he did with others. He trusted you, in a way he rarely trusted anyone.

He didn't have to say it.

He never would.

But in the way he let you work on him without protest, in the way his ever-tense frame relaxed, in the way his eyes lingered on your hands as they moved over his injuries—you knew.

And that was enough.

[r0tting-rat]

"Little pest."

Hi Magpie!!! Gift :> Just a lil thing for a very talented someone with an incredible au. Yeah I'm a huge simp for their alien boys what about it /silly

Pairing: Alien King!Eclipse (by @sleepymagpie-draws) x Gender Neutral Reader Warning: None, maybe just a bit ooc (sorry mags) Words: 4000+ Summary: You're bored and can't sleep. Thank god you have someone to annoy to pass the time <3 Heavily inspired by this ask/art!!! Literally died when I saw it he's so beautiful. Additional tags: TouchSTARVED reader. Starved as hell. Also fluff fluff fluff so much fluff. Magpie I love him can you tell. (Reminder everyone that the reader has techincally been kidnapped, but they're pretty chill about it dw)

Who said being kidnapped by aliens is a terrifying and horrible experience? It has already been months since Sun literally grabbed you and brought you with him, and you have yet to be put on a vivisectionist's table. In fact, all you have known since then are silky sheets, soft pillows, ornate plates of fresh fruits you have never seen before, and heavy pieces of jewelry that hang down your neck and rest fresh against your sternum. You live better than you used to back on Earth, spoiled rotten by three royals every single day of your dull life, sleeping in a bed three times the size of a human one, and with countless workers ready to be summoned at your every call. Although, you have to admit that you much prefer the attention of your “captors” compared to the one of their servants, feeling like their soft touches work like a relaxing balm on your mood. 

The one of the three brothers you see less is Eclipse, and even if you can bet your money on the fact that he must be constantly busy due to his duties as a king, you can’t help but wish you could spend more time with him, craving the way he gently scratches the top of your head with his claws whenever he manages to stop by and pay you a visit.

Rolling around in the soft sheets of the bed you are resting on, looking up at the dull ceiling, you feel like a pampered and neglected pet at the same time, left to the care of strangers who refuse to speak more than quick sentences to you, covered by precious gifts from head to toe and fed with silver spoons while also being locked alone in your quarters for hours without end. 

You complain, of course. To Sun, Moon, and anyone who’s willing to swing by and listen, really. You grumble and whine; you roll on your bed and do your best attempt at puppy eyes, but all the brothers do is laugh and caress your cheeks. There are rules—they say—rules that can’t be broken, and each time they remind you, you roll your eyes. They promised you books and games to pass the time, but as you wait for the shipment from Earth to arrive, you are left with nothing. You don’t understand the language of the heavy volumes collecting dust in the bookshelves of your room, and something tells you you wouldn’t enjoy reading them even if you did.

The part of the brothers’ visits you hate the most is when you see them stand up and prepare to leave, because you know that the very moment the door closes behind them, it locks, leaving you stuck in your room for hours. There’s no real keyhole in your door, so you can only guess how it works, but from what you have gathered so far, it seems like it’s semi-automatic but opens only when you’re coming in from the outside. Listening to Sun and Moon made you realize another thing as well: their rooms seem to be close to yours—maybe even adjacent—and the thought infuriates you. So close, and yet so far! Why do they so rarely visit you if they are so close by? Do they have other places to rest? Do they sleep at all? Are the bedrooms just for show? Drowning in questions, you decide that it’s time to break some rules, and when Eclipse finally stops by to visit you after dinner, you come up with a plan. 

The alien is so tall the tip of his crown brushes over the canopy of your bed as he leans over your draped form on the bed. He rests one of his hands on top of your head, brushing your hair back, and you look up at him with a pout.

“Finally decided to pay attention to me?” you say, swatting his hand away and sitting up. You know you’re being a brat, but if they so desire to treat you as a glorified pet, then you might as well show them the reality of owning one. From under his crown, which you consider more like a helmet or mask, you hear the disappointed clicking of his mandibles that translates through your magnetic ring with a soft cooing sound.

“Oh, my pet, are you feeling neglected?” he asks, coming back to gently run his claws through your hair. He loves to do it, and you love allowing him.

“I’m bored, Eclipse.” You have no qualms about calling him by his real name, ignoring any honorific everyone around keeps suggesting to you. “I’m bored, and it’s been almost a week since your last visit.”

You shift back on the bed a little so it doesn’t seem done on purpose, and you watch as the terrifyingly huge alien climbs on the disarranged covers to follow you. He never fully enters your personal space, always keeping enough room between the two of you to keep things “formal,” in a way, but you also noticed how he likes to have you at arm’s length. Every time you are in the same room as Eclipse, one of his four arms is always touching you, resting on your head or shoulder, tilting your chin up, sometimes even running his claws from the base of your spine to the nape of your neck just to see you shiver and glare at him.

“My apologies,” he says, and his words sound sincere, “I promise the shipment will arrive shortly; you’ll have your books in no time.”

“It’s not the books that I want, though,” you reply, leaning closer, and that causes Eclipse to slightly move back, like he’s scared you might end up too close to his face. “You kidnapped me, dragged me here, then proceeded to simply ignore me.”

You weren’t being ignored, of course. You were just acting dramatic so as to get what you wanted.

“I’m sure I do not need to remind you who of the three of us is the one at fault for your presence here. As I told you already, I’m afraid I cannot bring you with me while I work, pet,” Eclipse sighs, “After we expanded on your little planet, both Sun and Moon’s responsibilities and tasks have doubled as well. It has to be said, your fellow humans are quite rowdy.”

You turn your head away, pretending to look saddened by the news—nothing you hadn’t expected, of course, but still.

“Also, the thought of you roaming these halls alone makes us all uneasy,” he adds, “You could get lost, or someone could see you and be scared to the point of calling the guards on you. That’s why we must lock your door, my pet, to keep you safe.”

“Not because you think I might run away?” you question, eyebrows rising up with skepticism, and Eclipse purrs with amusement.

“Run off? And where to, silly?” he laughs, “You wouldn't even know how to leave this place, let alone return to your home planet.”

He’s right; running from them would have been stupid. Plus, you don’t really want to escape—not when you have two princes and a king spoiling you like that—you just need to leave that damned room for at least five minutes so as to not go mad! Is it too much to ask not to be subjected to psychological torture?

“Are you returning tomorrow morning?” you ask, hopeful, and Eclipse shakes his head. You groan, now seriously disappointed, and try not to lean too much into the touch of his hand caressing your cheek. The contact burns, like living embers, and you have to stifle a second groan. It’s been so long since you had some form of physical contact with a human, and something tells you it’s starting to take a toll on you, making you more compliant and demanding of attention. It could be due to the unfamiliar setting, which you simply can’t grow accustomed to despite how much you walk the perimeter of your large room, or the complete absence of familiar faces, but the cause of it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you need to be hugged, to be cuddled, to be held, and to be caressed. You’re touch starved, so hungry for it you could just throw yourself at Eclipse and cling on his neck until he relents and decides to sleep there with you or bring you to his room—either way, you’d get a full night of cuddles; too bad common decency stops you from hugging a king like a koala. 

“I have an important meeting in the morning, so I’m afraid not. I’m sure Sun and Moon might be able to clear their schedules in the afternoon, though, so don’t fret.”

His words are apologetic, but you feel as if they were said with the sole purpose of bringing you harm because they do nothing but hurt you. 

Eclipse leaves after a while of chatting, bringing all the warmth of the room with him, and you watch him from your spot on the edge of the bed as he walks towards the door. You’re on your back, head hanging down the bed, staring blankly at the heels of the king and mentally preparing your next move. You act fast. The door opens, Eclipse slips away, and right before it closes, you throw a pillow in the gap of the threshold. The noise of the pillow falling is soft and muffled, and Eclipse doesn’t seem to notice that the door hasn’t closed completely behind him; instead, he simply walks away in the white corridor outside your room, and you stare at your successful attempt with surprise. You actually did it! The door is still open, blocked by the red pillow, and you finally have access to the rest of the rooms. 

Carefully standing up from your bed, like afraid someone from outside could hear you, you make your way towards the exit and peek out, hoping not to be met with Eclipse’s disappointed masked face. When your eyes travel the length of the long corridor extending before you like a white snake, you find no sign of any alien, and a smile splits on your lips from ear to ear.

The idea of immediately beginning to explore is alluring, but you know better than to leave when it’s still so early. You must wait some time until you’re sure Eclipse must have already retreated to his room for the night, and then enact the second phase of your plan.

Once you’re finally sure enough time has passed since the king has wished you goodnight, you finally push fully open the door of your room, looking around once more to make sure the coast is clear. After that, you put the pillow back to stop the door just in case it couldn’t be opened from outside like you thought, and walk in the direction you’re almost sure Eclipse has taken. During your short trip, you notice the complete lack of furniture or wall decorations in the halls, mumbling to yourself about “rich people’s lack of taste,” occasionally finding a door and trying to open it with no success, and you’re just about to give up when you finally place your open palm against one tall frame and see it move at your gentle touch. 

You stare in disbelief at the room opening before you, large and barren at the same time, trying to understand who the place belongs to while lingering on the door sill. In the darkness you see thousands of books neatly arranged on tall bookshelves, with their colorful and ornate hard covers staring at you as if they’re aware you’re a stranger, and as you enter you notice many have a broken spine. Those books, you realize, have been well loved by someone, or maybe simply re-read dozens of times out of need. It doesn’t matter to you, because what you’re most interested in is the second door in a corner of the room, likely leading to the actual bedchambers. It seems like the initial area has been arranged to be used as an office, separated from the personal spaces, but if that isn’t the truth, then you might have simply stepped into a random library and made a fool of yourself in front of the books. The hair on the back of your neck is standing up, and the monkey part of your brain keeps screaming that there’s someone watching you, but the deeper you go in the quarters, the more you keep telling yourself that it’s just your imagination. Your bare feet leave a slight trail on the carpet in the middle of the room as you walk towards the second door. 

As expected, the second room is more similar to a bedroom, although it doesn’t seem to gain any form of personality compared to the office you just left, almost as if the owner of the room doesn’t spend too much time in it. It wouldn’t fit Sun to sleep into such a sterile and dark ambience, and you feel like Moon would also take some more care into creating a welcoming area for himself, so that leaves out only one of the three brothers. 

The size of the bed confirms your theory: you have ended up exactly in Eclipse’s room, and you’re face to face with his sleeping form. Or, at least you guess it must be him, considering how dark it is in that corner. The only source of light in the room is a large window kept almost entirely shut, not allowing a ray of starlight to enter, so you really can’t be sure of anything.

The canopy bed in front of you is enormous, of a deep burgundy color, and see-through curtains drape over it to hide the figure in the middle. As you study the fabrics with the tips of your fingers, testing the softness, you find yourself enamored by it, beginning to press your open palms in the covers and then your face. You breathe in the scent, delicate while also heavy in your nostrils, and recognize the amazing aroma Eclipse brings with him everywhere he goes. You have no idea if it’s his favorite perfume or simply his natural scent; all you know is that it reminds you of the time you fell asleep on the king’s cape while he stopped for a visit, and the morning after, you found it still draped over you like a heavy cloak.

With your face in the covers, you simply close your eyes and let the memory play in your mind, affection blooming in your chest and throat like a warm flower, not noticing the dark frame towering over you from behind. Eclipse, from the height of his 8 ft, looks down at you like you’re nothing but a silly rabbit caught in a trap, about to be served for dinner to a horde of hungry guests. 

“What exactly are you doing here, little pest?” he asks, and his deep growl makes you jump in the spot. When you turn around, your heart is racing, your eyes are wide open, and you feel more like prey than ever before in your life. As soon as you realize that Eclipse isn’t wearing his crown, you suddenly feel your blood pumping in your throat, and your cheeks grow warm at the sight of the red marks around his eyes and the dark color of his face sweetly mixing together, hypnotizing you for a second. All you can think of in that little head of yours is that the male should take off the helm more often so as to let his beautiful eyes see the light of day. 

It isn’t the first time you saw him without the headpiece; sometimes he takes it off after he comes back from a long meeting with his advisors, and the sight always strikes you like lightning.

Eclipse—it has to be said—is beautiful. Not only for the eyes, which are of a wonderful milky color that makes you feel as if they’re cursing you with some kind of magic, but also for his soft features, unfortunately hidden for most of the time. Did his citizens even know their king looked like that? Heavens, you suddenly remember why you’re so happy that you’ve been kidnapped.

Eclipse is wearing something similar to a robe that wraps around his torso while leaving his chest open, with long sleeves covering his four large arms, and everything is kept into place by a tie in the front. He must have been on his way to go to bed before you interrupted him.

“It is only polite to answer when a royal addresses you,” the alien angruily reminds you, and you suddenly realize you haven’t said a thing since he entered. 

“I just… I wanted, I was…” None of your sentences are making sense, so you swallow the lump in your throat and force your mind to clear itself of all the other distracting thoughts. “I just wanted to spend time with you, Eclipse.”

That sentence paired with some well-played puppy eyes is enough to make the alien sigh and relent, annoyed, probably too tired to argue with you after a long day of work.

“I don’t know how you left your room, but that’s unimportant now. You should return, it’s late,” he says, and you pout.

“Why can’t I sleep here?” you ask, and Eclipse looks down at you like you have grown a second head. 

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning. Have you forgotten?” he sounds incredulous, “I’ll wake up early.”

You shrug after fake-pondering for a second. You had already made your decision. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply with a small smile, “I sleep for the most part of the day anyway, so I’m well rested.”

Eclipse’s eyes turn into slits as he stares down at you, one pair of arms crossed over his chest and the other pair of fists on his hips. You can’t help but admire the dip of his collarbones as the fabric of his robe reveals more of him.

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” he sighs, and your smile widens as you see his resolve start to break. You shake your head, and Eclipse finally relents. “Fine, get on the bed already.”

With a smug expression, you jump on the soft covers, happy with your little win, and you watch from behind the see-through curtain the king as he walks back in his personal library and returns, a moment later, with a book in his hand. You turn around, curious, and realize that the frame you thought belonged to Eclipse was actually just a bunch of pillows stuffed under the covers. Had he put them there because he had heard you come in? That would explain why he was ready to jump on you the very moment you turned your back.

The king motions you to get under the covers, then parts the curtains to slip in himself. Your eyes don’t miss the way his tense frame relaxes once his body finally rests on the mattress, as if the dark red sheets weren’t made of fabric but rippling water of a warm spring. One of his hands wraps around you, caressing your back, and you take it as a sign you can scoot closer and lay your cheek on his chest. The contact is pleasant, sending a nice buzzing of emotions down your spine, and you find yourself leaning onto him more and more every second, warm face resting on a cold and hard exoskeleton with a sigh. His main pair of arms opens the book on a page in the middle, and, with his back against the headboard, he begins reading a book with pages covered in mysterious letters and signs.

You can’t help your curiosity, and the words slip out of your mouth even before you can stop them. You don’t want to bother him, but you crave to hear him talk to you some more. 

“What are you reading?” you ask, and Eclipse begins to smile.

“Fiction. After so many hours spent on documents, I need something to distract my mind.”

“I didn’t take you for the type,” you murmur, and your sentence makes him laugh.

“You just don’t know me enough, pet,” he almost purrs, and once again your face heats up. How can he say that as if it was nothing? You do want to know him more—in fact, you want to know everything about Eclipse. You want to know his favorite books, his favorite scents, what he does in the morning after waking up, and what he likes to eat. You want to ask about his childhood, you want to spend time with him and his brothers, you want to learn more about their culture and more about them as well. You want to be able to spend every second with the three of them, but you can’t, so you cherish the moment you have with Eclipse before you eventually fall asleep.

“That’s something we can always change,” you say, nuzzling closer to him and closing your eyes for a moment. You’re so close you can hear the pumping of his heart under his exoskeleton, and the sound of it is almost lulling you to sleep. “What’s the story about?”

“Ah, just a tale about two lovers,” he explains, “It’s tragic, but I can’t fall asleep without reading at least a chapter.”

“I hope it’s not too tragic,” you murmur, “It’d be sad if one died.”

“I must agree with you here,” Eclipse hugs you even closer. “They’re made for each other. If one were to pass away, I have no idea what the other would do.”

You feel cradled by the gentleness in his words, the emotion that you so rarely hear in them, like a hand caressing your cheek and tilting your face up. When you do open your eyes, you find Eclipse fondly looking down at you with a small smile.

“Keep going,” you mutter, fighting with your own heavy eyelids as you speak, “I wanna know about them…”

“Sleep, my dear pet,” Eclipse whispers instead, bending down to kiss the top of your head, “I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

You don’t want tomorrow to come, you know you wouldn’t stand to see him wearing his crown and leave for the day. The thought is so painful you curl up into a ball and groan, and you stop only when a pair of strong arms hold you close to a hard chest, and you realize that Eclipse has fully slipped under the cover and is now gently hugging you, one hand on the nape of your neck, another burying its fingers in your hair, and the last two resting on your hips. Another kiss is placed on your forehead, and you swear you might just start boiling on the spot.

“What about your book?” you ask with a tired and groggy voice, wrapping yourself around Eclipse some more, like you’re afraid someone might come in and untangle you from him. 

“It’ll wait,” the king answers. 

“But you said you can’t sleep without reading…” Your eyes are closed again, and this time you feel like they might not open until morning.

“This can work as well.” 

You finally fall asleep cradled and hugged by Eclipse’s arms, uncaring of his hard shell being so different from any kind of fur or skin humans might find more comfortable, and when you do manage to sleep into your own world, you do it with a smile on your lips. You’re no longer afraid of turning around right after waking up and finding the bed empty and cold, not anymore, not when Eclipse is making up for all the lack of affection you had to endure. 

Next time, you’ll try to see if you can rope Sun and Moon into it too. It’d be nice to have a sleepover all together.

[hiraethwa]

one summer day

19 promise. where a new promise is forged in place of broken ones.

<< 18 hiraeth. | >> 20 (coming soon)

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x reader word count: 3.1k warnings: angst, what's new :)

there is an indescribable feeling welling within your chest, a sensation that prickles at the edges of your frozen heart, as if it had weathered a long winter, as if spring has finally arrived, the sun smiling warmly upon you and welcoming you into its comforting embrace.

a mixture of nostalgia, melancholy and regret that seems to have seeped into your bones, unable to shake it off. 

semi and his now fiancée are making their way through the crowd of friends and family who have gathered tonight to celebrate their engagement, and you feel immensely… happy for them. 

they are good for each other, anyone who sees them knows it, with the way they complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses, facing the world together fearlessly with the other by their side. 

though, the thought of that makes your eyes wander the crowd, searching for the warm chocolate eyes you still think of as home. 

this might have been you—if you were not so quick to jump to conclusions, if he had trusted in you. maybe, maybe it would have broken you in the end, like he guessed. maybe he was right not to trust in you.

but the past remains there, in the past, and even now, you are not sure what would have been the right thing to do. it’s easy to recognize rights and wrongs in hindsight, but there was never a clear way forward, never a right way forward for a present that was not so broken and mended at the same time. 

off balance. 

like a violin that was tuned to an old orchestra’s lower frequency trying to fit in with the new one. even a single hertz of frequency makes all the difference, singling you out from the others because you are out of tune. 

the more you get along with ushijima, the more this… feeling grows in your chest, this unshakeable nostalgia to return to what once was, to stay there and never grow up. 

you had forgiven him, and he had forgiven you, both of you having made mistakes that led to where things are now. semi and tendo were the more excitable pair between you about this development, as though they are dead set on the two of you getting together. 

but it is all too late, too much history, too much hurt between you to go back to what once was. 

you could never go back. 

the understanding should not pain you as much as it does now, as if a claw is gouged into your chest and dragged down and down.

it should not hurt so much when he smiles at you across the room, and you feel the warmth radiating from him even with the distance, reading the touch of melancholy from the way he carries himself, the lines in his face, the eyes that you fell in love with. 

enough time has passed for you to move on, so why does he still make your heart race like a teenage girl? how can you still be in love with him when neither of you are the same people you used to be?

he is not the same boy you loved in high school. still quiet and stern, sure, but he is also more open with those close to him, like tendo and semi. more relaxed and more communicative with the people he cared about, more willing to share about himself than he used to. 

as if he had taken his mistakes with you as a lesson to learn from. 

you don’t know how to feel about that realization. 

on the other hand, you are not sure if you have grown as a person as much as he has. you were still quick tempered, jumping to conclusions like your life depended on it.

and if you were being frank, you could be blamed for most of this mess, from being stubborn enough to cut him off for years. 

and still he waited. 

“hey,” he sidles up to your side, cocking his head as you turn away from him, blinking rapidly, wishing the sudden welled up tears away, scratching your eyebrow and swiping at your eyes discreetly, you hope. 

“hey yourself.” you smile back at him, hoping he does not see through your shit act immediately. you know he does though, because your cheeks are hot and red from the sudden rush of regret. 

“it feels unreal that semi is engaged, doesn’t it? he always seemed like he would be the last one to settle down among us.” he remarks.

and we thought we would have been among the first. how the tables have turned.

you chuckle in response, focusing on anything but the heat radiating from his arm to yours as you stand side by side against the far wall away from most guests. like two wallflowers avoiding the party.

you guess some things never change. 

“i think the universe had a different plan in mind for all of us.” one we never saw coming.

”perhaps. but we are the ones who dictate our future, aren’t we?” his eyes are on you keenly, and you choose to ignore it. 

“maybe some things are written in the stars, long before you and i were brought into it.” it is no longer about semi, but about you, about this half wilted, half revived twisted thing between you. 

”we have a say in it, in our choices. you don’t think so?” you think you hear a hint of desperation in his voice, for you to give in—say it’s not too late, you could go back to what you were before. but it’s too fucking late. 

you thought he knew this, so why is he being insistent, even all this time?  

all this time you had been gifted with, a mere three weeks in your homeland, busy with the orchestral competition and then the showcase performances afterwards, squeezing in what time you could with your friends, including him. 

every conversation you shared with him after that first one in years had been friendly, inquiring, mindful. the mutual understanding you thought you also shared showing in his eyes, tinged with sadness and regret, reflected in yours.

”you know we can’t go back, toshi.” you curl your free hand into a fist to hide the trembling in your fingers. 

“then look forward to the future. if it hurts, don’t look back, let it stay where it belongs.” he circles your wrist, gently and firmly, stilling your shaking. he knew, he always knows.

he knows you too well, that you are choosing to stay in the known where it is safe, afraid to risk your heart, to trust once more. he is right, you would rather it stay broken than be disappointed again. 

if you dared, you could tune your violin to the higher frequency, risk the worn strings snapping as you turn the peg tighter. you could always just replace it with a new string.

though unlike violin strings, you only have one heart, worn and tired. you are not sure how much more it could take before the point of no return, and there is no replacing it. 

but it does not have any sense of self preservation when it comes to wakatoshi, yearning for you to say yes, yearning to be home again. you don’t blame it, your rationality seems to go out the window on matters concerning him. 

“why? why did you wait? i left you high and dry for years, and then i come back with little to no warning, and you are being nice to me.” you face him, wringing your hands, breathing heavily, stuck with the countless thoughts flying through your head, each and every last of them devastating. “why?”

“because you are the only one for me. you always have been.” he tugs your hands apart, holding each hand gently, rubbing circles on the back of your palms. 

“i am nothing short of irrational and horrible.” you whisper, feeling particularly awful about your past decisions, your stubbornness that stopped you from hearing him or even semi out.

“sure, but i fucked up first.” gods, why is he so good? it would be so much easier if he isn’t. “you are blaming yourself for something i had a part in. that’s not quite fair, is it?”

he tugs at your fingers for you to look at him again. “i tried to respect your wishes, really. i thought maybe you don’t feel the same way anymore, and the first few times i saw the look in your eyes, i thought i was going mad from desperation, that i was imagining it.” wakatoshi tightens his hold on you ever so slightly at his memory, but continues, “you still have that look in your eyes, the same one i do when i look at you, and it didn’t make sense to me why this should be our ending.”

“there’s too much between us, toshi.” the sounds fall from your mouth like a plea for him to let go, to move on, to stop looking back. 

“two people who still love each other belong together, don’t they?” his words make you curl your fingers around his thick digits, a sharp feeling brewing in your belly. 

anger, you recognize. it is anger that strikes you, taking hold of you as your lips curl and you scowl at the man before you. “you are being unreasonable. how could you just pretend like everything never happened? that it did not hurt for months, years? and to make things worse, i went years not speaking to you out of sheer hurt and stubbornness, only to find out that i was wrong. i should have given you a chance to explain– hear your side of the story out, something.” 

you lick your lips, trying to gather your thoughts, communicate them coherently. “but i didn’t. and you’re acting like it didn’t hurt you. like i didn’t hurt you. for years. you say you feel the same, and yet you look unfazed by my actions that should have carved your heart out of your chest. you are acting like my mistakes are so easily forgiven, like it was nothing, but you are pretending. i know it hurts.”

your neatly trimmed nails are pressing crescents into his palm even as your shoulders shake, feeling the absolute guilt heavy and crushing. because you don’t deserve him. he should be glad that he is free of you, not trying to get you to change your mind. 

“that day i saw you at the apartment. you were speaking to me as if nothing happened, trying to talk to me the way you used to. but you should have yelled at me for being stupid. threw me out on the streets. slammed the door in my face and never looked back. you should never have let me back into your life. i fucked everything up so badly and you are standing here trying to convince me to give us a second chance. do you hear yourself? are you insane?”

this is pathetic, you think. you are shaking, salty tears flowing freely down your cheeks, and sometime during your little confession of truth he had guided you to an empty corner of the room for more privacy. or to keep people from seeing you fall apart. 

but he is gaping at you, as if you just told him something he didn’t know, and you look away, ashamed of yourself. 

“no, no, look at me,” his fingers chase after your turned face, fitting in the curve of your jawbone as he firmly tilts your head to look at him. try to resist as you may, you end up giving in to him, as you always does. “that is what you are torn apart over? that you might have hurt me with your actions? not that i kept my arranged marriage a secret from you?”

his eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, leaving you frustrated “but i did hurt you from my actions, didn’t i? unless you don’t love me. which i am assuming is not the case since you are trying to convince me to give us a chance. of course i was hurt you kept that a secret from me. what was i supposed to think when i heard about it from your mother and not you? but it pales in comparison to my– how unreasonable i was, dragging this easily solved issue over years. how could you say that?”

“and your reaction was perfectly reasonable, why can’t you see that?” 

“why can’t you let me go?” 

wakatoshi almost drops his hand from your words, feeling them pierce the thick layers he kept over his own heart to shield its injuries from the world. he feels the nonchalant charade he kept up crack and slip, no longer able to ignore the hurt that coursing through his veins.

“because now you’re being stupid. are you actually saying that you won’t give us a chance because you hurt me after being hurt by me and you think that the hurt you caused me is worse than the hurt i caused you? why do you feel the need to atone for your mistakes by denying yourself a shot at happiness?”

“because you have not given yourself a chance to live in a world without me.” gods— 

“i don’t follow.” he says flatly, hands dropping to his sides, visibly deflated at your repeated attempts to move on. 

“you still live in our apartment. you never let me go, never allowed yourself to experience a world without me in it,” you swallow, though the lump in your throat remains at the thought of what you are about to do—what you are about to ask of him. you so desperately want to keep silent, want to jump into his arms, but you would also never forgive yourself if you kept him from a better life. “i want you to go and live in that world, let yourself experience the happiness and joy i once brought you with someone else. someone with whom you don’t share a tainted past with. i want you to give this chance to someone else.”

“what about what i want? have you thought about that? of the possibility that i only want you, not anyone else, even if they are perfect.”

“how do you know that? you haven’t given anyone else a chance!” you surmised as much from your observations, a conclusion that you arrived at after learning that he is still living at your shared apartment, which tendo confirmed.

“because i don’t need to! gods, you are killing me.” he exclaims as loud as he could without drawing anyone’s attention, staring at you intensely. 

“i know.”

he lets out a heavy exhale, rubbing his hand over his face. “so what then?”

“go live a life without me. date someone. move out of that apartment, for the love of god.” fall in love with someone good for you, like semi did. not me. 

“and then what?” he quirks an eyebrow at you. 

“and then what?” you repeat his words back to him in disbelief. 

“what if i still want us?” his stare pierces through your defense, forcing you to take a step back before you could pull him in. 

a brittle, fragile bridge of trust stretches between you, and you are sure that it is bound to break if either of you were to take a step towards the other. 

“you haven’t even given it a shot yet.” you retort, hands crossed over your chest. this stubborn man…

“i already know so.” he states firmly, leaving no room for argument. it makes you want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time, if it were not for the plethora of reasons that would cause it all to fall apart stopping you from doing so. 

“you are so fucking stubborn.” you grit your teeth. a pair of waving arms catches your attention, as the man himself makes his way to the two of you. you roll your eyes at the glint of interest appearing in his mischievous eyes. 

“i could say the same about you.” he replies. 

you look away, pointedly avoiding his gaze as your red-haired friend approaches. tendo would never let you live it down if he hears about this conversation. 

“i suppose so.” you murmur before tendo pulls you towards the circle of people forming around the newly engaged couple who are starting their toast, leaving wakatoshi to follow. 

their beautiful story brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes. your lower lip is wobbling as you dab at the corner of your eyes with a napkin that tendo offered. 

pure bliss radiates from the pair as they glance at each other lovingly, so much so that one could mistake them as newlyweds. it makes you falter in your decision, just enough that you allow yourself to think of a future where everything goes right. 

enough that you slip out from the party as wakatoshi excuses himself for an early night. 

enough that you call out after the man you who is both a stranger and your home. 

“wakatoshi!” his name leaves your lips, carrying on a life of its own. it reminds you of the boy who took flight in the gymnasium one summer day. .

“vienna.” you repress the smile that threatens to break at the sight of surprise in his warm honeyed eyes, his half-turned body with his hand still on the door. “i will meet you in vienna in a year. i–if you still feel the same way. if i could leave the past behind us.”

“just tell me where and when.” there is a tremble in his voice laced with disbelief. 

“that’s up to you to figure out.” find me, you seem to say, like this is a test of his belief and knowledge in you, and of fate. 

“see you in a year then.” a muscle in his jaw twitches as his lips part, but he presses them shut with visible turmoil shortly after, as though he had more to say but decided against it. 

you swallow with your fist grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt above where your heart lays, wishing it to calm, begging for hope to delay its flight. 

there are many things that could go awry in this plan that hinges on him getting the time and place right, including the fact that it requires you to trust him again. because trust is the foundation of any relationship—without trust, there is nothing. 

not to mention, it also depends on him not changing his mind. 

it is tricky because he might just meet someone who changes his mind in between now and the next year. tricky because you might not be able to trust him again for the decision is the hardest first step. tricky because—

“time changes all.”

no one is impervious to the passage of time, not you, not even ushijima wakatoshi. 

so why is hope still beating its wings with all its might in the confines of your ribcage?

a/n: i had a hard time figuring out how to phrase the promise, but had a breakthrough today and could not wait to post <333 enjoy y'all, lightly edited! only one more chapter to go, i am gonna cry thinking about osd ending :') (also spy the title reference in the chapter :3 i love y'all thank you for being on this wild ride with me tags: @lemurzsquad @daisy-room @integers @brokenbraveakira @whosmarjj @nansfyy @illuzminate @httpshoyo @manyuyuu @hatsukeii @bakery-anon @wrimaira

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[lees-chaotic-brain]

For the song fic event JJK, Suguru Geto x reader Baby I'm yours by Isabel LaRosa Especially this line "I'm nervous trip over my words, you're so pretty it hurts"

summary: suguru really, really, likes you but you overhear something he says to gojo and suddenly there's a terrible misunderstanding

wc: 981

cw: fluff, slight angst, misunderstanding, suguru is down bad, reader wears a sundress, like two swear words, reader refers to herself as girlfriend once, suguru calls reader baby once, may be ooc bc it's only like, my second time writing for him, sorry

note: this is a little shorter than the other ones, but i'm actually fairly pleased with how it turned out! i think it's pretty cute!

listen to this while reading!

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The brush of cold air whirring from the air conditioning in the little boutique was the only thing keeping Suguru sane. Why he had decided to join you and Ieri on your shopping trip in ninety degree weather was beyond him. He should have just stayed on campus and relaxed in his dorm, maybe read a bit of the book he’s been intending to read for months. 

The rustling of the curtain enclosing the dressing room draws his eye, and he hears you and Ieri whispering urgently at each other. Suddenly, you stumbled through the curtain, and he swears he feels his heart stop in his chest.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at your face pretty much every day for the last few years, or he hasn’t seen you in a sundress before. It’s not even the first time he’s found himself thinking that you were beautiful. But there was something just a little bit different about this time.

Maybe it’s the way the sun shines through the window, a small beam caressing your face lovingly, like the sun itself was entranced by your beauty. Or perhaps it was the flowy little sundress you’re wearing that accentuates your features so well. 

Actually, he decides. It’s a little bit of all of the above, but the biggest factor was your smile, blindingly bright as you turned to face him after kicking Ieri through the curtain.

“So, what do you think? Should I get it?” 

His chest constricts, his heart feels like it’s going to explode, and he’s not sure how or what he managed to say. Hours after the fact, he privately reflects on the exchange, his heart panging in his chest every time he recalls the moment.

It should be illegal to be that pretty. It’s bad for his the public's health and sanity.

I'm nervous trip over my words You're so pretty it hurts

“-I just can’t do it anymore.” 

You don’t mean to eavesdrop, you really don’t. But you hear Suguru having what seemed to be a serious conversation with Gojo then caught your name being mentioned. Naturally, your curiosity was piqued, so you loitered outside the classroom, only to immediately wish you had just minded your own business.

“I can’t be friends with her any more.” Suguru groans, and a chair squeaks as if he had leaned back in it. “It’s just too difficult you don’t understand. I can’t even look at her any more.”

“What?”

You had no idea what you were doing until you had thrown open the door and stepped into the classroom. You see Gojo mouth “oh, shit” over Suguru’s shoulder, but your attention is focused on your black-haired classmate, hurt and betrayal lining your face. 

“What did you just say?”

He takes a deep breath, anxiety lining his body as he exhales in a long, drawn out sigh. 

“I think we need to talk.”

Favorite mistake Friendship's over

The silence is awkward as you perch next to him on the bench, fidgeting with your fingers. Suguru’s pants rustle as he slides his legs into his usual obnoxious manspread, the adjustment causing his thigh to press up against yours, heat transferring between you where your uniform pants touch.

“I’m sorry.”

Your quiet apology breaks the silence, and his head jerks up so fast you’re half afraid he got whiplash.

 “I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. But when I heard you didn’t want to be friends with me anymore I listened in. Did I do something? Can you tell me so I can try to fix it?  I really value you and our friendship.”

Suguru lets out a dry chuckle as he scrubs his face with his hands and your heart drops. Does he really hate you so much that the idea of remaining friends with you is laughable? What went wrong? Did he find out about your feelings for him? Is that why he doesn’t want to remain friends?

“Listen if this is about my feelings for you.”

“I think you might have misunderstood-”

You speak at the same time before pausing as the other’s words registered. You’re confused, because what was there to misunderstand? He’s just staring at you with something akin to hope glimmering in his dark eyes.

“You like me?”

“You didn’t know?” Could this have gone any worse? You bury your face in your hands, hiding your burning face from his intense gaze. “I thought-I thought you didn’t want to be friends with me anymore because you found out and were uncomfortable.”

“Trust me, finding out you have feelings for me is the last thing that is going to make me uncomfortable. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I was scared.” Your confession is barely audible as you stare at your shoes, unable to look at him. “I didn’t want things to change. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Warm, calloused fingers grip your chin softly, and tilt your face to the side. The look on his face is so soft you want to melt, and the gentleness of his grip on your chin simultaneously breaks your heart and heals it.

“Baby.” Butterflies erupt in your stomach at the sound of the pet name. “Things are going to change but you sure as hell aren’t going to lose me.”

“What do you mean?”

You’re hardly breathing, the suspicion of what he was trying to say stealing the oxygen from your lungs.

“What are you saying?”

“Let me be your boyfriend.” He’s looking at you so earnestly, so openly, it brings tears to your eyes for some inexplicable reason. “Please. I’ve been yours since the moment I met you, whether you knew it or not. So, can I make it official?”

“Depends.” You give him a watery smile. “Do I get to be your girlfriend?”

“I thought that went unsaid.” 

“Then baby I’m yours.”

Won’t be the same Baby I’m yours

thank you so much for reading! as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always so so appreciated!! don't forget to comment/send an ask/dm me if you would like to be added to or removed from any of my taglists. love you all <3

general taglist: @ponderingmoonlight @hotvinimon @evemooniepeach

jjk taglist: @m0k0k0 @starlightanyaaa

geto suguru taglist: n/a

[syneilesis]

[fic] Slower Days

Slower Days

Love and Deepspace | Part of Airport AU | Zayne (Li Shen) vs. Sylus (Qin Che) vs. Xavier (Shen Xinghui) vs. Rafayel (Qi Yu) | 2.2k words | G | ao3 link

In which Zayne is a part-time airport doctor, and he’s really wishing he could go back to being a full-time hospital doctor.

A/N: Kids, do not copy Sylus. He may be an excellent pilot, but he's not role model material lmao. Also: Caleb cameo.

Zayne has just finished checking his last patient (there's nothing really wrong with the person; just a baffling case of getting starstruck) when an airport crew knocks on the door and peeks in.

"Doctor?"

The patient scurries away, suddenly embarrassed, but not before casting one last wistful look at Zayne, who ignores it with willful concentration.

"Yes?"

The personnel fidgets a little, wages an internal battle over whether to look at Zayne in the eye, loses, and focuses on his side parting instead. "There's emergency at the departure area," he says finally. "We need your help."

Zayne immediately gets up. "Did somebody collapse?"

A suspicious shifty gaze. "Um, somebody might."

That doesn’t inspire much certainty about the state of things. Zayne sighs. Regardless, he gathers his medical equipment after a quick deliberation. "Lead the way."

When they reach the departure area and the situation wordlessly presents itself to him, Zayne immediately does a cost-benefit analysis in his head about his urgent decision to hightail it out of here.

Just a few ways away, the towering figures of Xavier, Rafayel, and Sylus facing each other like three velociraptors about to attack are already attracting spectators. Some bystanders are murmuring for airport security, except the authorities in question are hovering at the threshold, afraid to penetrate the invisible barrier between the public and those three intimidatingly striking men.

Xavier, Rafayel, or Sylus individually already screams trouble. Zayne still can't forget the time when Xavier managed to summon all customs officers by implicating that Rafayel was bringing dangerous drugs (they were only rare paint powders, and even then nobody was able to trace the instigator to Xavier, the clever fox), or that time when the plane piloted by Sylus almost ran over a smaller jet just because the jet's pilot flirted with you (Zayne had to part-time as a counselor for that one—something that's way beyond his job description). Together, they're a greater risk and danger.

Sylus, the tallest among the three, steps forward and juts his chin out in an obvious display of dominance. Rafayel reacts to that and bristles, says something in rapid fire that yanks Sylus’s mouth into a scowl. Xavier remains calm, but Zayne knows based on experience that the young man's already commenced four out of eight of his contingency plans.

The airport crew beside him fidgets nervously. "Um, Doctor?"

His jaw tics; Zayne resists the urge to raise his hand and press it. This isn't part of his work, but he has the unfortunate privilege of knowing the men by way of your association. He has interacted with Xavier and Rafayel at length, and they are civil with each other, sure, but he can't say the same for Sylus. He had, once, sat for two hours of your ranting about aforementioned pilot, gesticulating about the several times Sylus disrupted you during work. He hadn't the courage to ask you directly about the kind of disruption the man was doing but based on your anecdotes Zayne surmised that it was the romantic kind.

He doesn't know what to think of that.

Zayne glances at the crewman—who is now sweating buckets at the growingly palpable animosity between the three.

Finally, he says, "Disperse the crowd. I'll handle this."

The crewman springs to action.

Carefully placing his medical tools by a nearby pillar—he won't need them this time, maybe, probably—Zayne strides towards the nucleus of trouble.

"—just don't understand why you have to overtake another landing plane," Rafayel is saying, "when we weren't even delayed!"

"The PA was going back and forth with flight corrections for that one," Xavier adds. “You should’ve seen the chaos you caused here. You basically broke the law.”

But Sylus is undeterred; he sends them both an unimpressed glare, folding his arms and replying, "That plane was dawdling. And nobody came to arrest me.” Then he pauses, and huffs as if he’s burdened with the obligation to explain further. "I was in a hurry."

"For what?"

Sylus just levels Rafayel a look. Then Xavier, victory within reach, cuts in:

"She's on leave today."

Rafayel and Sylus halt. Zayne, too. And they all train their complete, undivided attention on Xavier, who's still calm but is now smiling that offensively polite-but-triumphant smile.

Sylus is the first to recover, but he only narrows his eyes on the immigration officer. Clearly this isn't the first time Xavier pulled such stunt.

Meanwhile, Rafayel inquires, none too quietly, "And what’s the reason for that?"

Xavier shrugs. "Something about a family coming home. She didn't say any specifics."

"Ah, the errand boy doesn't fully know this time. Losing her trust?"

Xavier doesn't rise to the bait, but he throws another smile at Sylus and retaliates: "Better than wrongfully thinking she's assigned here at the departure today."

The sharpness of Sylus's smirk can cut even a hair strand.

But Xavier's previous answer jogs Zayne's memory, and unprompted Zayne utters the missing piece:

"Ah, Caleb's coming home."

This time, the collective gaze redirects to him. To any other person, the triple glares presented by such three distinctive gentlemen would have triggered a fight-or-flight response in them—but with more emphasis on the flight part and more emphasis on the subsequent reaction of turning 180 and running-screaming for the hills. Zayne merely clears his throat and (heroically!) completely enters the fray.

He doesn't know who speaks up, but it may as well be all of them. "Who?"

"Caleb," repeats Zayne. "They grew up together like family. He's practically her elder brother."

Xavier's smile drops.

It's funny how Zayne can see the obvious thoughts running through their heads. It’s also funny how obvious the myriad expressions flit across their faces like a rolling film reel. He can recognize some of them, like disbelief, apprehension, and irritation. The idea of taking a photo of them and sending it to you is very, very tempting.

But of course, he's a professional. He's not that petty.

"It's been years since they've seen each other, so I'm sure she's going to be busy spending time with him for a while. I should drop by later; I know them since childhood as well."

Well. Maybe a little petty.

"Since it's a homecoming," Rafayel begins, an idea forming in his mind from the way a grin is worming onto his face, "I must offer a gift. It's only proper for a close friend like yours truly, after all."

"Then as her partner," parries Xavier, "I should do the same."

Sylus clicks his tongue.

"How are you certain she'd accept your gifts?"

"Indeed," Zayne adds, to everybody's surprise—including himself. His phone vibrates and he fishes it out to read the notification. He types a reply. "She'd most likely ask how you all knew that information. Instead of feeling flattered, she'd feel suspicious."

"Surely the kitten would never suspect me of that," Sylus says, very much confident.

At the nickname 'kitten' indignation clouds Rafayel’s features.

"I wouldn't know about that." Xavier brings a hand to his chin in thought, pretending to consider the notion when, really, he doesn’t actually believe the man’s assertion.

Rafayel huffs. "'Cutie pie' is a more apt endearment and indicates closer relationship, if you ask me."

Sylus raises a brow at him but doesn't dignify that with a response.

Several paces away from their bubble of terror Zayne can see the airport personnel valiantly shooing the resistant spectators. Distress radiates out of him as he negotiates with a passenger attempting to take a photo of the four. When Zayne catches the passenger's eye, he sends his most severe I Am Disappointed, No More Sweets For You look and breathes a sigh of relief when he gets his intended reaction.

"So how shall we settle this?" Xavier suddenly says, which pulls Zayne's attention back to these three childish men.

"Is there something to be settled?" he asks, mildly.

"Of course, Doctor!" It's Rafayel who answers this time. Then he points at Sylus, who just brushes the accusations off like a rebellious patient who never listens to a medical professional. "This guy keeps bothering her on duty that it affects not just her work, but also the entire airport! During the flight earlier, I witnessed the cabin crew perform a bizarre ritual that they claimed was for ensuring a safe and peaceful passage. He also picked a fight with another passenger who complained about his flying. He was arguing through the speakers, Doctor."

When Zayne turns to Sylus for explanation, the man just raises an eyebrow in defiance and his mouth curls into a sneer. "What's wrong with educating an unenlightened individual about the most optimal ways of piloting a plane?"

"I wouldn't call that educating."

"And if we are settling something," Sylus goes on, vicious, "then let's also look at you"—he turns to Rafayel—"bribing the kitten with gifts while she's on duty; and you"—he continues with Xavier—"fraternizing with work colleagues beyond what is professional standards; and"—finally he turns to Zayne, who’s slightly curious about what kind of tongue-lashing he’ll receive—"you. You don't even need to work here."

Zayne for some reason suddenly misses Akso Hospital.

Then Xavier suggests something wild and ridiculous and so inscrutably random, but has the other two looking all too interested.

"Laser tag."

Zayne really misses Akso Hospital.

The conviction in Xavier’s tone solidifies as he keeps on talking. "We'll settle this with laser tag. The winner gets to decide what to do next."

Rafayel seems receptive to the idea. "Name the date and place."

And Sylus, being Sylus, adds a twist: "I don't accept amateur arena. We should do it here. I want a challenge."

Just why did he indulge an old man’s plea to work here part time? He wasn’t even dying at the time. Is it too late to submit a resignation letter? 

They all turn to Zayne, who just wants to go home and eat ice cream. Xavier tilts his head in inquiry. "What do you say, Doctor?"

"I—"

The bell-ring melody of the airport speakers jolts Zayne, and the soft, feminine voice of the speaker washes over the entire departure area:

"Calling the attention of Mister Rafayel, Immigration Officer Xavier, Captain Sylus, and Doctor Zayne. Please—please—whatever you are doing in the middle of the departure area, please stop. You're frightening the entire terminal. Whatever it is you have to settle, please settle it outside, preferably fifty kilometers away from here. We just want peaceful operations today and the foreseeable future. We are begging you. The airport chief is begging you. Thank you."

There's a collective silence from everyone after that announcement. When Zayne glances behind him the airport personnel and some security are throwing them pleading looks complete with clasped hands. Xavier and Rafayel notice this as well, and a smidge of guilt pierces their expressions.

It's only Sylus who's stubbornly immune to this.

"Gonna step back after all that posturing?" he challenges.

And maybe it's time for Zayne to put a stop to this. He doesn't want the desperation of the airport crew on his conscience. He also doesn't want to be summoned by the airport director and face all that hassle.

So he declares to the three, phone ready on hand: "I'm afraid I will have to step back." Zayne shows them the phone screen as evidence. "She invited me to the exclusive family dinner." He makes sure to highlight the words ‘me’ and ‘exclusive’, which imply that they—unlike him—possess no privilege of being invited at all. "I did grow up with them, after all. So if you'll excuse me."

The stunned expressions on their faces spark an amused smirk out of Zayne. Just as he’s about to step back and leave, he’s struck with an unreasonably and uncharacteristically mean thought.

He raises his phone again and—before the three men could even recover—takes a photo of their shocked reactions.

Then he truly hightails it out of there.

Bonus:

During the exclusive family dinner, Zayne shows you the picture (with explanation of context slightly edited), and you scream gleefully at his audacity to do that crazy thing.

Caleb leans in and squints at the screen. “Who are they?” he asks. Then he glances at Zayne, and a whole unspoken dialogue is exchanged between them.

“They’re my friends at work,” you answer, and Zayne homes in on the word friends. That feels satisfying, he thinks. But then you falter a bit, adding, “Well, two of them are my friends. The other …”

You don’t finish your sentence, though from that alone Zayne—and even Caleb, based on the intense glint in his eye—can surmise a number of assumptions and implications that he isn’t sure he can process at the moment. Thankfully, the potentially disastrous conversation that would branch off from there is averted by Josephine’s introduction of desserts.

There’s a period of peace and harmony during the enjoyment of desserts—until Caleb blinks in realization and speaks up.

“Wait. I recognize one of them. Isn’t that the pilot who trended online because he once flew off-route and reached his destination in record-breaking time?”

[pinkiemachine]

Hi- it's the anon who asked about potential Dami love interests. I'd LOVE to hear more!!!

*cracks knuckles*

Dear little Damian is a troubled soul, and sadly he takes after both his parents. A travesty, I know. When trying to root around the comics and surrounding media for that one perfect love interest that everyone agrees on, I didn’t find anything except maybe Flatline, but even that’s not unanimous, and I myself am part of the reason it’s not unanimous. When I thought about it reeeally hard, I realised why the idea of putting Damian in a relationship at all has felt so tricky up until now. In short: kid’s messed up and probably shouldn’t be dating at all. A travesty, I know.

But I didn’t let that stop me!

I’m just kidding, I did, BUT THEN I had a BETTER idea!

Ahem, ahem…

Chapter 1:

In my AU, the story goes like this: Damian had never given love a second thought. He was told that one day he would need to marry to continue the Al Ghul bloodline, but nothing more. Actually, it was entirely possible that he would wind up in an arranged marriage, so it was something he really, really hadn’t bothered to think about. Then, when he turned 14, he joined the Teen Titans as their leader and met Princess Amethyst. Heir to the throne of Gemworld, temporarily on Earth due to story shenanigans, but must go back home eventually to reclaim her kingdom.

Amethyst (or Amy) became a member of the TT shortly after arriving on Earth, and at first, Damian purely saw her as an underling, but Amethyst, oh, she didn’t stand for that. See, she was raised in the courts of the Gem Palace. She had received the best education money could buy, she had been personally tutored in magic since the age of four, and she was a well-bred young lady. Whenever Damian wanted to, he got lippy and snarky and smarter-than-you toward just about anyone, but when he did it to Amy, he got back what he served and then some. Amy didn’t shrink from his angry, snide tone, she didn’t hesitate when he got philosophical or witty, she could spit facts and wax poetically as fast as he could, and she didn’t take any of his insults lying down. The other Teen Titans would often stand on the sidelines in fear and morbid entertainment as they watched the two of them go back and forth, arguing for hours sometimes. Honestly, if you asked any of them if Damian and Amy got along, they’d probably tell you they were mortal enemies. And yet, both of them found themselves willingly plunging into each argument as if they had been eagerly awaiting it. As if this other person was the first person in a long time who could actually stand on their intellectual level and not bat en eye.

Well, a few missions go by and this remains the status quo. No major relationship changes of any kind, just lots of back and forth banter.

BUT THEN—

The TT were on one mission in particular and it involved a shapeshifter. It’s nighttime, the team is in this big old abandoned building, they know this shapeshifter character is around somewhere, then they get attacked, and the group is split. Damian and Amethyst wind up alone. Together. In a section of the building. Amy suddenly appears distraught. She turns to Damian, blinking her big eyes, and while no one else is around to hear her she asks if he’s ever… felt for another person before. Damian… stares blankly at her. “Uh…” (Internally, warning bells are blaring, and he doesn’t know what to do.) Amy comes closer to him, and asks him if he’s ever felt… like he wanted to kiss someone before. Damian continues to stare blankly. “Uh…” (Inwardly, there are no more thoughts, only panic and melt down! He was never trained for this!) Amy hesitates, feeling sure that he wouldn’t understand, and for a moment, Damian thinks he’s in the clear, but then Amy changes her mind, musters her courage, and kisses him! Goosebumps. Hair standing on end. Fireworks. The whole shebang! …And then Damian falls unconscious. Yeah, that wasn’t Amethyst. That was the shapeshifter! It’s Nobody, by the way 👇 Yeah, I wanted to give her shapeshifting, because I think it would be cool for her character and other plot related reasons… see previous.

Anyway, so Damian wakes up after the mission, having been totally blindsided by Nobody, tricking him into kissing who he thought was Amy, and now he doesn’t know what to do with all that! So he pretends it never happened. No one else needs to know. And yet, he can’t help but feel some type of way whenever Amy walks by. He can’t even argue with her anymore—it makes him feel too weird! So he starts avoiding her like the plague. He doesn’t talk to her, he doesn’t look at her, she might as well not exist to him! And this… was not the smartest idea.

Ever since joining the team and meeting Damian, Amy’s felt the full sting of his insults and attacks. She’d never admit it, of course, and she tries her best to not let him get to her, but after weeks and weeks and weeks of this, she’d be lying if she said his words didn’t chip away at her heart just a little bit, wearing down her self esteem. And now, with Damian ignoring her, it only made things worse. He hated her. She was sure of it. He hated her and he wished she had never joined the team, and maybe it would better if she’d never come at all. Again, she locked these feelings away, trying her best to ignore them, but they were still there, waiting for their opportunity to make a mess, and make a mess they did.

It all came to a head after the TT came back from a botched mission. Damian was in a particularly bad mood and was tearing into some of his teammates, lecturing them about what they did wrong, and then Amy stepped up to defend them. That was the first time in weeks Damian acknowledged her, and he was savage. He didn’t pull any punches—he said aloud every single thing Amy most dreaded to hear. “You’re a burden to this team! You don’t know what you’re doing! It would be better if you’d never come to Earth at all!” Everything short of saying “I hate you.” And Amy… usually so resilient and proud and strong… finally broke. Tears slipped out before she could stop them, and she ran from the room, embarrassed. The other Titans were furious with Damian, and went to go console Amy. Even Jon, who tried his best to be patient with his friend because he knew about his awful upbringing, couldn’t defend him this time. He’d gone too far and been unnecessarily mean to someone who had only ever tried to be his friend. Jon was going to go join the others consoling her.

Damian flew back to Gotham in a rage. He spent three hours on the training course, then went up to his room and slammed the door shut. Alfred could see what was wrong the moment he set foot in the house, so he called Nightwing, hoping that the two of them could have a little chat. And chat they did. They snuck out on patrol together and Dick prodded the truth out of Damian, but he insisted that he hadn’t done anything wrong! Amy overreacted! It wasn’t his fault! Dick had to have a very long talk with him that night, and what Damian took away from it was this: Amy was his teammate, but more than that she was his friend. He can’t go around insulting her and making her cry, and the only way to stop being mean to her is to learn how to care about her and her feelings. This is a difficult concept for Damian to grasp.

The next day, Damian goes to Jon and asks him about “caring.” How does one do it? Jon does his best to explain, though he doesn’t put it quite so eloquently, and then he asks why Damian wants to know. Is this about Amy? Hmm? Does he want to care about Amy? Does he secretly like Amy? HMMM???

Damian reacts with nothing but hostility at first, rejecting such an utterly ridiculous idea, but then… he remembers the night he thought he had kissed Amy… and then he started recalling so many other things about Amy… things he admired about her… and he had to take a step back. Holy cow. He did like her. He made Jon swear to never, ever tell anyone about this under any circumstances, ever. This was a secret he would take to his grave. Especially since… Amy would leave one day, anyway. She had her kingdom to go home to. Rule as queen…

So following that conversation, Damian then goes to find Amy and apologise to her, but it doesn’t go well. Amy wants the truth out of him. No more insults or arguments or beating around the bush, she wanted to know exactly what Damian really thought of her. The truth! But Damian couldn’t tell her. She asked again. And again, he just couldn’t tell her. She left him, saying “I’ll think about accepting your apology.”

For a while, nothing more was said about it. An uneasy peace had been negotiated between the two, and while their constant ignoring of one another left the rest of the team feeling uneasy, it was at least a small improvement from constant arguing.

Finally, something came along to help set things right. During one of the big season finales, Amethyst is in mortal danger. Damian, seeing no other alternative, dives headfirst into danger, taking a bullet for her and saving her life. Amethyst refused to leave his bedside while he recovered, but once he did wake up, she made herself scarce. She was beyond grateful to him, but she couldn’t tell him that. To his face, anyway. Damian knew she was just beyond the med room door, though. He understood how she felt, and he knew the flowers by his bed were from her. He’d never appreciated flowers more in his life. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not to her face, anyway.

From that day on, Damian and Amy were on continuously improving terms, and every once in a while it wasn’t unusual for one or the other to find a gift left for them in their room or their Titans locker. Small things, usually. Get-well-soon gifts after getting injured in battle for example. They argued less, but they still never spoke to one another. Casually, that is. During missions, it was a necessity, but now they found themselves agreeing on battle strategies instead of butting heads all the time. The rest of the team was speechless.

However, all good things must come to an end. By the end of the Ultimate Teen Titans run, Amethyst’s kingdom is saved, and it’s time for her to go home and become queen. She can no longer be a Teen Titan. As she stands by the portal, waiting to take her home, she says one final goodbye to all her friends she’s come to love over the course of her stay. Lorena and Jenny… Jon, Jaime, and Virgil… and then there’s Damian. Team Captain. She gave hugs to all the others, but when she gets to Damian, she falters. In the end, all she can muster is a handshake, and all Damian can think to do is accept it. She says goodbye. He says goodbye. Even though there’s much more they wanted to say… it almost felt too cruel to say it now, on the verge of her leaving. So, Amy turns and starts walking… but that’s when Damian felt his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he’d regret not saying something now while he could—he needed to say something quickly!

“Amy!”

She turned around at once, hoping desperately that he would say the words they had both left hanging in the air. She wanted him to tell her not to go… he wanted to beg her to stay… but…

“…I… take care of yourself…”

At once, Amy’s spirits fell so low, it was just unbearable. With a quivering lip, she gave him a smile, said, “You too,” and then vanished into the portal.

Damian was left standing there, still in shock.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Bruce would routinely go looking for Damian and find him in his room, curled up on the floor by his fireplace. Titus the Great Dane was usually close by. Damian would never admit it in a million years, but Bruce knew he had been crying, at least the first time, right after Amy had left. After that… he was in a deep depression and barely ate, barely slept, and barely went outside. He would get back into the swing of things eventually—he was the son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul for pity’s sake—but for those few weeks… while he was alone… he was just a 14-year-old boy who was beating himself up over missing his last shot to tell Amy… he loved her. And now she was gone forever.

End of Chapter 1.

[lonelyroommp3]

pls what's the zephy saga (if you don't mind) i love fandom drama

okay gather round the fireplace kids it's zephy retelling time. i feel like i do this on a practically annual basis at this point. it's tradition

anyway first i must set the scene. around christmas 2012, tom hooper's star studded cinematic adaptation of the iconic musical les misérables, itself based on victor hugo's magnum opus, was released. within a few months, the film and its healthy sized gaggle of shippable twinks (including, of course, patron saint of fujoism george blagden) would gain enormous popularity on tumblr, causing the fandom to explode in size and leading to other more storied dramas like the great enjonine war of spring/summer 2013. this is not a story about the fandom in that era of expansion.

prior to that, the tumblr les mis fandom was essentially divided into two, maybe three if you squint, camps, who basically only interacted - as far as i'm aware - to beef with each other. it was, in the grand scheme of things, a very small fandom even before you divided it, so within the camps it was very much an everybody knows everybody kind of deal. on one side, you had people who took things like canon era historical research very seriously, very much favoured the book over the musical, had mostly moved here from places like livejournal and forums, skewed older, had their own insane drama (crow!jehan cult anon come back to me my love...) but aren't really a part of this story. on the other side you had a younger (almost exclusively teenage, maybe some of them were early 20s at the time) cohort who took things altogether less seriously, were more appreciative of the musical, favoured modern aus and shitposts over serious meta, etc etc. they were called the les mis jokers and when i tell you i literally made my account on here after months of lurking because i wanted to Be a les mis joker. i went about this in a sane way compared to the protagonist of this story

(the kind of third clique of fans were people who were into the musical more than the book but took themselves more seriously than the les mis jokers. they do not matter in this story)

anyway, i joined tumblr in late november 2012, the movie came out christmas 2012, ALSO around christmas 2012 another new aspiring les mis joker entered the ring. this was zephy. zephy was a little bit older than most of the people on this side of the fandom (25 or 27 depending on what post you read. #subtleforeshadowing), married, pregnant, and (very very cool thing to be in the eyes of any teenager obsessed with les misérables) french. although she moved to new york city mere days after making her account. not only this, but she came in and just immediately had the tumblr way of speaking down pat, knew all the blogs to follow, seemed to come in already knowledgeable in les mis joker injokes (lurking without an account was, as my own story shows, a completely normal thing to do on here at the time, so this didn't raise any alarm bells), immediately integrated herself in with this side of the fandom with absolute ease and became a very beloved and popular blogger very quickly

sadly, all was not plain sailing for zephy. as her blogging career continued, over the first few months of 2013 her personal life became marred by a sequence of increasingly horrible events. in rough order going by the eventual callout post: her sister attempted suicide, she miscarried her twins, she separated from her husband, her husband then took his own life, she was fired from her job, became estranged from her sister, and THEN (remember we're in spring 2013 by now) her entire family were present at the boston marathon when the bombing occurred. zephy was, understandably given all she'd been going through, very very suicidal herself, and-- WAIT! what's this? it's PEYTON BEACHDEATH WITH A STEEL CHAIR

that's right, peyton beachdeath was in (or adjacent to? i'll be honest i don't remember this entirely. never followed him) the les mis fandom at the time, and was alerted to the many concerning posts and suicide notes zephy was posting. "alright," thinks peyton beachdeath, "i'm going to go back through zephy's blog archive and see what contact information i can find so i can get in touch, maybe get this really vulnerable and distressed woman some help and prevent her from harming herself." a genuinely kindhearted gesture!

however. it turned out that when you exposed yourself to zephy's entire blog history in one sitting... things stopped making sense very rapidly. i'll let the artist formerly known as lalondes' findings speak for themselves here

(yes, for those who clicked, zephy's url was felixtholomyes, aka fantine's dirtbag ex who deceived, betrayed, and abandoned her. i have never figured out if this was a mere coincidence in the post-movie scramble for the last remaining canon urls or if zephy was playing us like a fiddle all along with that one)

tl;dr for those who cba reading the entire callout - various crucial things did not add up in zephy's lore, including but not limited to inconsistencies in her age, her supposed email address, and even the number of children she was supposedly pregnant with (eta: other zephy contemporaries have said they remember her posting when she found out she was expecting twins as opposed to just one baby but she just deleted the post, hence why peyton couldn't find it). she also managed to pull off an intercontinental house move and start a new job while obsessively keeping up her brand new les mis fandom blog (peyton hypothesises, and i have to agree, that this move was so whoever was behind the zephy account could post more easily in their own time zone after realising that their initial ploy to be Very Interesting And French was going to be a logistical nightmare)

essentially - at the very least, several key facets of zephy's life story were fabricated. at worst, zephy did not exist whatsoever

after the callout post, zephy deactivated, and to this day i don't know that anybody has figured out who she was. a few people at the time posted that they had theories but nobody (much to my consternation as a certified nosy bitch) shared them with me, and i have no leads other than peyton's aforementioned theory about what time zone they probably lived in. and basically as soon as this had happened the fandom experienced its aforementioned exponential growth and subsequent world war thrE/É so everyone rapidly forgot about it anyway in favour of our new hobby (queer erasure slapfights)

the detail that really vexes and haunts me is zephy posted selfies - they were all the grainy mac photobooth gpoys we were all taking at the time, they were clearly of a person none of us had seen before (EVERYONEEEE was posting face on main in 2012/13 tumblr fandom), so who knows if this was the actual face of zephy & we were really being infiltrated by a whole new face in the fandom, OR it was an extremely elaborate and well done catfishing ruse. idk if anybody ever reverse image searched or even had the thought or opportunity to do so before the blog vanished from existence.

anyway. that's the zephy story. if you were around at the time and have theories i still want to know them 12 (TWELVE) years later. i got my laptop out at midnight for this