#so its not the most cohering thing in the world

[quietwingsinthesky]

i stand by the fact that thief (2014) wasn't a very good game but it did have a cutscene in the very last chapter that i keep thinking about. like one of those tiny moments in a game that rewrites your brain. and i can't even describe exactly why, it's such a small moment, but i keep thinking about it.

the only isolated version of it i can find is here, which comes without the subtitles, but what she says is "Everyone said I was bad, that I corrupted the Primal. Well. I'd hate to disappoint."

and i just keep thinking about it. erin, her name's erin btw, has at this point spent a year in captivity, drugged into unconsciousness, tortured, experimented on, while various men in power try to extract this power out of her to use it for their own ends. this thing she does here, we know it happens ambiently to people over time from exposure to her. this is the first and only time we see her actively fuck someone up like this, destroy their mind and body in a way that's almost. casual. with just a touch, moving on past them. and i keep thinking about this moment. about her being told for a year that she's the source of corruption, that without her this power would be pure. useful. about her finally being conscious enough to do something with this thing that's been an excuse to hurt her for months and accepting it as truth that she did corrupt it but that means it's hers to use, now, and hers to destroy people with and hers to protect herself with. "i'd hate to disappoint."

[lucabyte]

ALSO YOUR OCS LOOK SO INTERESTINGGG… i dont have energy to look thru it all rn esp with fixation gnawing on my brain but ill get to them sometime :^) so fun so fun

🤝🤝🤝 The fixation gnaweth on my brain too do not fret. the poor bastards are getting a little neglected for a hot minute all told

BUUUT i am open for questioning and interrogating if ever you do look into my things. I know I've only really got the surface level stuff on display on toyhouse etc but just like anyone with ocs I have a bunch of stuff in my head that's just not written out because I haven't been given an excuse yet lol

[navree]

people who got angry at the writers of 2x03 for talking about how rhaenyra didn't put any thought into her meeting with alicent and can't be surprised at the outcome because "rhaenyra shouldn't have to offer any concessions" are baffling and probably lacking in brain cells because that's literally spot on. rhaenyra went into an attempt at peace talks without any attempt to conciliate the opposing side and was surprised when the peace talks devolved and ultimately failed. it's bad decision making on her part, it's bad leadership and governance insofar as she has the ability to govern, and given that we're meant to see her as a legitimate claimant to be the sovereign, it's entirely reasonable to judge her on those standards.

because rhaenyra should have thought of concessions. she's making a big ask here, and it's entirely fair that she make offers that could actually appeal to the opposing side other than "War Bad :(" because the other side knows that, like in every conflict ever, they've just decided that the potential outcomes of winning the war matter more than the lack of war in its entirety. it is doubly important that rhaenyra offer concessions because she is also no longer the only wounded party. any peace talk to avoid the dance would need to hinge on both sides acknowledging that there has been serious wrong done to each part. on rhaenyra's end, the man whose rule is law proclaimed her heir but that was taken from her, and her son was killed unexpectedly during the negotiation phase. on aegon's end, he has the precedent of centuries of westerosi legal custom, and his six year old was murdered for absolutely no reason through no fault of his own or even aegon's. these are major grievances that both need to be dealt with fairly and with the understanding that restitution on both sides needs to be made. i mean, hell, rhaenyra only gives a passing mention to the fact that she did not, in fact, order two assassins to force their way into helaena's bedroom and make her choose which child to die. not even offering to allow daemon to face any sort of legal justice at aegon's hands is a gigantic fucking blunder on her part.

rhaenyra is no longer in the position where she can make unilateral demands because she is no longer the only person who has suffered or dealt with material consequences. hostilities are now as much motivated by personal desires for revenge as they are for legitimate succession reasons, and rhaenyra knows that because the entire reason she meets with alicent is to try and break the cycle that started with luke and then moved to jaehaerys and then the cargylle twins afterwards. i mean, hell, look at what alicent says at the end of the conversation when she tells rhaenyra it's too late. she mentions that the equivalent to armed forces have been mobilized, that one of the most personally powerful military men is actively marching to engage in warfare, and that aemond, someone who is not only ruthless but, as far rhaenyra knows, has a vested personal interest in doing things like avenging his beheaded nephew, is going to be involved. rhaenyra's thoughts, were she a competent leader/administrator, should be "what can i do to get them to at least press pause on this so we can negotiate further". the fact that it wasn't is a failure on her part, the fact that she did just think she could come in and go "let's stop fighting" when there are issues that she needs to address on her side now is a failure. it's entirely acceptable to call her out on this.

and i would have given this same criticism if a peace talk was initiated by alicent with that same mindset. if alicent had tried to negotiate with rhaenyra and been the one pushing for it, she should have had some restitution to offer her for what happened to luke, and for sending ser arryk to murder her in her bed. that would be a reasonable thing for rhaenyra to accept, since those are grievances that the greens need to address in any peace talk with her in turn. but the difference is that alicent is aware of the fact that she'd need to do that, because she already did it. she's the one who says they need to send terms to dragonstone after aegon's coronation that rhaenyra can find acceptable and agree to without feeling humiliated or losing face amongst her own supporters. she sends otto with those terms with clear messages to be conciliating, and even leverages her and rhaenyra's former emotional investment in each other to drive home that these are peace messages (in contrast to rhaenyra starting out with 'if i wanna i could murder you' which is a very bad way to start a peace talk, and rhaenyra knows that because immediately when called on it she acknowledges that it's a fuck up on her part).

there's a section of this fandom that believes rhaenyra is the rightful ruler, but then actually refuses to judge her on her merits as a ruler. she wants to be the sovereign, fantastic, but that means she's going to be held to a higher standard by both other characters and the audience, because she's now the key decision maker and also responsible for literally everything that happens on her end (i don't know if some of y'all were just too dumb to qualify for apush but i am smart so i took it and i remember when we talked about the truman presidency in that class and "the buck stops here"). it's not the writers being shitty to rhaenyra to point out that this plan was flawed from the getgo because there were serious issues in her thinking that meant it could never succeed. it's just the simple truth of the situation.

[biblicalhorror]

Ultimately, I do get why Saccharina was/is such a controversial character. By design, she exists as a central plot point to the story at large in a way that the other characters really don't, and I could see why her play style might have rubbed viewers the wrong way, especially if they've personally experienced DnD players who bulldoze over other PCs character beats and cannot handle not being the center of attention.

However. Keeping in mind all of the character's background, specifically being abandoned by both parents and raised by abusive bulbian nuns, growing up knowing that her only saving grace for not only the familial love that she desperately craved, but also her entire future and destiny, rested on finding her father and taking her rightful place on the throne of Candia, it makes a lot of sense that Emily would play her the way that she does. Yes, she is purportedly in her mid-twenties-ish while Ruby is a teenager, and under normal circumstances, she should be expected to be the grown-up. But Ruby had a large, mostly loving family and all of the resources in the world for most of her life. Developmentally speaking, Ruby and Saccharina are on a somewhat level playing field. Of course Saccharina is emotionally stunted after what she went through. Of course her main tools for emotional processing are repression and projection. The way Emily played her, in my opinion, was extremely accurate and empathetic to the way that person would actually act in real life.

Especially because it seems like so much of her personal identity and sense of self-worth comes from realizing her destiny as the true queen of Candia. She's been told that will be the thing that will finally get her the loving family she's always wanted, but thanks to the circumstances of their meeting, they were immediately cold to her and shut her out. I could totally see a traumatized emotionally stunted 20something taking that extremely personally and that triggering all of her already existing abandonment issues and inferiority complex. Given the context of the character's backstory and the vastly different way that Emily Axford plays Fig, for example, the hate that she got as a player seems wildly unfair to me pretty much no matter how you slice it.

It also seems like a fair amount of the hate stemmed from parasocialism and people assuming that Siobhan was actually mad at Emily irl, which is of course also an expression of misogyny in itself because it will always be assumed that women are incapable of acting without their actual, irl feelings being mixed up in their performance.

[hxney-lemcn]

Kiss me Silly — Mr. Crawling, Gap, Silvair, Chopped, Hugeface, and Scarletella x gn! reader

summery: kisses with some of the Homicipher boys.

tw: slight unrequited feelings (I mean it's in the game).

wc: 1.2k (~200 per character)

Master List

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Crawling

❥Your first kiss is confusing to say the least. Mr. Crawling doesn’t know what your talking about and you try your best to explain what a kiss is and why you do it. “We touch lip” “Only someone you many like”. He doesn’t fully understand it, but you seem to like pressing your lips together, and he honestly finds himself liking it too. Any excuse to touch you is worth it in his eyes, and he finds himself wanting to do it again and again.

❥Thankfully, Mr. Crawling is a fast learner, and kisses go from sloppy to coherent quickly. Tugging at your clothes and chirping cutely in such a way you can’t say no. Kiss his lips, his forehead, cheeks, nose, he doesn’t care, he just wants your affection and you’ve open him to a whole new world.

❥Will give you kisses in return. In fact, it’s become a fifty fifty whether you get a kiss or head pats in comfort. When I say kiss I mean forehead kisses, he just finds it so comforting. If you’re really lucky he’ll pat your head and give you a kiss.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Gap

❥No. Sorry, but Mr. Gap isn’t a fan of any kind of affection. He barely understands the concept of liking someone! Though…you are strange. He likes messing with you, grinning devilishly every time he asks for your heart. He hasn’t had this kind of entertainment for a long time. Mr. Gap can’t deny he’s curious about those magazines you read. Why do humans do such strange things with each other?

❥After enough time, his curiosity beats his apprehension, agreeing to allow you to show ONE sign of affection. Just one though, and not for long. Tries his hardest to not back away when your face inches closer, watching you wearily as you press your lips to his. It’s weird, and uncomfortable, and his cold skin feels oddly warm. Disappears the second you pull away. 

❥Safe to say that kisses are far and few in between. Mr. Gap has a weird relationship with the sign of affection (or any). He feels awkward and doesn’t like how strange (vulnerable) it makes him feel, but on the other hand he has you try again, and he’s not sure why. Doesn’t want to dissect why (it’s cus you only do it with him and makes him feel special).

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Silvair

❥Hahaha. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand your strange human emotions nor your fondness. You’re his test subject, and he takes some time to ponder over your offer. His scientist mindset takes over, thinks of the whole situation like a test. Sorry :/

❥Doesn’t move when you kiss him. To be fair he doesn’t know what a kiss entails, lets you take the lead. He’s confused when you pull away with a frown, your nerves clear.,,interesting. Notes the way you act in a file in his mind to go through later, your mannerisms are just the most intriguing. You have to teach him how to kiss first, he’s willing to go along with your whims as long as you don’t expect too much from the interaction.

❥Strangly, over time he finds himself expecting your affections. Cheek kisses, lip kisses, its an odd slice of domecity. He comes back from his research and you’ll greet him with a small kiss. If you forget he gets a strange hollow feeling…very strange. Will watch you until you realize he’s waiting for a greeting kiss, that nasty feeling leaving the second your warm lips land on his own. How very strange…

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Chopped

❥Looks at you weirdly. Why would you want to touch your lips to his? He doesn’t get it. Says no at first, but over time his curiosity gets the best of him. Demands that you pick him up and touch your lips together. Wants to know why you even asked. Gets a strange fluttery feeling (even though he doesn’t have a body) and finds the action oddly enticing. Demands you do it again the second you pull away, a grin stretching from ear to ear. 

❥You can only kiss him on his terms, but more often than not he’s demanding you for one. Always gets a giant dopy grin afterwards, basking in your warmth. He’s on top of the world when you shower him with affection. Leave kisses all over his face. Do it. Mr. Chopped will become a giggly mess.

❥Get’s a bit insecure that he can’t kiss you without help. He wishes he could just kiss you when he wanted instead of asking you to pick him up. But those thoughts are quickly squashed when you brighten up at seeing him, placing a quick kiss to his cheek. If he’s sleeping on the otherhand…don’t do it, no matter how cute he looks, he hate surprises, even if it’s just you.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Hugeface

❥Uhm…I’m sorry to say but I’m not sure this is possible. Well, it could be if you tried hard enough. Mr. Hugeface has no idea what you’re yapping on about, you have to walk him through the steps (like bringing you close enough to his face). He’s giggling to himself as he strains to see you leaning your little head closer to his bigger one. 

❥Placing your lips to his is a difficult task when he finds himself grinning so widely at how cute you are. Can’t get enough of your kisses. Tries to kiss you back…at least he doesn’t accidentally eat you? Unfortunately, this sign of affection is a one way street, but hey! Mr. Hugeface can’t say no when you want to kiss him, it feels like little tickles.

❥Instead, Mr. Hugeface will pat your head with a finger (🙏 he tries his hardest to not squish you). Always coos at you, calling you cute over and over. Can you blame him? He’s so happy that a small little human is showing him affection! Sometimes he just wants to squish you! But he won’t…I swear, cus then he won’t be able to get any more kisses :( 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Scarletella

❥Oh boy. This guy… Won’t hesitate to do what you ask. Sure, he doesn’t understand what you’re talking about exactly or why you’d want to do such a thing, but who was he to question you? Leans down and watches you expectantly as your face inches closer, static thrumming inside his ears from excitement. Mr. Scarletella can’t deny how exciting it is to be so close to you.

❥Completely hooked the second your lips meet, his creepy grin spreading so wide it nearly breaks your kiss. I hope you’re happy, you now have a demon already at your beck and call ready to end the world if you promise him a kiss…well I guess he’d do that anyways if it made you happy. Notices that if he does things you like you kiss him more. Becomes a Pavlov’s dog situation. 

❥As boundary breaking and homicidal as Mr. Scarletella was, he won’t kiss you first. It would be wrong, you call the shots, not him, so don’t expect him to start anything. Watches you like a demonic puppy dog when he wants a kiss (all the time). Just…be a bit careful with this newfound power, Mr. Scarletella won’t take too kindly if you deny him what he wants (just a bit of a red flag…just a bit…).

[flawseer]

Hi! I’m a big fan of your art and work over all

I’ve been wondering, since I’ve seen you give your thoughts on some other dragons, what are your thoughts on Clay?

On Clay...

Clay. I’ve talked about him for a bit in a previous post somewhere. He is the first protagonist in the entire series and thus serves as our introduction into this world. While he enters the story with his own emotional baggage, he pretty much resolves all of that within the first book and mellows out from then on, fading into the background as a quiet support character.

Because of that it is maybe easy to dismiss Clay as that big guy who talks about food a lot and doesn’t do much else. But I do think he’s a bit more complex than that and is a well-rounded character with things going on in his own right.

CW: Discussion of physical abuse.

Formative Years

Clays early years were molded heavily by his belief that he almost killed Tsunami while she was hatching. He believed this because his guardians, mostly Kestrel, insisted this is what happened. Of course at the end of the first book we learn that this wasn’t the case and that they were just misinformed about how Mudwings work.

To us, this may all seem absolutely ridiculous. We look at Clay and see this obvious gentle giant without a malicious bone in his body angsting about being a blood-crazed monster. But for Clay himself, this was a very real, very horrifying situation. Suspend your disbelief for a moment. His entire childhood was marred by the crushing guilt of almost having murdered his surrogate sister at birth, and he couldn’t remember why he did it. He understood nothing about this situation, and didn’t know if this secret violent side could even resurface one day. Basic things like going to sleep would become terrifying; he may have laid awake, wondering whether his body might act on its own as soon as he fell unconscious. Just like back then, when it acted before he could even form coherent thoughts. The fear of losing control to the monster and waking up on top of a loved one’s mangled body was always there.

This perception of himself as a violent killer was at odds with his social nature as a Mudwing. He loved his surrogate siblings with the same intensity that any Mudwing would love their own, and thus he hated the part of himself that threatened them. As a direct response to this dissonant view, Clay developed a desire to protect them. If he willed himself to shield them from getting hurt with all of his strength, he would never be able to harm them again. This was his way of coping with the fear.

It is pretty apparent from the text that at least Kestrel was physically abusive towards them. Dune was possibly too, Webs I don’t think so, but he also didn’t do anything to stop it. As Clay grew older I think he began to recognize the patterns. He would start deliberately acting in ways so that most of Kestrel’s ire would be redirected towards himself instead of the others. This is why all the Dragonets of Destiny have such deep respect for Clay; they remember him always standing between them and Kestrel, even as he ended up with more and more scars for it.

Luckily, he is able to reconnect with his Mudwing heritage at the end of book 1 and learns that he never was that blood-crazed murderer the guardians insisted he was. But even so, the scars and memories would never fully fade, and he’d never lose sight of the need to protect his loved ones.

Personality and Interests

Clay’s love of food and eating is well-established, to the point where it sometimes seems like it is his only character trait from book 2 onwards. This is normal; he’s got a big body and I assume the self-regenerative properties inherent to Mudwings burn a lot of calories, so he needs to eat a lot to refuel them. I think there’s a bit more to him still though.

Clay is at his happiest when he can either prevent someone else’s pain, or take it away. Conversely he becomes distressed when he sees someone suffering. I believe he is incredibly earnest and built close to water. He cries easily, though never in response to his own pain or suffering. He feels positive emotions very strongly and can get overwhelmed that way, especially when he sees his loved ones happy. When he cries, he does so openly and without shame. It is very unsatisfying to tease him because he will usually just take what people say to him at face value and thus make them feel bad.

He’s also very physically affectionate and huggy.

People who meet Clay often get the impression that he is book dumb, or just stupid in general. This is not the case, as Clay does have a capacity for learning even complex subject matter. I just think he struggles with subjects he can’t see a practical application for, or aren’t relevant to things he wants to do. He has little interest in memorizing ancient figures or learning how to measure the sides of a triangle

When Glory fights Deathbringer in book 3, she makes mention of a “dragon anatomy class” which I assume was taught by Webs. Clay, as much as he struggled with history and numbers, excelled at this particular class because its insight could be used to keep people safe. As such, whenever the need for it arises, Clay is usually quick to act as the group’s primary healer/medical advisor.

(Excerpts from WoF graphic novels 2 and 3, censored for blood.)

This notion is further supported by the fact that, once they all become teachers at the Jade Mountain Academy, Clay is the one to lead an anatomy class, just like the one he attended before.

In conclusion

Clay is pretty much everyone’s big brother. While he isn’t as eccentric and colorful as the people he is surrounded by, his earnestness and general benevolence make him the backbone of the Dragonets of Destiny. Whenever anyone has a deeply-rooted, serious problem they are hesitant to bring up with others, Clay will usually be the first person considered as a confidant. Tsunami and Starflight know he would never judge or shame them no matter how ridiculous the thing they approach him with. Glory trusts him with her emotions whenever her stoic facade cracks. And Sunny has an incredibly strong bond with him.

I think that makes him pretty cool, even if he doesn’t really have much to do anymore once he overcomes his personal demons. I’m happy that he gets to be happy in the end.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 9

Jazz has an itty bitty teeny weeny severe mental breakdown.

Credit once more to @keferon for starting this au.

———————————————————————

Jazz never thought he’d find himself deeply empathizing with the xenomorph from Alien, but here he was.

Doing freak shit.

A lone lifeform trapped on a spaceship with no idea how their technology works, no means of escape and no way to sustain themselves. Skittering across the ceiling and one wrong move away from murdering someone on contact.

Plus, I pop out of my mecha like an actual motherfucking chest burster. So I’m sure that’ll go over GREAT.

The parallels were compounding into existential crisis territory.

It got way too fucking close handling that checkup with the medic. Trying to keep his cool felt like he was trapped in an hours long quick time event. Every question had to be snap judged for the safest possible answer. Completely make shit up and risk getting caught in the act, don’t give away any information and they’ll know you’re hiding something.

Jazz juggled that damn Catch 22 like a professional. Thank you.

Case in point, while one of his mechas arms was still non functional, Jazz managed to maneuver his actual arm inside the cabin to grope around for some water to chug. Without disconnecting from the mecha.

That particular stunt felt like splitting his brain in half with a splintery wedge. The water was absolutely necessary, but the pressure inside his skull rang like an air horn zip-tied open.

Right now the only coherent thought he could form was the overwhelming animal desire to find a dark hidden hole and crawl up inside it. Then repeat that motion by disconnecting from his mecha, finding the most secure hiding spot inside that, and passing out for oh just a quick little 24 to 36 hours.

The pilot paused. Down the hall, mechas- giant alien robots- had noticed his disappearance. Even through the language barrier, Jazz would recognize the opening lyrics to his personal theme song anywhere: “Oh fuck where’d he go?”

Hidden behind rows of pipes, Jazz counted his inhalations until the thuds of metal feet passed him by.

Was the alien invader from The Thing scared? If it had finished building its spaceship would the Thing really have tried to take over the world? Or was it just desperate to go home?

Jazz was panting. Or maybe hyperventilating. He made a conscious effort to pull air through his grit teeth at an even flow. Even though he couldn’t actively feel his human body, the dull droning dread pressed through the disconnect to whisper “You’re running out of time.”

He didn’t know how long he had left before his stupid flesh sack would start giving out, but he needed to be somewhere safe when it happened. He’d make it. He’d make it because he had to to make it. He was the best goddamn pilot in the entire program and that was for one reason and one reason alone: Failure Was Not A Motherfucking Option.

If his options were do it the hard way or not at all, then the hard way was what the world got.

Once the guards passed, Jazz slunk along the wall, reaching upside down to fry another security pad, only for the door to open automatically.

Risking it, Jazz peaked into the room and not seeing or hearing anyone, slipped inside.

Once the door slid shut behind him, Jazz lowered himself to the ground one handed, scanning the room more thoroughly.

More screens, inactive. A chair and a couch. Miscellaneous wall kibbling, a table, cabinets. Windows.

Jazz gasped.

Glowing clouds of light, layered like sheets stretching into infinity. Star clusters like paint splatters on black velvet.

White and amber. A haze of something pink.

Unconsciously, Jazz moved towards the window, until he could lightly tap his visor against the glass. His field of view consumed by galaxies.

Back when they first launched him into space, Jazz had come to terms with the let down that all he’d get to see was a black slate and maybe a couple dots. The space station didn’t have many windows to start with, and all his space walks took place when the sun was “out”, so Jazz never really got to see as much of the Milky Way as his inner child hoped.

Now, the child was quiet. Face pressed against the glass, Jazz felt his throat closing up.

At least I got this. Even if I’ve got a half life, I got to see the stars the way they were meant to be.

He hovered. Wanting to find a song to match this moment, but couldn’t find anything more fitting than his own breathing. The rush of blood in his ears was still loud, but a white noise that could substitute for silence.

Like a marble rolling off a table, Jazz felt his stomach drop a moment before his conscious mind could follow.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

Jazz had his arm cocked back to turn the poor fuckers face into a plate but locked himself mid swing at the last second. The mech had lifted a tablet to protect himself, and the move was such a Bullied Nerd cliche it stopped Jazz cold.

Now that his heart rate was breaking highway speed limits again, the angry radio static that was his racing thoughts drowned out any coherent thoughts of what to say.

The mech peeked out from behind the tablet and wow. That’s a guy. That’s just a straight up dude. Prowl and Elita were bulky enough that Jazz could at least imagine where a pilot could sit. But this guy? He looked like the only thing he could throw out was his back. Jazz didn’t even know “elderly twink” was a look possible for a giant robot.

Mystery Codger was staring at him. Jazz still had a fist raised.

Do something say something do something say something you fucked up you fucked up either kill him or start lying just do anything brain please.

“Could you help me find my glasses?”

Jazz faltered. “Wu- What?”

The mech uncurled from his brief defensive huddle. “My glasses? Spectacles? Ah, object-sight-improve-positive?”

The pistons in his arm faintly hissed as the tension released.

Maybe-

As if this was all normal, the mech gently set the tablet on the table, before squatting and squinting at the floor.

Maybe I just have actual brain damage.

Acting on mental autopilot, Jazz took the opening to behave like a normal person. Crouching and scanning the floor for giant alien robot spectacles.

“My name is Rung by the way. I actually don’t think we’ve met previously.” Rung said that last bit with an odd inflection Jazz didn’t have the brain power to think about.

“Jazz. We definitely haven’t met.” He couldn’t quite keep the exhaustion from making that last bit come out snippy.

Rung simply hummed and continued his search. For his part, Jazz was taking the moment to center himself, preparing the best mask he could on short notice.

How long could he keep faking it? Prowl had been with him since he woke up and he didn’t show any signs of needing to sleep. They had doctors. Prowl cared enough about his “health” to take him to one. If Jazz collapsed in front of anyone, they’d drag his sorry ass back to the medbay and it’d be game over. He couldn’t just ask for a place to crash or else he ran the risk of tipping them off he wasn’t one of them if they really didn’t sleep.

A faint tapping sound made him twitch in his stupor.

“Now where could the blasted thing have gone.” Rung was sat crossed legged on the ground.

With Jazz. Who’d vaguely crumbled into a kneeling ball under a table.

Jazz stared at Rung tapping his glasses against his chin. The orange mech made eye contact, and Jazz swore to god he caught him smile.

He reached out a hand, pointing, “Found ‘em.”

The smile came to fruition. Rung aha-ed and held his glasses before himself, inspecting them fondly.

“All that trouble for such a small problem. And all I needed was to ask for help.”

Jazz let himself sag slightly against the wall. Dully thudding the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll cop that was a good trick.”

“It did pull you out of your spiral didn’t it?” Rung said sounding way too smug. He pulled a cloth out from where-ever-the-fuck and cleaned his glasses with it.

He’d been seeing these mechs pull out and disappear objects all day like a bunch of Looney Toons characters. That kind of lapse in logic didn’t bode well for Jazz’s mental condition.

He let his eyes close, rationing his remaining focus.

“How’d you know that’d work?” He mumbled.

“You seemed afraid. You stalled out when you saw I was afraid.” Rung simply stated before he then asked rhetorically, “You’re a protector aren’t you?”

Jazz made a noncommittal sound. Lying was his first impulse, but he really didn’t feel like giving this guy more material to hook him with.

The mech laughed once anyways, “You are. Unorthodox too. I can see why you have such a hold over Prowl.”

That got his attention, “I do?”

“Oh yes.” He heard Rung shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “Even if he can’t recognize the feeling anymore, I think you give him hope.”

Jazz wanted to laugh and he would if he had the energy.

Instead Jazz sighed. “I’m kinda at rock bottom right now man. And currently? Lil bit fresh outta hope myself.”

And ideas.

Jazz was of the opinion that any problem was solvable if you were willing to get crazy enough, but this was like trying to solve treading water a million miles from shore with only sharks for company. He either drown slowly or get torn apart the moment the sharks realized he was there.

“Hopeless mechs don’t stop to stare at the stars in wonder, Jazz.” When he opened his eyes, Jazz saw Rung staring him down like he was insulted. “To be hopeless is to let yourself die. Do you intend to die today?”

“No.” He challenged back, body minutely tensing.

“Are you willing to do absolutely anything to keep living?” Rung poked him in the chest.

“Yes.” He responded just as quickly, but there was a rasp to his voice. Something small and quiet. Not easily caught. Not easily killed.

“Even ask for help?” Rung quirked his head at him, shit eating grin growing by the second.

Jazz deflated, groaning loud enough for his mecha’s speakers to vibrate his bones.

“Look, I appreciate the therapy session doc, but asking for help is legitimately not an option for me right now.”

Rung leaned forward, resting his chin on a servo, “Alright then. List your current alternative options that you alone can accomplish, devoid of any assistance whatsoever.”

Jazz didn’t respond.

The silence continued to linger.

“Go on.” Rung gestured.

Cornered, Jazz could feel his horns pin back and a burning sensation in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his visor even though it didn’t actually help.

“Where’s Prowl?”

Rung chuckled, victorious. The scrawny orange mech scooted out from under the table and stood, offering a servo to Jazz to do the same.

The brief rest left Jazz jelly limbed, which was evidently bad enough to translate to a faint tremble in his mecha. Despite that, Jazz didn’t take Rungs hand because there’s no way in hell that guy could support him if he fell. Elita’s threat over harming her crew was still fresh and shiny in his mind.

“You’ll find his office down that way.” Rung pointed out the direction. “Down the hall, turn left at the first junction, pass by two more doors, turn right at that junction and then keep walking until you reach the end of the hall. His office isn’t labeled but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Rung opened the door and then took a seat in the chair next to the couch. “I’d offer to have Prowl come to meet you here, but I have another appointment coming up shortly.”

Oh uh. He actually is a therapist.

Jazz laughed humorlessly, “Why not invite them to join the party? Make it a group session.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rung fiddled with a stylus, “Ah, that would not do I’m afraid. My next patient recently figured out how to “bite” people by quickly jabbing his helm forward and I’d rather that not be your first encounter with him.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Jazz simply nodded numbly.

He paused at the doorway, running the directions through his head again, before turning back slightly. “Hey Rung? Thanks.”

“It’s Rung, and you’re… welcome?” The mech trailed off, looking at Jazz with surprise as the door slid shut behind him.

Walking away, Jazz got about thirty feet before realizing he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or else he’d start seeing double. Feeling the countdown drop into double digits, Jazz hurried along Rungs path.

And nearly crashed into another mech.

It had a head like an old school security camera, a single yellow camera lense cycling down to a pinprick at his appearance. The chassis was crazy long and pointed. Out of habit, Jazz tried mapping out what the interior would look like. The pilot seat would need to be horizontal but it was pretty doable. The limbs were definitely on the skinny side but sharp and fast looking. Bonus points for what was definitely front mounted guns.

All in all, solid design. 7/10.

“Hey.” The mech rasped.

Oh fuck right, Alien.

“Sup.” Jazz replied eloquently.

The camera lense eye loosed, upgrading to a coin sized pupil and clearly looking him over.

“Empurata?” The mech said casually pointing to his legs and visor.

“Uh, sure.” Jazz shrugged.

“Same.” Nodded camera-head.

“Cool.”

The two of them awkwardly stood in the hall. Camera-head seemed content to block traffic and Jazz was mentally banging rocks together in hopes of getting a spark of intelligent thought.

“Can I peel off your visor with a knife?”

The mech held a dagger pinched between its crab claws and Jazz had to bite his tongue not to ask why it didn’t just use those.

Instead, the brain rocks came through.

“Rung lost his glasses.” Jazz threw up a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Needs help. Now.”

Good job brain rocks.

“What? He does?” The mechs head popped up like some kind of fucked up goose, before shoving past Jazz, knocking him into the wall.

“HOLD ON DOC I’M COMING!”

The mech folded inside out into a mother fucking helicopter?! Charging down the hall in a whirlwind so strong Jazz could feel it through his mecha.

Jazz counted to five, and crawled back up into the safety of the ceiling pipes.

He blinks, and he’s staring down another hall. Left turn, two doors, right turn. . . Wait. Was that a right or left he just did? He’s upside down so everything should be reversed right?

He doesn’t remember blinking but the hall is at a different angle. New hall? Or did he just turn his head?

Jazz wants to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until everything holds still but he can’t. So he keeps moving. Keeps hiding.

And then he sees the most beautiful goddamn mech in the universe marching down the hall. Followed by half a dozen substantially less impressive mechs with guns drawn.

Stilling, Jazz remained hidden behind the pipes. Evidently alien robots had the same peripheral blindness to ceilings that human security guards did, as none of them noticed him.

Except for Prowl.

Through the gaps, Jazz watched as Prowl gave rapid fire orders to the armed soldiers behind him. Six mechs. Six guns. Three too many for Jazz to take in his current state. Prowl went silent and his wings twitched. Shivering, Jazz got the deeply uncanny sense he was being intimately observed.

The lights were ringing in a tinnitus B flat. He had the audio feed from his mecha dialed way too high but he couldn’t afford to miss any detail of what would happen next.

Whatever Prowl was said next, it must have been in his native language. Which Jazz found deeply unfair after all the work he’d put into learning Common.

The black and white mech turned to his cohort, waving them down the hall ahead of them. Prowl did not follow, wings still minutely shifting position. Once they were out of sight, Prowl turned on his heel back the way he came. Flicking a single piercing look to Jazz.

Silently. Shakily. Jazz skulked along the shadows after him.

He mental map was fucked. Every time he blinked, Jazz lost track of the most recent few seconds of his life. If Prowl wasn’t stopping every fifty feet to not-so-subtly check that Jazz was still following him, the human didn’t know where he’d end up.

Finally, Prowl reached a door at the end of a hall and entered without any delay. Jazz dropped, moving inside before the door could close again.

“Please don’t freak out.” Jazz cut him off before Prowl could set the tone of this conversation. The mech closed his mouth and after a moment’s consideration, assumed a tense but mostly neutral stance.

“I will not ‘freak out’.” Prowl looked like wanted to say more, but Jazz couldn’t afford that right now.

“Awesome! Because right now I’m freaking out and I won’t be able to keep it together if you start freaking out too.” He was pacing back and forth, not really seeing the mech beside him anymore.

“Jazz.” A servo caught his elbow, stopping him in place. “Where have you been?”

“Oh you know. Here. There. Ceiling mostly. Shockingly unrelated, but I think a talking helicopter wants to wear my face as a hat.” Jazz nodded way too enthusiastically in a manner he hoped translated into an appropriately manic “Please god help me.” grit toothed grin.

Prowl was momentarily speechless before physically shaking off the latest deluge of confusion, “That sounds like Whirl. You would not have encountered them had you stayed in the med bay like you were supposed to. Now I’m asking you again: What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

Audibly cracking, Jazz tried to answer honestly but found his voice locked up. He couldn’t, why couldn’t he..? Why was talking suddenly so fucking hard?

Meanwhile, Prowl just looked defeated. He rubbed that spot between his eyes, not yet letting him go.

“If you cannot provide a reasonable explanation for your sudden shift in behavior, I will have to assume the worst. You leave me no choice but to-“

“I’M REALLY SHORT.” Great. Fantastic. Incredible work brain. Take five.

Prowls optics flickered. Brow furrowing as he looked up at Jazz’s clearly taller mecha.

“That’s not- I mean-.” Jazz clasped his head in his hands, switching back to English. “{I- I- don’t know if this is even real.}”

Something was gripping his arms. Black and white appeared in his vision. “Jazz, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Common was easy to learn but right now it felt like Jazz was playing Scrabble with a bad hand.

“Prowl, where do you go when you- when you change-body-shape?” He had to stop to breath midway.

Please, please, please this is the last chance for anything to make sense.

But instead the mech slowly shook his head in disbelief, “Where do I..? Nowhere Jazz, it’s still me, I’m not ‘going’ anywhere. My alt form is not a different person.”

The mech gently pulled Jazz’s hands off his head from where he’d been stressing the damage from earlier. “I understand if you’ve never seen an alt mode before but your behavior, your questions, they’re not making any sense.”

Prowl stopped. Optics going wide as placed his servos on Jazz’s wrists. “Jazz are you Crashing?!”

“What? What is that what you call a mental breakdown? Cause yeah I’m having one of those.” He said a little too breathlessly.

“Sit-“ Prowl pulled him down to the floor. “Sit down. I’m calling for a medic.”

“No!” Desperately, Jazz grabbed onto Prowl who was helpless but to join him on the floor. The floodgates opened and Jazz couldn’t stop.

“No no no no, please god no. They’re gonna find out. I need to to tell you. I need to tell you myself. Just, please I’m begging you don’t do it. Give me a chance. Just give me a chance to explain, I don’t want to wake up on a table, please Prowler.”

For his part, Prowl was handling the situation as well as to be expected. He didn’t try to leave again but did get into a more comfortable kneeling position next to the panicking mecha.

“Alright. Alright, I won’t leave. Speak.”

Jazz tried tapping an alternating rhythm on the floor, giving himself literally anything else to focus on. He swallowed back bile and his thrashing fight or flight instincts.

“I’m not-“ Jazz grit his teeth. Telling the truth felt like trying to pop a dislocation back into place. Actually no. Jazz had done that before and it had felt infinitely less unnatural than what he was trying to do now.

Prowl was patient. Bless his heart, motor, whatever he’s got in there. Remaining silent beside him.

The pilot forced himself to take complete breaths, “l. Am not. The same. As you.” One, one two, one two, one two, Jazz counted in time.

“I noticed.” Prowl stated flatly, then softening his expression, “You hadn’t realized you were an alien until now, didn’t you?”

Jazz laughed a little too hysterically, “No, no I Fraggin’ did not. Please don’t freak out.”

“Jazz, you are hardly the first alien species I’ve ever encountered. At least you actually look like a person.”

The pilot got very, very quiet.

“Prowl, what do you think of organics.” Resolutely, Jazz stared down the floor panels, refusing to look anywhere else.

Momentarily, Prowl opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He shifted to kneel in front of Jazz. Sharp optics darting across his frame. Lightly, Jazz could feel him trace something along his undamaged shoulder. He shivered against his will.

“Jazz.” Prowl got down to where he had to look at him. He spoke so, so softly, “Were you created by organics?”

Well, when a mommy human and a daddy human love each other very much…

“You could say that.” Jazz rasped instead.

He hadn’t even moved, but the energy in the air just went burning cold. Prowl went from soft to deathly serious so fast Jazz visibly flinched.

“Listen to me. You do not have to go back. You do not ever have to go back. I swear on everything I stand for I will not let another one of those things anywhere near you again.” Unintentionally, Prowl was crowding into his space.

Despite himself, Jazz just kept drawing himself in smaller and smaller as Prowl closed in.

“No no no no you don’t get it, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I am!” He started quiet and steadily grew in volume.

Prowl wasn’t getting it. Instead, raising his voice to match, “No you are wrong! You have a choice now! You aren’t just your function and you aren’t just something they made to die!”

He grabbed Prowl by the shoulders, shaking him, “I DID CHOSE THIS. I KNOW I’M GONNA DIE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”

“Then what ARE you talking about?!” He shouted back.

“I’M ONE OF THEM.” His microphone peaked, and his voice broke.

The quiet hurt. Anything that wasn’t numb hurt. He gulped down air and couldn’t keep more than one eyelid up at a time.

Prowl ground his jaw tightly, practically steaming from reeling back a sense of calm by force, “You are not shorter than me. You are not thinking straight. And You. Are not. An organic.”

Jazz only semi involuntarily rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it.”

He disconnected, and everything hit at once.

Vision went and came back out of focus and way too close. His ears were ringing too badly to hear the sound of his mecha’s chest plates opening, though he knew that they were.

Every fiber of muscle in his body was torn and screaming, he’d throw up later if he had the strength. Jazz did not so much stand as he did lift off the pilot seat and then buckle forward. The hard shell of his pilot suit saved his knee from getting gouged by the corner of the platform he was slipping off of.

That’s fine. He’d land on the steps.

Except, his mecha had been leaning forward hadn’t it?

Like a rag doll, over the edge he went. A huge and blurry and black shape rushing to meet him.

———————————————————————

Is Jazz capable of telling the truth when it’s to save his life? No.

Will he do it out of spite just to prove someone wrong? Yes.

Also, secret props to @somerandomcockroach for showing how fun Rung is to write.

Bonus bit, Prowl finally let his EM field loose far enough for Jazz to notice! It was bad.

-SSTP

[gf2bellamy]

hii i absolutely LOVE your writing,, its just so perfect🤭

may i please request a story with spencer realizing he has a crush on reader and so he starts getting nervous and stutter-y around reader. so then reader gets a little upset thinking she did something wrong and they end up talking about what’s happening and it leads to a confession + kiss

thank you!!💖💖

crush — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: a tiny bit of angst bc reader thinks she did something wrong a/n: hii !! this request is so cute <3 i hope you like this <333

Spencer had it bad. 

Like, really bad. 

It wasn’t even up for debate anymore—he was completely, undeniably, and overwhelmingly crushing on you.

Right now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at you as you leaned casually against it, deep in conversation with Emily at her desk across from his. You were animated, gesturing with your hands as you made a passionate argument. 

“No, look, the movie sucks,” you insisted, pointing a finger at Emily. “You have to read the book. It’s so much better.” 

Emily rolled her eyes but smirked, clearly enjoying the debate. “I don’t know, I think the movie has its moments—” 

“Absolutely not.” You cut her off, shaking your head. “The book has so much more depth. The movie just—” You let out a dramatic sigh, exasperated. “It butchers it.” 

Spencer wasn’t even listening to Emily. He was too busy watching you, completely entranced. 

Two days ago, he’d come to a life-altering realization. 

He liked you. 

Not in the casual, oh-she’s-nice-to-be-around kind of way. No. This was the heart-racing, brain-melting, can’t-think-straight-when-you-smile-at-him kind of way. 

And it had all started with a cup of coffee. 

You had placed it in front of him, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment as he reached for it. A harmless, everyday interaction—except that it wasn’t harmless. Because then, you had smiled at him. Soft and warm. 

“New tie?” you had asked, tilting your head slightly as you pointed at the green tie he was wearing. 

Spencer had looked down at it, momentarily forgetting how words worked. “Oh—uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it yesterday.” 

You had grinned. “Looks good on you. I like it.” 

And then, as if your words hadn’t already short-circuited his brain, you had reached out—just for a second—adjusting the fabric between your fingers before turning away and heading back to your desk. 

That was the moment. The exact second Spencer knew he was doomed. 

And now? Two days later, he was struggling. 

Struggling to focus. Struggling to act normal. Struggling to not stare at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the entire world—which, let’s be honest, you were. 

“Spence.” 

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. You had turned to him now, one hand resting lightly on his arm as you smiled. 

“Tell her the book is better than the movie,” you said, tilting your head toward Emily. “Back me up here.” 

Spencer knew, logically, that he had said those exact words to you a few weeks ago. He agreed with you. He had data, facts, and literary analysis to support the claim. It was an easy argument. 

And yet— 

He was completely, entirely tongue-tied. 

You were looking at him expectantly, your touch burning through the fabric of his sleeve like a brand. 

“I—uhm—I think—” He swallowed, feeling his face heat up. 

You frowned slightly, confused by his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence. 

He needed to get it together. 

“Yes,” he finally forced out, clearing his throat. “Uh, the book is—definitely better. Than the movie.” 

You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you.” 

Emily just smirked at Spencer, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

You, then , watched as Spencer quickly withdrew his hand from your touch, avoiding your eyes like it physically pained him to look at you. 

And over the next day, it kept happening. 

It was subtle at first—small moments that could’ve easily been brushed off as coincidences. But then they started piling up. 

Like when you were working on the geographical profile together. You had been standing close to him, pointing at a section of the map, asking for his input. But instead of responding immediately, Spencer had frozen. 

Completely. 

You had glanced up, expecting one of his usual rapid-fire responses, filled with statistics and insightful observations. But nothing came. Instead, he stood there, his jaw slightly clenched, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

You had frowned, waiting. 

A long, awkward silence stretched between you until someone else had walked by, snapping him out of it. He mumbled a quick, barely audible response before abruptly walking away. 

Then there was the night the team went out for drinks. You had slid into a booth at the bar, expecting Spencer to take the seat beside you—like he always did. It was a habit. Something that just was. 

Except this time, he didn’t. 

He sat at the far end of the table, wedging himself between JJ and Rossi, not even acknowledging you. 

That was when the doubts started creeping in. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you said something to upset him? 

You replayed the past week in your mind, searching for anything that might have caused this shift. But there was nothing. At least, nothing you could think of. 

Still, it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest every time Spencer avoided your gaze, every time he hesitated before answering you, every time he refused to sit near you. 

And now, back at Quantico, the case closed, reports needing to be filed, you sat at your desk, watching him. 

The office was quieter than usual—most of the team had taken the morning off to rest, leaving only you and Spencer to handle the paperwork, just as you always did. 

Except this time, Spencer wasn’t talking to you. 

He sat across the room, his eyes fixed on his files, his pen moving rapidly across the paper. And still—not once—did he look up at you. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the report in front of you, a dull ache settling in your chest. 

The silence between you was suffocating. 

Hours passed, the only sounds filling the room were the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional shuffle of files. It was unnatural—terribly unnatural. The two of you were never this quiet around each other. 

Spencer wanted to talk to you. He always wanted to talk to you. But every time he opened his mouth, he managed to embarrass himself. So, he just... stopped trying. 

And then there was the other problem—his newfound hyper-awareness of you. 

Every touch, no matter how small, felt like an electric current running through his skin. Like when the two of you were sitting in the back of the SUV on the way back from a case, and your knee had accidentally brushed against his. It had been nothing to you, a completely normal, casual thing. But to him? To him, it had set his entire body on fire. 

Or when you touched his arm , casually, the way you always did—except now, it wasn’t just casual to him. Now, it was overwhelming. Too much. 

So he did what he thought was best—he avoided it. Avoided you. 

It was time to leave, and coincidentally, both of you started packing your bags at the same time. 

Somehow, despite everything, you still moved in sync. 

It was a habit at this point. You always left work together, falling into step beside one another like second nature. Some nights, you’d end up at the movies, where Spencer would hesitantly—almost shyly—share his food with you. Something he never did with anyone else. Not with his germophobia. Not even with the team. 

But with you it had never been a problem. 

Other nights, you’d wind up at his apartment, curled up on his couch, just hanging out. Just you and him. And in hindsight, Spencer supposed he should’ve seen this coming. 

Should’ve realized that whatever this was—whatever you were to him—wasn’t just friendship. 

Maybe he’d been crushing on you all along. 

The two of you walked to the elevator, the air thick with awkwardness. You exchanged shy smiles, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time. 

"Are you okay?" 

The words tumbled out of your mouths in perfect unison, and for a moment, you both froze, staring at each other. Then you both chuckled awkwardly, the sound breaking the tension, just for a second. 

“Go ahead,” Spencer nodded at you, pressing the button to call the elevator.  

“You—just... I feel like I haven’t talked to you properly in ages,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping as you fiddled with the strap of your bag. 

Spencer looked away quickly, a guilty blush creeping up his neck. 

Oh god, why couldn’t he just act normal around you? 

“Did I do something wrong?” You blurted out, suddenly worried. "Because I—I’m not entirely sure what it was, but you haven’t been looking at me, or talking to me, and I’m just—” 

Before you could ramble on any longer, Spencer cut you off. His voice was a little too loud, too eager. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He shook his head quickly, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure you. His wide eyes met yours, and there was a softness in them. “I promise.” 

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside. 

You pressed the button to the ground floor, still watching him, trying to make sense of everything. 

“So, what is it then?” you asked, your voice more hesitant now, as the elevator began its descent. 

Spencer bit his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against the strap of his bag. What was he supposed to say? That he had a huge crush on you, but he couldn’t even stand to be near you without fumbling through his words and avoiding your gaze? It sounded so stupid when he thought about it. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doors in front of him as the elevator descended slowly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you pointed at him, a hint of teasing in your voice, but the concern still lingered. “You’re acting like this because something’s going on, and I’m just—I don’t know what it is.” 

Spencer’s heart raced.

The doors finally opened, and you both headed towards the exit , where you stepped out into the chilly night air. You instinctively pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting for him to speak. 

Spencer hesitated again. His mind was spinning.

“No, I swear it’s not you,” Spencer muttered, tugging on the strap of his satchel, trying to buy himself some time. “It’s just I—I…” 

You waited, eyes fixed on him, your breath fogging in the cold air. You were getting impatient, and the more time passed, the more you started to worry that whatever had been going on was something you had no control over. Something that was maybe your fault. 

You were now standing by your car, watching him. Spencer looked torn, his fingers gripping the strap of his satchel tightly, his body tense like he was debating whether to run or stay. His lips parted slightly, and then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words tumbled out. 

“I like you.” His voice was quiet.

For a moment, you just stared at him, confusion flickering across your face. 

“I… didn’t realize you disliked me until now?” You frowned slightly, your voice uncertain, trying to make sense of what he was saying. 

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “Wait—no!” He rushed to correct himself, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant—I didn’t mean that.” 

His breath came out in a nervous puff of air, his cheeks burning red as he struggled to find the right words. 

“I mean—I like you. Like, like like you.” His voice dropped to a mumble, the last part barely above a whisper. “Like, I have a crush on you.” 

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he finally said it. 

And then, silence. 

His eyes darted to you hesitantly, searching your face for a reaction, his stomach twisting with anticipation. 

You stood frozen. Did he just say what you think he said? 

“I… what?” you blinked, your breath hitching. 

Spencer’s face was already bright red, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement, like he regretted saying anything at all. His voice had been so quiet at the end, barely above a whisper, but you heard him. 

He liked you. Like liked you. 

“I have a crush on you,” he repeated, this time slightly louder, but his voice was still laced with hesitation. His eyes flickered between yours and the ground, as if he was trying to gauge your reaction but couldn’t bear to look for too long. “That’s… that’s why I’ve been acting so weird.” 

A rush of emotions hit you all at once. Relief. Surprise. And something else—something warm, something thrilling. 

You let out a small breathy laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Spencer, you’ve been avoiding me for days because you have a crush on me?” 

He winced slightly. “Yes?” 

A smile tugged at your lips. The pieces started falling into place—the nervous stammering, the awkward silences, the way he’d flinched at even the smallest touches. You had spent the entire week wondering if you’d somehow upset him when, in reality, he was just… flustered. 

Over you. 

It was almost funny. No—it was funny. 

Spencer watched you carefully, his anxiety spiking at your silence. He had just spilled his feelings to you in the most awkward way possible, and now you were just standing there, staring at him with this unreadable look. He braced himself for rejection, for you to awkwardly brush it off, for you to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way— 

Instead, you smiled. 

And then you laughed. 

Spencer blinked. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He sounded both confused and slightly horrified. 

You quickly shook your head, even though you were still grinning. “No! No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you.” You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, but it wasn’t working. “It’s just—you’ve been torturing yourself over this ?” 

Spencer huffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t call it torture—” 

“You literally stopped making eye contact with me.” 

“That’s—okay, that’s fair.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know how to act. Every time I tried to talk to you, I ended up embarrassing myself, and I figured it would be easier if I just… didn’t.” 

You softened at that. 

“Spence,” you said gently, reaching for his hand before he could overthink it. The second your fingers brushed his, you felt him stiffen. But he didn’t pull away. “You know you could’ve just told me, right?” 

He let out a breath, finally meeting your eyes. “I was afraid that if I told you… things would change.” 

You squeezed his hand lightly, feeling a rush of fondness for him. His brain was the most brilliant one you’d ever known, but sometimes he made things so complicated. 

“Well, things are going to change,” you admitted, watching his expression closely. 

His heart stuttered. “Oh.” 

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, and you quickly squeezed his hand again before he spiraled. 

“Not in a bad way,” you reassured him, stepping a little closer. You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I like you too, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s breath caught. “You…?” 

“Mhm.” 

He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process your words, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might feel the same way. 

And then—oh. 

Oh. 

His entire body relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his hair as he shook his head. 

You smiled as you leaned back against your car, watching the relief wash over Spencer.

He stared at you, his eyes flickering between your own and your lips, and you could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Spencer swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. And then, as if the rush of confidence from his confession hadn’t completely worn off yet, he asked, “Can—can I kiss you?” 

Your stomach flipped at his words, your smile widening. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Spencer exhaled something that sounded like half a laugh, half a breath of relief, before you reached for him, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his cardigan as you tugged him toward you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands hovering for only a second before settling on your cheeks. His fingers were warm despite the cold air.

His fingertips barely grazing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he wanted to take his time, like he wanted to remember everything about this moment before it even happened.

Then, finally, he leaned in. 

The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away. But when you didn’t—when you kissed him back just as eagerly—he let himself relax. His hands cupped your face more firmly, his body leaning just slightly into yours.

You sighed against him, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders, your fingers gently threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. That was all it took. You felt him shiver slightly under your touch, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

When you finally pulled away for air, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless but smiling.

Spencer opened his eyes, his pupils slightly blown, a soft, dazed smile tugging at his lips.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your hands still resting against his neck. “You really thought I didn’t like you back?”

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, tilting your head playfully. “Well, you should’ve. Because I really like you, Spencer.”

His smile widened, something utterly adorable in the way his entire face lit up at your words.

“I like you too,” he said again, as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it out loud.

You grinned. “Yeah, I think I got that part.”

[lysaisland]

live like it’s your last

roommate!kuroo who likes to help you. a jar of jam too difficult to open? not a problem!! he’ll bang the edge of it on the corner of a counter, struggle opening it himself, and then hand it back over to you unopened. when you finally open the damned thing, he’ll cackle and say that he loosened it up for you. his volleyball hands were not just for show, he’ll tell you for free with a cheeky smile glued on his face. stuck on an essay? he would know half a coherent sentence on the topic, but still would dedicate his weekend to proofreading, and bouncing off creatively, inane ideas for you, for your essay. he likes the quiet weekends where you two study in your shared living room, on the coffee table with too many stains to count. it’s all too easy to chuck a piece of motivational chocolate at your face. he would watch you, with crinkled eyes, as you roll your own eyes at him, yet follow in his actions, hurling bullets of chocolate straight back. he likes it, he likes it a lot.

roommate!osamu who is so hot, all the time. literally, figuratively and everything in between. you have never ever seen this man wear anything long sleeved, ever. his glorious biceps were world treasures constantly exposed to the unworthy. your roommate would always complain about how the air con was utterly useless, never cool enough, always too warm. all you would ever do, whenever he complained, was absentmindedly nod along, and admire the sight with half-quiet appreciation. you are certain he knows exactly what he’s doing, when he waltzes around the kitchen with an apron on, in place of a t-shirt. the morning sun hits his bare back just right, and the smell of breakfast is nothing less than a slice of heaven. when he turns to you, brown eyes a little wide, but with a smile nevertheless, you swear you died on the spot. he offers you a plate, and tells you to ‘help ya’self’ and that ‘there’s plenty more of where that came from!’. you nod fervently, and gift him a smile, which has his own eyes refusing to leave you, and lingering occasionally as you ate. no harm in looking, hot guy cooking.

roommate!tsukishima who was a weirdo — not in a malicious way, or in the way where he is a creep. your roommate was just not normal. exhibit a, he was seen folding laundry at two in the morning, at the kitchen table of all places. every wednesday morning, he would be there in the dark, fumbling his way through fresh hoodies and dress pants. how do you know this? once, you wanted a cup of water before succumbing to the wonders of sleep, and saw a six foot something beanpole just standing there in the kitchen. burglar? demon? an alien? no, it was just your roommate with odd habits. the smell of pine disinfectant was odd in the air, and his reasoning? he needed to wipe down the table before organising his clothes all over the place, just like how any other regular person would do. makes sense, but was this the most appropriate of times to be doing laundry? another thing, which made your diagnosis of weirdo all the stronger, was the time he made you watch through all the jurassic park world dinosaur thing movies. it wouldn’t have warranted an eyebrow raise on its own, but after the dinosaur movies, the two of you started watching horror. it left you clinging on to the armrest, and your roomie napping peacefully between scenes, entirely unphased, and laughing at how stupid the characters were. yeah. he was just a bit of a goof — especially when he sleeps clung to you like a koala to a tree. it seems ludicrous just thinking about it, but the way your heart pounds in your throat when he squeezes you around the waist, makes it all too real.

um this was in the drafts for a while enjoy el oh ellllllll

masterlist

[onthecrescentofthehill]

it’s funny when ppl talk about the harpy omelet scene and say things like “why did he do all of that? he didn’t need to. JUST doing that for laios???” (seen these nearly verbatim on posts i’ve made.)

i don’t really get how you can hear his backstory & not understand that every decision he makes within the dungeon is fueled by a profound trauma borne out of horrific, structural negligence. of course he would do fucking anything to enact his plan? if he computes “getting in laios’s favor = proxy control of the dungeon” and he has very limited time to do so, he will jump at the chance. he’s already DIED for this.

kabru has maybe the clearest possible motivation that a character can have. he has a Protagonists Motivation, and it guides him forward in a very coherent way in the beginning of the story. things get more complicated in later acts that directly address how that motivation manifests itself/gets contradicted, bc ryoko kui is great at exploring this, but it’s still extremely present.

and as a labru fan i strongly dislike the implication i see from some ppl that his interest in laios is mostly personal or romantic (posts that range from pure joke to actual ship meta.) even when taking the “confession” at face value, where i think he was telling the truth, there’s still a lot more to it than that. i think at first kabru does see laios as a means to an end in a way that’s impersonal, partly because he tends to keep everyone in his life at arms length. but that “end” (preventing history from repeating itself) is something foundational to his psyche, and we should consider that potential sense of safety getting mixed in with his warring fascination/apprehension towards laios. he’s drawn to him for visceral reasons, and his stated motivations are so intertwined with his sense of self that untangling this push-pull is much more interesting than boilerplate Yearning, to me.

it’s just confusing when any meta or basic discussion of kabru diminishes the weight utaya has on his inner world and i’m really surprised every time i see it? like i understand that different types of meta will put other lenses on things intentionally, and in most cases i think it’s an interesting tool to work with. but it’s a massive disservice to his character to put the most foundational experience of his life on the back burner ESPECIALLY when it’s in favor of shipping. dissecting character relationships, romantic or otherwise, is at its best when you have their full personhood in mind!!

[critterbitter]

re: your thoughts on legendaries (which is very cool and based) what’s your take on the differences between legends:arceus giratina and platinum giratina, especially since you defined them as hating the world? specifically the bit where giratina (at least seemingly) actively defended the world from cyrus trying to destroy it, after trying to do the same thing with volo’s help centuries prior?

Weird ghost worm upon yee (AND MORE ART BELOW CUT!)

Anyways, here’s my mad ramblings about Giratina and Arceus’s backstory.

Tldr: Giratina’s a conglomerate of angry souls scorned by Arceus.

(Here’s the playlist. It’s all about worms.)

How it Started.

The original one has chosen favorites over the passage of time. Heroes, legends, protagonists…

Arceus intervenes for those it loves, and the consequences of a god touching the mortal world is devastating in its entirety. One act of divine intervention causes entire civilizations to collapse. One whispered suggestion drives an entire legacy insane.

So Arceus, paralyzed by its love for the mortal world, acts very little, learning from its mistakes. Apathy soaks through every motion. And thus is the way of the world.

But people love the Originator. Religions are born from Arceus’s rare deeds, and generation on generation taught its benevolence. Imagine spending your entire life chasing after that golden light. Imagine knowing its real and there, and it loves you.

Imagine begging it for help, and seeing it turn away when you need it most.

I think those people would feel very abandoned indeed, if they spent their lives worshipping, and receiving no response at all.

Giratina is born from the abandoned, the lost, and the angry. They’re a hundred thousand souls who’s adoration turned to spite. They’re an entity who demands for Arceus to look at them, so they can finally rest.

Arcues can not look at them in full, because if it does Giratina will fade.

(Scio, beloved. For I can not let you go.)

So the Original One banishes the Unwanted Beast into the distortion world, and Giratina seethes, and starves, and screams.

(Here are two truths about the Beast Between Dimensions—

1. Some part of them still loves Arceus. Arceus is their anchor, after all— the sole reason why they exist, why they are. But Arceus can not love it back in a way that matters, and that hurts.

2. Giratina is made of a thousand voices. Some of these voices remember that there’s a world above. They miss it.)

Why Giratina attacked Hisui in PLA:

PLA Giratina’s not a new god, but they’re very, very bitter and barely coherent on a good day. Volo serves as a conduct to help unite the broiling mass of ghosts against Arceus, and thus Giratina’s hatred overcomes any flickering affections they have for the land.

It doesn’t help that Arceus intervened for Hisui, sending Akari to directly stop Volo from summoning Giratina.

(As for Volo, well.

Imagine being a child who was thrown into the future due to Palkia and Dialga’s fits, who learned his people (his world) no longer exist beyond a shadow in the history books and a single, bitter lore keeper.

Volo doesn’t remember his original culture beyond vague imprints and singing praises to Sinnoh, but he knew he was loved, and he knew his family is dust four hundred years in the past. There’s a special sort of rage in him that echoes Giratinas.)

(Why did you abandon my people, Arceus? What kind of god are you, to leave those who love you so callously behind?)

(Maybe some part of Giratina recognizes Volo, beyond a feeling of kinship.

Maybe some part of Giratina grieves because it recognized the child Volo was.)

When Volo gets his pound of flesh, (when he realizes Arceus is not beholden to him, that the inherent alien morality Arceus holds is not a personal slight), Giratina will finally rest.

Anyways what I’m trying to say is: Arceus is never a person, but a nebulous embodiment of the connection shared between pokemon and humans. It tries to experience what it’s supposed to embody, but millennia of watching people be and cease has given it choice paralysis, apathy, and a hoarding issue. If something lasts forever next to it? Good.

Giratina was once a person. (Correction, a LOT of persons.) They don’t think very linearly either, but they have context on mortal matters and are thus the more benevolent and malicious of the two. One day, time will smooth them into something like Arceus. We can only hope the two keep each other in check.

THE DIFFERENCE OF LEGENDS ARCEUS GIRATINA VS PLATINUM PEARL GIRATINA

If the ancient version of giratina is an angry conglomerate of ghosts scorned by Arceus, the modern iteration of Giratina’s a creature that’s more settled in its skin and more assured in its duties. Giratina still has beef with Arceus, but they unionized into one being who’s love of the mortal world has triumphed over its ancestral grudge. One might even postulate they have shifted their anchor from Sinnoh the god, to Sinnoh the place.

((We call this character developement. Good for you, weird ghost worm!))

(((FULL DISCLOSURE, VOLO BEING FROM THE PAST IS INSPIRED FROM FOXFALL. You know. The fic that got me into this fandom. Please give it some love.)))

[vaguely-concerned]

My two cents on how much of Mind!Varric is Rook’s mind trying to fill the blank space and how much is Solas actively talking through a convenient blood magic paper doll of the mind: I think it's a mix of both, a truly collaborative psychosocial horrorshow if you would, but waaaay more towards the second. It feels too directed and tactical at times to be anything else. Rook's mind is willing to go along with the denial phase as far as it can fucking carry them to not have to face the grief and regret and does its part in papering over details that don’t make any sense, the way brains will strive to create coherent meaning even out of deeply confusing input, but to my understanding it's a collaborateur in how that plays out, not the instigator or control center. Solas is using it as a path to agency and to gather insight into Rook as a person unguarded as he can't count on in his own guise. (That stoic option that leads to him being like 'oh I see you're cautiously denying me access to your inner life. well. at least you still have Varric to talk to. y'know as an outlet :)'. You absolute BITCH Solas! That alone convinced me that he HAS to have an active hand in it on some level.)

My guess is that it takes considerable effort on Solas’ part to make Mind!Varric do anything more involved or complicated than seeming to sit up in bed and give casual commentary, and that’s why he keeps having eerie five minute shallow pep talks with you before he announces he conveniently needs a nap aaanyway good luck kid you got this haha. When he’s just spouting NPC lines from his bedrest, I’m ready to believe that could be Rook’s mind being allowed to improv lines for him more freely because it’s less about Solas trying to get something out of them or working an angle and more ‘Still here! Still totally alive and fine and the mentor figure you know and love and trust :) don’t even worry about it! Thankfully there is no war in Ba Sing Sei, as we all know’ upkeep work lol. Rook’s mind is allowed to set the tone of Varric, the outlines, but not always the content. 

AND, on a (beautifully fucked up) character psychology level, I feel like Solas is indulging in actually getting to be the good supportive mentor figure to Rook with one hand to assuage the guilt he feels about what he's done -- and what he's going to do -- to them with the other. Same internal logic as he uses in Trespasser about the Qun. ‘Almost everyone is going to die from the course of action I’m doggedly pursuing eventually. But at least I can make their last years happier and freer and kinder than they would have been otherwise. and that kind of makes up for it right. a little bit. doesn't it. doesn't that make it better at least. I need that to make it better)'. Did I really take your beloved mentor and friend from you if you don’t know yet that I did? Some philosophers would argue not really! So it’s probably almost ok actually. Isn’t it even a little noble that I’m taking all this grief and guilt on myself and shielding you for now. With undertones that I’m not sure he would realize himself (and might be mortified by if he did) that he is so incredibly lonely, and even a dishonest and indirect emotional connection is more than nothing when you’re that desperate. In this setup he gets idk. Both the control he craves so incredibly badly in relationships and over himself, and the scraps, the fading afterimages, of intimacy and warmth and companionship, even second hand. The one thing Solas and Rook agree on deep deep down is that they really wish Varric weren't gone. They're handshake memeing this in the saddest and most creepy way possible.

I think an important element too is that Solas needs Rook and their team to *succeed* —  up to a certain point. He needs someone to hold the two other elven mean girls off until he can get out of here. Ideally, in a perfect world, even do all the hard work of killing them so he can swoop in at the end and do his thing when both sides are exhausted and out of resources to stop him, and then Bob’s your uncle! Same logic as he was using with Corypheus, and after that worked out so well, too! King of choosing to never learn from a single solitary mistake he’s ever made even though i fully believe he could have the capacity to Fen’Harel <3 The underlying idea isn’t flawed, you see, it was just unforeseen circumstances getting in the way. This time for sure it’ll all work out the way I cleverly imagined it in my head beforehand. Cue By Talos this can’t be happening etc. in the form of a statue almost crushing him like a bug. 

So he's providing guidance and forging Rook into a leader from two angles: one Rook might not trust, and one they probably will. Shaping them into what he needs slowly and carefully. He’s helping you hone your team into their most effective state, as he might have done with his own agents back in the day, setting up his chess pieces even if he has to squint through two glimpsed realities to do it haha. Pincer maneuver of an insidious stealth mentor you never asked for. Also… at one point mind Varric gives you a whole little monologue about how Solas' problem is that he’s always seen his interpersonal connections as flaws and see where it’s landed him, all alone and the worst part? it hasn’t even worked. it’s all been for nothing he’s back where he began with nothing to show for it but his mistakes. Like...that has such strong 'uh okay happy to play your therapist from two rooms away here what the fuck kind of traumadump is this' energy to me, I’m not sure Rook like. Thinks that much about Solas as a private person. So much of Solas' self-loathing and futile insights into his own flaws seem to shine through in Mind!Varric's dialogue all the time — I just can't believe that there's no guiding hand behind it as it were. 

Most of all. I feel like people underestimate the degree to which Solas is incredibly funny. As in, he has a very consistent and recognizable sense of humour. It’s one of my very favourite things about him. We must remember — it is crucial that we always keep in mind — Orlesian accent and wig Solas from May The Dread Wolf Take You (my beloved, the explanation for why I love this dude even with the. All of the everything else. No one does it quite like him). He is not at all above doing things or adding little flourishes for his own obscure amusement, in fact that seems to me to be one of his most consistent traits. The Randy Dowager Quarterly comment Varric has? The ‘Maybe this is the Dread Wolf’s revenge. Forcing us to house sit for him’ thing? To Me this is 100% Solas amusing himself in his boring Fade jail surrounded by the screaming hellscape of all his regrets. Source: it came to me as divine revelation through pure vibes trust me bro 

If nothing else I find it much more narratively interesting personally if the connection between Rook and Solas really is that defenselessly intimate and entwined (and so unbalanced!), and the sense of violation and invasion and betrayal afterwards consequently all the more nauseatingly intense. Even if you kept him at arm’s length in the open, he’s been under your skin the whole time, looking around, gathering what he needs to destroy you, wearing the face of a friend. Regretfully, probably, but choosing to do it every step of the way anyway. (Sound familiar, Inquisitor? Solas doesn’t have that many tricks when you actually look at it, he keeps returning to old tried and true ones like a dog with a bone haha.) Maybe he even genuinely meant some of it as mercy, which only makes it so much worse. It makes his sin against his own core principles of autonomy and the freedom of all beings in mind, spirit and body so much more juicily grave if it’s something he pursues actively and consistently, rather than it half-falling into his lap as a happy accident mainly orchestrated by Rook’s own subconscious. Solas, too, is at his very lowest point, the closest to giving in and becoming his own antithesis fully that he’s ever been, and it makes the choice of whether you still reach out your hand to him one last time or not all the more impactful and difficult.

[https-bakugo]

"Was I just the fucking NOTES guy to you??" Part Three / (k.bakugo x GN! Reader) (Written)

♡ cw / tw : no more angst.

Bakugo was a smart man.

He knew things that others didn't - and naturally, he caught onto things that others couldn't.

Bakugo was a man who used what he knew and substituted what he didn't. He was resourceful, which means he was useful and that meant he was needed.

He was intelligent, gifted and all the different kinds of things that made people jealous of his inevitable success.

He grew up with a quirk. A powerful quirk. He was told that from a young age, Katsuki Bakugo would grow up to be something incredible. To be one of the most influential heroes the world has ever seen.

-

Bakugo had everything he had ever wanted handed to him. Here he was, twenty five, and one of the greatest heroes Japan had ever seen.

And yet, despite holding the world in the palms of his hands. It wasn’t enough. He needed something more. 

You. 

His highschool love. The one thing that slipped through his fingers. It was nine years ago. 

Nine long, excruciating years.

Though he was too late. He figured out all your cute and cheesy hints, too late - made all the right plans, too late - reached for your longing hand, too late - ached for your touch - dreamt of your lips sliding against his own… simply too late.

He had tried to shoot his shot back then but he was much too late.

But it had been nine years.

Nine whole years since he saw you. And according to Deku, five years since the both of you had broken up.

Surely now, surely now he had his chance. His opening. It was obvious he was still pining for you. 

His heart was yours.

He knew that.

Kirishima knew that.

Deku knew that.

You, knew that.

You knew.

Which is how he ended up finding himself, his lips pressed against yours - just like how a younger Katsuki only dreamt of doing - as he pressed you up against his bedroom wall. 

How did he manage to get himself stuck in this situation? 

He didn't remember.

And he didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t care. It really didn't matter either.

His friends were throwing a party - that’s right. Something about celebrating his “heroic success” or whatever.

Something about inviting his old classmates.

Something about inviting you.

Something about seeing you again, standing there like you were the only person in the room.

It was like the rest of the world melted into nothing as Katsuki stared at you. He didn't realise how much more... how much more you were.

It wasn't more in a bad way.

Not at all.

More. You were just so much. More. He could barely think - let alone place his messed up, jumbled thoughts into coherent words. It was like just the mere glimpse of you had him going insane, a mess of flushed cheeks and racing hearts- and short breaths- and everything. He felt sick, like he was going to hurl all over the carpet but in a good way, y’know?

His palms were sweaty and Katsuki’s head spun. All the lights were too bright and the music was too much. His legs felt like jelly and… shit - were you looking at him? 

Looking right at him with those drowning eyes of yours? 

Smiling at him with that godforsaken smile of yours?

Taking his scarred and calloused palm against the soft skin of your own hand?

Katsuki could write a poem about your beauty - no, he could write a million. He could strip the trees of their skin and use the charcoal as a pencil and exhaust the earth’s crust of its natural life, and still - still he couldn’t capture you. 

Your raw essence.

Your brilliance.

The way you shine and shimmer.

The way your eyes crinkle- and your breath gets stuck in your throat. The pads of your fingertips and the softness of your collarbones, and the dip and curve of you back and- and- and- 

God, he was smitten.

And god.

Katsuki was going to die.

He was going to die again and it was all your fucking fault.

Fucking hell. It was always your fault. 

All of it. 

Everything was your fault.

He pushed himself harder, all because of those melodic words you used to sing to him. How you looked up to him when you were teenagers. 

He worked on himself because you had told him you liked seeing the parts of him that nobody else had.

"I want to see the parts of you that nobody else has."

There was no way in hell that sentence was platonic. God he was such a fucking idiot back then, it was so fucking obvious you liked him. So fucking obvious.

And he missed it.

Like the idiot he was back then.

But he wasn’t going to lose you once more. He would rather tear out his own spinal cord - tendons, ligaments, flesh and bloody bone - then let you slip in between his fingers again. 

-

Katsuki’s breath was hot against your lips, his skin was buzzing with life and his heart pounded in his ears. He felt like if he took a step back he was going to stumble and fall. You looked so… ethereal. In his arms with your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed.

Katsuki leaned down and brushed his thumb across your bottom lip, his gaze softened as a soft smile tugged at his cheeks. 

“I love you.” 

He whispered, voice small. 

“I always have.”

That sense of… being wanted for so long crushed you like a new fish being thrown into its new fish tank- but it was home. 

I’m home.

Here in Katsuki’s arms. The smell of caramel, the feeling of his pulse throbbing against your palm, his imperfect and scarred flesh-

“Perfect.” You whispered under your breath.

“You’re perfect Katsuki.” You mumbled, sliding your lips across his, nails digging into the back of his shirt as he slid a strong hand under your leg, pulling his lips away only to latch onto the soft curve of your neck.

“I love you.” He sighed.

“Never leave me. Never again.”

Part One / Part Two

Everyone thnak @somnbul for helping OH MY GOD TERES A MOZZIE ON MY ARM SCRAMAINFOANFAJSNFOWAUFA

Taglist: @luvseraphh - @tlissablr - @havemyheartt - @smelliottle - @sakurayashiro - @peachesvault

Additional Mutual Tags (I want to hurt you lawl): @rueclfer - @tokeposts

© HTTPS-BAKUGO. Do not steal, copy or use any of my work for AI. Legal action will take place if caught.

[diamonddaze01]

missed calls

Pairing: idol!yoon jeonghan x gn!reader | wc: 3.7k genre: fluff, angst warnings: none a/n: missing my husband extra hard // all my love to @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubakeries and @gotta-winwin for beta-ing this <3

now playing: better half by jeonghan ft. omoinotake

summary: It’s a strange kind of ache, missing someone who feels both so close and so far.

The time difference makes you feel like a ghost sometimes.

There are moments when the world feels off-kilter, as though you’re existing in parallel timelines that never quite overlap. You wake to silence, your phone screen dark, the weight of unanswered messages settling in your chest like morning fog. You wonder where Jeonghan is when you miss his calls.

Maybe he’s walking through crowded streets in some unfamiliar city, the hum of life around him muted by his own thoughts. You picture him with his hood up, his head tilted just slightly, the breeze lifting strands of his hair as he stares out at a horizon that feels impossibly far from you. His lips might curve in that faint, private smile he wears when the world seems too loud, when he’s retreating into himself in a way only he can.

Or maybe he’s somewhere quiet, tucked into a hotel room that still feels too big for one person, the night pressing against the window like an old friend. You imagine him leaning back in his chair, his voice heavy with exhaustion, his words soft and slow as they try to find their way to you. But the distance swallows the sound before it can reach you, leaving you with nothing but the memory of how it feels to hear his laugh, his voice calling your name.

It’s a strange kind of ache, missing someone who feels both so close and so far.

Saitama, Japan. November.

네가 있는 그곳의 일기예보는 유난히 자꾸 눈에 들어와 이런 날 보며 웃어 줘 (The weather forecast where you are strangely keeps catching my eye / smile for me on a day like this)

Saitama. His third stop on the tour. Japan, a city far away from you, but close enough to feel like an ache in the back of your mind. It’s the way Jeonghan’s absence seems to stretch time itself. Some days, you don’t even recognize the hours as they pass—you only feel the silence.

When his name lights up your phone, it’s late—too late, really, to expect any sort of coherent conversation. But with Jeonghan, it never matters.

“I saw the weather in your city,” he says, his voice a low, familiar hum against the backdrop of your quiet apartment. There’s no greeting, no preamble—just the way his words always feel like home. “It’s raining, isn’t it?”

You glance out the window. The rain has stopped, but the world is still soaked in its aftermath. The streetlights paint the wet pavement in long, streaking reflections, the kind that feel like they belong in an old film.

“It’s not raining anymore,” you murmur, leaning into the sound of his voice. “But everything’s still wet.”

There’s a pause, the kind of silence that stretches not in discomfort but in longing. You can almost picture him, somewhere in Bangkok, leaning against the edge of a hotel balcony, the humid night pressing in around him.

“You always loved the rain,” he says finally, his voice soft with memory. “You’d sit by the window for hours, just watching it fall, like it was the most important thing in the world.”

“And you’d tell me to close it,” you reply, smiling even though he can’t see it. “Before we both caught a cold.”

He laughs, and the sound is so achingly familiar that you press your phone tighter against your ear, as though it might close the miles between you. “I miss that,” he says, quieter now, the amusement fading into something deeper. “I miss you.”

His words sit heavy and warm between you, like a blanket you can’t quite pull around yourself. You press your forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting it anchor you in the present.

“I miss you too,” you whisper, and though the words feel small compared to the weight of your longing, it’s all you can give him right now.

There’s another pause, longer this time, and when he speaks again, his voice is a thread pulled tight with exhaustion and tenderness. “It’s been seven stops,” he says, almost to himself. “Seven cities. But every time I look out at the crowd, I think of you. Wonder if you’d be somewhere out there, smiling at me.”

You close your eyes against the sudden sting of tears, the thought of him standing on a stage, searching for a face that isn’t there. “I wish I could be,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d give anything to be there.”

“You’ll be with me at the last stop,” he replies, his voice firm, as if saying it will make it true. “We’ll be together then.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he echoes, the word carrying a weight that you know he won’t let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled only with the quiet hum of static and the imagined sound of rain falling somewhere far away.

“Smile for me,” Jeonghan says suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice is playful now, teasing in the way that only he can be. “On a day like this, just smile for me.”

And even though he can’t see it, even though it doesn’t feel like enough, you smile. Because for now, it’s the closest thing to being by his side.

Bangkok, Thailand. December. 

멀리서 바라본대도 언제나 함께인 너와 나 서로 꽉 잡아주었던 손가락 대신 말이야 (Even if we’re far away, you and I are always together / Instead of fingers tightly holding each other, we have words)

Jeonghan’s in Bangkok now, and your calls have become more sporadic. The time zone difference has made it harder to sync up, and his rehearsals and soundchecks stretch late into the evening. The countdown to Christmas is drawing near, and there’s something about the holiday season that amplifies the distance. The twinkling lights in your apartment feel colder, the festive music playing on the radio a bit too cheerful. It’s hard to ignore the ache that fills the gaps between the fleeting conversations.

But he always finds a way to let you know he’s thinking of you, even when the calls don’t come.

It’s one of those late nights, just days before Christmas Eve, when his name flashes across your phone. You’re curled up on the couch, surrounded by half-wrapped presents and an unopened box of decorations, the scent of pine from the small tree you managed to set up lingering in the air. The world outside is dusted with snow, and for a moment, you let the stillness settle. But the phone call is like a soft knock at the door, a gentle reminder that even when he’s far away, Jeonghan’s voice is always there to anchor you.

“Sorry I missed you earlier,” his voice crackles through the speaker, a bit raspy from all the singing. You smile to yourself, hearing that familiar tone, the one that always sounds so far away yet somehow so close. “I hate not being able to hold your hand.”

You press the phone to your ear tighter, as if that could bridge the miles between you. The emptiness of the space beside you feels even more pronounced in this quiet moment. Your fingers ache, as if they could still feel the warmth of his touch from all those nights when you held each other close.

“I know,” you reply, your voice soft, the words carrying a weight that makes the distance feel like a tangible thing. “We’ll make up for it.”

You let the silence linger, as if it could somehow fill the void. “Someday,” you continue, the hope threading through your words. “When we’re together again.”

You can hear him exhale, a heavy sound that speaks of fatigue but also of something deeper. “Someday,” he echoes, but his tone is threaded with something that makes your heart ache. There’s a distance in the word, and yet a promise too, like a whispered prayer in the cold night air. “Until then, I guess I’ll have to settle for this.”

“Settle for what?” You shift on the couch, glancing at the twinkling lights on the tree, the soft shadows they cast on the walls. The thought of him fills your chest with warmth despite the cold that’s crept into the room.

“My voice,” he says, the corners of his voice curling into a soft smile. You can almost hear it, as though he’s there, standing beside you in the living room, smiling that quiet smile you love so much. “Calling your name.”

The sudden rush of emotion hits you like a wave, and you let out a laugh, albeit a quiet one. You can hear his smile through the phone, and it makes your heart flutter in that familiar way. Even though you’re separated by miles and time zones, you know that smile. You know that voice.

“That’s all I need,” you say, your words steady despite the longing twisting inside you. There’s a comfort in this—knowing that, even through the distance, he’s thinking of you. Even as you sit here, surrounded by the quiet of the holiday season, you are not alone. You never are when his voice is with you.

“Just my voice?” Jeonghan teases, but there’s no mistaking the tenderness behind it.

“For now,” you tease back. The smile that spreads across your face feels like the sun breaking through the clouds after a long storm. “But I can’t wait for the day when I can hear you say it in person again.”

He pauses for a moment, and you can tell that he’s smiling too, even though you can’t see him. “Me neither,” he says softly. “Just wait, okay? I’ll be home soon. And I’ll hold your hand then. All the Christmas lights in the world won’t be able to compare to that.”

The words settle in your heart, and for a moment, you let the phone slip from your ear as you look out at the snow falling softly against the darkened window. The world outside seems to hold its breath as you hold on to that promise, the quiet magic of love woven through the simple exchange of words.

As the conversation ends, you stand and walk over to the window, watching the snowflakes fall. You can almost feel him beside you, can almost imagine his fingers lacing with yours in the stillness of the night.

And in that moment, with the twinkling lights of Christmas warming the room, you let yourself believe—this will pass. Soon, he’ll be back. And you’ll both hold on to each other, through every season, no matter the miles.

Incheon, South Korea. January. 

변하지 않는 중력처럼 끌어당겨 날 너에게로 (Like unchanging gravity, you pull me toward you)

The months of separation have felt like a quiet ache, each day stretching endlessly between you and Jeonghan, but as his flight lands at Incheon, the world shifts, and you feel it in your bones. The moment the doors open, his figure steps through the airport terminal, the hum of conversations and the bustle of travelers fading into a distant blur.

He's wearing the exhaustion of tour like a second skin—his eyes heavy, his steps slow—but there’s something in the way he moves toward you, something magnetic, something undeniable. It’s like gravity, drawing him back to you with an inevitable pull, no matter how far apart you were.

As he crosses the threshold, his eyes meet yours, and in that instant, the months of absence dissolve. His tiredness melts away in the warmth of your gaze, and his lips curve into a smile—soft, yet filled with the same intensity as a thousand words unsaid. He drops his bag with a thud, not caring where it lands, and before you can even take a breath, his arms are around you, pulling you close, as if the air itself is too thin for him to breathe without you in it.

It’s not just a hug. It’s an avalanche of emotion, a force so powerful that it steals your breath away. His heartbeat syncs with yours as if it has never been out of rhythm, as if time had never existed between the last time you held him and now. The world, with all its noise, its demands, its distractions, seems to quiet around you.

His scent is the first thing that hits you—a familiar blend of him, of warmth and the soft whisper of something that always makes you feel like home. His skin is warmer than you remember, and his fingers, gentle but sure, find the back of your neck, cradling your head like he’s afraid you might slip away again.

“I told you I’d come back,” Jeonghan murmurs against your ear, his voice hoarse, as though it’s been waiting for this moment for so long. You don’t know if he means he’d promised in the past or if it’s a vow meant to echo through every moment you share in the future. The weight of his words lingers in the air, rich and heavy, and you can’t help but let out a soft laugh.

The sound is barely audible, but it’s enough to break through the haze of emotions thick in the air. You pull away just enough to see his face, eyes darker than you remember but alive with a quiet, burning affection. Your fingers find the fabric of his coat, clinging to him as if it’s the only thing that could anchor you to this moment, this reality where the distance no longer exists.

“You’re real,” you whisper into the hollow of his shoulder, fingers gripping the cloth like you might lose him again if you let go. The ache in your chest rises, threatening to swallow you whole, but it’s different now. He’s here, and the space you’ve carried between you for so long is finally closed.

“I’ve always been real,” he answers softly, his voice a balm against the tremor in your voice. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a tenderness that threatens to undo you. His gaze is endless, like the ocean, deep and consuming, and you find yourself lost in it, drowning in the warmth of his presence.

“You’re the gravity that pulls me back,” he says, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile, one that’s both soft and filled with something heavier. “I could never stay away.” And then, before either of you can think about it too much, he leans in, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment before he seals it with a kiss.

It’s soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of this closeness that feels like it could shatter the fragile air between you. But then his lips press against yours with a quiet urgency, a hunger that’s been buried under weeks of separation. His hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your hands threading through his hair, holding him as if you could absorb him into your very being.

The kiss deepens, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for this moment to unfold. There’s no rush, no hurry—just the slow burn of his lips against yours, the shared exhale, the tender weight of his arms around you.

When you finally pull away, the air between you feels impossibly full, as if the kiss itself has filled the space where words have always struggled to reach. Jeonghan presses his forehead against yours, his breathing unsteady but steadying.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he’s felt in the time you’ve been apart.

You smile, feeling like the distance, the longing, all of it has finally found its place in the quiet of his embrace. “I’ve missed you too.”

And in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter how far he goes, no matter the miles between you, he’ll always be the gravity that pulls you back to him. And you’ll always come back, too.

Bocaue, Philippines. February. 

어린아이처럼 늘 손을 꼽아 다시 만나는 그날을 (Like a child, I count down the days / Until the day we meet again)

Even reunions are fleeting. When Jeonghan leaves again, this time for the Philippines, you are left to breathe in the emptiness that lingers in his absence. The quiet stretches out before you like an untraveled road, the days growing heavier with every passing hour.

But in the stillness, you find a strange comfort—counting the days, one by one. The routine becomes a delicate ritual, as if the act of waiting itself is a thread connecting your hearts, pulling him back toward you.

You find yourself tracing the days in your mind, as though they were beads on a string, one for each heartbeat. Like a child who waits for the seasons to change, you cross off each night on an invisible calendar, whispering his name to the moon as if it could carry your voice to him. 

Each day feels endless, and yet, within it, there is hope.

One evening, just as you settle into your favorite spot by the window, the full moon rising to bathe your room in silver light, the familiar sound of his voice breaks the silence. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed the sound of it—soft, distant, yet so very close.

“Are you looking at the sky?” Jeonghan’s voice hums across the distance, pulling you in, weaving a bridge between the two of you.

“I am,” you reply, a tender smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you tilt your head toward the heavens. “Are you?”

“Always,” he says, his voice carrying a warmth that feels like a caress even through the phone. “It’s the one thing we can share, no matter how far apart we are.”

There is something about those words, simple yet profound, that makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way. You imagine him, somewhere under the same sky, the moonlight washing over his face, just as it does yours. His eyes, probably closed in that soft, familiar way, drinking in the same view. And in that moment, the world seems smaller. The distance between you and Jeonghan, though vast, feels like a mere whisper.

You picture him looking at the same moon, its light spilling over his face, and suddenly, the distance feels bearable. The days may pass in slow motion, but each one brings you closer to him. And so, with the moon as your silent witness, you smile softly into the night, counting the days as they turn into weeks, knowing that soon—soon—he will be home.

Osaka, Japan. March. 

다음 그다음 싹이 틀 연 분홍빛의 벚꽃잎이 수줍게 핀 모습을 함께 보도록 (the buds of pale pink cherry blossoms / Will bloom shyly for us to see together)

By the time Jeonghan reaches Osaka, spring has arrived. The cherry blossoms you dreamed of seeing together have finally bloomed, delicate petals painting the air with soft pinks, like a memory you’ve held onto through the long months of distance. Their fragile beauty seems to mirror your own waiting heart, tender and yearning, unfolding bit by bit with every passing day.

One afternoon, he calls you just as you’re stepping outside, the warm breeze teasing the edges of your jacket, the scent of fresh earth and spring in the air. The cherry trees in your own neighborhood sway gently, their petals dancing in the sunlight, their branches dipping toward the ground as though offering their beauty to the world. It’s not quite the same as the ones in Japan, but they’re still stunning, just like the dream you once whispered to him late at night: that one day, you’d be there together to witness this moment.

His voice crackles through the phone, distant yet intimate, like he's right beside you. “They’re blooming here too,” Jeonghan says, and you can hear the awe in his voice, the wonder that always lingers when he talks about the little things that make life feel full. “I wish you could see them.”

There’s a slight catch in his words, and you can tell it’s the same wistful longing that fills your chest when you look at the trees, but you smile anyway, because you know he’s thinking of you.

“Next year,” you reply, trying to sound certain, though your voice catches in the same way his did. “We’ll see them together next year.”

You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the air around you, letting the thought of his warmth beside you on a spring day settle in your chest.

There’s a long pause. For a moment, the connection feels stretched across miles, but you can still feel him there, as though he’s standing in front of you, watching the same cherry blossoms. His voice, when it comes, is steady, unwavering, and filled with the quiet certainty that’s always been his signature. “We will.”

And in that moment, you know it’s true. You know that no matter how far apart you are, no matter how many missed calls or delayed flights or sleepless nights you face, this love is something that time cannot touch. It’s written in the cherry blossoms that bloom when the seasons change, in the soft glow of the moon that shines for both of you, no matter where you are. It’s in every smile that crosses your lips when you hear his voice, every quiet moment when you can almost feel him beside you, even though he’s thousands of miles away.

It’s in the way he always calls, no matter how late it is or how busy he gets. In the way he’s never too far to remind you that he’s thinking of you. You believe him because you’ve felt it—the way his love wraps around you, steady and sure, even when the distance feels endless. It’s in the promise of next year, and the year after that. It’s in every missed call, every whispered promise, and every moment that pulls you back together, stronger than before.

In the distance, a cherry blossom blooms.  

[noisyghost]

(I started sketching this design nearly immediately after season 2 ended but just now had some time to clean it up so. Excuse me rambling out loud here)

TLDR; I actually really liked the initial design + direction for Warwick-Vander (I <3 human faced werewolves)! But the show design kinda felt like a transitory state between Vander and Warwick to me, so I wanted to try my hand at blending his Arcane design with his in game design. Like a "what would he look like if the transformation kept going" kinda thing. There's a few things I'm not fully settled on, but Im mostly satisfied :)

(rambling under the readmore, its 3 am as i type this lol)

When season 2 first started, I sort of had it in my head that the narrative would have Vander "die" for Warwick to finish the transformation into his final form, forcing Vi and Jinx to finally say goodbye together. Well! That didn't happen lol. I mean. Vander did "die", but whatever was left behind isn't really Warwick. I'm not quite sure what they were going for, either with him or with how Jinx "dies", its all just a little messy when i feel like there was a more obvious narrative conclusion.

Visually i think the final design in the show is cool removed from context, but it doesn't really make sense to me in regards to the story. Like. Warwicks whole thing is that he curbs his violent impulses by killing "bad guys" in the undercity. League lore is a hot fucking mess and I don't even go there so I get that they (the writers) were playing fast and loose but I can see why so many Warwick fans were less than pleased with where the show leaves him, because it doesn't really feel like the same character outside of his initial experimentation.

In my own idea palace, Jinx fakes her death and leaves Warwick to be Zaun's new mascot. Having this literal monster that eats bad guys and saves innocent people in the process become a new symbol for Zaun feels like a no brainer to me. Imagine the iconography they'd make for this thing! And it brings Vanders whole schtick back around; he still "dies" but the Literal Memory of him lives on in Zaun, still protecting the people he cared about most. You get the bittersweet ending of Vi and Jinx having to move on because hes not really their dad anymore, but their memory is what keeps Warwick "human", still with Zaun even if Vi is doing Piltover shit and Jinx is off exploring the world.

Idk! I know the implication that Jinx faked her death is there, but whatever happens to Warwick seems to be like they didnt really have the time to fully explore the ideas they were going for, so a couple characters just got kinda left floating at the end there. If Ekko and Jinx werent going to run away together, I wanted to see Ekko befriending Warwick so they could fight to make Zaun a better place.

I have more coherent ideas than this but it's 3 am when im typing this so sorry if im not eloquent enough to properly explain what im thinking. Ekko and his weird dog that used to be his uncle. Imagine.

[sh4nksslvt]

The Lost Reader

A mysterious reader of Poneglyphs finds a new home among the Straw Hat Pirates, slowly becoming an irreplaceable part of their crew as their love for them grows.

READER WHO CAN READ AND SPEAK PONEGLYPH

Strawhats x Poneglyph gn!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: luffy, zoro, sanji, nami, robin

tags: fluff, sfw, harem(?), soft

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

words count: 1.9k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

It started with silence.

Not the heavy kind that suffocates—but the quiet peace of wind brushing through trees, waves lapping against the sand, and birds singing above crumbled ruins. Your only companions were time-worn Poneglyphs, mossy stone relics, and the hollow ache of knowing you shouldn’t exist.

You didn’t know what you were—only that you could read them. The Poneglyphs. Their words came to you like breath, like blood. It wasn’t learned. It just… was.

And then one day, the silence broke.

“WOOOOAAAHH! What a weird island!!”

You looked up from a worn page, blinking at the explosion of sound.

A rubber man had landed face-first in your tomato garden.

You blinked again, rubbing your eyes to make sure you weren’t imagining the scene before you. The man—his limbs were stretched at impossible angles, and his face was, well… currently smushed into the dirt of your carefully cultivated tomato patch.

“Luffy!” a woman’s voice shouted from the shore. “Stop crashing into things!”

You stared in disbelief, watching as a circus of chaos disembarked from a sunny, lion-faced ship. At least, that’s what it looked like to you.

“Wha—?” You stumbled back, half-wondering if you’d stepped into some sort of dream. But no, the crew’s laughter was real. Loud, boisterous, utterly chaotic, and very much present.

Before you could comprehend the whirlwind that had just descended upon your quiet life, a figure bounded toward you. The rubber man—Luffy—was grinning at you like you were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. And, for all you knew, you were.

“Hey! Who're you? you live here? cool! SHISHISHI” Luffy asked, already sitting cross-legged on the ground as if he hadn’t just completely flattened your garden. “Wanna eat with us?”

You blinked, still too stunned to form a coherent sentence. “I… guess?...Im Y/N”

And so began your first real encounter with the Straw Hat Pirates.

Nami, with her keen eyes and sharp questions, immediately assessed the situation, interrogating you about your maps and supplies like she was about to audit your entire existence. Sanji, the ever-romantic chef, started cooking a feast so lavish that you were half-tempted to check if the food had its own backstory. The man even had heart-shaped eyes every time you praised his cooking.

Usopp, ever the over-the-top self-proclaimed hero, proudly handed you a coconut with a grin that could only be described as a “friendship orb.” “From me to you,” he declared, as if he had just made the world’s most profound offering.

And then there was Chopper, who took your pulse the second he saw you, declaring that you had “island person syndrome” and needed immediate attention.

Robin, however, watched you closely. Her gaze sharp but gentle, as if trying to figure out a puzzle no one else could see.

“You can read those stones, can’t you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You stiffened. The question sent a shiver through your spine, a fleeting reminder of the secret you kept buried deep within. You didn’t answer. Not immediately.

She smiled, soft and knowing, her eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll talk later.”

Zoro, ever the brooding figure, glanced at you and muttered under his breath, “You don’t look dangerous.” It seemed like a funny thing to say, considering he had just been trying to slice a boulder in half mere moments earlier.

It didn’t take long for you to realize what was happening: You were trapped in their orbit. In their madness. In their chaos.

And you couldn’t have been more content.

The Thousand Sunny became your new home—bright, loud, and utterly unpredictable.

Sanji insisted on cooking you all your meals. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—each time, his cooking came with a full-on serenade, and if you didn’t finish your plate, he might just shed a tear. “It’s not just food,” he’d say. “It’s love. It’s my soul in a dish!”

Nami dragged you into shopping sprees with no regard for your dwindling supplies or your protestations. “You need to look fabulous, Y/N. Don’t you want to blend in with the rest of us?” she’d tease, while tossing a dozen new outfits into your arms. You always ended up spending more than you intended, but there was something so infectious about her enthusiasm that you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Robin was the one who quietly fascinated you. You’d find her at all hours of the day, absorbed in reading a book or studying the surroundings with quiet intensity. There was something about the way she looked at you, like she already knew your secrets but would never pry.

And then there was Luffy. Always smiling. Always laughing. He treated you as though you were already part of the crew. No pretense, no hesitation. You didn’t even need to be invited. You were just… in.

“Wanna ride on top of the mast?” Luffy asked one morning, as casually as if he were asking if you wanted a snack.

You stared up at the towering mast, then back at him. “Is that… safe?”

“Nope! shishishi” he beamed, looking excited about the prospect.

Somehow, that made it make sense to climb up there with him. He helped you up like it was nothing, laughing all the while. The wind whipped through your hair, and for the first time in a long while, you felt alive. You weren’t just existing anymore.

Zoro, ever the silent guardian, began training near you. You noticed him constantly observing your movements, his gaze intense but not unwelcome. One day, you lost your footing on deck, but before you could even react, his hand shot out and steadied you.

He didn’t say much, just stared at you for a moment, before clearing his throat and muttering, “Watch your step, dumbass.”

Romance, clearly.

It crept in slowly. Unnoticed, at first.

Sanji’s compliments, light-hearted at first, began to hold a different weight. “You look beautiful today, Y/N~chwann” he’d say with a soft smile, not just as a joke, but as something that meant more.

Nami’s teasing turned into lingering glances, moments where her eyes softened when she thought no one was looking.

Robin’s hand on yours during those quiet late-night reading sessions made your heart skip a beat, like it was a shared secret, a connection you didn’t have the words to describe.

Zoro’s silence, once intimidating, became your comfort. When he was near, you didn’t need to talk. You didn’t need to explain yourself. He was just there, a steady presence.

And Luffy’s laughter—oh, Luffy’s laughter. It started to feel like home, like the sound of safety, of warmth. A constant reminder that with him around, there was nothing to fear.

But you kept your secret.

That was until one night, when you and Robin stood over a relic you had no business being near. It was buried deep beneath the cursed island’s soil, half-buried like a forgotten truth. Robin stood behind you, arms crossed, waiting for you to decipher it. You already knew what it would say, but that didn’t stop the rush of dread that surged within you as your fingers traced the ancient glyphs.

“You know what it says, don’t you?” Robin’s voice was barely a whisper. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

You stiffened.

“It’s just a story,” you muttered, voice low.

Robin smiled, a soft and knowing smile, one that suggested she understood far more than she let on. “Then you should know—they’d kill you for it.”

You didn’t answer, didn’t have the words. You just continued to trace the lines, the ancient language flowing effortlessly from your mind, sinking into the earth beneath your fingertips.

Everything changed when you found the half-buried Poneglyph on a cursed island.

It was a trap. Not for Luffy. Not for the Pirate King in the making.

For you.

You read the stone aloud, your voice quiet, shaking slightly. And for the first time in your life, the stone responded.

The words were not just etched into stone, not just an inscription—it was a message. A message that burned through the world like a beacon.

“The last of the Whisperers,” it said. “Hunted. Hidden. Forbidden.”

The ground shook. The air turned electric. The Poneglyphs around you shimmered, the glyphs becoming light, illuminating the island with a soft, ethereal glow.

The Straw Hats arrived just as you stumbled backward, your eyes wide, heart pounding, the power coursing through you like an uncontrollable force. The glyphs pulsed, and the power in your veins burned bright.

“What’s happening?!” Usopp screamed, looking ready to fight a ghost.

You looked at them—at your crew—and whispered, “They were hunting us. People who could read these stones. I shouldn’t exist.”

There was silence.

Then Luffy stepped forward, his voice unwavering, “You’re not alone.”

The Marines came shortly after.

You fought, of course you did.

For the first time in your life, you let the power in your blood surge freely. The words of the stone became light, flames of energy erupting from the ground as you slashed through the battlefield, carving the very earth with your newfound strength. You cracked the island’s crust. You didn’t even know you could do that.

Sanji’s hand grabbed yours as the ground beneath you cracked, pulling you from the collapsing cliff. Zoro fought beside you, silent and determined. Robin’s steady hand on yours kept you grounded in the chaos.

When the battle was over, and the last Marine had been driven back, you passed out.

You woke in the infirmary, Chopper hovering over you, his worried eyes darting around like he was waiting for you to disappear again. Franky was sitting beside you, sobbing into a bowl of soup.

“You scared us, you moron,” Nami whispered, brushing your hair back from your face. Her voice was soft, a rare tenderness that made your heart ache.

Robin kissed your temple as she hovered over you, whispering, “You’re more than your gift.”

Sanji didn’t say anything, but his presence was unmistakable. He curled up beside you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, a silent vow of protection.

Zoro sat across from you, cleaning his swords. “Don’t ever do that alone again.”

And Luffy… Luffy beamed at you, that infectious smile lighting up his face as he exclaimed, “You’re stuck with us forever now!”

The tension unraveled like fraying rope.

Nami kissed you when you least expected it, quick and teasing, a spark of affection.

Robin kissed you in the library, with parchment between your hands, and the world felt like it stopped turning for a moment.

Sanji kissed you with all the intensity of someone who had been waiting for years, every touch filled with longing.

Zoro kissed you like it was the only thing that made sense, his hands warm and steady.

And Luffy—Luffy’s kiss was upside down, playful, and completely unexpected, but perfect in the way only Luffy could be.

Usopp ran away screaming, “AAAH! ROMANCE ATTACK!”

Chopper fainted. Twice.

Brook played a love song with three verses about your “sultry stare” that made everyone uncomfortable except Sanji, who wept.

Franky asked if you wanted to build a heart-shaped cannon to “blast your feelings at the world.” You said yes. It now sits in the garden.

Jinbei just gave you a nod and said, “It’s about time.”

You weren’t a secret anymore.

You were theirs.

Not claimed, not owned—but cherished. Loved, wholly and fiercely.

And though the world may hunt you, you had a crew that would burn it down before they let anyone take you.