#so leaving it at a point like an “end of a chapter” i think its perfect

[epinebleue]

i can fix him (no really i can) (m) (chibs telford) | 07

It was as if the pieces began to slide into place. He had pulled away from her the moment she had stepped back into Charming. Not in an obvious, cruel way, but in that subtle, almost imperceptible retreat of someone who had already decided he wasn’t allowed to want something.

pairing: filip “chibs” telford x eloise “ellie” teller (original female character)

genre: angst, fluff, mature.

chapter’s warnings: mentions of death by gunshot.

author’s note: so we’ve reached what, in terms of canon, would be the end of the first season! the fact that i’ve published seven chapters so far is insane. i don’t know if i can confidently say that i’m officially out of the writer’s block, but i can assure you that i don’t want to stop writing about ellie and chibs any time soon because i’m literally obsessed with them.

season two will be filled with drama, angst and spice, and i hope i see you all there in a few weeks 👀

tag list: @daphnen21 @undead-ahead-wh0re @staley83

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The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, the town still wrapped in silence. The café smelled like fresh grounds and sugar, its lights glowing soft and golden against the dawn.

Ellie had been there for nearly half an hour.

Sleep hadn’t stood a chance after Maya’s call. Her thoughts had been too loud, her chest too tight. At some point the bed had started to feel like a coffin, and so she’d walked to the café, thinking she’d kill time with caffeine and the newspaper until Tara arrived for their planned coffee date.

When Tara asked her to meet up, Ellie agreed instantly. There was still a teenage version of her somewhere that thought Tara Knowles was the coolest human alive: brainy, sharp-tongued, beautiful, and somehow able to make her brother act like a half-civilized boy when they were in high school. That memory alone made Ellie grin as she waited.

She was halfway through her cup when the familiar growl of a Harley outside caught her attention. Her eyebrows lifted as she saw Jax park a few meters away from the door, his hair all tousled.

And the best part was, he wasn’t alone.

Tara hopped off the back, adjusting her jacket.

Ellie tilted her head, watching.

Jax leaned in, murmured something low, and kissed Tara.

Ellie’s jaw dropped to the floor.

In the blink of an eye he was gone, roaring off down the road, leaving Tara standing outside the café. The bell above the door chimed, loud in the hush of the place. She stepped inside, brushing a bit of windblown hair from her face, still oblivious to the fact that she wasn’t alone. She ordered her coffee at the counter and waited.

And just as she turned, ready to look for the perfect spot, she heard it:

“Morning, Doctor Knowles!”

Tara froze.

Her head whipped around toward the back corner, eyes locking with Ellie’s, who sat with her chin propped in her hand, grinning like she’d just caught someone sneaking in after curfew.

Tara’s face went absolutely pale. She cleared her throat and forced a tight smile. She grabbed her coffee like it was a life preserver and crossed the room, dropping into the booth across from her.

“What are you doing here so early?”

“Insomnia’s a bitch.” Ellie shrugged, smug. “What about you? Did insomnia keep you awake as well or was it… something else?”

“I swear, if you say anything…”

“I won’t.” Ellie said quickly, holding up her hands in mock innocence. “But I do want to know how this happened.”

Tara took a long sip of her coffee. Ellie just watched her, eyebrows raised, one corner of her mouth tugged upward.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Tara muttered, eyes flicking to the window.

“You’re damn right I am.” Ellie leaned back, arms crossed. “I thought you two were done for good. Like, dusty photo album in a locked box under the bed kind of done.”

Tara groaned quietly, setting her cup down. She didn’t answer right away, rubbing her thumb against the lid of her cup instead, trying to find the words.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen. But, Jax… he makes it easy to fall right back into the past.”

Ellie’s grin softened.

“I understand.”

Tara’s eyes flicked up, surprised. There was a beat of silence between them, full of unsaid things.

“You do?”

“Of course, are you kidding? You were always his person.” Ellie leaned in a little. “Even when I was a kid, I saw that. He was less of an idiot whenever he was around you.”

Tara let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “God, that feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It was, but,” Ellie put her finger up, “if you’re back in Charming for good, and he’s still the same old Jax, then it’s just picking up something that was always yours.”

Tara studied her, her expression shifting slowly from wariness to relief. Ellie had always been on her team, and she was grateful to know that hadn’t changed.

“Can you not tell him that you know? We haven’t… exactly defined what this is yet.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me at all.” Ellie gave her a look. “Besides, watching you panic when you saw me here? Priceless. That’s going in my memory vault forever.”

Tara chuckled and reached across the table to lightly shove her arm.

“You truly are a Teller through and through.”

“For better or worse.”

They clinked mugs, and for a moment, Ellie felt everything was warm and easy again. As far as she was concerned, they were just two women with shared history that maybe, finally, would have the chance to rewrite a few pages.

“Bobby, you’re spelling it wrong.”

“What?”

“Abel’s name. You’re spelling it wrong.”

Ellie slid down from the stool she’d been balancing on to fix the paper garlands that hung across the living room. She landed with a soft thud, her Converse tapping lightly against the hardwood as she made her way through the few guests that had already arrived.

Bobby was holding a rectangular letter ‘E’ in his hand with the utmost concentration. Ellie took the sign from his hands with a practiced ease, then peeled the letter ‘L’ off the wall with one swift motion, repositioning it to where it should’ve been from the start. Then, she stuck the ‘E’ in its rightful place, and stepped back to get a full view of the sign. Her hands rested on her hips as she gave Bobby a side-eye.

“So that’s how you write it.”

“Yeah, that’s how.” She replied with a smirk, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Huh.” Bobby stared at the sign, blinking. “You’d think I’d know how to spell the kid’s name by now.”

Ellie shrugged as Bobby walked away, mumbling something about needing more tape. “You’d think.”

Donna approached then, holding a balloon in her hands, a skeptical look on her face.

“Was he really spelling it ‘Able’?”

Ellie chuckled under her breath. “Can’t blame him, he’s totally baked right now.”

Donna’s laugh was interrupted by the door swinging open. “Oh my God, they’re here!”

Jax stepped in, cradling baby Abel in his arms, with Wendy and Gemma close behind. The room buzzed around Ellie, but she simply watched. Everything seemed to slow as her eyes landed on Abel.

The first time she’d seen him, he was barely a bundle. Now there he was, cheeks round, fingers curling, big curious eyes blinking at the bright world around him.

She pictured him taking his first steps, one wobbly foot in front of the other, arms reaching for someone who wasn’t her. She wouldn’t be there to see the way he’d wrinkle his nose when he laughed, or how he’d cling to a favorite toy. She wouldn’t know what songs calmed him, what stories he liked best before bed.

It hit her all at once, the vast stretch of moments she had already missed while Wendy was pregnant, and the countless ones now ahead. That tiny little boy would grow up hearing her name, maybe seeing her in pictures, maybe through the phone. But she’d be more of an idea than a person.

Someone he was told was family, but who hadn’t really been there.

She stood frozen, heart thudding softly in her chest, unsure what to do with herself. Everyone else had already leaned in, said hello and touched his tiny hand. But Ellie kept her distance, convinced she didn’t deserve more than a glance.

Then Jax looked over, eyes catching hers across the room.

“You wanna hold him?” He asked, casual, like it was nothing.

Ellie blinked. Her voice came out softer than she expected. “Can I?”

Jax gave her a half-smile. “Of course you can. You’re his aunt.”

Aunt. She hadn’t really let it sink in until now.

Jax turned to her, shifting the baby gently in his arms. “Come here. Support his head.”

Ellie stepped forward, almost hesitant. She held out her arms, and for the first time, Abel was in them.

He was warm. Heavy in a small, grounding way. He smelled like baby shampoo and something soft she couldn’t place. He looked up at her with his wide eyes, blinking once, twice, and then rested his hand on her collarbone like he belonged there.

She swallowed thickly and smiled, on the verge of tears.

“Hey, little man.” She whispered, for the first time in six years feeling that something was falling into place instead of apart.

Tig, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, grinned around a toothpick. “He suits you, Ellie. You’d make a hell of a mama.”

Clay didn’t miss a beat, his voice coming low, dry, but with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t even joke about it, I just got her back.”

Laughter rippled around the room, easy and warm. Ellie laughed, too, genuinely, in a way she hadn’t in a long time.

Across the room, Chibs lingered near the edge of it all, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His posture was casual, but his eyes told a different story. He was focused on Ellie, on the way she cradled the baby, soft and instinctive, like it came naturally to her.

Just then, Abel made a tiny sound, similar to a coo or maybe the beginning of a cry. Ellie responded instantly, her movements fluid and gentle as she bounced on her heels, murmuring something to him.

Tig, never one to stop riding a joke, leaned in. “Better watch it, El. You keep looking like that and some poor bastard might fall in love with you.”

The room erupted in laughter again. It was easy, lighthearted, the way it always was when Tig said something inappropriate, but for Chibs, the sound was like a splash of cold water.

His hand instinctively went to adjust the chain around his wrist, the motion sharp and almost irritated, like he could ground himself with it.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard.

But he had.

And Tig had no goddamn idea how close he was to the truth.

Ellie looked past her shoulder before opening the sliding door that led to the back porch, where she had seen Chibs disappear earlier. The cool air of the evening hit her as she stepped outside, and her eyes quickly found him leaning against the porch railing, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“Found you.” She said, her voice playful as she closed the door behind her, the sound of it almost lost in the gentle rustle of the night air.

Chibs lifted his eyes slowly, giving her a lazy smile. “Was never hiding.”

Ellie couldn’t help but grin. It was the same quiet confidence he always had, like he didn’t need to hide to stay out of sight. She stepped closer, reaching out without hesitation to pluck the cigarette from his lips.

Chibs didn’t flinch when she reached for it. He simply watched her, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes held hers while she took a drag, the ember flaring briefly between them.

She handed it back when she was done, their fingers brushing. The contact was fleeting, but enough to make her pause for a second, long enough to feel that strange, unspoken connection between them.

He tapped the ash off, eyes still on her, as she spoke again.

“Couldn’t blame you if you were.” She said, exhaling the smoke into the night air. “Things are getting really uncomfortable in there.”

Chibs’ lips quirked at the corner, his gaze narrowing just slightly. He watched her with that knowing, almost amused expression. “Tara still putting on a show?”

“Oh, yes.” Ellie chuckled, shaking her head. “Jax’s mortified. He lectured us this morning about how he wanted us to go easy on Wendy, because he’s afraid she might relapse if the guilt’s too much.”

Chibs’ laugh rumbled low in his chest, a sound that was almost a growl. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s not a party without a Teller family disaster.”

Ellie leaned against the railing beside him, her elbows resting on the wood, eyes on the street ahead. “Welcome to Charming, huh?”

The night was quiet, except for the occasional rustle of trees or the soft hum of distant cars. She took in the silence, letting it settle around her, then glanced sideways at Chibs.

“If I ask you something,” Ellie started, her voice careful, quiet, “will you be honest with me?”

He didn’t look at her. He just took another drag, exhaled slowly.

“Don’t play games with me, lass.”

But Ellie acted as if she hadn’t heard him.

“That night, six years ago, I kissed you. And you pushed me away.”

Another pause, longer this time.

He finally spoke, voice low, almost distant. “I was thirty-seven. You were eighteen, just outta school. And Jax’s little sister, for Christ’s sake. What else was I supposed to do?”

Ellie’s heart thudded, a quiet shock rippling through her. She had expected honesty, at least eventually, but not like this. She leaned against the railing, her breath caught for a moment, unsure whether to soften or harden in response.

“Be honest with me.” The words came out a little sharper than she intended. “Were you tempted?”

His jaw tensed, the words escaping through clenched teeth. “You don’t ask a man that when he’s still trying to pretend he’s decent.”

She gave a dry, knowing smile. “You were better at pretending then. Not so much now.”

Chibs held her gaze, as if weighing her words against his own truths. Then he looked away just enough to flick the cigarette out into the yard. The ember arced through the dark and disappeared into the night, a brief spark that was gone as quickly as it appeared. His hand lingered by the railing, fingers curling loosely as if he didn’t know what to do with them, or with himself.

He met her eyes again, the intensity of the moment making it hard to breathe. 

“Last night, at the fundraiser… you looked at me like I was something you weren’t allowed to want. And maybe I was back then, but I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m not off-limits. I make my own choices now.”

“You think I don’t see that?” Chibs muttered, his voice thick with bitterness, like he couldn’t quite mask the frustration that had been simmering under the surface.

Ellie stepped closer, her pulse quickening as the distance between them shrank..

“Then why do you keep pretending?”

Chibs ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to scrape the guilt and confusion out of him. He was unraveling right in front of her, piece by piece, and she could see it. All that control he’d built up for years, slowly slipping away.

“Because if I let myself want you, Ellie… there’s no going back.”

His gaze met hers, and for the first time, there was nothing left to hide. The fire in his eyes burned bright, the cracks in his armor wide open for her to see. 

Ellie stepped in, slow and deliberate, her heart pounding in her chest as she closed the final bit of space between them. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension that wrapped around them like a wire ready to snap.

“If you tell me to walk away, I will.” Her voice was steady, though the words felt like they were being torn from her. “I’ll let it go, I won’t bring up us again. Just tell me.”

Chibs didn’t answer her. His eyes dropped to her lips, lingered, as if the answer to everything was right there.

And then, he moved.

There was no hesitation, no soft lead-in.

Chibs grabbed her like a man starved.

Their mouths crashed together, hard, messy, full of too much silence and too many years. His hands found her hips and dragged her against him with something closer to desperation. Ellie gasped, but she didn’t pull back. She clutched at the collar of his vest, fingers bunching tight in the leather, anchoring herself.

He kissed her like he was trying to make up for every second he had denied himself, like it wasn’t something they could do later. Like it had to happen now or never.

Ellie’s back hit the porch post with a soft thud, and he didn’t stop, just pressed into her like he needed her to hold him up. She pulled him closer, one hand tangled in his hair, the other sliding under the hem of his shirt, palm hot against his back.

She opened to him, and he kissed her like a man coming undone.

His tongue swept over hers, hungry, claiming. The sound he made, deep in his chest, almost a groan, lit her up from the inside. She kissed him back like he was oxygen and she had been drowning. 

His hand, so calloused from his pistol, slid up her side, fingers trembling with restraint, until he was cupping her jaw, his thumb softly tracing hearts on her face like she was something fragile.

Ellie gasped into his mouth, unable to hold back. She’d imagined this countless times, but none of her fantasies had come close. The pressure, the ache, the raw urgency that made it feel like her chest might split open. 

They kissed like time was slipping away, like they’d already wasted too much of it.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it ended.

“Chibs!”

Jax’s voice.

The kiss broke like glass underfoot.

Chibs pulled back fast, breathing hard. His eyes flicked over her face, like he was trying to memorize it before reality crashed back in.

They both had taken a step back, trying to get as far away from each other as possible, when Jax slid the door open a second later, eyes bloodshot and wide. He didn’t even see her, or at least not really. Just brushed past, all business, all panic.

“We gotta go.” He said, voice cracking. “Something happened to Donna.”

Chibs was already moving before the words finished landing.

Ellie blinked, stunned, heart still thundering from the kiss. She rushed after them, adrenaline spiking.

“Wait, what happened?”

“Stay with Wendy. I’ll call you later.”

“But is she okay? Are the kids okay?”

Jax spun around, eyes flashing. “I don’t fucking know, Ellie!”

The words came out sharper than he intended, frustration spilling over. He didn’t mean to snap at her, but it hit her like a slap anyway. Suddenly, she was ten again and being told to stay out of boys’ business.

And then they were gone, boots stomping down the steps, the roar of engines already tearing through the quiet.

Ellie stood frozen in the doorway, the porch light humming above her. Her lips still tingled. Her skin still buzzed. Everything that had just happened with Chibs, it laid buried, deep under shock and confusion.

She wrapped her arms around herself, stepping back into the house.

Chibs tightened his grip on the bars, but it wasn’t the ride that had his chest locked tight.

It was her.

Back on the porch, her lips had been on his, her body had been in his hands, and, for the briefest second, he had let himself have it. Let himself want it.

And now Donna might be dead.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the universe was laughing at him. Like the moment he finally took what he’d been denying for years, it snatched something else away in exchange. That was the deal, wasn’t it? Nothing came without a price. Not in this life. Not in Charming.

He blinked, jaw clenched, Ellie’s voice still echoing in his skull.

“Then maybe it’s time you find out.”

The kiss hadn’t been a slip, nor a mistake. It had been, it had meant, everything. All the years of restraint and bullshit, pretending she was just Jax’s little sister, wiped clean with a single breath.

And now she was back inside that house, alone, probably confused. Probably wondering if he had already started regretting it.

He hadn’t, not even for a second, but guilt was already gnawing at him. Not guilt over kissing her, because that had felt more real than anything he’d done in years, but the timing.  The way everything had come crashing down right after.

He glanced at Jax, riding ahead, posture coiled and tight, thinking of his best friend’s wife, who could be hurt, who could be gone.

And here Chibs was, his heart still thudding in his chest, like he was eighteen again, kissing someone for the first time.

You don’t know what you’re asking, he had said.

But she did, didn’t she? She hadn’t looked at him with doubt, not even once. She hadn’t flinched. She’d stood there, saying without words I choose you, so choose me back.

And he had. Now, he didn’t know how the hell to face her again.

Then, through the blur of flashing lights and chaos, his eyes locked on the truck.

The stillness of a body on the floor, blood staining her forehead.

The shot was clear.

The sight of Donna’s lifeless body hit him like a punch to the gut. The air sucked from his lungs, the weight of it crashing over him in a cold, suffocating rush.

Opie knelt beside her, broken, and all Chibs could think about was Ellie.

What had he done?

The kiss on the porch, the one moment he’d let himself want her, now felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t wanted to pull her back into a life of blood and betrayal, a life she had already escaped once.

But he had kissed her, shown her what he really wanted. And now, he couldn’t shake the thought that he’d just signed her death sentence. That the moment he let her in, he’d sealed her fate.

Because this life didn’t leave room for softness or desire. It just took, again and again.

Because nothing came without a price. Not in this life. Not in Charming.

The clubhouse was still, the kind of still that settled in after tragedy, like dust in the corners.

No laughter, no music, just the quiet hum of too many people carrying too much.

Chibs sat at the bar, a glass of Jameson half-empty in front of him. He wasn’t drunk, but he wished he was.

He glanced around, careful, casual, but the second he saw her, the air changed.

Ellie stood in a black dress, something simple and elegant. Nothing dramatic, yet it knocked the wind out of him. Her dark hair was pinned back, stray strands curling around her face. And in her arms, little Abel wriggled in a gray onesie, blissfully unaware of the fractured world around him.

When their eyes met across the room, he felt the weight of her gaze settle on him. The hesitation, the unasked question.

Are you going to pretend it didn’t happen?

Everything from that night rushed back. Her lips on his, the tremble of her body beneath his hands, the way she had looked at him, like maybe he was more than just the broken parts of a man in a leather vest.

She handed Abel off to Tara without hesitation, her fingers lingering on the baby’s tiny hand for just a moment before she started her quiet walk toward him. Her black dress swayed with each step, her face calm but her movements hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure how to be in the same room with him, how to navigate what had happened between them.

She stopped a foot in front of him, close enough that he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the nervous tension in her, despite her attempt to hold it together.

“Chibs.” She said, softly.

“Don’t.” He muttered, his voice quiet but firm.

Was it a warning? Was it a plea?

He looked down. The glass in front of him had never been more interesting, and it was easier to focus on it than meet her eyes, where the confusion and hurt were already starting to show. He knew she was waiting for something from him, but he wasn’t ready to give her the answers she wanted, not now. Not with everything else hanging in the air, not with Donna’s blood still fresh in his mind.

Ellie blinked, her lips parting, about to say something, but his words held her back before she could speak.

His voice came out lower than he meant, harsh with frustration and pain. “I said don’t.”

He saw her mouth open, and part of him wanted her to say it, wanted to hear what she had to say, how she felt. But the other part of him, the part that knew better, couldn’t let it happen. He’d already let her see too much.

It was a mistake. It had been a mistake.

“I know what you want to say.” He added, more harshly than he meant. “And I can’t hear it. Not now.”

There was silence. It wasn’t the same from that night on the porch. This was sharper, more painful. It sliced through the thin thread of everything they could’ve been. His words fell like bricks.

“There’s too much going on. Too much pain. We can’t…” His voice cracked, just enough for her to hear the weight behind it. “We don’t talk about that.”

Her jaw tightened, eyes flashing with something unreadable.

Ellie had thought she’d be strong enough to get through it, to keep the walls up. But the hard, bitter barrier he’d built around himself had already knocked the wind out of her.

She took a deep breath, swallowed the knot in her throat, and nodded. It was small, defeated. Then, with every ounce of pride she could summon, she turned and walked away from him, the hollow feeling in her chest growing heavier with every step.

Maybe, she thought, it was time she stopped fighting for something that was never meant to be.

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the lot. Ellie barely made it to the edge of the lot before her breath hitched, sharp and sudden. She crossed her arms, trying to keep it together, but the pressure in her chest cracked open like a fault line.

She was tired, exhausted. Just like the day she left.

What was the point in staying any longer? Charming hadn’t changed. There was still death, there was still heartbreak. Tara and Gemma would care for Abel. And Chibs had made it clear: whatever had happened between them didn’t matter.

The door creaked open behind her. She turned, already wiping her face, already pretending she was fine.

Tara stood there, Abel tucked against her shoulder, his tiny chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. She didn’t speak, just looked at Ellie like she already knew.

“I needed some space.” Ellie muttered, looking away. “I’m fine.”

Tara walked in her direction, shoes scraping against the concrete.

“I saw everything.” Tara said gently, rocking Abel a little, adjusting his blanket. “You don’t have to explain.”

Ellie swallowed hard. Her voice barely came out. “He won’t even look at me.”

“You tried.” Tara said. “It’s okay.”

“I just wanted to talk to him.” Ellie’s voice was frayed, thin. “I thought maybe… maybe after the fundraiser, after the way he kissed me last night… maybe he’d stop pretending like I imagined it all.”

Her throat tightened.

“But he won’t.” She whispered. “He won’t even let me try.”

Tara shifted Abel gently, her voice calm, grounded.

“Some men would rather run than risk feeling something they can’t control.”

Ellie looked at her, eyes red, brimming.

“But why? I’d give him my heart on a silver plate. I’d rip open my ribcage if it meant he could finally see that…”

Tara waited, urging her forward without a word.

“That I love him.” Ellie finally said, as if it was breaking out of her before she could stop it. “I have for years. And no matter how many times I try to let it go, it just doesn’t leave.”

She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“He kissed me like he meant it. And now he’s acting like it didn’t happen, like I don’t matter at all.” Ellie looked down, jaw clenched, breath trembling. “And it’s killing me, Tara.”

“I know.” Tara said. “Believe me, I know.”

There was something in her voice, a weight Ellie hadn’t noticed before. A shared pain, a quiet understanding.

Quietly, Tara shifted Abel on her shoulder and opened her free arm.

Ellie didn’t hesitate, stepping into the embrace and letting herself fall apart.

Tara held her, steady and silent, while Ellie sobbed into her shoulder. There wasn’t anything else to say, no advice.

And in that silence, Ellie realized maybe this was what strength should’ve looked like six years ago: breaking, but not breaking alone.

No reposting or translations allowed.

© epinebleue 2023-2025

[qoldenskies]

What would you say are your greatest goals as an author? :>

overall? i think i'd just like to make something good, and get it published. ive got a long way to go when it comes to my skill, but i have a lot of stories that i would love to make fully realized one day.

in fandom specifically? i think one day i'd love to make something worthy of being The fic in a fandom, not rottmnt specifically just in general. the idea of someone being invested in my work enough to want to make an animatic of it like that is something ive found myself daydreaming about,,, im always so excited when i see discussion about my work that i'm not facilitating already! :3 and i am admittedly a bit of a raging egotist, but this isnt news

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[perexcri]

happy one year to her and one of my better opening lines for a fic <3

now, because i'm curious:

[waywardsalt]

tbh i might go ahead and put dungeons in as a part of the bellum x linebeck fic's plot since like. 1) struggling to actually figure out a main plot and having dungeons as sort of bit points to hit and be little bits of fitting exploration and bonding and 2) i do kinda want to do dungeons. i like thinking of them and again i do think its fitting.

[icemankazansky]

A Simple Guide to Not Being Afraid to Write Comments to Fic You Read

I've seen a lot of posts about the current state of fanfiction comments. Writers, especially writers who have been in fandom for a decade or more, are frustrated by the lack of comments, and have noticed a definite decline in comments (and all other forms of reader interaction) in the past ten years or so. Many readers feel daunted by the expectation of leaving comments, afraid they'll do something wrong. As a fandom old maid, the latter confused me for a while, until I realized that most of the people who feel that way probably have not been taught this form of communication.

But your loving fandom elders are here for you. Come along as your auntie tumblr user icemankazansky makes this shit easy.

The easiest way to think of fanfiction comment etiquette is to compare it to something you likely already know: Gift Receiving Etiquette.

Fanfiction began as largely a gift economy. And a lot of it still is! You'll see authors participate in exchanges like Yuletide and Id Pro Quo; those are ficswaps in which authors write for a specific person to specific prompts. And even outside that, fanfiction is not written for money; authors write and post it simply for the joy of creation and community with fellow fans. Fic is posted free for anyone to enjoy. Is that not a gift?

So. When you as a reader finish the chapter or story you're reading and you are faced with the comment box, try to follow the same etiquette you would when receiving a gift. (And even if you didn't love this gift and it's not your favorite gift ever, we already know that it's more useful than the products from your cousin's MLM that they're passing off as gifts, because you read the story. At the very least, it entertained you for the time you took to read it.)

The big rule of gift receiving etiquette is not to insult the person who gave you the gift, either directly or indirectly. That's it. Full stop.

I've been seeing a lot of comments lately that are just along the lines of, "Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us." A+, top of the class, full marks, you're doing amazing. If you don't feel comfortable commenting on the story itself, that is perfect feedback. And that's the most basic way you respond to a gift, yes? Thank you for the gift. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for sharing.

Does this rule mean that you cannot say anything at all that might be negative about anything? No, absolutely not. What you want to avoid is saying something that is, at its core, a negative evaluation of the author or their work. Let's do some examples.

Character A's obliviousness about Character B's MASSIVE crush on them made me so frustrated! I was tearing my hair out internally screaming, "JUST LET HIM LOVE YOU."

✔️ Excellent comment! You're allowed to have all sorts of feelings about things that happen in the story, and in fact authors LOVE to hear about any emotions they made you feel. Yes, frustration is not a positive emotion, but the thing you are expressing frustration about is not the author themselves or their shortcomings.

Contrast that to:

I was really frustrated that it took you so long to post this chapter. The cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter had me tearing my hair out, and then you just left us hanging FOREVER!

❌ Nope! Here what you are expressing is frustration with the author and how fast they come out with new chapters. Imagine your sister buys you a gift for your birthday, but she isn't able to give it to you until the next week, and you respond with: "What took you so long?" I think Emily Post would frown on that.

Reframing

The way you say something and the point of view from which you give feedback can have a HUGE impact on the message you're sending. Let's take the last comment (the one about wanting an update) and see what happens when we reframe the same sentiment as a positive:

I was SO EXCITED to see that you updated this story! I have really been looking forward to seeing what happened after the cliffhanger in the last chapter.

✔️ Now it's not an insult. The author will be happy to know that you are happy to see new work from them.

This idea extends beyond the story itself: to the fandom, the characters, the pairing, the tropes, etc. Let's do some examples.

I looooove reading about these sexy boys SO IN LOVE even though the movie you're writing about is SOOOOO problematic.

❌ Nope! Assume that the author enjoys the canon, characters, pairing, etc. in the stories they write. This comment is insulting to the author because it basically says, "That thing you love is not great, and you should probably feel bad for liking it." Imagine your aunt gifts you a sweater from a popular retailer, and you respond with, "This is so cute, I love it! It's a shame that it was made in a sweatshop." Do you have a valid point about the canon or the retailer's business practices? You very well might. Is this the proper time and place to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Let's do a reframing exercise. You should be very careful about how you approach commenting negatively on anything in the story that appears in the tags list, but you can make it a compliment and good feedback if you have the right perspective. See the difference with these two approaches:

I kind of think frottage is disgusting, but I liked it in this story.

❌ Nope! You just told the author you think their kink is disgusting. That's like telling your poor aunt who is just trying to keep you warm this winter that she has awful taste in knitwear. Try again.

Frottage normally isn't my kink, but I love your other stories with this pairing, so I decided to give it a try, and I'm SOOOOO GLAD that I did! This story was 🔥🔥🔥

✔️ "This normally isn't my thing, but you made me expand my horizons!" Authors love to hear that. That's like telling your aunt, "I never thought this color looked good on me, but I look so cute in this sweater! I'm so glad you helped me step outside my comfort zone, because I'm the better for it."

thank u, next

The last thing I want to address is this new trend I've seen in commenting lately: placing an order. If your mom surprises you with new headphones, you don't respond with, "I wanted the white ones 🙁," or, "You should get me a new phone, too." It's easy to see why that isn't appropriate in a gifting situation, and it's also not appropriate when commenting on fanfiction.

Let's do some examples:

This fic was soooo cute, but it would have been a million times better if Character A had been with Character C instead of Character B.

❌ There are a few things going on here. Number one, you're telling your mom you wanted the white headphones, not the ones she actually bought you. You're also disparaging the A/B pairing that the author chose to write about, and as we discussed, we can assume that the author wrote the pairing because they liked it. Even if it's not their favorite and/or they also write A/C, they made a choice for this story to be A/B, and the comments section of a fic is not the place to question choices the author made in their own work.

You should write a story where Character Z who is not even in this story does [thing that is vaguely referenced in the B plot].

❌ "You should get me a new phone, too."

I want a sequel. 😞

❌ "Thank you, next!"

You can reframe this kind of sentiment if you are careful about it, and it's not all you say.

I really loved this story. I would be so interested to see these ideas explored further if you ever decide to write more in this universe.

✔️ Not "gimme." Not "more." This is, "If you build it, I will come." It is a HUGE difference.

You already know how to do this. You know how to graciously accept a gift; just use that same etiquette, and boom! Now you know how to fearlessly write a comment to fic you read. You're doing amazing. Go forth and comment.

[sketchtastrophee]

more old art!! featuring theo and my human harley fan design!! RUN THEODORE RUN (he's cooked)

im gonna talk about chapter 4 under here so only click if ur ok with spoilers! also its a huge yapfest. like HUUGE. i just want to voice my opinions about prototype because i've seen ppl sort of miss the point of what happened at the end of the chapter

I LOVED CHAPTER 4! IT WAS SO COOL!! i was sooo worried but im glad it turned out good. rip pianosaurus tho..

tldr (for the bunch of paragraphs where I talk abt prototype)

prototype being ollie is deranged because it means he was terrorizing the toys of safe haven on purpose for the fun of it when he could have killed them at any time. he also created an extremely close emotional bond with poppy for OVER A DECADE just to tear it all away from her at the end and tell her it was meaningless (he then proceeds to taunt her over the phone abt it). bro is LITERALLY TROLLING

you cant tell me that final scene w the "ive got something special in mind. i prepared it just for you, and this time you'll never want to leave." isnt some tom and jerry shit

ABT PROTOTYPE REVEALING HIMSELF AS OLLIE... (the long explanation)

we ALL knew he was ollie, but i don't think people are seeing the point of this reveal. it wasn't about revealing himself to us the player, it's about the implications that arise from it. he had been playing both sides for 10+ YEARS. that's deranged enough but not even CLOSE to the end of it

as ollie he had emotionally supported poppy in her lowest moments (as heard in the ollie and poppy tape). this tape also insinuates that (at least around the time it was recorded) the two of them called frequently, possibly every night. he wasn't just pretending to be everyone's ally, he was PRETENDING TO BE THEIR CLOSEST FRIEND THAT THEY COULD VENT TO 😭 he heard this poor girl sob into the phone and tell him about how she felt her humanity being taken from her, AND HE KEPT UP THE CHARADE AND COMFORTED HER, KNOWING THIS PATH HAD BAD INTENTIONS

what's worse than all of that, though, is that him being ollie means that at any time in the last 10 years he could have used the persona to force his way into safe haven. AT ANY TIME HE COULD HAVE KILLED THEM ALL. HE COULD SIMPLY USE THE OLLIE VOICE AND ASK THEM TO OPEN THE DOOR. why is this worse, you ask? because HE WAS LITERALLY TERRORIZING THEM ON PURPOSE.

think about the note in the cart/cave area. a toy from safe haven writes that prototype was right outside the door the night before, he'd gotten past the traps and was just tapping on the wall and staring. they said after he was gone they still felt they could hear it. HE IS LITERALLY BEING SCARY ON PURPOSE???? LEGIT TRAUMATIZING THEM AND FOR NO REASON. HE COULD GET IN THERE, HE'S SIMPLY CHOOSING TO MAKE THEIR LIVES HELL

so thats crazy.. BUT ALSO THE ENDING? in the poppy and ollie tape he says "im right here, poppy. for you. i'll always be here." AND AT THE END OF THE GAME, WHEN POPPY ASKS WHAT HE DID WITH OLLIE, HE SAYS THAT. you know what that means? that means he said that shit to her ALL THE TIME. clearly only the two of them would be familiar with the phrase which is why after he said it, she immediately knew he was ollie the whole time

i feel bad for poppy. she ran off but she was valid for that. all her friends from safe haven are dead, the only ones left are the player, kissy and ollie, but she soon realizes that ollie is WORSE than dead. he is LITERALLY HER ENEMY. the thousands of conversations they had, probably hundreds of times she vented and told him her plans and discussed her life with him? ALL FOR NOTHING. any time she thought she was winning the past 10 years was a lie, she was ALWAYS LOSING because he was GETTING ALL THE INFO FROM THEM. she genuinely never had a chance and i think she realized that

in her dialogue you can tell she's grieving ollie (obviously he IS prototype, but i think she's grieving the thought of him). saying "you lied to me" to the prototype of all people is absurd (considering he's done far worse than lie) but when you think about how she feels, it makes sense.

also the part where she said "this isn't right". again, a weird thing to say to him of all people, but if you put yourself in her shoes she's grieving the friend she thought she had, and she's struggling to grapple with the fact that it all meant nothing. somewhere in her mind she believes "ollie" as a personality is there somewhere, because how could someone be that close with you and mean none of it? she thinks that voicing this pain he's inflicted will change his mind, but it won't. and that's why it's genuinely really sad. that's why she asks if there was ever an ollie. i don't think she meant it literally, and i don't think his answer was literal either. she didn't mean "were you a mf named ollie once" she meant it like "was our friendship ever genuine?" which makes his response both heartbreaking and interesting.

so not only is her world shattered now, most of her friends are dead and the one who wasn't turned out to be her opp, but now he's TAUNTING HER OVER THE PHONE AND THREATENING HER. nice one... (loved the quip after she ran off btw. that shit was hilarious. like bro u made her crash out and went "some friend, huh?" YOU CANT SAY THAT BRO)

anyway think of it from her perspective: everyone you knew is gone, and soon the only 2 people that remain will be too. you can't run, or hide, or do anything. he WILL find you, and when he does he'll lock you away FOREVER where NOBODY WILL BE LEFT TO SAVE YOU. I WOULD RUN TOO.............. plus her running off probably led him away so.. she saved us sorta.

ALL THAT TO SAY THAT I REALLY LIKE THE OLLIE REVEAL FOR REASONS FAR BEYOND A SIMPLE TWIST. him being ollie for over a decade raises many many questions, and suggests very dark things.

hes crazy and the fact he did a monologue means he knows he won. he wouldn't have spilled the beans otherwise...

[marvelseries19]

RETURN TO YOU

Chapter Four - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter Four | Chapter five |

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You’re finally found. After years lost and alone, a faint signal is enough to bring someone to your island. You're brought home, weak, scared, and unsure if it’s real.

A/N: Finally, the moment you've been waiting for. I'm not entirely sure if this should be the end. I kinda have more ideas to tell, but maybe I'll post those as like one-shots or something. I wanted to thank you guys for letting me know that you liked it. I don't think I've ever had this much engagement on my fics. I really appreciate the love this one has had.

On another note, in the last chapter, I asked if you read this, and by this, I meant these messages, I leave here, not the chapter. So, once more, do you guys read these messages?? Also, as always, any questions, requests, ideas, and feedback are all welcome. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries and such.

Word count: 4.4k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The low hum of the SHIELD operations room barely registered as Maria Hill leaned over the dim console. The soft, rhythmic blinking on the screen in front of her was steady, consistent — unmistakable. A signal. Faint, primitive, but deliberate. Her fingers flew across the keys as she opened a secure channel.

"Get me Director Fury," she said, her voice low but urgent.

The line crackled before his voice came through, rough and clipped. "What have you got?"

Maria didn’t look away from the screen. "A signal. Old-school. Someone stripped a Quinjet transponder and spliced it into basic field tech. It’s broadcasting on an early SHIELD frequency — nothing sophisticated, but it’s clean. Repeating."

"That’s a long shot," Fury replied.

"Not if it’s her," Maria said, and there was something unshakable in her tone. "And I believe it is."

There was a pause. She could almost hear him weighing it in silence. Her eyes stayed on the blinking pattern, steady as a heartbeat.

"It’s the captain."

Fury’s silence stretched again — longer this time, heavier.

"You always did trust her instincts more than anyone else," he said eventually.

"She earned that trust," Maria murmured. And she remembered — the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

Kandahar.

—

The sky was dust-streaked and orange, gunfire painting the air in bursts. Agents scattered, wounded, shouting. No one had orders. The comms were fried. And then you appeared — ash-streaked, limping, blood on her sleeve, and calm in her eyes.

“We lost comms!” someone had yelled. “Do we pull back?! Where’s the fallback point?!”

Maria remembered how you didn’t hesitate. She remembered the way you moved — forward, always forward — as if gravity bent toward your conviction.

"With me," you said. That was all.

Two words.

And twenty agents followed you without looking back.

Maria hadn’t said it aloud that day — but someone else had. A younger recruit, clutching his rifle and running to keep up: “Captain’s got us.”

The name stuck.

—

Maria exhaled softly, her eyes never leaving the console. "She pulled twenty agents out that night. Half of them wouldn’t be here without her," she said quietly.

"Is she still alive, Hill?" Fury asked.

"She sent that signal," Maria replied. "I know it's her, and that’s all I need to know."

"Take a team," Fury ordered. "Get her back."

Maria was already on her feet. "Already working on it."

She shut the console off, leaving the weak, blinking signal behind — but only for a moment.

She would follow it. All the way to the end.

—

The quinjet dipped below the clouds like a shadow cutting through the sky, its engines whisper-quiet over the dense canopy below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of gold and fire across the endless stretch of green.

Maria stood near the loading ramp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon as if she could will the trees to part and reveal a miracle.

She’d barely slept on the flight over, fingers tight around the datapad that showed the narrowing coordinates. Each pass of the satellite brought them closer. Each sweep of the low-band signal narrowed the window.

Still, it felt like a dream.

Three years.

Three years with no trace.

Three years of dead ends, quiet funerals, and trying to help Natasha through a grief Maria shared but didn’t dare speak aloud.

And now this.

A single echo. A half-broken signal from a beacon no one was supposed to remember how to use.

She hadn’t told Natasha. Couldn't. Not yet.

Hope, Maria had learned, was dangerous when it burned too bright. And she wouldn’t be the one to light it unless she was sure. She had seen firsthand what it did to her friend , how it tore her apart each time a lead turned out to be false. Maria needed more than a faint signal to give Natasha false hope.

The quinjet hovered over the narrowed location, nestled between cliffs and jungle, and the team fast-roped down in practiced silence. Maria followed, landing with a solid thud against the uneven earth.

It was still. Too still. But the readings didn’t lie. Someone was here.

She signaled for the group to split. “Fan out. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. Weapons down unless you see a threat.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through comms.

They moved.

Not far away, tucked in the hollow between two rocks and overgrowth, you stirred.

The sound had been faint — a low thrum, like distant thunder.

It came again, closer this time.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your limbs ached. Your head spun. Your skin had taken on the leathery feel of too much sun and too little water. The weakened body you lived in now barely resembled the one that once trained at SHIELD’s academy. The one that flew the quinjet with quiet confidence. The one that could disappear without leaving a trace.

You had survived.

But barely.

You blinked hard, pressing your fingers to your ears.

Voices.

Were those voices?

You crouched low, instinct taking over even as your knees buckled beneath you. The sound of boots brushing leaves. A sharp rustle of brush being moved aside. You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s nothing. You’ve imagined things before. You’d seen shadows become people. Branches become outstretched hands.

But the voices were growing louder now. Clearer.

“Check the cliffside—Hill’s got east.”

“There’s a trail here—looks like something’s been walking through.”

“Signal strength increasing. It’s close.”

No. No, that was real. That wasn’t just your mind trying to comfort you again. That was real.

Still, your body didn’t move. Not yet.

You sat frozen, heart pounding, as footsteps closed in.

And then—

“Hey!” a voice called. Not a hallucination. Sharp. Solid. Commanding. “I’ve got something—!”

Then another voice. Lower. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Stand down, it’s her—God—” The foliage parted, and there she was.

Maria.

Your mind couldn’t process it all at once. She was wearing tactical black, hair pulled back, eyes scanning like she didn’t dare believe what she was seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

Maria dropped to her knees, her voice thick and trembling. “Hey, hey—it's okay. It's me. I’ve got you.”

You blinked again, too weak to flinch as her hands gently framed your face.

Her breath caught. “Jesus… you’re really here.”

You tried to speak, lips cracked, throat dry. Only a rasp escaped.

Maria shook her head, a soft curse under her breath. She slipped an arm around your shoulders, guiding a canteen to your lips. “Don’t talk. Just drink.”

The water stung going down, but you drank like you hadn’t in days.

Because you hadn't. Rainwater could only last for so long.

Maria kept holding you, one hand steadying the canteen, the other pressed lightly against your back as if reassuring herself that you were solid. Real. Not another ghost.

And then she whispered, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, "I'm so sorry it took this long.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not when it felt like the moment could vanish if you blinked.

But Maria didn’t rush. She stayed there with you in the dirt, surrounded by jungle, brushing a hand gently through your tangled hair.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We’re taking you home. I’m gonna make sure of that. And I’ll tell her—I’ll tell Natasha.”

You didn’t know if it was the relief or her voice, but that’s when the sob broke free.

And Maria, strong as ever, just held you tighter.

The team moved quickly once they found her.

You were conscious, your body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline as they guided you through the undergrowth. The sight of the quinjet waiting on the shore hit you harder than expected.

Your steps faltered.

The air caught in your throat.

It looked almost exactly like yours—the one that went down in flames, the one that left you stranded and alone. Your chest tightened, breath hitching, muscles locking up as memories flashed behind your eyes. Fire. Smoke. The sound of metal tearing. The impact.

You stopped walking.

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was calm and soft. She stepped in front of you, eyes steady, hand gentle on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

You shook your head weakly, barely audible when you said, “I can’t… I can’t get on that thing. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Maria cut in, her voice rough with emotion. “After what you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense.”

Your eyes were glassy, full of apology and fear you couldn’t quite name. “I want to go. I just… I can’t.”

Maria glanced at the medic nearby, nodding once.

“We’ll help you sleep through the ride, okay?” she said, already crouching down with her. “No pain. No panic. You’ll wake up at the medical facility. Safe. I promise.”

You gave her the faintest nod, your fingers still gripping Maria’s sleeve like an anchor.

Maria stayed close as the medic prepped the injection, gently brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “You did so good, alright? You held on. We’ve got you now.”

The sedative took hold quickly, easing your breathing as your eyes fluttered shut. Maria caught you carefully as she slumped forward, guiding her into the medic’s arms and onto the stretcher.

And as the engines spun up and the quinjet lifted into the sky, Maria sat beside you, phone already in her hand, staring down at Natasha’s name on the screen.

It was time.

The quinjet hummed around her, steady and familiar. Maria sat strapped in beside the stretcher, her eyes drifting to you every few seconds — as if making sure she was still there, still breathing, still real.

You looked so small.

So fragile.

And it shook Maria more than she wanted to admit. This woman, who once sparred with her until both of them limped off the mat laughing… This woman who had stood beside her through firefights and missions no one else could have survived… Now she lies wrapped in blankets, sedated, ribs visible under her skin, lips cracked from dehydration.

Maria swallowed hard. She stared at the screen for a long second before finally pressing the contact.

The call connected after two rings.

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice came out sharp, tight. Tired. Like she’d been running or not sleeping again. “Is something wrong?”

Maria’s breath caught. “Natasha…”

Something in her tone made Natasha go completely still on the other end.

“We found her,” Maria said softly.

Silence.

“I need you to meet me at the SHIELD medical facility in New York. We’re bringing her in now. She's alive, Nat. She's—she's not in good shape, but she’s alive.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first. Just a breath — hitched, broken — and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got her right here with me.” Maria looked over again, lowering her voice instinctively. “She held on. Three years, and she never gave up.”

There was a long pause. When Natasha spoke again, her voice cracked.

“I’ll be there.”

—

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the SUV, but Natasha barely saw any of it.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every second that passed without her at that facility made her heart pound harder in her chest.

You were alive.

Alive.

It didn’t feel real.

She had imagined this moment too many times — always in dreams, in cruel fantasies her mind would conjure when sleep finally took her. But this wasn’t a dream. Maria had called her. Maria had sounded shaken. That never happened.

Alive.

Natasha’s breath caught again, her throat tight with something she couldn’t name — hope, disbelief, fear. She didn’t even realize tears had started to run down her cheeks until they hit her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away.

Three years.

Three years of not knowing. Of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Of closing her eyes and hearing your laugh, only for silence to greet her. Of rage. Of grief so heavy it felt like a second skin.

And now… you were back.

But at what cost?

She kept replaying Maria’s voice in her head. Not in good shape. Those four words sliced deeper than anything else. Natasha had seen the aftermath of war. She had seen what being stranded did to a person, physically and mentally.

What if you didn’t remember her? What if the pain of those years had buried the part of you that knew her name? What if the reunion she’d dreamed of — clung to — was nothing like the reality waiting for her?

The driver turned sharply, and Natasha gritted her teeth, leaning forward.

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes, ma’am.”

Not fast enough.

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. One hand unconsciously reached for the ring still looped through the chain around her neck — your ring — warm now from her skin.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she walked into that facility.

But for the first time in three years… she had something to walk toward.

You.

—

The quinjet touched down with a soft thud on the rooftop pad of the SHIELD medical facility.

Before the engines had fully powered down, the med team was already waiting — gurney prepped, portable monitors ready, gloved hands reaching for the ramp before it even dropped.

Maria stood to the side, out of the way but not detached. Her jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if holding herself together. She hadn’t said much since the sedation. Only that she’d call Natasha again once they landed. But she didn’t need to. The call had already been made. Natasha would be here soon. She knew it.

The second the hatch opened, the team surged forward.

You were still unconscious — sedated, peaceful in the worst way. Your skin looked pale under the harsh facility lights, your body far too light as they transferred you to the gurney. The bruises, the cuts, the ribs pressing too close to the surface — it was all too visible now.

Monitors were clipped to your finger, an oxygen mask gently pressed to your face, and soft commands echoing between the medics:

“Get her on fluids, stat.”

“We need a CBC and a full metabolic panel.”

“Chest X-ray, abdominal ultrasound.”

“She’s dehydrated; start with normal saline, keep it slow.”

The medics disappeared down the hall with you, swift and practiced, the sound of their shoes a controlled blur of movement.

Natasha had just stepped into the hallway when she saw them roll the gurney past.

She stopped mid-step.

Time halted.

You.

There. Real.

But not awake. Not smiling. Not whole.

Her hand went to the wall to steady herself. Her breath left her in a sharp, silent exhale. She couldn’t move.

Maria stepped in beside her, watching the hallway where the doors had just swung closed behind the gurney. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. They’ll take care of her.”

Natasha didn’t speak. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that door.

A nurse came around the corner holding something small and delicate in a gloved hand. She looked between them before gently addressing Natasha.

“She was wearing this,” she said softly, offering the chain.

Natasha reached out slowly, her hand trembling as she took it.

Your ring. Still looped through the chain she gave you three years ago.

She held it tightly in her fist, pressing it to her lips like a prayer.

Maria watched her quietly. “She survived,” she whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. “She actually survived.”

Natasha’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, low and hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to.”

Down the hallway, machines beeped. Doors swung. A medical team did everything they could to stabilize you — rehydrate, monitor, and evaluate. You didn’t stir, but you were alive.

That was all that mattered.

For now.

It felt like hours.

The sterile hallway never changed, but Natasha hadn't moved from that same spot. She leaned forward in the plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers still curled around the chain holding your ring. The weight of it was nothing — and everything.

Maria had stayed close, pacing occasionally, making a few quiet calls, but mostly giving Natasha space. There were no words left to say.

Finally, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors. He looked tired but calm.

“She’s stable. Fluids are working, and her bloodwork came back cleaner than we expected. Malnourished, yes. Exhausted, definitely. But no infection, no internal injuries beyond the obvious bruising, and a few injuries that didn't heal properly, but nothing to worry about. We sedated her gently. She might wake up soon.”

Natasha stood the moment the doctor nodded toward the room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes, and keep it quiet. She’s been through a lot.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already moving.

—

The room was dim and quiet, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound. You were there, lying so still under the soft white sheets, a faint oxygen tube at your nose, IVs at your side.

Natasha stopped at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t ready. She’d pictured this moment a hundred different ways over the past three years. None of them came close.

You looked like you and not like you — thinner, paler, yet tanned, your hair longer and tangled in places, and skin marked with sun and wear. But it was you.

Carefully, Natasha stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair beside your bed. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Studied your face. Every part of her wanted to reach out — but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb the fragile stillness.

She opened her hand. The ring glinted dully in the light.

“I never stopped wearing it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Never took it off. Not once.”

Her fingers curled gently around your hand, the one not bound by tape and tubing. You were warm. Not cold. Not gone.

“I should’ve been with you,” she whispered. “I should’ve—”

But she couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff let her shoulders fall and her head bow beside the woman she never stopped loving.

She stayed like that. Until the rhythm of your heart monitor seemed to slow into something steadier. Familiar.

Until maybe — just maybe — she felt your fingers twitch beneath her own.

Natasha’s eyes remained fixed on you, but her mind had drifted. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, nor how many times she had muttered those quiet, broken words — promises, apologies, confessions — to the room, to the air, to you.

The weight of everything she hadn’t said was finally crashing down on her, more than she could have prepared for. The years without you, the months of pretending she could go on without even knowing where you were, the guilt that had gnawed at her every waking moment, the hopelessness she buried deeper each day. It had always felt like she was waiting for something — waiting for the call, the news, anything that would bring you back into her world. She couldn’t breathe without the thought of you, couldn’t focus on anything with your absence hanging like a shadow.

But here you were, lying in front of her, fragile and yet still alive.

Alive.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the ring, the very symbol of everything she’d almost lost forever. The years had worn away at its luster, but it still gleamed, faintly — a promise. She had thought she’d never see you again. She thought she’d have to carry this unfulfilled promise forever.

And yet, here you were.

Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t. Not here, not now, when you needed her more than ever.

"I promised you I’d come for you," she whispered, her voice rough. "I promised."

She held the ring in her hand as if it could reach you — as if it could bridge the gap between her pain and your absence. She was scared, more than she cared to admit. Scared of how you might feel when you woke up. Scared of what you might remember. Scared of how fragile this moment was — of how fragile you were.

Her hand moved slowly to the side of your bed. She didn’t want to disturb you, but she couldn’t stop herself. The need to be close to you was overwhelming. The need to feel that connection — that spark of life that had once been so familiar, so undeniable between you.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I won’t let you go again.”

For a moment, she simply sat there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath. The world outside the room seemed distant and cold — nothing mattered except the space between her and you, the fragile space that had once been filled with shared laughter, quiet mornings, and stolen moments.

The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to echo in her mind, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, that you were alive. But what was left for the two of you now? Could things be the same after all that had happened? Natasha didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn't—wouldn't— let you slip away again.

The door creaked softly, and Maria stepped in, her expression quiet but understanding. Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone else in this moment, but Maria’s presence was a grounding force — a reminder that Natasha hadn’t been completely alone through all of this.

“She’s going to be okay,” Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t respond, her eyes never leaving you. She wasn’t ready for anyone’s reassurance. Not yet.

Maria waited for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’ll give you some time. Just… don’t do this alone. Not again.”

But Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest, the heaviness that had been there for years. There was no way to put it into words.

She only nodded silently, her gaze never wavering from your sleeping form. And in that silence, Natasha finally let herself hope again. Not just for your safety, but for something more. Something she had almost forgotten how to believe in.

She wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.

—

The first thing you felt was the weight of your own body. The heaviness of skin and bone sinking into the sterile softness of hospital sheets. The dull ache beneath the surface of everything. But more than that, it was the quiet hum of machines, the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the sterile scent of antiseptic that confirmed it — you weren’t on the island anymore.

You were safe.

That realization alone felt unreal.

Your eyelids fluttered, the light above muted through lashes you struggled to lift. The world came back to you in pieces — sound, then shape, then color. The sharp clarity of a cold IV line in your hand. The warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest. The dull echo of a familiar voice.

It was the last one that made your heart stutter.

Natasha.

She was sitting beside you. Tired. Still. Her posture held together by force alone, like she hadn’t moved in hours — maybe longer. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her entire body leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t stay close.

You blinked slowly, and her eyes found yours in an instant.

The breath she let out was shaky. You saw it — the moment she shattered just a little more but also held herself together just enough to stay strong for you.

“…hey,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, barely a sound at all. But her eyes were full — of grief, of relief, of everything she hadn’t dared let herself feel until now. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. You tried again — your voice rasped and cracked, dry and weak.

“…Hi,” you whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes immediately. Natasha leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, her hand brushing your arm like she needed to touch you to believe this was real. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe years.

“I didn’t think…” you started, the words struggling to form.

“I know,” she said, voice tight. “Me neither.”

Your eyes darted around, and that’s when you saw it — sitting on the table beside a vase of white flowers, looking oddly solemn in the sterile light — was Red. Your Red. The coconut you once talked to when you were losing hope, when your voice was the only one on that island. Someone had even propped it up with a little folded towel beneath it like a throne.

You stared at it, blinking again, and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Red made it?”

“Maria made sure of it,” Natasha said with a hint of a smile, though her voice was still breaking. “Said she’d have murdered her entire team if they left him behind. Apparently you muttered its name after they sedated you.”

Your throat burned. Everything hurt. But Natasha’s presence eased something inside of you that had been coiled tight for years. She looked at you like she was scared you’d disappear if she blinked. And you looked at her like she was the first warmth you’d felt in forever.

You reached for her hand, slowly, shakily. She took it before your fingers even fully stretched toward her.

“You waited,” you said softly.

“I would’ve waited forever,” Natasha whispered back.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — of all the words you didn’t need to say, of the pain that was finally beginning to thaw, of the bond between you that had never broken, even after everything.

Even after all this time.

You closed your eyes again, not to sleep — just to rest. Just to breathe. Just to be.

With her hand in yours and Red by your side, for the first time in a long time… you believed everything might be okay.

----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife

[nefastnefertiti]

WHY CHAPTER 431 OF MY HERO ACADEMIA SCREAMS CENSORSHIP

First let's start by the "afterword", the note Horikoshi left after 430 and before the extras, chapter 431.

Original japanese for those who understand.

The best traslation I found and most people are agreeing with.

Key sentences are:

1.The real final chapter is 429, 430 is more like a curtain call.

2. PS: For chapter 431, I turn off the cameras and free the characters from their dramas.

This note being left after 430 and before the extras is so important. . The clarification of "the real final chapter is 429" and 430 is the curtain call is screaming: the show has ended here. This is further stated by "i turn the cameras off" by the man who use to refer himself as the camera man, I leave you with an example.

(They're talking about Vol 37 cover)

And back to point number 2: "and free the characters from their dramas", which could perfectly be understood as "the characters are no longer tied to their previous plots and drama" no longer connected to the main story.

It may seem like a reach until here, we're just trying to convince ourselves that's not canon, right? They´re delusions, right?

The problem is how far away everything about 431 antagonizes the whole story, the characters doesn't feel like themselves, they even regress back all their development, the drawing style looks totally different and there are many irregularities that call for our attention.

Dabi, 431 and by Horikoshi

Toga and Ochaco in 431:

Toga and Ochaco by Horikoshi:

All Might's signature for Katsuki (Horikoshi would never mess this up):

Kirishima with 6 fingers lol, Horikoshi loves drawing hands, he would never.

Katsuki's odd teeth what the fuck. (His hand looks good to me)

Ochaco and Shoto just look, weird. It's clearly not Horikoshi's art style.

And this awful background (center) was the main giveaway.

Horikoshi's backgrounds are so professional:

At this point I'm getting tired since the difference is astounding, don't believe me, just check the manga.

I don't think Horikoshi would've allowed those mistakes had he have a role in the making, maybe he did, there's no saying about that, but clearly if he did his involvement was very low.

Character's development wise now.

Seriously? "Deku"? And Katsuki complaining for picking him up. He cried his eyes out when Izuku lost his quirk and now he's back at season 1?

Izuku would never in a million years turn down that offer. And if he did, it would never be like this, so devoid of emotion and empathy.

430 showed us an Izuku aiming for his dreams again and at 431 this Izuku ¿? It's okay with being a teacher? Ok. And if that's not the problem, why he outright rejects Katsuki out of nowhere? When their rivalry was one of the main points of the plots for 430 chapters and now just um over? Without justification? Ok.

Ok.

Now specifically about that ship canonization and bkdk.

Horikoshi has been doing this for 10 years. The choices he took the whole manga were incredibly intentional, all those romantic tropes given to bkdk, his interviews, all stand in direct opposition to what happened in this last chapter.

I, myself, don't know much about Jump but what I've heard is they end lot of shonens with the same heterosexual formula. I don't think all of this is a coincidence.

Something really important that needs to be adressed to is what happened back in June (I think), when suddenly MHA announced it was ending in 5 chapters could've something to do with this. The manga was suddenly rushed to its ends with unsatisfying resolutions and as if that was not enough, one month later (at most) the same happened to JJK and all of this came accompanied by a switch of one of the heads of Jump.

About 431 again though.

I was just thinking what would I do if I was pressured to write something that ruins the biggest project of my life and goes against everything I was hoping for? Refuse. Tell them to write it themselves. If I can't do anything to stop it and it'll be there, alright, but I WON'T DO IT.

And I think this could be Horikoshi's case.

I've never seen a shonen manga come so close to implying his male protagonist and his male deuteragonist are in love before. Yes, it was not EXPLICIT but it was so fucking clear if you knew how to read, all the way up to 430. All those cliches tropes he gave them, he knew, we know.

I thought I'll die trying to explaineverything that seems wrong with this with nothing to back me up but the fact that he added that note is clear for me. I'm surprised they allowed him to publish it, I thought we wouldn't even have that.

PS:

It's interesting this being posted the same day 431 comes out. Also "heroaca is pretty dark, huh?"

I'll not go into this anyways because it's kind of a reach but the conclusion is: I think it's a "soft" censorship and Horikoshi did his best to relay his message given what he had.

Thanks for reading!

[lavilavs]

୨୧ ── Starts with a cliché, ends with a cliché

› Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

› Scenario: Life is full of clichés, no? It just so happens that its favorite is Damian and the stuck-up rich heiress that he met on his first day of school. He can't stand being your shojo-manga-made love guru (that sucks, sadly) anymore if you keep on having angst as your genre.

› Warnings: Light cursing and light KMS jokes

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + Is it obvious I like friends-to-lovers? + 80% backstory, 20% present time (jk) .. 4k words

A sigh leaves his lips. It was difficult to finish one chapter without you popping inside his mind. You've been dancing around in his train of thought the whole day. Memories of the past have resurfaced without reason.

Perhaps he misses you that much.

Damian sets the first manga you've lent him with care by the side. The bustling street across his windows entice him to stand up. It's time to do something else other than read. Apparently, reading manga fuels his desire to visit you after a week of no communication.

You've been silent since you've fought with your first normal boyfriend.

Through his window, he noticed the old bookstore a few streets down to the west was now gone. Damian watches the cranes and construction workers build something new on top of it. That store had sentimental value for both of you. You used to sneak with him there after class to recommend some manga.

His reflection on the mirror adds another thought to his head. He's changed so much. Damian was taller and mature than he was before. Everything has changed since he went to Gotham. Even when he wasn't born, everything has changed.

Change is the only thing permanent in the world. Everyone knows that. Humans have lived and gone through change that nobody could disagree with. Damian learned and accepted change at a young age, believing that it is the only thing constant in a world that is different every day.

That's what he used to believe—until he met your annoying, spoiled ass one random Monday at school.

"You're handsome. I like you, you're mine now."

"What did you just say?"

"You're mine."

And it ends up being one of the famous last words of a spoiled heiress who just got thrown onto the floor by a boy who grew up being trained since he first learned how to walk.

You pointed at him and declared that with no warnings whatsoever; how couldn't he react harshly? If you expected him to drop down on his knees to solemnly pledge his love for you like the stories your nanny told you before bedtime, you were dead wrong.

In fact, your nanny was wrong about everything! Not all men who look like a prince act like one. Even the Beast would be put to shame if they cast this little twerp as his younger brother with rabies, if he had one. Sadly, he'll be scouted as a dog in romcoms who bites nuts instead. Because he for sure looks like he will when prompted to.

To think that a fresh 14-year-old Damian Wayne would be the one to forcefully push you out of your Disney princess phase and into your typical teenage girl fixations phase. Puberty held their hands up and slowly walked away on having their job stolen away.

"Hmph." 

He scoffed when he saw tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you dusted and straightened your blouse and skirt. The women in the League of Assassins was obviously much stronger and tougher than you, but it didn't make his disappointment any less.

Being surrounded with people who had a 'kill or be killed' mindset and then thrown into a normal society where safety is a given with all these superheroes protecting them... It's throwing him off.

It was apparent that you were one of those stuck-up rich kids with the way you acted. Judging with the book of cliches in mind, you'll cry about this to your parents later and have him arrested and put into a life behind bars for eternity. 

Good luck with that when he has Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul as his parents. Although, he can easily break out by himself.

But there was one mistake. One that cost him a life's worth of embarrassment in school. After all, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." That arrogance of his cost him his family jewels getting kicked by you. 

He missed the other cliché—crying makes you stronger.

Oh, and this backstory? Yeah, totally not related to the first paragraph. It's just Damian reminiscing back to the old days because he's appalled that you're still a hopeless romantic that makes him doubt that change is permanent. 

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul is sitting here listening to your girl problems. Not just any girl problem—it's your love problem! A recurring yet still difficult topic for both of you.

And how is it difficult, you may ask? Simple—the boyfriends you pick certainly aren't the brightest or the kindest, so even the logical Damian Wayne is troubled by how your boyfriend of the week is acting.

The use of their intelligence surpasses even his, and not in a positive way. How can he even begin to comprehend that one time when a guy who almost took you out on a date unhingedly recommended you not to search him up?

You must've thought, "Holy shit, is he a celebrity from another country?" and that would've been ideal if he weren't included in the local wanted list! That gorgeous specimen had charges of multiple felonies, arson, theft, and a lot more.

When you cried about it to him, you were more concerned about the fact that he specifically told you not to search him up. Like—just be quiet, bro. You didn't have to say all that. And the fact that he didn't even use a fake name? clever. Wow, Einstein would be turning in his grave from having his title of world's smartest man stolen.

With that pretty face of his, you wouldn't even think he'd do all of that, to be honest. But pretty privilege doesn't work on Damian. No matter who they were, they deserved a background check. Or perhaps a Google check would be fitting given the circumstances. Thank God he did. What could he have done when something happened to you?

Another funny, ironic cliché has happened to poor, little Damian. Fate rolled his dice of cliché, and it somehow ended up being the "the more you hate, the more you love" cliché that happens to characters that start off sour but end up falling in love with each other.

Only that it was one-sided—at the moment!—on his part.

His confession ended up being a total failure when he realized you didn't like him anymore like you once said you did. Damian still thought you did because of your words—those words of declaration you did 6 years ago, that is.

The flowers in his hand wilted downwards, saddened by the surprising rejection of their buyer.

"You told me I was yours?"

"Did I? I don't remember."

That stupid look on your face almost made him crash out.

"Do you even remember how we first met?" He groans, threading his fingers through his hair.

"What? You didn't just spawn in my life?!"

It was a miracle Damian didn't go berserk, Damian couldn't find the energy to be furious when that surprise in your voice was genuine. Did he throw you too hard, perhaps? If he did, he wanted to go back in time just to give you your own kick to the nuts. Not that you had one! Just figuratively speaking.

Damian dreads the thought of hurting you again. But if you were going to turn out less of a stuck-up rich kid and his friend? It was a small sacrifice to be made. But also... with a little hint of revenge 'cause that shit still hurts his pride.

Oh—so many conclusions in his mind that he's starting to laugh slowly like a maniac.

"None of that matters anyway! We're friends, Dami. This confession is the worst that could happen to us." You laugh at his face while having him in a headlock.

That chippy smile on your face looked so annoying to see, and yet, it also served as his tranquilizer.

How could he be mad when you already looked so happy to have him in your life? It slowly dawned on him that it wasn't that bad to be just your friend. 

Only until you went on a spree with love interests that were...

1.) Had the brain of a rock

Whether emotional or plain intelligence, the contenders could never have both. Having both was only a myth. A story you would only hear from your other girlfriends. It was amazing that they were blessed in the boyfriend department. Guess God really makes all of us equal with situations like this.

And the worst of the worst,

2.) Criminals

It's self-explanatory. If that's not enough to hear, Damian swears he wants to bash his head every time you tell him about your villain hear-me-outs. In exhibit A we had Poison Ivy and Arkham Knight. It was understandable at some point. When he asked you what part of them is attractive, he wasn't ready to hear your answer.

"First of all, are you too busy fighting for your life that you can't see Poison Ivy's gorgeous face? Dude, every stolen picture of her is totally hot! She's so photogenic."

"I could hear you out on Ivy, but Arkham Knight? Please, elaborate." He was so done with your bullshit. The way you even prepare yourself into that pose before you speak into an imaginary mic has him dumbfounded.

"I can't see his face."

"Pardon?"

"All aura. No face. Very hear-me-out material." You nod in agreement at yourself whilst the boy shakes his head sideways.

And then we have Exhibit B... Yeah, no. Not elaborating.

"Hear me out on Psimon."

Before Damian could process what you said, you had already passed by him with your friends. It wasn't of importance, just another hear me out. Then it clicked.

"The big-brained midget?!"

If only he wasn't in school, he would've yelled that with all of his might. The best he could do was whisper-shout with a disgusted look. It was just too shocking for him to not say it out loud. That information was something that needed to be spat out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, his ears perking up at that custom notification sound he set up for you.

: As if you aren't? :p

Damian suddenly felt cold. Have you developed super hearing all this time? How long have you had those powers? Oh, shit—if you have super hearing, then all the compliments he whispered into the air, you heard all of that? Okay, no need to linger on it any further, Damian! What matters is that she didn't understand the compliments you said in Arabic.

With the secret out, he typed back.

: Super hearing... That's impressive.

Within a few seconds he already got your reply.

: Do I look like Superman's secret love child? My parents are the blandest and most boring people here in Gotham, dude. How can I have powers?

: Besides, this goes to show that I know you well enough to know what you're thinking. <3

He erupts into steam, his eyebrows furrowing at the small heart at the end of the message. The warmth in his ears teases him, a reminder of his feelings for you. It wasn't even intended that way, and he still finds it cute.

Ah, where were we?

Right, going back to your dating history—it was either academically and emotionally challenged ones or plain criminals.

Have you dated the mentioned criminals above?

No, you didn't. It was just crushes.

Ask Damian about it, and he'll tell you that exhibit A and exhibit B would be far better than the criminals you actually date. Because they actually have brains that the exhibit C of criminals—don't! The Google guy about 46 paragraphs ago is one of the prime examples of exhibit C.

Either way, Damian Wayne is still your best friend through and through, even if you are... questionable. You're one of the first to have broken down his walls.

You didn't soften the devil child with love. It wasn't that you saved him from a dire moment either because let's be honest with ourselves—who'd win in a fight? A sheltered heiress who rebels or a child born from a lineage of assassins and skilled crime fighters? It was such a coughing baby vs. hydrogen bomb question. 

Everything started when you started reading shojo mangas after the incident with Damian on the first day of school. You were too preoccupied by your manga that you bumped shoulders with him making you drop it onto his feet.

Damian already recognized you as the girl who kicked his nuts. A grimace on his face when he looked at the book that was once in your hands.

He picked up what you were reading and was immediately entranced by the wonderful colors the panel had. The romantic dialouge that was written with heart and soul was speaking to him so poetically. There's no context or any understanding about the story and yet he felt every word in this new profound piece of literature.

"If you want one, go ask your mommy or daddy to buy you one, because I am not sharing with the likes of you." 

You really have a way of annoying him. 

The confident strut you have in your walk annoys him further. It has arrogance like his. The others weren't important as long as you had fun and remained yourself. Even so, he's drawn in. He made sure to find you in recess. 

Damian finds you alone in the center with that book up in your face. It was no smiling matter but he was glad there was less people around you. Guess people can't keep with your stuck-up attitude too, huh. His own attitude falters with each step he takes towards you, it was getting hard to approach you after all that planning inside his head.

Was he shy? No way! Damian Wayne Al Ghul can't be shy now. Especially not to a girl who has her head up high in the clouds. He's just here for those books of yours. 

He smoothly sits down across you, eyes meeting anything but yours. And when it does, you're both surprised at the softness it held. Your mouth wants to say something. Something mean, something sassy, anything to push him away.

"Why are you here?" Your mind wants him to stay. 

Otherwise, you wouldn't have questioned him.

"What's that book you're reading?" He stretches himself to get a closer look at the manga.

A big smile adorns your face. You repeatedly slap the seat beside you, getting him to stand up.

"I'm glad you asked! And correction, it's called a manga." Damian doesn't find your eye rolls annoying now that he knows there's a humorous undertone to it.

He receives the manga with a smile when you held it out for him. 

"I'm Damian Wayne. You are?"

And that was just the start of Damian Wayne learning more about romance. With the help of mangas and his family, he learned to care about others and that there was different kinds of love. There was no denying that you were a big factor in creating who he is now. Thanks to you and your 'weird' interests.

It's just ironic that the knowledge he got from it is now used as reference for your bestie therapy. Damian wants to joke that you might've gotten him hooked on shojo's to make him your own love guru. 

And let's face it—even if Damian was helping you by comforting and giving advice... his only experience with love was the time he liked you and prior knowledge about how couples act from shojo manga alone.

To put it simply, he wasn't the best love guru you could've picked.

Still, he tries his best for you. Damian still had you in his heart. No hard feelings if he was only your friend. All that he wants now is for you to finally find your match here in Gotham.

He once recommended you to try long distance relationships. The men in Gotham aren't exactly romancable when they have a chance of having a criminal record. And as your best friend and love guru, candidates involved in crime is a no-go.

But you refused, you only wanted a man from Gotham. 

"I mean, you and Dick are from Gotham, you're both decent. Along with Bruce... I guess. So, there's hope!"

When you finally found a decent boyfriend who graduated college and has no criminal record, it was as if the heavens have heard both of your prayers to find you a man in Gotham who lives like a saint.

And yet, you're here. Crying in Damian's arms more than ever. 

You clearly loved this guy more than everyone you dated. He was just a guy. And that's why you love him. And because he was just a guy, he had the balls to cheat—cheat on you of all people!

"Saint my ass, the only thing blessed about him is his looks. If he didn't have that, he would be nothing! Can you imagine waking up early in the morning to go to gym, go home, doomscroll, eat, and sleep? God, I'd kill myself."

He knows he shouldn't laugh.

"It's okay to laugh, that's how I get through knowing my roster of ex lovers." You show him a sarcastic laugh that slowly makes him cease. He puts his hands up in mock defeat with an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm sorry. Just... still not used to your words like that. It cracks me up." He laughs again. Yes, this is your emergency contact as well by the way.

"I'd seriously kill myself if I lived like that, Dami. Imagine a life like that—imagine it was completely opposite to the one you have now—you'd kill yourself too, right?!" You were so adamant with your words that he can't stop laughing. That dead serious stare was too much.

Damian ceases his laughter for your sake, having enough of clowning the situation and focusing on the real issue at hand.

"I get that this is your coping, beloved, but you'll have to tell me everything that happened for me to help you." His soft voice almost makes you cry again. Damian's gaze has you melting beneath his sight, full of affection for you to handle just yet. You nod slowly.

"Okay, okay, but let's do that."

"We'll do that, don't worry."

Damian plops you down on his bed, shutting his blinds and locking the door before you felt the bed dip beside you from his weight. The blanket flies up in the air and landed on both of you. His scent on the fabric surrounded you, basking you more with his warmth.

It was too dark to see, just like you wanted it. He wouldn't see your face, you wouldn't see his. It was perfect to say everything without worrying about the other.

His hands search for your face, cupping it gently. As you felt his arms cage your body close to his, it was your sign to start talking. 

"I don't understand how he could betray me like that. How they all could betray me. I've thought about it a lot. I can't seem to find any reason for them to leave." You notice your words and Damian could already feel how nervous you are with your slip up.

"Not that I say that in a negative way, I just—" 

"I know. I know you. You've changed."

You haven't and Damian prays you won't ever change. 

He feels your hold tighten around him. You're scared to lose him too.

"I say that there shouldn't be any reason for them to leave because I know our boundaries, I support them whatever and whenever I can, I give them assurance, I earn their trust, and I love them with all of my heart." Damian pats your head as you ramble. 

You were tearing up, making a stain on his shoulder. He hears your hiccups beside him, struggling to contain it any longer. 

"Do I have a quality that I can't see that makes people leave? Is it that unlovable and hideous? Dami, can you see it? If you do... tell me why I'm so hard to love."

The silence is agonizing for you. Damian can't even speak about it. You're overthinking that maybe you do have a bad quality that's unnoticeable to you. Is he thinking how to sugarcoat it? That only makes it worse. What's the point of doing this if he'll turn back on the agreement of saying nothing but the truth?

"Before I answer you—may I ask you a question, beloved?" 

Happiness swells in your heart when you hear his voice. He smiles when he feels your nod against his chest.

"Do you think they know your worth if they treated you like that?"

You feel his eyes stare at you through the darkness. You'd know it was him based on the warmth it radiates. So intense... and it was all directed at you. He shifts you closer before speaking again.

"Even a real diamond loses its worth if its seen as a fake' heard that before, beloved? And I'm sure you've noticed the way they treated you." Damian's anger was evident in his last sentence. He was pissed that they let you think you were below them. 

"If it was up to me, I'd treat you right. Even better than them."

He feels your head snap at his words, gazing back at him in the darkness. This wasn't the usual advice he gives. It doesn't sound like it came from a manga. It wouldn't have been if it came directly from Damian's heart. 

He had no mangas to help you today, no mangas with wisdom to share about your predicament, no cheesy quotes to relieve you off your stress... just his heart. It was words written by his heart long ago. The unsent letters it wrote inside of him was about to be delivered by his mouth unrelentlessly.

"I'd love you right, until you're reminded of your 'worth'." Fuck, how you wish you could see him right now. You want to see his face as he tells you everything that will cure your anxiety. 

The horrible dating history has left you with fear that if you let Damian in, he'll also notice that bad quality of yours that makes everyone leave. It terrifies you to even think of it. You can't handle getting your first love and friend taken away from you too. People just leave when they get to know you... or after they get something from you.

You seclude yourself to avoid that pain again. Damian understood that overtime. He also failed to see who you really were beneath that persona you created for yourself. But now that he's gotten to know you a lot better. Best believe that he'll make you feel that the 'worth' you fret so much about is as high as his inhertitance combined.

"But, do not base yourself on that metaphor. You are no diamond with an unstable 'worth'. You are you; a person worth loving." He sounds apologetic for bringing that diamond thing in the first place, but surely, you must've understood his intentions behind it... hopefully.

"And...—" A sudden bright headlight seeps through his blinds, giving you a clear view of his warm face staring at you as if you were the most precious person he's ever laid eyes on. It was quick to disappear as it was to appear, the dark room had nothing but both of you in Damian's bed having a second chance with confessions.

Has your name sounded this angelic with his tongue before? Yes, many times.

His big hand clasps with yours, the other pushes a strand back in your ear.

"I'll have various words to replace the word 'hard' in the words 'You aren't hard to love'. Be it difficult, punishing, strenous, heavy, tough, tiring, hellish, complicated—and a lot more, but shit, how can it be when its so easy for me to love you?" 

Ah—don't cry, don't cry, don't cry! 

Too late, you're sobbing.

He chuckles while wiping your tears away.

"Love has different forms, right? I was content having a platonic one that made loving you a dream. But if the men who can't even dream of loving you like me can have you—then, stay by my side instead." As if that wasn't making you cry, Damian wasn't done.

"I'm not difficult to love as well. I'm happy alone with the thought that the woman who taught me how to love—has learned to love me back after all these years."

His body melts at your touch, gently caressing his face with the warmth he longed for.

"Dumbass. I learned that years ago." 

How cliché can this be? You've loved him all this time.

extra scene - 01

It felt right for everything to end and start this way. If only your taste in men wasn't questionable enough to make you question yourself if you're lovable, you would have been snuggling like this with Damian years ago.

He hears you grumble about it.

"We've always done this before, beloved?"

"Platonically we did!"

Okay, ouch?

Damian stays silent, trying to mask his laughter with fake cries. You feel a pang in your chest, feeling bad for what you said.

Damian doesn't stop with his noise that it starts to feel fake.

You know he couldn't see your deadpan face but he can hear you.

"Are you finished?"

The doors shoot wide open revealing Dick and Jason with their feet up high. Of course they're the ones busting down doors but why?!

At the far back, there was Alfred holding a sign that said—WHAT THE FUCK?

"Say no to teenage pregnancy, say no to teenage pregnancy!" Jason and Dick chant by the door until they walked and surrounded both sides of the bed. They both apprehended you. Dick easily held your hands behind your back with his own and Jason had to pull out ropes to keep Damian contained.

"What is this about?!" Damian tries breaking free.

"Master Dick said something about the curfew of having a girl in your room, Master Damian."

"We weren't even doing anything."

Dick flashes out a big, bright flashlight from his pants. You both look at him confused.

"I saw you both through the blinds. And Damian, your eyes... they never lie." The eldest brother gives him a questionable look.

Through the blinds? Damian's eyes? What is he saying—then the flashlight seemed oddly familiar. Damian figured it out before you.

"I thought it was just a truck."

"You don't know what it is 'til it hits you, kid." Dick smugly grins at him.

"You climbed up until the 3rd floor?"

"That's not the issue here, beloved..."

Damian groans. "I am not that type of guy anyways."

Jason laughs at his younger brother then goes silent in a flash.

"I know what you read." Damian gulps.

"What is it?" You pop in. "No—Todd, wait—"

"Best friends to lovers, 20k words, slow burn, romance, fluff, misunderstandings, light angst, heartbreak, hurt/comfort, and eventual smu—"

"TODD!"

[violetszn]

one

summary ✩ you found it hard to believe that it could actually be this hard finding a roommate. when you take up your boss’s offer and end up letting his daughter move in, you find it even harder believe that a match could be this perfect.

warnings ✩ 5.3k ✩ swearing and drinking but that’s pretty much it for this chapter. also one little innuendo towards the end.

notes ✩ so this one is around 5k words but i haven't decided yet if i wanna leave the rest of the chapters around this length or if they'd be better longer. definitely let me know what you're feeling about the length !! <3

chapters ⇨

The Last Drop hummed with its usual late-night energy, laughter and low conversations falling over the clink of glasses and the occasional small argument among friends. You wiped down the counter, only half listening to a group of regulars argue over a card game while keeping an eye on the random drunkard who always underestimated his tolerance.

“I don’t need to slow down, I can handle my alcohol — I’m a grown man alright? Back off!”

Vander leaned against the bar beside you, arms crossed, surveying the crowd like a guard dog. His presence was grounding and authoritative. The kind that made people behave without him ever having to say much.

“You look tired,” he noted, his voice carrying over the noise.

You exhaled, pressing your hands against the cool surface of the bar. “Yeah, I’ve been dealing with a headache of a situation. Trying to find a decent roommate is way harder than I thought it’d be. Way harder. The last guy that sent in an application actually asked if he could have a pet puma, for ‘future references’.”

Vander raised a brow. “Sounds… rough to say the least. You put up a flyer?”

You gestured toward the message board near the entrance. “Couple days ago. I’ve had some applications, but nothing promising. Another guy asked if he could keep his pet tortoise in the bathtub.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle. “That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, so unless you know someone who won’t bring in a wild animal or hog my bathroom, I think I’m out of luck.”

Vander tilted his head slightly, considering something. 

“Actually… I do know someone.”

You glanced at him, intrigued.

“Vi.”

You hesitated. The name was familiar. You’d heard plenty about her from Vander and Powder, seen quick glimpses of her on Vander’s lockscreen or when Powder was excitedly showing off pictures. And yet, despite how often she supposedly came to the Last Drop, you’d never actually run into her. Just bad timing, you guessed.

“Your… daughter?”

“Yeah. She’s looking for a place closer to campus,” Vander continued, reaching for a clean glass and absentmindedly polishing it. “She’s responsible, keeps to herself most of the time. She can be a bit of trouble sometimes but I promise she’s got a good heart. Knows how to throw a punch if you ever need backup.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Why would I need backup?”

Vander gives you a raised brow in return. In a place like Zaun, that was a rhetorical question. 

You mulled it over. Vi was somewhat of a mystery to you, but if Vander recommended her, that meant something. Plus, finding a roommate was proving to be a nightmare. At this point, you’d take a mystery over a guy who collects wild animals.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally said, tossing the rag over your shoulder. “but it sounds promising.” 

Vander smirked. “I’ll let her know.”

And with that, the conversation shifted, but something told you your search for a roommate might be over sooner than you thought.

The steady hum of the city outside your window was almost comforting, a distant reminder that the world kept moving even as you buried yourself in coursework. You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over your keyboard, eyes blurring slightly from staring at the same paragraph for too long.

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Just as you were about to force yourself to focus, your phone buzzed beside you.

A new email.

You grabbed your phone and squinted at the screen. 

Subject: Roommate Application – Vi

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. That was fast. You hadn’t expected Vi to actually apply so soon — hell, you weren’t even sure she’d be interested. But Vander must have mentioned it to her right away. You couldn’t help but wonder if he talked you up the way he did her.

Curious, you opened the email.

The application itself was pretty straightforward. 

Name: Violet. Preferred Name: Vi. Occupation: Student. Side gigs: Boxing instructor, part-time fighter. Hobbies: Same as my side gigs. 

You huffed a quiet laugh. At least she was honest.

Scrolling further, you skimmed through the standard details; her budget, preferred move-in date, and emergency contact which, unsurprisingly, was Vander. But what really caught your attention was the attached photo.

It wasn’t anything posed, just a casual shot, probably something Powder had taken. Vi sat at a gym bench, hands wrapped, sweaty and mid-laugh, her pink hair a little messy. Even through the screen, there was an energy to her, something sharp but effortless.

You sat back, tapping your fingers against your desk.

So, this was Vi.

Technically, you’d seen her before, but this was the first time you were really looking at her. And now, she might be your new roommate.

“Well,” you muttered to yourself, “could be worse, I guess.”

You were just about to close the email when something at the bottom caught your eye.

Socials: @ CherrybombVi

Your eyes flickered back to your assignment, then back to the email. You hesitated, then scoffed at yourself. It wasn’t even a question, you were obviously going to look. If she included it, that meant she didn’t care if you saw. And honestly? You needed to know what kind of person you’d be living with.

Tapping the link, you landed on her Instagram profile. The username fit, CherrybombVi. Bold, confident, and straight to the point. Her bio was just as simple: 🥊

Most of her posts were fight clips, training footage, or gym shots, but even those had an effortless appeal. One video showed her in the ring, body fluid and sharp as she dodged a punch before delivering a brutal counter. Some seemed to be borderline thirst traps but something tells you it isn’t even intentional - she just looks like that.

Then there were the more casual posts; Vi leaning against the ropes, smirking at the camera, a candid of her laughing with Powder, a rare mirror selfie that showed off her tattoos, muscles, and sweat-slicked skin in a way that had your brain misfiring.

Your face felt hot.

This was your potential new roommate? You had only ever caught glimpses of her in photos before, never enough to form a real impression, and yet somehow you hadn’t expected… this. Before you could spiral too much, your finger moved on autopilot and hit Follow.

You set your phone down, exhaling sharply, only for it to buzz almost immediately.

New DM from CherrybombVi.

Your stomach flipped as you opened the message.

CherrybombVi so ur the one vander’s been hyping up?

Your breath hitched slightly. She followed you back that fast? Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tried to come up with a response that didn’t make you sound completely unhinged.

You depends what exactly has he been saying?

A typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

CherrybombVi that ur looking for a roommate that ur not an asshole and that u can make a decent drink

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You i mean yeah he’s not wrong

CherrybombVi cool so when do we meet?

Your stomach did another stupid little flip.

You how’s tomorrow?

CherrybombVi works for me Last Drop?

You figured you’d say that

CherrybombVi best place in town. vander pays me to say that

You does he?

CherrybombVi nah, but he should

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

You alright, Last Drop tomorrow. we’ll talk, see if this’ll work

CherrybombVi sounds good hope ur not easily scared off ;)

You bit your lip.

You guess we’ll see.

As soon as you hit send, you set your phone down again and let your head fall back against the chair. Why did that make your heart race?

The Last Drop was busy tonight, the usual crowd packed into their favorite corners, drinks in hand, conversations rolling over the music playing from the old speakers overhead. You were behind the bar, moving on autopilot as you poured drinks and exchanged easy banter with the regulars.

Despite keeping yourself busy, there was a part of you that kept one eye on the door. You weren’t nervous exactly, just… anticipating. When the door finally swung open and she walked in, you knew immediately.

Even without the pink hair, Vi carried herself in a way that made her stand out. She was relaxed but sure-footed, like she belonged in every room she stepped into. She was dressed casually, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

Your stomach did something weird.

Vander, who had been stacking glasses nearby, glanced up and grinned. “Right on time.”

You barely had time to react before he clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Go on, take a break. I got the bar.”

You blinked. “You sure? It’s busy.”

“I’ve handled worse,” Vander said easily, already moving to take your spot. “Vi’s here to see you. Go talk.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. After drying your hands on a towel, you stepped out from behind the bar and made your way over to where Vi had already claimed a booth near the back.

Up close, she was... yeah. The photos hadn’t lied. Sharp jawline, freckled skin, toned arms resting on the table as she leaned back in her seat like she had all the time in the world.

“Hey,” she greeted, smirking just slightly. “Guess you’re real after all.”

You raised an eyebrow as you slid into the seat across from her. “Did you think I was fake?”

“Wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing I’ve seen on the internet,” she said, shrugging.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”

Vi leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the table. “So. Roommates.”

“Roommates,” you echoed, feeling a little caught off guard by how direct she was. Not in a bad way, just… unexpected.

Vi tilted her head. “I’ll be real with you. I don’t make a mess, I always cover my share of the rent, and I don’t bring random women over. Schedule-wise, I’m out a lot for training and classes, but I’m usually home at night. I crash early when I can.”

That last part caught your attention. Not because it was weird, just that Vander made it sound like she was always busy.

“You sleep early?” you asked, more curious than anything.

Vi nodded easily. “Not super early. At a regular time, really. I get up early for workouts often. Kinda have to if I don’t wanna get my ass handed to me.” That made sense. If she was constantly training, she’d need the rest.

You nodded. “Vander did say you keep busy.”

Vi smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her. She was easy to talk to, even with how little you actually knew about her. It made the whole thing feel… simple. Like this might actually work.

“What about you?” Vi asked, tipping her head toward you. “Vander said you’re not an asshole, but that’s a pretty low bar.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’m clean, I don’t throw parties, and I pay on time. Only real downside is I have early mornings sometimes, so if you’re planning on sneaking in at sunrise, try not to slam the door.”

Vi grinned. “Deal.”

You looked at her for a moment, then exhaled. “This might actually work.”

Vi smirked. “Guess we’ll find out.”

And just like that, it was decided.

You and Vi shook on it, sealing the deal with a firm grip. Her handshake was just what you expected: strong, confident, and steady.

"Guess that makes it official," Vi said, smirking as she leaned back in her seat.

"Looks like it," you replied, mirroring her expression.

By the time your break was over, you had worked out the details; rent, move-in date, all the necessary logistics. Vi would be moving in the following week, giving you time to clear the spare room and make space for her things.

That night, you wasted no time. As soon as you got home, you started rearranging—cleaning out the closet, dusting off the shelves, and making sure everything was ready. You even sent her a quick message:

You room’s all set whenever ur ready

Vi’s reply came fast.

CherrybombVi damn ur quick i’ll be there next week

You stared at the message a little longer than necessary before shaking your head and setting your phone down. This could be good. It'll be nice sharing the burden of rent and livening up the quiet apartment a bit.

The knock at your door was solid, deliberate. You took a steadying breath before opening it, and there she was, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a couple of boxes stacked neatly at her feet.

"Hey, roomie," Vi greeted, smirking slightly.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach twisted at the casual way she said that. "Hey. You, uh… you travel light."

Vi glanced at her stuff and shrugged. "Don’t need much."

You nodded, stepping aside so she could come in. As Vi walked past, you could feel the presence she carried, like she was used to taking up space without trying.

Clearing your throat, you motioned down the hall. "Your room’s this way." Vi followed as you led her to the spare bedroom, pushing open the door to reveal the space you had cleared for her.

"It’s not much, but, uh…" You shifted slightly, tucking your hands into your pockets. "You can do whatever you want with it. Move stuff around, redecorate, it doesn’t really matter to me."

Vi stepped inside, scanning the room with a thoughtful nod. "Yeah, this works. Thanks."

You exhaled, relieved that she seemed satisfied. "Cool." For a beat, neither of you said anything. Then, remembering something, you added, "Oh, uh, Powder wants to come over for dinner later. Hope that’s okay."

Vi turned to look at you, eyebrows raised. "Powder?"

You nodded. "Yeah, she, um, she said she wants to throw you a welcome dinner where 'I do all the cooking and her presence is enough' or whatever it was she said."

Vi studied you for a moment, arms loosely crossed over her chest. "You and Powder are close?"

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. We met a couple of years ago in an art class."

Vi’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. "She never mentioned that."

You smiled a little. "She probably doesn’t think it’s a big deal. She sat next to me the first day, and we just kinda clicked. She’s the one who told me about the job at the Last Drop, actually. Said Vander needed someone and that I should give it a shot."

Vi huffed a quiet laugh. "Figures. She always did like pulling people into her world."

You nodded, shifting on your feet. "So… dinner?"

Vi smirked. "Yeah, alright. Could be nice."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "Cool. I’ll start dinner in a little while."

Vi gave you a long look, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before she nodded. "Sounds like a plan, cupcake."

You tried not to think too hard about how that word made your heart do something weird.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich scent of garlic, tomatoes, and seared chicken as you finished up dinner. You’d gone with something comforting; pasta, creamy and packed with flavor, with garlic bread crisping up in the oven.

Powder arrived first, waltzing in like she lived there. "Damn, something smells amazing."

Vi followed behind, empty boxes in tow from her unpacking earlier. "Wait—you actually cooked?"

You glanced over your shoulder, stirring the sauce. "What, did you think I was bluffing?"

Vi smirked. "No, I just figured I was gonna be living off instant noodles and bar food."

"You still might, jury's not out yet," you teased. Powder snickered as she stole a piece of garlic bread straight off the pan.

Once everything was plated, the three of you gathered around the small dining table, Powder practically vibrating with excitement as she took her first bite.

"Okay, what the hell," she mumbled through a mouthful. "You made this? Like, from scratch?"

"That’s usually how cooking works, Pow." Vi grins, watching as you tease her sister in a similar fashion to the way she does.

Vi took a bite, pausing for a second before nodding approvingly. "Alright, yeah. I’m impressed."

You smirked as you grabbed the bottle of wine you’d set aside for you and Vi, pouring a glass for each of you. Powder gave you both a pointed look, crossing her arms.

"I feel like I’m missing out," she said.

"You are," Vi said, taking a sip.

Powder huffed dramatically before refocusing on her food.

The conversation flowed easily after that, mostly Powder bouncing between ridiculous stories from their childhood and Vi occasionally cutting in to correct the details.

"And then she—" Powder pointed at Vi with her fork, "—convinced Mylo that licking a frozen pipe wouldn’t actually make his tongue stick."

Vi grinned, unbothered. "To be fair, I thought he’d be fine."

"He had to drink hot water through a straw for a week!"

"Okay, but I was the one who got yelled at, so really, haven’t I suffered enough?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sounds like you two were menaces."

"We were," Vi confirmed, smirking. "What about you? Chaotic too?"

You shook your head. "Not really. I was pretty quiet. Spent most of my time drawing, painting, reading, or writing."

Vi tilted her head. "Writing, huh? What kind of stuff?"

"Just little things," you said, suddenly self-conscious. "Short stories and stuff—whatever came to mind."

Vi nodded, looking genuinely interested. "That’s cool. And what do you read?"

"Mystery, horror, romance – stuff like that."

Vi’s brows lifted. "That’s a mix."

You smirked. "I like a little balance."

"So you’ll read about a guy getting murdered in one book and then flip to people making out in the next?"

"Pretty much."

Vi huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Alright, yeah. You’re an interesting one."

The night stretched on like that — easy conversation, laughter, and shared stories over empty plates. By the time you realized how late it had gotten, the food was long gone, Powder was curled up on the couch half-asleep, and the wine bottle between you and Vi was completely empty.

Vi stretched, rolling her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair. "Alright, now it feels official. I’m moved in."

You exhaled, smiling. "Yeah. Guess so."

She glanced at you, something unreadable in her expression before she smirked. "Not bad, roomie."

"Not bad yourself," you said, and for the first time since you’d started looking for a roommate, you actually felt relieved.

Maybe this was going to work out after all.

The night wound down slowly, the energy in the apartment settling into something quieter, warmer. Powder stretched out with a yawn, rubbing at her eyes before glancing at her phone.

"Alright, Ekko’s on his way to pick me up," she announced, pushing herself up from the couch.

Vi smirked. "Finally getting rid of you? Thought we’d have to drag you out."

Powder scoffed. "Please, I’m leaving before you two start acting all old and responsible." She turned to you. "You better keep her in check."

You let out a soft laugh, the wine making everything feel pleasantly hazy. "I’ll do my best."

Powder slung her bag over her shoulder, then pointed at Vi. "Don’t scare off your new roommate yet."

Vi rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

The night had settled into a comfortable quiet after Powder left, leaving just you and Vi in the kitchen as you worked together to clean up. The occasional clatter of dishes and the sound of running water filled the space, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to finish.

Vi leaned casually against the counter, drying off the last plate as she watched you with an amused smirk. "Gotta say, didn’t expect my new roommate to be such a responsible drunk."

You huffed a laugh, placing the last dish in the drying rack. "Yeah, well… unfortunately, I have class pretty damn early tomorrow, so I should head to sleep. Hopefully, I can sleep off this wine."

Vi pushed off the counter, stepping into your space just enough to make you notice. "Shame. You’re kinda fun when you’re a little tipsy."

Your stomach did a weird little flip at that. "Oh, so I’m not fun when I’m sober?"

Vi smirked, tilting her head like she was sizing you up. "Didn’t say that. Just means I’ll have to stick around to find out."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was. The buzz from the wine definitely wasn’t helping.

Vi’s smirk deepened like she could tell. "You should drink plenty of water before bed. Wouldn’t want you waking up miserable."

You cleared your throat, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "Yeah. Good idea."

Vi stepped back, giving you an easy grin. "Goodnight, then."

You hesitated for a second before nodding. "Goodnight, Vi."

And with that, you slipped into your room, shutting the door behind you. You were so in trouble.

Sure enough, you wake up at six with a pounding headache and the overwhelming regret of past decisions. The wine from last night lingers unpleasantly, a dull throb at your temples that makes you groan as you drag yourself out of bed.

You quickly pop some Tylenol and chug a glass of water, wincing at the way your stomach protests. The apartment is quiet. Vi’s still asleep, and you do your best to move through the space as quietly as possible, getting ready with slow, deliberate motions.

By the time you step out the door, the worst of the headache has dulled, but you’re still exhausted. And with your schedule ahead of you, you don’t have time to recover.

Mondays are always brutal. Between the early morning classes, tutoring sessions, and art class, you barely have a second to breathe. The hangover becomes background noise, something you push through as you move from one thing to the next. By the time you finally head home, you feel like you’re running on fumes.

When you step into the apartment, Vi is in the living room, dropping effortlessly into a set of push-ups. She looks up as you shut the door behind you, barely even out of breath.

"Damn," she grins. "You just getting home? Thought you might’ve died out there."

You groan, dropping your bag by the door. "Yeah, my Mondays are usually packed. It’s when I have my earliest classes as well as my art class. On top of that, of course, I had tutoring scheduled for this afternoon. I’m beat."

You rub your hands over your face, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in your bones.

Vi pushes herself up to sit back on her heels, resting her forearms on her knees. "Sounds like a lot."

"You have no idea," you mumble, kicking off your shoes.

She watches you for a second, then smirks. "You survive the hangover at least?"

"Barely," you mutter. "Didn’t really have time to deal with it."

Vi chuckles, shaking her head. "Damn. And here I was thinking I was the overachiever."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small, tired smile that creeps onto your lips.

Vi stands up from the floor, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She’s dressed in just a sports bra and a pair of sweats, her toned muscles catching the dim afternoon light.

"You look beat," she remarks, stepping closer, her gaze flicking over you like she’s assessing just how exhausted you really are.

You let out a tired sigh, rubbing your temples. "Long day."

"Yeah, no kidding." Vi tilts her head. "Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make you some tea or coffee — whichever gets you back to life."

She steps closer still, reaching out to touch your arm. It’s just a light, fleeting thing, but it’s enough to make you pause. "Seriously," she says, her voice softer now, edged with something almost… considerate. "You should take it easy tonight."

You exhale slowly, your body already sinking into the pull of exhaustion. "Some tea sounds nice… thanks, Vi."

She just nods and heads to the kitchen. You collapse onto the couch, your limbs aching as you listen to the quiet, rhythmic sounds of her moving around. Soon enough, she’s pressing a warm mug into your hands before settling beside you. The tea is perfect — soothing, the heat seeping into your fingers as you take slow sips.

Vi doesn’t rush you. She just sits there, the hum of the television filling the silence as you drink. Her presence is steady, grounding in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

Once you set the empty mug down, Vi stretches, then stands, shaking her head with a smirk. "Alright, time for you to crash."

You groan but make no move to get up. "I should probably—"

"Not push yourself until you pass out on the couch?" Vi interrupts, nudging your arm. "Yeah. Let’s not do that."

You sigh, dragging yourself upright. "Fine, fine. You win."

"Damn right I do," she quips, watching as you shuffle toward your room. "Drink more water before you knock out."

You mumble something unintelligible as you push open the door, already peeling off your clothes in favor of pajamas. The second your head hits the pillow, I’m you’re out.

You don’t hear Vi moving around the apartment.

You don’t hear the quiet stretch of tape wrapping around her knuckles, the slight pop of her joints as she shakes out her limbs in preparation.

You don’t hear the door unlatch or the way it clicks shut behind her as she slips out into the night, her steps light and deliberate, leading her toward the only place that gets her heart pounding the way she craves.

The underground pit calls to her, as it always does. The roar of a nameless crowd, the thrill of a fight that doesn't come with rules or restraints. It’s a part of her she refuses to let go of.

By the time you wake up the next morning, groggy and still half-buried in sleep, Vi’s already at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone like it’s just another normal day.

She looks the same. Same easy smirk when she glances up at you, same casual posture.

But when you step closer, you notice the fresh bruises on her knuckles, the faint swell of her lip. Injuries that definitely weren’t there yesterday.

And yet, she doesn’t say a word about them. And, for some reason, you don’t ask.

After about a month of living together you pick up on Vi’s… personality. She’s a flirt through and through and honestly? A fucking menace. Guess you see where Powder gets it from.

You’re trying to read. Really, you are. But in your defense, it’s incredibly difficult when Vi has decided that the living room is her personal gym and you have a front-row seat to the show.

She’s in the middle of her workout, wearing nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants that hang low on her hips. Her abs flex with every movement, her arms tense and defined as she pushes through another set of sit-ups. She’s completely in the zone, brow furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, strands of pink hair falling onto her face.

And you, despite trying your hardest not to, are watching.

It’s not your fault. Vi is just… really fucking distracting. It’s an effortless kind of attractive. Like she isn’t even trying, like she has no idea how good she looks. But she has to know, right? There’s no way she doesn’t know.

You drag your eyes back down to your book, determined to focus. It works for all of ten seconds before Vi shifts into a plank position, muscles taut, posture flawless.

Shit.

You must be staring harder than you thought because, without even looking at you, Vi smirks.

“See something you like?”

Your entire body tenses up.

“No,” you say immediately, forcing your gaze back to the page in front of you. “I’m reading.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone is full of amusement. “Didn’t realize your book was in my direction.”

You clench your jaw, refusing to take the bait. “It’s not.”

She finishes her set, stretching her arms over her head as she sits back.

“Oh, come on,” she teases, rolling out her shoulders. “You’ve been staring for, like, five minutes. I’m flattered, really.”

You huff, sinking further into the couch, arms crossed over your chest. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re a bad liar.” Vi grins, leaning back on her hands. “But hey, it’s fine. I like looking at you too.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Vi says it so easily, so casually, like she’s not making your stomach do flips. She’s so smug about it. Meanwhile, your stomach does something inconvenient, and you have to force yourself to maintain an expression that doesn’t immediately give you away.

You clear your throat, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head, all innocence. “Am I?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but she just smirks. Desperate to change the mood, you pick up the nearest pillow and chuck it at her. She catches it effortlessly, laughing.

“Shut up.”

“No shame in it.” She tosses the pillow back onto the couch before stretching her arms over her head again, arching her back slightly as she groans from the stretch. You force yourself to look away, determined not to give her the satisfaction of catching you again.

But even as you turn back to your book, you can still feel her watching you, like she’s just as entertained by your reaction as she is by the workout itself.

“So,” she starts, casually leaning back on her hands, “since you were so obviously checking me out, what’s the verdict?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “The verdict?”

“Yeah. On me.” She smirks, flexing her arm like some over-the-top gym bro. “Do I pass inspection?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to smile. “Oh, absolutely. Five stars. Would ogle again.”

Vi laughs, tilting her head as if considering. “Only five?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Vi. I wasn’t checking you out, alright?”

“Come on… I feel like I deserve at least a six.”

You finally set your book aside, leaning forward with a feigned serious expression. “Sorry, but I don’t go higher than five. Gotta keep my ratings fair and unbiased.”

Vi grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Unbiased, huh?” She shifts forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So if I were, say, a random dude at the gym, you’d still rate me the same?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Well, no, because if you were a random dude at the gym, I wouldn’t be—” You stop short, realizing too late where that sentence is going.

Vi’s smirk widens. “Wouldn’t be what?”

Your face burns. “Nothing.”

“Oh no, that sounded important.” She leans in, elbows on her knees, like she’s trying to coax the answer out of you. “You wouldn’t be… checking me out? So I am your type, hmm? Good to know.”

You groan, pushing your hands against your face. “Oh my god, I hate you.”

Vi chuckles, shifting to sit cross-legged on the mat. “You love me.”

You peek at her through your fingers. “Bold assumption.”

She winks. “I’m a bold girl.”

You shake your head with a dramatic sigh. “I’m moving out.”

Vi gasps in mock horror, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, don’t go! Who else will stare at me while I work out?”

That finally pulls a laugh from you, and Vi grins like she’s just won something.

“Alright, alright,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll stop messing with you… for now.” She grabs her water bottle, taking a long sip before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shooting you a lazy grin. “But hey, next time you wanna watch, you could always just join me.”

You scoff playfully. “In your dreams.”

She throws you a look as she walks past, heading toward the kitchen. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Your heart does something foreign in your chest. You turn back to your book, pretending to read, but the words are still a blur. How are you meant to put up with her if she acts like this?

tags ✩ @jupitism @fungalinfectionyeast @mk-a-1 @rhian88 @baylegend6 @lovely-wisteria @antobooh @arahiraaai @eriiwaii @elliesngirl @avalovesmus1c @pryncess123

[acid-ixx]

I hope you don’t mind but I need to ramble this to someone, neglected Wayne reader right? The fam would forget to bring them to social events and whatnot right? So there would be very few pictures, articles and interviews or even facts about them, meaning that reader Wayne is a rarity. Still following me? Reader Wayne with a small but devout fanbase.

I’m talking they are trading the latest pictures and sharing links to the rare interview with reader in it, following any social media they have that isn’t private, they are just fascinated by this micro celebrity that seems to always be forgotten. Okay but also imagine one of the heroes developing a para-social attachment to reader. My money is on Conner Kent, mainly bc he can project his own issues with his dads onto reader and he can Dolores ~Encanto~ reader with his super hearing and develop a even bigger parasocial obsession with them

I hope you enjoyed this ramble, I will leave you be now, see ya later alligator! 🐊

omg another one of my asks that actually predicted a major plot point... this ask ties well with the last part written here. i'm thinking about having the reader get a love interest/s but i have already written an outline but one thing is for sure—

you have more than just your family interested in taking you.

major spoilers below the cut. — an excerpt from chapter xx

(name) wayne may have been a name forcefully deleted off of the face of the internet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its conspiracies of its own. nobody knows who you are beyond the blurry, unsolicited pictures of you. it may have been a photograph of your back, or articles published in unknown websites and buried at the far end about a kid entering through the fancy gates of the wayne manor.

you are a product of a one-night-stand.

but they don't know who the mother is, don't know your age, or where you come from, and what business bruce has with the woman to guarantee your adoption at the instance she had disappeared without warning.

your existence was a mystery most would like to solve. after all, it was your picture that was plastered all over the newspapers and articles, it was your name that journalists whisper and it was a silhouette of your face that the underground knows by heart. every known information about you was shared discretely yet efficiently like some sort of virus.

you were a target for interest, a large sum of money if they will. and alfred had taken it in his hands to make sure there would never be a repeat of what had happened before.

it was a clumsy mistake, one that cost you your memories, and one he swears on his life he'll never make again.

the first course of action he needs to arrange, which may seem difficult for most; he needs to confront bruce.

after all, your freedom is your doom.

maybe this is out of the picture, but id' like to imagine you and connor having a therapy session where one comes out absolutely obsessed with the other, and it's not you.

connor's character for me is so, so good for an angst potential. it's like his personal struggles is a way for him to show you how absolutely you two are meant to be. and he may have met you through bumping into you (false) or maybe... he has seen you stalking through the shadows back when he visits the manor. using his superhearing, he can hear your voice from the kitchen begging alfred to relay a message to bruce, sounding so absolutely desperate. it's the way you tell alfred how you wished your father actually spends time with you, or how nobody seems to notice you— that he kind of just makes a silent promise that he will talk to you soon, he needs to know why this family seems so keen on ignoring and how hypocritical tim is for literally doing the same thing to you when he's aware of kon's past.

if he (or anyone else) should be a love interest (though he is a minor character in the series unless you guys want him to be a major one), i can already imagine the absolute hell you have to suffer not only from your family but from your own lover. just imagine the stockholm syndrome or the delusions you convince yourself with because you're finally loved by someone but that love restricts you from the very freedom you tried to build.

the batfamily would be so conflicted because why are you choosing some stranger over them...? then you slap them in the face with, "well, this "stranger" wants to kidnap me and lock me up, sure! but at least they actually looked at me for more than five seconds!" and you can watch how the color drains off their face, their conflict giving you the perfect opportunity to run away from both your ex-family and your soon-to-be-kidnapper-lover who thinks your comeback is a funny way for you to propose.

[pollyanna-nana]

One of the most tragic and compelling aspects of Dunmeshi, to me, is that we’ll probably never know (unless Kui tells us lol) how Delgal actually felt about Thistle. I’ve seen people say that he genuinely cared for him as a brother and his journey to the surface was to save him from his madness as much as it was his people. I’ve seen people say that he saw Thistle as nothing more than a fancy accessory or tool that ended up going astray. Others I’ve seen (and personally agree with) say that the truth lies somewhere in the middle. But honestly, I think any one of these interpretations has the potential to be correct… and that’s just heartbreaking.

After all, Delgal is dead. Like, dead-dead. The very first chapter of the manga starts with his spirit leaving this mortal coil, taking that answer with him. And…

How he talks about Thistle here… it’s interesting. He does not ask for him to be talked down, or captured or imprisoned, but instead “defeated”. Which Mithrun interprets as asking for his death… which is reasonable, because that’s likely how the vast majority of adventurers interpreted his words, too. Obviously as he was crumbling to dust he probably didn’t have the capacity to be particularly verbose or explain the complex backstory to how the kingdom ended up this way, but the effect is the same no matter how he may have felt with it. He asked for Thistle to be killed.

But… even in situations where he wasn’t under any such time limit to explain what was going on, he still seemed not to. Most glaringly:

Yaad seemingly has no idea that it was Delgal’s fault that Thistle sought the demon’s power. Obviously he couldn’t talk to him about it because Thistle was, uh, a little out there by that point, but why didn’t Delgal explain? Was he embarrassed? Mournful? Couldn’t find the words?

Delgal was scared of dying. He wanted prosperity at any cost, and how could Thistle possibly refuse? Did he even realize that what he was the one who pushed his own brother— One who basically helped raise him despite being a child himself, and in many ways is still a child— down this path? Or was it like watching an overzealous employee misinterpret directions?

The way Yaad describes things here makes it sound like Thistle simply dug too deep in his studies and fell into madness, but we know that’s not true. Delgal didn’t “suggest” he learn magic, he wanted a mage who could help himself and his people defy death, which he admits to Thistle openly:

So, why? Why not tell his grandson, at least, the truth of the matter? Did he worry it might make the remaining residents more likely to upset Thistle, and therefore suffer the consequences? Did he just not care? For what it’s worth though, Yaad does suspect the truth from Delgal’s behavior.

He “always blamed himself” for his descent into the dark arts. This is just Yaad’s observation, and that’s without knowing that it was quite literally Delgal’s fault Thistle went down this path. So, why? Why was it all kept a secret?

Of course, this made things ripe for the winged lion to manipulate to its advantage. Clearly despite knowing he’d pushed him into using it, Delgal still thought the lion was a force of good that was misused by Thistle as a result of his madness. His face in that last panel is particularly haunting. He looks terrible, gaunt and pale with overgrown hair and missing teeth. Had he gone mad, with grief and sorrow, as well?

Could he no longer see Thistle the way he did when they were younger? No one can ask him, because he died long before the story even began.

To go back to the original question, well, how did Delgal see Thistle? None of the previous points make a definitive answer any clearer, and I think that’s just brilliant. And so, so tragic.

[maysileeewrites]

bittersweet symphony || chapter 1

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

summary: Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new after-life, you find comfort in someone you'd least expected it from, but new threats are already rising ...

chapter warnings: angst!!, capitol-typical nastiness, President Snow being President Snow, Reader dealing with PTSD, a bit of fluff

word count: 4.7k

Stay alive, Princess. 

Stay alive. 

Haymitch’s words keep replaying in your mind in a constant, never-ending loop. 

Stay alive. Stayalivestayalivestayalive. 

On and on it goes, like a prayer, like a mantra - like the only thing keeping you sane. 

Stay alive, Princess. 

You stand on the platform, terrified, panic gripping at you, as you try to get a bearing on your surroundings, trying to locate Kai and your little allies. 

Stay alive. 

You watch, helpless, and frozen in fear, as little Lucas is speared by one of the Careers during the bloodbath. 

Stay alive. 

Finn, Sarah and Dalton - all three of them taken by the wave that floods the arena during the fifth day. Their screams are like a living, breathing pain, mixing with Haymitch’s words in your mind. 

Stay alive. 

You’re running through the forest, clutching Cassie’s hand, hoping against hope that you’ll be able to outrun the two Careers chasing you. Kai, with little Flora on his back, is already a few paces ahead of you, but when Cassie lets out a panicked scream, he stops, turning around, his terrified dark grey eyes finding yours. You shake your head, silently telling him to run, to save his own and Flora’s life. But, he doesn’t. Of course. 

Stay alive. 

Cassie’s terrified scream when, suddenly, a group of wolf mutts join the fight between you, Kai and the two remaining Careers. 

Stay alive. 

Kai’s dark grey eyes finding yours as the knife of the Career runs through his body. A chocked sob leaves your mouth and you want to run towards Kai, but he’s shaking his head, attempting to smile. His last, silent plea is clear: grab Flora and run. And so, you do. 

Stay alive. 

Flora, twisting her ankle and crying out in pain as she crashes to the ground. You bend down immediately, but it’s already too late - the mutt’s already got to her. 

Stay alive. 

Claudius Templesmith’s voice ringing out through the arena. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of the 61st annual Hunger Games? You look up, seeing a hovercraft descending towards the point where you’re lying on the ground, writhing in pain. The last thing you remember seeing - or maybe you’ve just been imaging things this whole time - is a short, fleeting flash of sunrise, the last wisps of fading clouds in the sky, as the sun rises in the distance. 

Then, everything goes black. 

You’re drifting in and out of consciousness. 

Moments of awareness - the blinding, uncomfortably bright lights of the room you’re in, the terrifying feeling of being trapped - are followed by awful memories of the Games, like Kai’s eyes finding yours for the last time ever or sweet litte Flora getting torn apart by those horrible mutts. 

But somehow, Haymitch’s voice always finds its way into your mind as well. 

Stay alive, Princess. 

Why?, you want to ask. What’s the point? Why should I deserve to live, if everyone I wanted to save died? 

But Haymitch isn’t here to answer you and even if he were, he probably wouldn’t have an answer for you - at least not one you’d like to hear. 

And so, you keep clinging to his words, like a mantra, like a prayer. Like a promise. 

Stay alive. 

Stay alive. 

Another moment of being uncomfortably close to consciousness or at least it feels like that. 

„No, absolutely not. She’s just a girl-“

Haymitch, you think. 

„But she needs to look-“

„I don’t care. You’re not going to do that to her.“ 

„But-“

The rest of the words are cut off, and then there’s Haymitch chuckling darkly. 

You drift off again, comforted by the thought than when you finally return to the land of the living for good, at least Haymitch will still be there for you, looking out for you.

Stay alive. 

Even before you open your eyes, you know that this time, you won’t be allowed to just drift of again. 

You’re alive. 

You survived. 

Somehow, you survived the Hunger Games. 

But you fear that surviving the Games was only the beginning. Because now, you have to live with yourself. You have to live with everything you’ve done; you have to live with the painful, ugly memories from your time in the arena. 

You’re a Victor now. 

Slowly, hesitantly you open your eyes, still clinging to some desperate thread of hope that maybe none of what you remember has actually happened, that when you open your eyes you’ll wake in the small bedroom you share with your brothers back in District Twelve and that Kai and everyone else you’ve come to love and care about during these last few days is still alive and well. 

But when you open your eyes, you’re not greeted by the sight of the small, ramshackle house your family lives in. 

Instead, your eyes land on a tapestry that feels somewhat familiar and then-

„Well, look at who’s finally had enough beauty sleep.“ 

You know that voice, know its’ deep timbre and that dry, mocking tone. And somehow, that makes you feel better, even if only slightly so. But still, even if it’s only Haymitch, your surly, drunken recluse of a mentor that you can’t quite figure out - and you’re not quite sure why you have that strong urge to figure him out, to understand him better, but that’s neither here nor there for the moment -, a friendly face is a friendly face. 

And finding yourself thrust into this strange, terrifying new world in which your best friend is dead, having sacrificed his life for you, and you’re somehow the Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games, you feel as if you’ll need all the friendly faces you can find. 

You sit up, wincing when you notice how weak your arms suddenly feel. It’s as if all the fight you’d built up in yourself during your time in the arena disappeared the moment that hovercraft lifted you up into the air. 

„Haymitch“, you whisper, your eyes finding his grey ones. 

He’s standing at the side of your bed, his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

He looks the same as you remember him, his grey eyes as piercing as you remember, and his dark curls falling into his face, yet something about him feels different. You can’t quite put your finger on what, exactly, that is. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, somehow warm and distant at the same time. Maybe it’s the dark circles under his eyes, though they were there before as well. Or maybe it’s the way he carries himself - all tensed-up, like he expects an attack at any moment. 

But then his mouth quirks into that familiar, crooked grin, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the way his grey eyes are piercing yours and how somehow, inexplicably, your heart starts beating faster inside your chest. 

„Great job staying alive, Princess“, he says, and his voice seems to lose some of its usual biting, sarcastic edge. 

You nod, attempting a smile yourself, but somehow you can’t quite muster up the energy for it. Because while you may be glad to see Haymitch, the truth is still this: you survived. Which means that Kai and all your little allies didn’t. 

You survived - yet you promised them the same thing: that they would survive. That you’d be there for them. 

„I, yeah …“, is all you say, turning away from Haymitch and looking at the floral-patterned wallpaper instead, as you try to fight off memories from the Arena. 

It’s no use. Even though you’re here, in this strange new afterlife, you’ve still got one foot in the Arena. Tears start to prick at your eyes and you squeeze them shut, biting down hard on your lip, not wanting to break down and cry ugly sobs in front of Haymitch. 

The thought is strange - surely he’s seen you in far worse moments, assuming he watched your Games, which he must have, otherwise how he’d have known what sponsor gifts to send you at always the exact right time? But still, it’s there. You don’t want to cry in front of Haymitch, you don’t want to be that vulnerable. 

He - and everyone else that’s watched the Games - has already seen so much of you, you can’t help but want to keep at least some pieces to yourself. Though you know, deep down, that that’s not how the Games and the Capitol work.

„Hey“, Haymitch says, breaking you out of your thoughts. You notice how his voice suddenly sounds unusually soft and calm, almost as if he were talking to a wounded animal. „Where’d you go to, Princess?“ 

At his words, you open your eyes again, not able to hold back the tears that immediately start streaming down your cheeks. You squeeze your hands into fists, hating how weak you must appear to him. 

And so, even though you want nothing more than to just break down completely and sob for everything and everyone that you’ve lost until you have no more tears to cry, you do your best to compose yourself. Crying can come later, you tell yourself. Later, when you’re alone and no one’s there to witness and judge your breakdown. 

„I - will it always feel like this, Haymitch?“, you ask, your voice sounding rough and strained. 

You can see by the dark, pained expression in Haymitch’s eyes that he immediately understands what you’re trying to say, without you having to explain it further. 

He clears his throat, his grey eyes finding yours again. „You want the truth, Princess?“ He doesn’t wait for you to say anything - you don’t need to. „It doesn’t, not really. But you’ve got to keep fighting, no matter how impossible it might feel. You can’t - you can’t give up, not like …“, he trails off, his eyes taking on a far-distant expression, and your heart breaks for him when you see the pain and grief written so clearly on his face. 

„You can’t give up, you can’t - don’t let them have that as well.“ 

You nod, squeezing your hands even more, until your fingernails dig sharply into the soft skin of the inner sides of your palms. 

„I - I just … I just - I feel so - exhausted, Haymitch“, you admit, your voice almost breaking on the last word. 

There’s a dark look in his eyes, but he just nods. 

„I know“, is all he says, „I know, Princess.“ 

Somehow, you make it through the next few days. Though survive might actually a better word to describe it all. 

First, you’ve survived the Arena. 

And now, you’re trying to survive this strange new after-life that you’d never thought you’d actually have to experience. 

Yes, you’ve somehow survived the Games - somehow you’re a Victor now. 

But even though your time in the Arena was nothing short of a living, breathing nightmare, the after-life in the Capitol is almost worse. 

It seems that at every corner, there’s some new Capitol citizens that want to get to know you, Twelve’s shining new Victor. Every day, you’re pinched and prodded by your prep team, stuffed into dresses that somehow always seem to walk a very fine, strange line between girlish and seductive, and every day, you’re paraded around somewhere new. Every day, there’s new faces, new hands touching you. 

First, it’s just your prep team and your stylist, then it’s some of your Sponsors. A courtesy of President Snow, Arienne, a member of your prep team tells you. Isn’t he just such a wonderful President, giving your Sponsors the chance to get to know their new litte Victor personally? 

You try to nod and smile, but inside, you feel frozen. 

Your eyes search for Haymitch, who’s just entered the room, a bottle of liquor - already half-empty, as you can see - clutched in his hand. He seems to sense your gaze on him, because after exchanging a few pleasentries with your prep team and stylists, he walks towards your side, coming to stand close right next to you. 

He’s so close that your arms brush when you turn to look at him, but somehow, his closeness doesn’t bother you - it doesn’t unnerve you like all the touches of your prep team do. He’s not prodding, not looking to rub your skin raw and shiny, not viewing you as a once-shiny toy, now needing to be polished anew. 

„Something’s bothering you“, he says, so quietly that at first, combined with the usual slight slur to his voice, it’s hard for you to make out his words. But once you realize that his words are much more a statement than a question, you understand why he’s being so quiet, so unlike his usual loud, boisterous self. 

You nod, your eyes scanning the room quickly. Your prep team and stylist don’t seem to have noticed how you and Haymitch are standing just a few feet away from them, and none of your Sponsors are here just yet. 

It’s the calm before the storm, you realize. 

„Listen“, Haymitch whispers, his grey eyes searching yours, „you’re not going to like what’s coming next, but-“

„I feel like a priced cow, trussed up for auction!“, you whisper furiously, the words leaving your mouth before you’ve had a chance to think them through. You realize your mistake the moment the words are out of your mouth and you feel your insides freeze, but there’s no taking your words back now. 

At least it’s only Haymitch, you try to reassure yourself. 

It’s only Haymitch. You may not be able to figure him out entirely and you may not even like him all that much, what with all his arrogant, sarcastic behavior, but still, you feel safe around him. You can’t explain it, not really, but you do feel safe around him - or at least much safer than around anyone else you’ve encountered ever since this strange after-life of yours began. 

To his credit, Haymitch’s eyes widen in shock for just a short, fleeting moment, before he clears his throat and his features morph into his usual mask of disdain and arrogance again. 

„Listen, Princess“, he says, his voice serious, without even a hint of his usual dry humor, „I know how you feel, trust me, I do - but you’ve got to play nice, to play along, understand me?“ 

„I-“, you start, wanting to protest furiously, but when his grey eyes find yours again, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: Haymitch is right. This is your life now. And no matter how much you might not like any of this, you’ve got to play along. 

You’ve got to. 

You sigh, the sound a mixture of annoyance and defeat. 

You want to ask Haymitch why and what’s the point, and haven’t the Capitol already taken all they can from you already, but then you remember where you are and that it’s not exactly safe to speak your mind so freely. 

And besides, that’s just the point, isn’t it? It’s never going to be enough. If they can hold annual Hunger Games just for their own entertainment, it’s clear that for these people - at least for those pulling all the strings -  limits simply don’t exist. 

You’re a Victor now. 

You’ve survived the Games, but at what cost? 

Not for the first time in your new life you find yourself wondering if simply dying in the Arena wouldn’t have been the better, safer, less painful option. 

You blink furiously, suddenly feeling pressure building behind your eyes. 

Beside you, you hear Haymitch inhaling sharply, and the next thing you know, he’s reaching for you hand, squeezing it softly. The moment is over before it can really begin, though, by the time your eyes find Haymitch’s again, he’s already stepped away from you again, both his hands cradling the bottle of liquor, but your skin still burns where he’s touched you. 

„Don’t let them see“, is all he says, his voice all sharp, cutting edges. 

You nod, allowing yourself one small, fleeting moment of squeezing your eyes shut. You picture Kai, smiling at you, telling you that it’s all going to be alright, somehow. 

Then, you open your eyes again, breathing in deeply and squaring your shoulders. 

You nod at Haymitch, an unspoken understanding passing between you two. 

His lips quirk into a sad, crooked grin. „There you go.“ 

And then, when you’ve already turned away, your eyes landing on a pair of outlandish-looking Capitol people, who must surely be some of your Sponsors, he whispers, so quietly that at first you’re not sure whether he’s meant for you to actually hear the words: „I’m here for you, Princess.“ 

You don’t turn back to look at him, tucking the words away into a corner of your mind instead, keeping them close to your heart, just like you did with the last piece of advice he gave you before the Games.  

I’m here for you, Princess. 

It doesn’t get any easier, trying to make it through these strange, uncomfortable moments in the Capitol, just slightly more bearable. And even that is an oversimplification of things, but during the following days, you try not to let your thoughts stray too much in that direction anymore. 

Haymitch is right - everything will be much easier if you just simply play along with everything that’s thrown your way, no matter how much you may despise all of it on the inside. 

And so you smile, laughing at your Sponsor’s vapid jokes, letting them touch and pet you like you’re an animal at the zoo instead of an actual human being. Though that’s just it, you suppose - to them, you’re not really human. 

You can’t help yourself but bring this up to Haymitch after the second day of meeting your Sponsors. 

„They don’t - they don’t really see us as actual humans, do they?“, you say, quietly, defeatedly, crossing your arms in front of your chest in order to ward off the slight chill in the night air. You’re up on the roof, as safe from watchful eyes and listening ears as you can get in the Capitol, at least according to Haymitch. After dinner, he’d suggested getting a breath of fresh air and the dark look in his eyes had told you that fresh air wasn’t all that his suggestion entailed. 

At your words, he laughs darkly, taking another sip from his bottle. „Whatever makes you think that, Princess?“ 

You shoot him a dark look. „It’s just - all their going on about how I seem so smart and well-spoken for someone that’s District, so - well-behaved …“, you say, trailing off, trying not to cringe at memory of an older woman - though with all the cosmetic surgeries done to her face you’re left in the dark when it comes to guessing her real age - grabbing a strand of your hair, running it through her fingers with a greedy look in her unnatural lilac eyes. 

„And the way they talked about some of the other tributes, it’s horrible …“, you whisper, your insides freezing when you recall how they’d talked about little Sarah and Finn - or, according to them, those wild savages. „Like we’re not even human, just … something - something less than …“ 

You shake your head, your gaze landing on Haymitch whose grip on the bottle in his hand has tightened so much so that the whites of his knuckles are showing. There’s a dark, pained look in his eyes, and by the way he’s staring off into the distance you can tell that he’s not really here in the moment with you right now. 

Not for the first time since meeting him you find yourself wondering what on earth happened to him that could’ve turned him into the cynical, drunken recluse you’ve always known him to be. 

As far as you can recall, there’s no one there for him in District Twelve - no friends, no family. Though surely he must have had friends and family before going into the Games. A mother, a father, maybe siblings. Maybe even a sweetheart. 

And now, he’s got no one. No mother or father to take care of him, no loving sweetheart, no caring friends. Something must have happened to them, his loved ones. It must have had something to do with his Games, you’re sure of it. 

If President Snow has no qualms about showing you off to your Sponsors like you’re nothing more than a glorious toy to be played with, then what limits are there for him when it comes to tributes causing trouble in the Games?

You don’t recall much about Haymitch’s Games, other than the fact that he must have somehow managed to outsmart the Gamemakers. That’s all that your father’s ever managed to cough up when you asked him about it and you’d never been able to get much more information from anyone else you’d asked. Back in Twelve, everything to do with Haymitch’s Games is all kept very hush-hush, which is rather strange, considering that he’s not only the only living Victor of Twelve, but also managed to win the Games during a Quarter Quell at that. 

Come to think of it, you can’t really remember any clips from Haymitch’s Games. There’s that one clip of his pre-Games interview with Caesar Flickerman during which he confidently announced that he’s not nervous about going into the Games, because even though there might be twice the amount of tributes as usual, that doesn’t mean that they won’t be any less stupid than usual. 

You also vaguely recall him allying with Maysilee Donner, a blond girl from the merchant sector of Twelve with an array of necklacesa around her neck. You’d think them pretty if the image of her neck, skin shredded to pieces after a pack of mutt birds attacked her, blood gushing and gushing and gushing, wasn’t burned so hard into your mind. 

But that’s it. 

The Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, and there’s hardly anything you know about his Games. 

You start shivering then, though it’s nothing to do with the slight chill in the air. Icy panic is flowing through your veins, turning your insides to ice. 

„- here, take that.“ 

Haymitch’s voice and his hands on your arms draw you out of your thoughts. 

You’d been so absorbed in the terrifying thoughts rushing through your head, you haven’t even noticed Haymitch taking off the sweater he’s wearing and leaning in closer towards you, sweater bunched up in one hand. Without the soft, knitted sweater, he’s left wearing a dark, tight shirt, and for a second you’re mindlessly ogling the way the shirt clings to his chest. How did you never before notice just how strong and muscular he actually is? 

But then you realize that you’re ogling him the exact same way you’d been ogled at by your Sponsors earlier that day and immediately force your eyes upwards.

There’s a dark, knowing look in Haymitch’s eyes, but it’s the smirk he gives you that really does you in, causing blood to rush to your cheeks. 

This is Haymitch, you remind yourself. Haymitch. Your mentor. Haymitch, who - as you’re becoming more sure of with every passing second - must have done something during his Games that caused him to lose everything and everyone he cared about after winning. 

The thought immediately sobers you up and you bite down hard on your lips. 

Haymitch smirks. „Take that“, he repeats, thrusting the sweater into your hands.

„But - but you’ll be cold“, you say, flushing the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Haymitch only rolls his eyes. „Just take the damn sweater, Princess. I could do without all the shivering and teeth chattering … besides, your coronation’s tomorrow, can’t have you falling ill before that, can we now?“ 

You nod, taking the sweater from him, though the mention of your Victor’s interview with Caesar Flickerman gives you pause. 

You know that it’s inevitable, that there’s nothing you could do to prevent any of it, and yet the thought that you absolutely do not want to live through any moment from your Games ever again, is there all the same. Not that you can really escape your memories from your time in the Arena - they’re woven into all of your nightmares and most of your waking moments. 

Still, it’s something else entirely, being forced to watch all these moments while surrounded by an audience of Capitol people, than to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and calling out for Kai, even though you know that you’re never going to feel the comforting weight of his arms around you ever again. 

Just thinking about Kai causes your heart to ache. 

Pressure builds behind your eyes, and for once, you don’t try to fight off the tears, letting them fall down freely instead. 

But even as the tears are streaming down your face, your body shaking with silent sobs, you tell yourself that you’ll only get this one moment. This one stolen moment in the dark, with Haymitch by your side. 

Just this one moment. 

Because come tomorrow, you’ll have to go through everything all over again. You can’t let yourself fall apart, not yet, not while you’re still here in the Capitol. 

And almost as if he’s read your thoughts, Haymitch reaches for your hand after you’ve pulled his sweater on, squeezing it lightly. 

You squeeze his hand back, your eyes finding his. 

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you’re burning to know and understand about him, but in this particular moment, you don’t need any more words to understand each other. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just sitting next to each other in complete silence, your hands still joined.

But when, after some time has passed, you both wordlessly get up, you feel considerably lighter, and the pain in your chest has lessened, if only by a small fraction.  

Your interview with Caesar Flickerman the following evening is every bit as horrible as you’d imagined it to be. 

You fight hard to keep your composure, to smile and nod when it’s expected of you, but you barely make it through the whole ordeal, especially once the viewing of the clipped-together version of the Games begin. 

It’s surreal - surreal and absolutely horrible - seeing Kai and all your other allies there on the big screen. 

Watching a whispered late-night conversation you’ve had with Kai during the end of your time in the Arena, you feel as if you’ve stepped out of your body, watching yourself interacting with Caesar and the audience as if from afar. 

Your eyes find Haymitch then, who’s sitting in the first row, a half-empty bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. He holds your gaze, nodding as if to say: that’s it, keep holding on. 

And so you do, suffering through the rest of the footage of the Games and more empty, meaningless chatter with Caesar. 

Then, it’s time for President Snow to crown you Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games. You stand, frozen and rooted to the spot in cold fear, as the President places the fragile looking gold crown on your head. 

„Congratulations“, he says, and you have to fight to keep your composure as his stale breath hits your skin. 

You force yourself to nod as the President turns to Haymitch, who has been called up on stage as well and is now standing right next to. „And I believe congratulations are in order for you as well, Mr. Abernathy“, Snow says, reaching for Haymitch’s hand.

As Snow shakes Haymitch’s hand, Haymitch’s dark grey eyes seem to blaze with barely concealed disdain, but other than that, his expression is entirely unreadable. 

Still, Snow’s puckered lips quirk up into a terrifying smirk. „You’ve truly outdone yourself this year, Mr. Abernathy …“ His eyes flicker towards you, before turning back to Haymitch. 

„I’m sure that I speak for everyone in the Capitol when I say that we’re all so very curious and eager to see where her journey will take our lovely new Victor next … Though it’s reassuring, of course, to know that you, Mr. Abernathy, will be there at her side - for all of it...“ 

Snow laughs, though his eyes remain cold and expressionless. 

You can’t help but shiver, your heart pounding with fear. But when you turn to look at Haymitch, he won’t meet your gaze. 

Your bite down hard on your lip, so hard that the metallic taste of blood floods your tongue, but you don’t feel the pain. 

Something is wrong, you think, heart pounding in your chest. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

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[cxffecoupx]

sundays

choi seungcheol x reader pure fluff, very domestic allowing their partner to sleep in because they were overworked anyway and need the rest with scoups wc: 995 warnings: mentions of food author's notes: first request from the prompt list. thank you so much anon! most of the feelings i wrote this with comes from all the stress last week, so this was pretty healing for me to write. also i tried a different style in this, not sure i liked it at first, but do lemme know what you guys think. also, i love domestic, boyfriend seungcheol, if it wasnt already obvious.

saturday; 8:26 p.m.

the soft vibrations startle you in the quiet hum of the library. people look towards you, some annoyed, some with no particular expression on their faces. dead inside.

somewhat like you.

you mutter apologies as you rush out with your phone. seungcheol's name lights up the screen. you pick up the call.

"hey baby."

"hey, cheollie."

"have you eaten yet?"

"no; i still have a little to finish the chapter. so maybe after that..."

"baby..." you swear you could see the pout on his face when you hear his voice. "how many times have i asked you not to starve yourself?"

"cheol, i'm not starving, i promise to eat after this chapter."

"you want me to order something for you?"

"no no, i'm good. i'll grab something from the cafe. i gotta go, i'll call you when i reach room, okay?"

after a hum, you end the call and go back to your table.

-----

saturday; 11:52 p.m.

you were writing notes - two three textbooks open on the desk, along with your laptop, and notebook on your lap, your pen tucked above your lips as you ponder something. the weighted blanket covers the chair and your figure, and although sleep is fluttering in your eyes, the thought of having to physically get up and out of this cozy comfortable cocoon makes you wanna sleep in the chair itself.

your phone buzzes with a text, making you groan because you'd have to pull yourself out of the position you're currently in. you do it anyways, and see that seungcheol had sent you a text.

big baby🍒: you up for a walk? me: i have to study me: :( big baby🍒: who are you kidding? big baby🍒: we both know youre falling asleep rn me: >:( me: but you make a good point me: when are you leaving? i'll get ready big baby🍒: already in front of your door

you get ready quickly and open the door to find seungcheol waiting out, cheeks red and lips shivering. you smile as you pull his face to yours to kiss his lips, mumbling a weak excuse that it's to warm them up. he wraps his scarf round your neck and interlinks your hands as you head for the walk.

when you return an hour later, it's with much reluctance that seungcheol says he should leave. but then he pouts every half minute after muttering his decision.

"do you wanna stay over tonight?" you offer, knowing fully well he would never reject. he doesnt even hear the whole question before he's kicking off his shoes and entering your room. you head over to your wardrobe to take out some of his clothes he'd left behind at various points of your relationship and bring it to him. when he's done freshening up, he comes out to see you settling back into your cocoon, head deep in the books. he decides to keep company as he lays on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

-----

sunday; 2:57 p.m.

seungcheol had fallen asleep some multiple times in between keeping you silent company, but when he wakes up now, he's full awake and shocked to see you still sitting at your desk, now with some snack packets littering around. he decides to walk over and call you to bed, but that's when he notices that your eyes are half-closed and your head hanging in a way that makes him wince. drool almost makes its way down your chin before he takes a tissue and wipes it off. he gently nudges you awake.

"yn, baby. you need to get to bed. come on now."

he's honestly surprised when you easily comply, maybe because of your half-asleep state, because usually you'd reject and sit for some time more. the walk that he'd planned to tire you out had worked, he thinks to himself, as he supports your asleep body to your bed and lays you down, tucking you in the soft, weighted blanket - your favourite - before settling in beside you.

as he drifts back to sleep, he hears you murmur to him.

"seungie, wake me up early tomorrow, okay?"

it's only after he reassures you that he will that you finally wrap your arms around his torso and settle into the warmth of his chest before falling asleep.

-----

sunday; 11:17 a.m.

seungcheol is awakened by you snuggling closer to him. it's way past the time he was asked to wake you up at, but he wouldn't dare wake you up when you seemed to sleep so peacefully. that too on an off day? he could never.

he takes his sweet time admiring your features during this moment of calm: your eyelids that are open in the slightest, the little sniffs with each breath you take because winters meant you're cold at every passing moment, the hair that fell out of the neat bun you made before going to bed, puffy cheeks that seem to move as you chew on something in your dream (he guesses). his urge to touch your face overpowers every other thought as he lightly traces his finger along the line of your brow. this seemed to have woken you up because you sigh before opening your eyes; the first thing you see in the morning being his handsome, bed-face that's smiling towards you.

a view you could never get tired of.

you press the lightest of kisses on his lips and turn to check your phone. panic seeps into your brain within a millisecond when you realize its way past your wake-up time. you sit up in a swift motion.

"cheol, i asked you to wake me up at 7!"

"relax baby, it's a sunday."

"but-"

before you could argue back, he sits up and places a smooch on your lips.

"no buts. you don't have to rush every time; it's alright to take breaks."

another kiss.

"good morning, baby. let's go make some pancakes."

[damedechance]

𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑

🎨by mahpiyaluta_ on IG

Gwyneth Berdara as she is described in DREAM CRUSHER. Please tell the artist, Mahpiya luta, how amazing this is. When I first commissioned her, this is the one I pictured first and she did not disappoint! Fic snippet and summary are below the cut, but you can also read DREAM CRUSHER here: LINK.･ﾟ:*

please do not repost.

» read on ao3 » listen to the playlist

Pairing: Gwynriel

Status: 5/20 ongoing

Rated: E (explicit)

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara is easily swayed by beautiful things, and Azriel is seemingly the most beautiful of all. What a shame he also happens to have the most abhorrent personality on the planet. [Gwynriel OnlyFans AU]

CHAPTER 3: IF YOU’RE DEEP IN A DAYDREAM

“What are you smiling about?” Azriel said, the corner of his lip quirking up. It was like his gaze couldn’t settle on any one part of her face. This restless circuit from mouth to eyes to nose and cheeks.

“Nothing,” Gwyn said, shrugging.

But she was grinning, and she didn’t even notice that she’d brushed her hand over his shoulder and towards the nape of his neck. That her thumb was playing with the short ends of his hair there. She looked out to the side, eyes glancing out over the stars instead of looking at him, and thought about all the pairs of heels she had at home. Wondered if she would have to start wearing them more often.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Azriel said, dipping his head so that he could whisper it near her ear. She felt his lips brush against her earring, tugging ever so slightly, and sucked in a sharp breath, before turning to look at him again.

“No, I haven’t,” she said.

He smiled again, the disarming smile that she’d seen in the parking garage. But this time, beneath the sky and with his hands over her waist, she could see more fully the way it transformed him. How it eclipsed his usual mask of detachment or indifference. When he smiled like that, it was like not even the stars could shine as brightly.

“You haven’t?” he said, his voice slightly rough.

“Mm, no,” Gwyn said, shaking her head. But she was caught, pinned beneath that darting gaze—nose, lips, eyes—and the motions were far too slow, and languid, to be anything other than an errant loll of her head.

His hand spread out over her waist, five fingers splayed, and then slid around her side to the small of her back, leaving a cool, star-flecked trail in its wake.

“Because avoiding you,” Gwyn said around a small gasp, “would imply that I’ve been thinking of you at all.”

He hummed, and she hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten, until she felt the sound of his voice vibrating through his chest and into hers. And he lowered his head towards hers, his eyes finally having settled on one point of her face, and it was her mouth.

He almost looked prettier like this. Knowing that at any moment, a single smile would make anything else dull in comparison. Having her hand so close that she could cup his face in the curve of her palm, and she could kiss that smile she liked so much.

She wanted to hate him.

“That’s okay,” he said, so softly she almost missed it, as it rolled to her from beneath the music. “I can think about you enough for the both of us.”

But Gwyneth Berdara was easily swayed by beautiful things.