#row food in small spaces

[i-am-obscuram]

How to Cultivate Resilience (and Tomatoes) on a Budget: Brettney Perr Featured on Rent.com

You don’t need a big backyard, a trust fund, or a green thumb to start a garden or a transformation.

You just need the right knowledge and mindset to grow.

I recently had the opportunity to share my insights with Rent.com in their latest feature: “How to Start a Thriving Patio Vegetable Garden”, and I’m honored to have contributed practical, low-cost tips to help people connect with the joy of gardening and the resilience associated with growing your own food without the overwhelm.

Because whether we’re talking about nurturing a plant or rebuilding a life after trauma, growth is always possible. Even in broken places, and especially in the challenging ones!

From Planting Seeds to Reclaiming Power

When Rent.com asked for real-world strategies for starting a garden in small spaces, I didn’t have to think twice:

“Start with a local, family-owned nursery. They know their plants, care about their community, and will always give you the best advice.”

I’ve always believed in working with what you have, even if it isn’t much. That’s why I also shared ways to source soil and supplies from thrift shops, reuse containers like yogurt cups and strawberry clamshells, and grow plants from kitchen scraps. It’s not just sustainable, it’s connecting with your food and where it comes from.

That same philosophy inspired me to write the Resilience Journal.

Because just like a garden, your mental health needs regular tending, healthy boundaries, and the mindset to grow.

What Gardening Teaches Us About Emotional Survival

Those who have done coaching with me have heard me bring up the analogy of a weed in the garden and that the core problem a client experiences is like a weed’s taproot. If the taproot is not dealt with the problem of weeds taking over your garden will persist. It’s the same with addressing a core issue in ones life. That root can be bitter resentment or the pain we carry in our lives that robs us of our joy, the nutrients to grow, and cultivate the fruit we want to produce in our lives. Most of us weren’t taught how to regulate our nervous systems, process pain, or honor our needs. But just like seedlings turn toward the light, we instinctively move toward healing when we’re given the right tools.

The Resilience Journal was created for people like us people who are tired of self-help fluff and want practical, neuroscience-backed tools that make a measurable difference.

Track real progress, not perfection

Build habits that compound over time

Reflect, Reset, Rise again!

The Cultural Power of Growth

This isn’t the first time I’ve covered the deeper meaning of growing your own food and medicine. If you’re curious about how gardening is helping reshape access, equity, and healing in urban communities, check out this post on Logan’s Gardens: Shifting Culture One Plant at a Time.

Both features echo the same truth: Gardening isn’t just a hobby. It’s a revolution in resilience, a way to reclaim agency, nourish ourselves, and reconnect with what really matters.

Why this Matters

Being featured in Rent.com isn’t just a personal win it’s a reminder that resourcefulness is resilience.

In a world obsessed with aesthetics and performance, I’m here to champion the power of process. The quiet growth that happens when no one’s watching. The wisdom in reuse. The dignity of starting small.

Whether you’re sprouting seeds, in your kitchen, on your fire escape or reclaiming parts of yourself you thought were lost this season is fertile.

WHats Next?

If this resonated with you, even a little, here’s where you can start growing:

No Ready to for the The Resilience Journal 90-day roadmap to building emotional stability, clarity, and inner power? Try the Free Resilience Micro Habit Method. Its a high-impact starter kit built on neuroscience, trauma-informed principles, and small, repeatable shifts that rewire your mind for clarity and control. Start building strength where it counts: in your everyday decisions.

Lasting Thoughts

I’m not just planting veggies. I’m planting a new paradigm where survival becomes strength, and strength becomes strategy. So whether you’re holding a shovel, a pen, or your own broken heart, start where you are. There’s power in that. Read the full article Here!

Brettney Perr Founder of Obscuram Your Illuminator, turning fear into fortune and chaos into clarity! Want to learn how to get your own media feature like this one? Our upcoming Press Kit Masterclass teaches exactly how to use your story to attract editors, podcasts, and speaking invites. Comment Below to Get on the waitlist!

[jjkbambi]

boy next door luigi mangione x reader (18+)

summary!!! (((smut)))) your roommate luigi wants to help you get over your breakup.

warnings: long fic so we’re starting off with fluff, smutty and rough, blowjob, head pushing and hair-pulling and choking on it bc y/n is #real, p in this v fr, Tie, jealous-ish?, (is in the kitchen public?), he’s very talkative, daddy and his good girl <333

^^ unedited and im a procrastinator

you still haven’t gotten luigi the secret santa gift. with the end of december closing in, all the other $25-and-under gifts sit neatly wrapped beside the tabletop tree. by friendsmas standards, you’re embarrassingly late.

but it was hard!!! he spent most of his time tucked away in his room, the door always cracked just enough to remind you he wasn’t entirely gone. you’d catch glimpses of him hunched over his desk, surrounded by books and papers scrawled with notes you couldn’t begin to understand. he never started conversations, only speaking up to correct you or drop some fact that left you feeling both impressed and annoyed.

it was so desperate you tried the campus bookstore, staring helplessly at the rows of penn merch to no avail. he already seemed to own everything—hoodies, mugs, even a pennant on his door. a gift card felt impersonal, but anything else felt like a gamble.

“good morning,” you hum, stepping into his room. luigi’s snaps his head up, standing shirtless by his closet, scrambling to pull on a sweater. for someone who barely left the house, the sight of his six-pack catches you completely off guard.

“what do you want?” he asks, voice gruff.

you lean against his wall. “do you prefer american or chinese food?”

he huffs out a laugh before leaning onto his blackwood desk. “what, are you taking me out on a date?”

“no, no, no, your secret santa asked me to ask you.” you lie. “they also asked if you wear a size medium or large.”

“don’t worry, i can’t make it to movie night,” he says casually. your lips immediately drop into a frown. it was the annual tradition in the house—a night where all five roommates came together to watch a terrible holiday movie and exchange department store gifts. he couldn’t miss it. “i’ve got a mandatory frat event,” he adds with a shrug. “apparently, it’s not optional this time. i’m surprised your boyfriend didn’t tell you about it.”

you feel yourself dull at the mention of him. “we’re on a break.”

luigi raises an eyebrow. “a break, huh? didn’t see that one coming.” his tone is neutral, but there’s a flicker of something underneath. “what made it happen?”

you shrug, avoiding the conversation.

luigi’s expression softens, his gaze shifting to something a little more concerned. he takes a small step closer, his voice quieter now. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you weren’t, and it was overtly obvious. luigi stands over you, his tall frame leaning closer, his warmth wrapping around you like a quiet embrace. “i thought i heard you say you were done with all that fraternity nonsense,” you say, remembering the times he complained to your roommates about the tumultuous nights and endless responsibilities waiting for him at the phi kappa psi house. it’s strange to picture your boyfriend in that world now.

“you’re nosy,” he says.

“you specifically told my boyfriend it was a huge waste of money.”

“ex-boyfriend.”

“we’re on a break!” you emphasize, eyes narrowing. “plus, it sounds like you’re just trying to get out of secret santa.”

luigi leans in slightly, his voice lowering, teasing. “and it sounds like you’re getting me a gift card.”

you can’t help but laugh, the tension between you both shifting into something lighter, something that felt just a little too comfortable. “alright fine,” you say, accepting defeat. “secret’s out. what is it you want?”

he pauses, studying you for a moment, the faintest smirk curling at his lips. “what do i want?” he murmurs, his voice low, as if weighing the question. hesteps a bit closer, just enough to make the space between you feel charged. “i don’t know, what are you willing to give me?”

you flush under his gaze, unsure of what to make of this moment. you have a boyfriend—yet you’re ninety percent sure luigi is flirting with you, and about a hundred percent sure you’re liking it.

the warmth in your chest is both unsettling and familiar, a confusing mix of guilt and something else you can’t quite place. you try to shake it off, but the way he looks at you lingers in your thoughts, pulling at you in ways you didn’t expect.

he seems entertained by your befuddlement, his eyes lingering on yours in a way that makes you second-guess yourself. he looks away, breaking the moment with a soft chuckle, then turns to leave.

“i’ll see you,” he says, but it’s not casual. it’s something else, something that makes you wonder if he’s looking forward to seeing you again as much as you are him.

you bring yourself back to reality, forcing your mind to settle. you can’t flirt with him. it would upset the house dynamic, intrude on your peaceful living space—you cannot let that happen. you shouldn’t. you were on a break from your boyfriend, a small pause in something that still felt important. and soon enough, you’d be back together, just like you always were.

as much as his presence lingers in your thoughts, you remind yourself of the needed boundaries, the reasons why things can’t get blurred.

still, as you continue baking cookies, dodging glitter explosions, and downing soju bottles, his absence nags at you, a quiet reminder that you’re trying not to want something that might never be.

“you’re still awake.” luigi’s voice cuts through the quiet kitchen, startling you so much that you nearly drop the piece of ribbon you’re holding. you whirl around, clutching your chest, only to find him much closer than you’d expected—close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he says as you try to shake off the way your pulse seems to have kicked off into overdrive. “you’re not tired?”

“not yet.” you shake your head. “the party didn’t exhaust you?”

“it did.” he says, exhaling. “figured i’d check if i’m eating american or chinese tomorrow before i hit the hay.”

you pretend like you’re offended. “i’d never get you something so thoughtless.”

you grab a gray glittery gift bag and toss it his way. his teasing falters for a second, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “a tie?”

“yeah, you’re always dressed fancy, going fancy places…” you say, brushing the glitter off your hands, suddenly feeling self-conscious. was it the wrong choice? did fancypants mcgee only wear silk imported from asia? “you don’t like it?”

“no,” he says quickly, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint smile. “it’s sweet.”

you glance at him, unsure what to say, and his smirk softens into something else, something warmer. he steps closer, the space between you narrowing just enough to make your breath catch.

“guess i’ll have to step up my game,” he says, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “didn’t realize you were paying attention.”

you blink, caught off guard, scrambling to come up with something, but before you can, he leans back, breaking the tension with a chuckle. “looks like you could use some help.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i want to,” he replies, tossing the ribbon into the trash before grabbing the broom from the corner. “besides, i can’t have you using this tie to guilt-trip me later.”

“it’s weird having you be so nice to me,” you blurt out the words before you can realize the reprussions. his dark brown eyes glance up at you, eyebrows pinched together.

the regret is immediate. “i just mean we’ve never really talked before.”

luigi looks at you, his expression shifting slightly. “was that my choice or yours?”

you blink, caught off guard. you’d always assumed it was mutual. “well, that’s not really the point,” you say, trying to brush it off. “we’re friends now, right?”

his dark eyes shift away from yours for a moment, but only to return with even more intensity, holding you in place, freezing you in the moment. your heart stutters in your chest. “i was never interested in being your friend.”

“oh.” the word feels hollow as it leaves your mouth, and you instantly feel your face go pale. you scramble for something to say, anything to make the moment feel less heavy, but the silence hangs between you, thick and unrelenting.

“that’s not what i meant—“

“it’s fine of course, you don’t have to—”

“no.”

he shakes his head and runs up to you, closing the moment of confusion with an abrupt force—his mouth is on yours, tongue slipping past your lips and sliding into you.

whether it was the warmth of the kiss, his big hands groping your body, or the fact that this was just all so irredeemably wrong—you didn’t know—but the rush you got from being with him left you dizzy and dazed and desperate.

luigi laughs into your kiss. “you’re so fuckin’ eager.”

you should be reasonable. you shouldn’t be doing this, this is a mistake. “sorry, i—”

“no, don’t be sorry,” he says, smiling into another sloppy kiss. it felt so tender, so loving, when he takes you into your arms. reason flies out the window. “i want you, too.”

“luigi,” you whimper into his lips, not recognizing the desperation in your voice.

“i’ll give it to you baby, don’t worry,” he hums.

your fingers rush to unbutton your top, half-way done before luigi realizes what you’re doing and he grabs you. “keep your clothes on. i don’t need you naked to make you cum.”

he’s so strong and forward and unlike anything you’ve ever had before. in one swift motion, he turns you over, pressed against the kitchen counter as he slides his warm hand down your silk shorts and cradles your tit with the other.

“you put these on for me, didn’t you?” he tugs your lace panties, pressing them against your hot cunt. your back arches at the sensation and you feel his cock hard underneath his jeans.

“luigi.” you whimper, barely breathing.

“admit it,” he says, in between licking and kissing and biting the nape of your neck, sure to leave marks. “you wore these for me, didn’t you? wanted me to take your mind off that fuckin’ asshole, hm? wanted me to take care of you?”

you swell underneath him, shaking. he grinds his straining cock against your plump ass as he works your pussy, groaning into your neck.

“oh, baby, is that too much for you already?” luigi’s breath is hot against your neck, hands busy rubbing your clit and pinching your delicate nipple.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe. the expression on luigi’s face is smug. “you haven’t even had my cock yet, look at you.”

he brings his wet fingers up to your lips, then shoves them into your mouth without permission. you can’t help but shudder underneath his wicked touch. “yeah.” he laughs. “squirm like that, slut.”

“lu,” you pant. “i want it.”

“no, not yet,” he says, rubbing his hard big cock against your clothed ass. “see how hard i am for you? see how worked up you got me?”

“yes,” you whimper, fingers still in your mouth.

“get on your knees,” luigi grunts. “show me how much you need it.”

you needed it more than anything. dropping down to your knees, you notice a spot on his jeans wet with precum. he’s straining for you. you try to get as much of your mouth on him as you can as soon as his bottoms are off, desperate to show him how good you are.

“you’re so pretty like this,” luigi murmurs as you try to fill your mouth with his entirety. seeing that you’re struggling, he puts his hand on the back of your head and guides you down onto it. “such a good girl.”

he rocks hip forward deep into your warmth, using your face. “choke on it.” he orders. and you do. your eyes tear up at the feeling of his length touching the back of your throat. “god, you’re so fuckin’ filthy.”

before you can breathe, luigi pulls himself out of your mouth and barks out another order, “put your hands up against the wall.”

you do as you’re told. your core aches like it misses his touch. pulling your shorts down, he groans at the sight of your wetness, driving his big cock inside of you.

“slipped in so easy with your spit all over me,” he whispers in your ear. god, he’s driving you fucking crazy. the pleasure is almost overwhelming as he leans down, forces your chin back to bring your lips together, a sloppy, loving kiss.

“i knew you were gonna be like this,” he purrs into you, sucking and biting.

“like what?”

“like a fuckin’ slut.” luigi grumbles. he grabs something off the counter, and you don’t know what’s happening until you feel the silk material fasten around your wrists. the tie.

“luigi.” you gasp.

“i’ve been waiting to get my fuckin’ hands on you.”

you shiver at the confession. “really?”

he groans as he watches your ass ripple against his hips—at how easy and soft and weak you were at his mercy. he melts at the sight of you, using your binded wrists to buck deeper into you. you moan and whimper and scream on the force—he’s so harsh, so mean, so good—you’ve never even dreamt of a pleasure like this.

“listen to you.” he buries himself so deep inside you that you could feel his balls pressed against your ass. “you’re fuckin’ loud when you’re getting treated right, aren’t you?”

“please, daddy,” you whine, completely out of your mind.

luigi groans, pushing your head into the kitchen counter. “god, i didn’t think you were gonna call me that,” he rumbles, rocking his cock hard into your frothing core, rubbing against your clit and sending sparks of pleasure swirling through your body.

he pulls your hair back again, causing you to shriek. “didn’t call him that, did you?” he says it like a statement, leaving no room for correction. “god, i used to jerk myself off listening to you moan. wondering if you were riding him or bent over your fuckin’ mattress.“

“luigi.” you cry.

“always knew i could treat you better,” he growls. “always wanted to bend you over in front of everyone and make you beg for it.”

“i would’ve let you,” you mewl out, helpless.

“yeah?”

“you’re s’good.”

his thrusts come faster, more frantic. “better than him?”

“yes!”

you’re so close and so needy. your mind glows white as he fucks into you. squirming underneath him, the friction of your frantic movements growing hotter as the both of you chase your high. “good girl,” he praises, kissing all over your neck and back. “cream all over daddy’s cock, baby.”

“luigi,” you moan as your orgasm gushes beneath him, shivering as you feel his cock quiver, his load shooting deep into your cunt. he grunts with his final thrust, whimpering your name.

he kisses your shoulder as he pulls out of you. “so good,” he pants, just as helpless and shaken as you were. he unties the present you’d given him and pulls you in for another kiss.

“luigi,” you sigh against his lips.

“pretty girl,” he whispers back, running his hot wet kisses across your lips, your cheeks, your neck. “let me take you out tomorrow, yeah? a proper date. i’ll wear my tie ‘nd everything.”

you laugh—a mix of disbelief and something else—something lighter. before you can say anything, he’s leaning in again, kissing you softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“it was a good gift, right?” you hum.

“yeah,” he agrees, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. “versatile.”

MASTERLIST send requests and leave feedback :3

[samerpal]

Are you tired 😴 of our news? 🗞️ Has our suffering become just another passing story? For us, this is our life.

We are a family living under the harsh reality of war. My children—Qusai, who is 7 years old; Eileen, who is 5; and Hisham, who is nearly 2—and my husband all share a small tent ⛺️ with me, a space no larger than a single room. In this modest shelter, everything—our kitchen, bathroom, and sleeping area—has to fit, holding our entire lives in just a few square meters.

Sometimes, I wonder if our story has become just another story, another part of the background. But for us, it’s real. My children 🧒 lack clean clothes, enough food, 🥘 and fresh water, 💧 basic needs they deserve like every child. And now, with the biting cold 🥶 of winter ❄️ fast approaching, I find myself fearing for my two-year-old, who has no way to stay warm, no way to shield himself from the coming chill.

For the second year in a row, my children 👧 have not been able to attend school 🏫 . No education, no clear future. As a father, I feel helpless, unable to give them the hope they deserve.

We don’t ask for much. A small gesture, a simple question 🙋 about our well-being, can mean the world to us. Even a little attention🚨 to our story might help us find a way forward. For my children, for our family, we hold out hope that we’re not alone in this struggle.

@dlxxv-vetted-donations @a-shade-of-blue @aces-and-angels @jezior0 @nabulsi🌹 @90-ghost @buzzy-bee-13 @soft-sunbird @radicalgraff @tamamita @turtletoria @myceliacrochet @mysharona1987 @determinate-negation @buttercuparry @akajustmerry @pcktknife @ot3 @appsa

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter IV

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

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Simon cut away bundles of purple and white heather from the fields behind his home, wrapped them in butcher paper, and tied them with a stretch of cord in the prettiest bow he could manage. 

He’d taken care to scrub at the grime around his neck and beneath his fingernails until the skin was pink and raw. The rest of him… well there was only so much he could do. He knew his hair was shorn too close to his scalp to be fashionable, his clothes rugged and patched by hands that knew not the delicacies of stitching and mending. He lacked the narrow frame men always had in the fashion plates that sometimes passed through town and he would never be able to afford the kind of velvet decorum that might excite you. He could only lower his cap and pull his scarf higher up his face and hope for the best. 

“I’ll be back soon, boy,” he murmured, scratching once behind Riley’s ears before locking the gate behind him. He took the dirt path down the hill, past rows of gravestones that bobbed on waves of grass and heather bristling in the breeze. A few mourners regarded him as he passed, planting bulbs he would be responsible for discarding after they’d bloomed and died. 

He walked quickly, eagerness clear in his steps as he clutched the flowers tightly to his chest. 

This was really happening. 

He scarcely remembered speaking to Farmer Brown, or the awkward words of encouragement offered by the old, weathered man before he was hitching the horse to the carriage and setting off towards the train station. In hindsight, he should have realized how odd it must have been for Farmer Brown to open his door to the reclusive grave keeper gruffly explaining how he needed to borrow a horse and carriage to bring his wife home from the train station. 

He spent the entirety of the trip wondering about his wife. She likely wouldn’t appreciate the ricketiness of the seat or the constant jostling of wheels over dirt tracks and gravel. She might turn her nose up at the strange bouquet he carried or complain about the sun beating on her head. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, only a jug of water and tiny tin of tobacco he sometimes chewed in the fields when he was tired. His new wife might not like that habit, but he could learn to stop. 

The train station was a short, squat building painted over copper green with pale yellow sidings. Soot stained the floorboards inside where hundreds of feet had trampled, but the air was clean and sweet. The train from London hadn’t arrived yet, so Simon made his way outside to the tracks where a little boy wearing a newsboy cap and his mother squinted at the time table. The little boy was startled when he caught sight of Simon from the corner of his eye. He tugged on his mother’s orange skirts, eyes traveling up and up and up towards the sliver of tanned skin left exposed between his scarf and cap.

“It’s impolite to stare, Matthew,” she scolded him while subtly pushing the child behind her. 

Simon stood, large and imposing, outfitted entirely in grays and muted blacks. When the waiting became too much, he sank into one of the benches so that he would be large, imposing, and marginally closer to the ground. 

Finally he heard the whistling of an approaching train. 

A small crowd spilled out from the open doors and he rocketed up to his feet.  Well-dressed men and women in fanciful gowns in every color of the rainbow flitted along with conversations about food and business and gossip trailing behind them like silk from a torn dress. But none of the women matched the photo Simon carried in his pocket. He took it out at one point, just to check that his memory had not failed him. 

It had not. 

He had looked at the photograph too often and for too long to have forgotten the curves of his wife’s face. 

But then a figure came to the train car’s door, struggling to hold onto a bonnet and two carpetbags as the wind sent tendrils of hair flowing over her cheeks and forehead. The bright midday sun caught the edges of her hair, framing her face in a halo. Deep eyes stared out from a smooth, solemn face, shadowed by a plain straw hat. Her grey-blue cotton dress was similarly plain, shoes sturdy and well-worn. 

Her eyes flitted around nervously, skipping over Simon in favor of the handful of men still milling about the train station. He ripped off his cap, pulling down his scarf beneath his chin though it left him painfully vulnerable. When he stepped forward with his flowers grasped in trembling hands, he didn’t miss her slight intake of breath or the way she leaned away from him. 

“Y/n Riley?” 

It took her a moment to recognize her new name, and even longer to look into his eyes and recognize his face. He’d sent an impossibly blurry photograph along with the signed marriage papers — strong, crooked nose, pale blonde hair, and thick brows laid to rest atop deep set eyes. But the photograph had failed to capture just how… large he was. 

He blocked out the sun. His shoulders flared out broad and wide as wings beneath a worn gray coat, pulling at the ragged seams of his clothes. His legs and chest were better suited to a tree than a man and he bowed beneath the weight of his own body. Calloused hands with short, cracked fingernails clutched a bundle of heather wrapped in butcher paper and tied with cord to his chest. 

“Mrs. Riley?” He asked again. His voice was gruff and low, rumbling with the same timber of the train as it left the station. 

She was stuck here. 

With this man. 

This… this stranger.

“Mr. Riley,” She finally breathed out. Miraculously, her voice came out even. 

His shoulders moved like mountains. Up and down with a sigh of relief as he lumbered forward. “Let me get your bags.” He traded her the flowers in exchange. 

She was wound up tight as a bird in the jaws of a dog. This close up she could see his light brown eyes and the scar that spliced his right brow at the corner. A similar mark slashed through the corner of his mouth like lightning, pulling down at the skin in a perpetual half-frown. His lashes were so pale they looked tipped with frost. 

The tintype had only shown his neck, face, and cropped shoulders and he’d had a solemn, kind enough face that she’d agreed to the marriage. Seeing him now — the strength and violence he could be capable of — she was frightened. She thought back to the papers signed and sealed in some court office in London, her own incriminating signature on the line as she handed over her life to this man. Suddenly it all seemed so foolish. So stupid a decision she could scarcely believe it. 

Her shoulders curled in like lit paper as she followed mutely behind her husband all the way to the carriage. 

“Here,” he murmured in that gruff, sandpaper tone of his. He held out a large hand, skin weathered and thick and scarred. She stared at it dumbly. “To help you onto the carriage, darling.” 

She shied away as though he’d lifted his hand to her and he felt what little confidence he had crumble into dust. Her hand was delicate in his as he gently helped her into the carriage before pulling himself into the narrow seat beside her. 

Carriage was too fancy a word for the cart the horse pulled along the bumpy path. There was ample space for hay bales and bushels of harvest, straw poking at her legs through her stockings and dusting the wood flooring where Simon lay her bags, but only a narrow slab up front for a driver and their passenger. Y/n found herself squeezed impossibly close to the edge of the seat on one side, and impossibly close to Simon on the other. She could feel every muscle of his arm and shoulder pressed against hers, feel his warmth radiate through his clothes as he pulled on his scarf and hat before clicking his tongue between his teeth and urging the horse ahead. 

He drove in quiet concentration, stealing glances at his new wife like she was a shadow on the wall that would change if he looked too closely. She had accepted his flowers and gently smoothed the butcher’s paper he’d wrapped them in. She rubbed one tiny velvet petal between her fingers, occasionally bringing up the flowers to breathe in. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, when they were halfway to home. It was the first thing she’d said since getting in the carriage. 

Simon wanted to melt at her voice. Maybe it’d been too long since he’d seen or heard a woman, because it seemed like a dream the way her words, few as they were, wrapped around his chest and squeezed. 

Silence held them like a vice. Simon was afraid he’d scare her further with any questions, and Y/n was unused to speaking before she was allowed. So, she cast her gaze outward, watching the yellow-green fields ripple and twist down half-paved roads dotted with green tin and slate gray roofs. Squat family homes huffing smoke in the air fell further and further apart as they slipped deep into the countryside. 

“Almost there,” Simon’s voice rumbled in the quiet. His shoulders swayed from side to side with the cart. “Another ten minutes or so.” 

Now she paid more attention to the roads. To the houses and taverns where people milled about, staring with interest at the blonde haired man who passed them by before quickly looking away. 

The townspeople didn’t like Simon’s work, necessary as it was. Death seemed to cling to him, to his dark clothes and dark eyes. Even the scarf he so often wore above his mouth to protect from dust made him look grim and skeletal. The limestone chalk kicked up from carving gravestones would settle around his mouth, forming a strange toothy smile against the black fabric. 

Only one man waved as they passed. A priest as long and willowy as a stalk of spring grass standing in front of a modest church. 

Simon leaned down to Y/n’s level, gesturing with the reins. “That’s Father Hughes. He was the one who put the advert in the paper for me.” Y/n remained quiet, much to Simon’s displeasure. “I’ve much to thank him for.” 

At the far edge of town gravestones began cropping up, some filed down to nubs from weather and time like molars. Others were new, shining and tall with angels pointing to the heavens with their downy wings. But all were well kept. The grass was trimmed short. Not a weed was to be found. 

Simon dropped down to the ground first, wiping his palms clean on his trousers before helping Y/n. “This is it. Home.” 

Her breath stuttered to a stop in her throat. She hadn’t been expecting something so… pleasant. It was a small cottage that no city-goer would ever envy — a few small rooms, a modest kitchen, and just enough tilled land in the backyard for some herbs and hearty vegetables before the forest began creeping in. Two goats milled around the front yard, snacking on greens and staring with boredom at the new arrival. 

But as she walked through the rooms, she marveled at how clean and well-kept everything was. The walls had been washed recently, smelling of lemons and salt. The floors swept and windows cleared of any grime. But it was also lonely. Blank, empty spaces sat in rooms sparse with furniture. There were no pictures. No trinkets. Only the occasional bone half-trapped under chairs and the bedframe. 

“I’ll have to go return the horse and cart now to the neighbors.” Simon left the carpetbag at the foot of his bed — her bed — and put his cap back on. “The vanity and wardrobe are all yours.” What a strange word — yours. Hers. “I’ll leave you to get settled.” 

He walked to the threshold of the room then paused, glancing back. Y/n stood in the middle of it all, still as a corpse, like if she so much as breathed something would break. He wished she would sit on the bed. Maybe riffle through the drawers and examine the contents of his home and his heart. But she did nothing, only stared at the two pieces of furniture he had declared hers.

Then she blinked as though waking up from a dream. “What would you like done while you’re gone?” 

“What?” 

She hesitated. “The chores… what would you have me do today?” 

Something in Simon’s stomach twisted horribly. “Nothing.” He was almost offended by the question. “Cleaning’s done. There’s reserves in the kitchen and in the cellar if you’re hungry.” He took off his cap, wringing it in his hands, then walked forward, gently kissing Y/n’s forehead. He was so slow and gentle Y/n thought his lips were butterfly wings. “Rest. You can put your things away today if you’d like or wait until tomorrow. Get cleaned up. Get settled.” 

He didn’t want to leave her. Not when she was looking at him with so much careful suspicion in her eyes. So much apprehension and fear. Like a stray cat ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. 

“I’ll be back soon. Promise.” Then he hurried out the room. He needed the horse and cart returned as fast as he could. 

Y/n put her clothes away in the wardrobe, cramming everything as tight as she could to one side. She took up only one drawer and — after much consideration — put away her hair brush and the few personal affects she possessed into the vanity. Then she folded up her carpet bag and hid it in the far back corner of the wardrobe. 

There was the matter of her pin money. She didn’t know what Simon would think of it, but her husband (former husband, she reminded herself), never liked her having her own coin. After some digging around the house she could find no suitable hiding place. 

But there were the woods. 

She hiked up her skirts, tying them off above the calves with string from the kitchen, then found old tins empty of tobacco lying forgotten in the cellar. She shoved what little money she had into a tin, wrapped it tightly in scraps of fabric, and put that into another tin box. Then another. It wasn’t much, but she knew how to survive on little.  

She hurried to the woods, searching for old squirrel holes or abandoned fox dens to hide her treasure. There was a slip in the trunk of a tree she could just barely reach while standing on a log, moss-laden and dry. She dug around carefully, opening the slip until it was wide enough to hide her money box and all her hopes, then covered it again. She marked the spot with a stone, recognizable only to her, then ran back home, praying that Simon had yet to return.

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

[acrosstheujiverse]

Till There Was You

【📂】 summary: for most of your life, you moved through the world like a whisper—unnoticed, unheard, slowly learning to expect silence in return. but when wonwoo looked at you and listened, really listened, something shifted. in his quiet presence, you found not just comfort, but the courage to believe your voice had always mattered. 【🖇️】 pairing: listener!wonwoo x soft spoken!reader. 【💿】 genre: slice-of-life; slow-burn romance; coming-of-age. 【🧺】 tags: university; comfort; support; gentle love; quiet x quiet; found voice; soft romance.  【📦】 w/c: 1.2k+

📬 — author’s note！this is inspired by real life experiences.

*i want to say more here (in this a/n) but i have writer's block... so tba.

p.s. posting two days in a row??╰( ^o^)╮W0W╰( ^o^)╮

« your choice | main masterlist | (SOON) »

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all your life, you felt like a shadow—present but unseen, moving quietly through the world like a ghost drifting just beyond the edges of everyone’s notice. you spoke, but your words seemed to dissolve into air before anyone could catch them. you were the forgotten background character in a story you longed to be part of, the quiet presence no one turned toward.

at home, it was no different. being the middle child came with its own invisible weight. your older sibling was loud and accomplished, always taking the spotlight. your younger sibling was the baby, soaking up attention with every giggle and step. and you? you were the quiet one in the middle — the stereotypical forgotten child. sometimes, it felt like your family didn’t even notice you were there.

in preschool, the loud laughter and bright colors swirled around you like a storm. you tried to join in, but your voice barely rose above a whisper. in class, you raised your hand hesitantly, but the teacher called on someone else before you could speak. at home, your family often forgot to ask how you felt, as if you were another piece of furniture—there, but not really noticed.

you learned to shrink yourself small, folding into the spaces around others. being quiet was safe, but it was lonely.

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you were twelve, sitting at a lunch table with classmates chatting about favorites — foods, colors, music. the topic was light and easy, a world you wanted to step into.

someone said, “buldak ramen are way better than jin ramen.”

you smiled inwardly. you loved buldak ramen.

the conversation shifted to music.

“i hate that song ‘mirotic’ by tvxq,” someone said. “it’s been on the radio forever.”

your chance.

“i think ‘mirotic’ is kind of catchy,” you began softly.

but the noise rushed over you like a wave. before your words finished, someone shouted, “i hate that song too! it’s stuck in my head all the time!”

laughter followed, the conversation bouncing quickly onward.

no one turned to you.

you felt yourself folding inward, fading like a ghost whose voice went unheard. your bright words dissolved into the noise—unseen, forgotten.

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middle school wasn’t the only time.

high school felt louder, faster, but the feeling didn’t change. you tried again and again to speak, to make yourself heard, but most times your voice was swallowed by others’ louder conversations. sometimes, maybe ten percent of the time, someone listened.

but mostly, you were the shadow in the crowd — present but overlooked.

you remember a birthday party in high school, the music booming and laughter filling the room. you tried to share a funny story, but before you finished, someone else spoke louder, and the group turned away. you sat back, your words swallowed by the noise, a ghost drifting unseen through the crowd.

still, you kept trying.

because inside, you believed your voice mattered.

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college promised a new start, a chance to be someone else.

but old habits die hard.

you slipped quietly into the background, fading into the crowd.

then you met wonwoo.

he wasn’t loud or flashy. he sat near the front in literature class, writing notes with calm focus.

one day, your books slipped and fell on the stairs outside class.

he picked them up without a word, looked at your notebook cover, and said, “you annotate everything?”

“yeah. helps me think,” you replied, surprised.

he smiled softly. “smart.”

it wasn’t a grand introduction, but it felt like the first time someone really saw you in a long time.

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wonwoo’s presence was gentle but constant — a quiet anchor in a sea of noise. he didn’t ask you to be loud or change. he listened.

one afternoon in the library, sunlight spilled across the table where you both studied.

“hey,” he said softly, looking up. “what kind of music do you like?”

caught off guard, you replied, “mostly calm songs. acoustic stuff, or soft pop.”

he nodded. “yeah, these days i’ve been mainly listening to iu’s ‘knees.’ it’s soft and comforting. loud songs can be exhausting.”

you smiled quietly.

for once, your voice wasn’t swallowed by the crowd.

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you tried again, years ago, at that noisy party.

your voice was a whisper in a room full of megaphones.

you were a shadow among shining faces — a ghost drifting through a scene where no one saw you.

your words, like fragile wings, couldn’t break through the noise.

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wonwoo noticed your quiet resilience.

when you hesitated to join discussions, he gently invited you in.

“hey, what did you think about the presentation?” he asked once after class.

“it was… interesting,” you said softly.

“want to grab coffee and talk about it?”

you nodded.

over steaming coffee, you spoke quietly about movies and dreams.

for the first time, someone wanted to hear your thoughts.

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one night, walking home beneath the streetlights, wonwoo looked at you with quiet understanding.

“you know,” he said softly, “i get it. i’ve felt invisible too—like my voice didn’t matter. it was a slow process for me to open up. but i had a few best friends who stuck with me, who made me feel seen, even when i didn’t believe it myself.”

you looked at him, surprised.

“it’s like... in this battle of being heard, you don’t have to be alone,” he continued. “sometimes, you just need someone who refuses to let you disappear.”

his words warmed you like a gentle light.

you found solace in knowing you weren’t alone in this.

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months passed.

you opened up more.

one day, during a study group, you raised your hand to share a complicated idea. the room was noisy, people talking over each other as usual.

but this time, wonwoo caught your eye.

he nodded—a quiet signal.

you spoke, voice trembling at first, then growing stronger.

when you finished, the room was still.

someone said, “that’s actually a really good point.”

wonwoo smiled warmly.

you realized being heard wasn’t about volume.

it was about being seen.

you were no longer a ghost drifting unseen.

you were present.

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you step to the front of the room in interpersonal communication—bcsc 101, steadying your breath as the classroom quiets.

looking around at your classmates, and finally at wonwoo’s encouraging eyes, you begin:

“good afternoon, everyone. today, i want to talk about something we often take for granted—our voice. not just the sound we make, but the act of being truly heard. communication isn’t only about speaking louder or faster; it’s about connection, understanding, and presence.”

you pause, feeling the weight of your own words.

“for much of my life, i felt like a shadow—someone whose words didn’t quite reach others. it’s easy to believe that if no one hears you, maybe you don’t exist in their world. but through this course, and through personal experience, i’ve come to understand that being heard requires vulnerability and trust, and also someone willing to listen.”

you glance at wonwoo briefly, then continue.

“in interpersonal communication, we learn that effective dialogue happens when both parties are fully engaged. it’s a shared space where ideas aren’t just exchanged, but honored. finding that space changed everything for me.”

you conclude with quiet strength, “i hope this encourages you all to listen—not just to the loudest voice in the room, but also to those quieter ones that need to be heard.”

as you step back, the room holds still for a moment before breaking into warm applause.

wonwoo’s smile is the brightest.

and in that moment, you aren’t just the quiet kid anymore.

you are seen.

- fin.

[…epilogue]

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄.    (  a collection of various  location prompts categorized by certain environments.  feel free to adjust phrasing as desired. this prompt is likely to be updated in the future.  )

[ 1. ] — URBAN :

the graffiti - scarred underpass of an old railway bridge, echoing with distant trains. the fire escape of a towering high - rise, overlooking a vast grid of sleeping lights. a forgotten alleyway behind a row of storefronts, bathed in the glow of a neon sign. the window booth of a greasy diner, blurred city lights reflected in the glass. a sheltered bus stop tagged with old stickers & graffiti, drenched in midnight rain. a food cart on a busy street corner, steam rising into the cool night air. a 24 - hour laundromat, fluorescent lights humming above rows of idle machines. amidst the initial trickle of commuters through a sprawling subway station. a park at the city's center, made up of grassy knolls & playground equipment. the shadowed corridor of a parking garage, footsteps echoing in concrete silence. the elevated walkway over a busy intersection, offering a bird's - eye view. a vibrant street art mural on the side of a decaying brick building, alive with color.

[ 2. ] — RURAL :

a cramped stall within an empty stable, moonlight shining through the rafters. a neglected orchard where wind - blown fruit rots beneath gnarled trees. a winding gravel path leading all the way to a secluded farmhouse. a field of wildflowers buzzing with bees, bordered by split - rail fencing. a street temporarily shut down on behalf of a bustling farmer's market. the sleepy main street of an eerie town, a single streetlight casting a warm glow. a dry creek bed winding through brittle grass & sun-bleached stones. a rickety wooden bridge arching over a narrow stream, frogs croaking all around. a quiet paddock under bright starlight, farm animals peacefully grazing. the middle of a deep, vast corn field under a brilliantly shining moon. a dusty, unpaved road stretching endlessly through a landscape of rolling hills. a yard sale with patrons trickling through beneath the hot sun.

[ 3. ] — NATURE :

a moss - covered trail leading deeper into a dense, mist-shrouded forest. a windswept cliff overlooking a turbulent gray ocean, gulls crying overhead. a secret lagoon with crystal blue waters & flourishing flora on all sides. the shifting golden dunes of a vast beach, meeting the endless blue of the sea. the banks of a swift, rocky river cutting through a vibrant forest. a lodge / cabin in the middle of the woods, seemingly unoccupied for years. a cluttered camping site deep in the middle of a national forest. the edge of a marsh, thick with reeds & the distant calls of unseen birds. the tranquil, glassy surface of a mountain lake reflecting a clear blue sky. a hidden clearing bathed in dappled light, exuding the scent of damp earth. a fork in the hiking trail, each path offering different adventures. a foggy moor where the land rolls endlessly beneath a grey, heavy sky. the deck of a cozy cottage bathed in sunlight & blooming flowers. a grove of ancient trees, their roots exposed & twisted like veins in the earth.

[ 4. ] — SHOPS & ENTERTAINMENT :

a warm, dimly lit antique shop overflowing with forgotten treasures. the too - cheery gift shop near the front entrance of a hospital. a comic book store sporting bright posters & dozens of tradable goods. amid long aisles lined with thrifted goods at the local consignment store. a cluttered, cozy bookstore smelling of old paper & freshly brewed tea. the incense-heavy interior of a well maintained smoke shop. the warmth of a small-town bakery, pastries piled high in the display case. backstage, the space cluttered with costumes, props, & nervous energy. a shop in an unfamiliar country, every label written in a foreign language. the chilled interior of an ice cream parlor offering refuge on a hot day. under the harsh yellow lights of the only liquor store that was open at 2am. a tourist - trap shop full of cheesy knick-knacks catered to travelers. an unassuming corner shop concealing the entrance to an exclusive club. a vibrant flower market overflowing with fragrant blooms & vendors' chatter. under the flashing lights of a dance club, bass thrumming through the floor. the hushed, reverent interior of a grand theater just before the curtain rises. a pop - up carnival at night, rides whirling & distant screams mixing with music. a karaoke lounge drenched in LED's, lyrics scrolling across a bright screen. the rewards counter of an arcade, stacked wall-to-wall with countless prizes. a classy high - rise rooftop bar with countless city lights sprawling beneath. a brightly lit arcade alive with the sounds of chimes, explosions & laughter. the neon - drenched interior of a retro - themed diner with a jukebox playing old hits. a casino floor buzzing with noise; slot machines chiming, cards shuffling. the open air of a summer music festival, crowd gathered under the twilight. a classic, dimly lit bowling alley- the crash of pins echoing down the lanes. the back row of a mostly - empty movie theatre right as the lights go dark.

[jaewritesfic]

Everlasting Trio DP x DC Nobody Knows AU Part 7

Part 6

The door Sam knocks on is in a much nicer building than she expected.

She and Tucker are visiting Danny for dinner - and boy did they both nearly burst with excitement when he shyly extended the invitation - and frankly Sam had expected an apartment building in the Narrows or Park Row.

Danny was a teenage runaway less than a decade ago, for God's sake. Forgive her and Tucker for assuming he'd still be getting his feet under him and scraping by.

This? This is not that.

Sam has half a mind to think Danny is sugaring. He certainly wouldn't have any trouble - the Danny that disappeared from Amity was cute, but small and awkward in that teenage way. The grown up Danny they've been reconnecting with? He's tall, lean and positively gorgeous.

She wouldn't have a problem with that, per say. But the Danny they knew was also too nice for his own good and starved for positive attention. If someone was taking advantage of that Sam would kill them. 

Separation did not quell her instinct to wrap Danny up and protect him from the world, it would seem.

There's a slight commotion after the knock before Danny himself is yanking the door open with a grin that's happy and nervous at the same time.

“Guys! Hey! Come in!”

He ushers them inside with all the energy of an overgrown puppy, something that hasn't changed one bit since they were kids.

Sam shivers a little as they enter, assuming there's an AC unit blowing over the entryway at first. She smiles at Danny's back as he babbles at them.

“I kind of lost track of time, so food isn't actually ready yet, but then I thought - hey! Who cares! We can cook together and it'll be fun! I got all vegan stuff too so we can make a meaty pizza for Tuck and a different one for you, Sam-”

The apartment they walk into is a spacious open floor plan, furniture in blacks and grays. She shivers again. Seriously-

“Your AC on the fritz or something?” Tucker asks, rubbing his arms a little. “It's like fifty degrees in here, man.”

Danny freezes for a second on his way to the kitchen space before turning around and beelining for a wall - the thermostat.

“Shit, sorry! Sit, sit! I knew I was forgetting something,” he grumbles as he flaps a hand towards the black bar stools at the kitchen island and fiddles with the thermostat. “I like the cold, I always have it too low for most people in here. Sorry about that, it'll get better soon.”

Sam and Tucker exchange bewildered looks as they sit at the kitchen island. There's liking it cool, and there's fucking freezing.

“Guess I don't have to ask your favorite season,” Tucker jokes, and Danny offers him an apologetic grin as he lopes back over.

“Yeah, probably a safe guess,” he chuckles on his way to the fridge. “You guys want drinks? I have a homemade sangria if you want. Beer, wine, you name it.”

Tucker opts for a beer. Sam asks for the homemade sangria, curious. Danny pours two glasses and takes an ice cube tray out to pop a couple of ice cubes in.

When the glass is set in front of her - “they're the stemless kind you can't knock over. Cool, right? Look at ‘em wobble, they're just little guys.” - she raises an eyebrow.

The ice cubes are in the shape of little ghosts. Tucker snorts when he sees them, taking the bottle opener Danny offers for his beer.

“Ghosts? Really?”

Danny blinks like he'd forgotten he had a novelty ice cube tray, then grins and shrugs.

“I mean. What else is being from Amity good for if not inside jokes?”

He turns away before she can respond with any form of bewilderment - Danny had been known for disappearing during ghost fights, after all. He was terrified of them. She hadn't expected him to want any reminders of ghosts or his ghost hunter parents.

Sorry - Jack and Maddie.

With two resounding thunks, Danny slaps store bought dough onto his nice dark counters. He at least remembered to leave them out to rise. 

“Alright! While I roll this out, it's time to pick your toppings lady and gent - go wild, go ham. Let me show you my selection.”

He opens the fridge again, pulling out meats and veggies and cheeses abound. Sam notes vegan cheese alternatives in the mix with a warm fondness in her chest. She's stricter about being vegetarian than vegan, but the fact that Danny went that extra little mile? 

Yeah. Yeah, this is still her boy. She missed having two of them. She and Tuck were never meant to be without a Danny, and she can see on Tucker's face that he feels the same way.

Smiling and standing to start looking through the options, Sam sips her sangria. 

It’s delicious, and the little ghost ice cubes smile back up at her like they're as glad as she is to be here.

Masterpost

[sylusonychinus]

Day 3 - Pirouette

Pairings: LADS MEN x Ballerina reader

summary: What if you reader loves ballet

ZAYNE

Ready and willing to support your demanding rehearsal schedule, but also low-key concerned about the physical toll it takes on your body. He'll offer massages and gentle stretches after particularly grueling sessions, always careful not to overstep.

Will attend every single performance, front row center if possible, his gaze fixed on you the entire time. He may not understand all the technicalities, but he appreciates the artistry and dedication you pour into every movement.

Would absolutely let you practice your routines in your shared living room, even if it means rearranging the furniture and him occasionally getting whacked with an errant limb. He considers it a privilege to witness your art up close.

Even though he's surrounded by the world of dance through you, he remains grounded in his own world of science. It's a beautiful contrast, and he secretly enjoys the way your two worlds intertwine.

Brings you post-performance treats, like your favorite pastries or a relaxing bath bomb, knowing how much you need to unwind after a show.

Cooks you healthy meals to fuel your demanding lifestyle, always mindful of your dietary needs as a dancer. He's learned a surprising amount about nutrition thanks to you.

Depending on how important the performance is, he might even take time off from work to help you prepare, running errands, calming your nerves, and just being a supportive presence.

For my girlies who get pre-performance jitters, he'll offer quiet encouragement, reminding you of your talent and hard work. He'll be your rock, a steady presence amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

If he can't be there in person, he'll send you good luck texts and call you as soon as the curtain falls, eager to hear all about it.

Leaves little notes for you backstage, filled with words of love and encouragement. He's your biggest fan, always.

You: "Zayne, I feel like I'm asking so much from you lately. All this running around while I'm stuck in the studio..." Zayne: "You never have to ask, you know that. Besides, taking care of you? That’s my favorite job." (he smiles warmly) You: "Even when you get knocked around by my pirouettes?" Zayne: "Absolutely. Besides, it's kind of like a badge of honor at this point." (grins) "I might not be able to do ballet, but I’m definitely getting good at dodging your spins."* You: "You’re unbelievable, you know that?" (laughs) Zayne: "Hey, I do what I gotta do. Now, how about that bath bomb I picked up for you? You’ve earned a little pampering." You: "You’re always looking out for me. I really don’t know what I’d do without you." Zayne: "Good thing you’ll never have to find out." (he winks, brushing a lock of hair out of your face) "Now go unwind, I’ll take care of everything else." You: "And here I thought I was the one who was supposed to take care of you." Zayne: "That’s just a bonus. But hey, if you’re offering…" (teases) "How about a massage for me later?"

XAVIER

Ready and willing to be your personal hype man, celebrating every small victory in your dance journey with the loudest cheers and most enthusiastic applause at your performances.

Will try (and sometimes fail hilariously) to learn ballet moves to impress you, offering clumsy attempts at pirouettes and lots of laughter.

Would clear the entire apartment for you to practice, squeezing into the tiniest floor space, considering it an honor to witness your artistry in motion.

Even though he's not a dancer, he's genuinely fascinated by your world, asking about different dance styles, ballet history, and the meaning behind the movements.

Brings you bouquets of your favorite flowers after every performance, followed by a celebratory dinner at your favorite restaurant to celebrate every milestone.

Cooks elaborate meals, often trying out new recipes he thinks you'll enjoy, showing his affection through food.

Depending on the performance's importance, he might organize a post-show party with friends and family to celebrate your success with everyone you love.

For those with pre-performance jitters, he distracts you with silly jokes and playful banter to ease your nerves, being your source of laughter and lightheartedness.

If he can't be there in person, he'll send a flurry of good luck memes and videos, calling you immediately after the show ends, buzzing with excitement.

Leaves little gifts for you backstage, like new pointe shoes or personalized charms for your dance bag, paying attention to the little things that matter to you.

Xavier: "You did amazing tonight, seriously. I mean, I don't know much about ballet, but even I could tell that was a performance for the books." You: "Thanks, Xavier. That means a lot, especially coming from you." Xavier: "Of course. You’re like… next level. And hey, don’t think I forgot—I got you a little something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a new charm for your dance bag. Xavier: "I was thinking it might bring you some extra luck for next time." You: "You’re unbelievable." (laughs) "But I love it, thank you." Xavier: "Anything for my favorite dancer. Now, how about I cook us something fancy to celebrate, yeah?" You: "I think I could get used to this level of spoiling." Xavier: "Spoiling? Nah, I’m just keeping up with how incredible you are." (grins) "Now, let’s see if I can finally not burn dinner tonight."*

RAFAYEL

Sure! Here’s that with a little dialogue at the end for Rafayel from Love and Deepspace:

Ready and willing to be your confidant and emotional support, understanding the pressures and anxieties that come with being a ballerina. He offers a calm and steady presence in your often-hectic world.

Will attend your performances with a quiet appreciation, his focus solely on you and the emotions you convey through your dance. He sees the story you tell with your body and connects with it deeply.

Would create a dedicated practice space for you in your home, complete with mirrors and a barre, understanding the importance of having a place where you can refine your craft. He respects your dedication and wants to support it in any way he can.

Even though he may not fully understand the technicalities of ballet, he appreciates the artistry and discipline it requires. He sees the beauty in your strength and grace, both on and off the stage.

Brings you thoughtful gifts after performances, like a rare book of poetry or a piece of art that reflects the themes of your dance. He appreciates your artistic soul and wants to nurture it.

Cooks you comforting meals, focusing on nourishing your body and soul. He understands the importance of self-care and wants to make sure you're taking care of yourself.

Depending on the significance of the performance, he might offer to help you with the logistics, from costume alterations to travel arrangements. He's always there to lighten your load and make things easier for you.

For my girlies who struggle with self-doubt, he'll remind you of your incredible talent and the power of your art. He sees your potential and believes in you even when you don't believe in yourself.

If he can't be there in person, he'll send you a heartfelt message expressing his love and admiration, and will wait patiently to hear from you after the show.

Leaves you little notes filled with poetry or quotes that inspire him, hoping to inspire you as well. He sees the artist within you and cherishes it.

You: "I always feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders before a show. But when you’re around, everything just feels... calmer." Rafayel: "You don’t have to carry it alone. I’m here to help ease the burden, even if it’s just by being a steady presence." (gently brushes your hair behind your ear) "You are far more than the pressure you feel. Your art is a reflection of your soul, and I see that, always." You: "But what if I fail? What if I mess up?" Rafayel: "Failure is just another step in the dance, my love. Your worth isn't defined by perfection." (smiles softly) "I see your strength and grace, even in the moments when you think you’re faltering." You: "You always know what to say to calm my nerves." Rafayel: "It’s easy when I see the beauty in you, in everything you do." (places a hand gently on yours) "Remember, I’m always here—whether in the audience or just a message away." You: "I can’t thank you enough for everything, Rafayel." Rafayel: "You don’t need to thank me." (his voice warm) "I’m simply grateful to witness your art, your journey." You: "I think I might just need a little inspiration before the show tonight. Got any poetry for me?" Rafayel: "Of course." (he smiles, pulling out a small notebook and gently hands it to you) "Here’s a verse that always makes me think of you..." He reads aloud softly, his words carrying a quiet power that settles over you like a calming wave. Rafayel: "‘With every step, the world awakens to your light, and even in the shadows, your grace shines brighter than the stars.’" You: "I’ll carry that with me tonight." Rafayel: "I know you will. And remember—no matter what happens, you are a masterpiece in motion." (he leans in, kissing your forehead gently)

SYLUS

Ready and willing to be your biggest (and most brutally honest) critic. He'll push you to be your absolute best, not out of malice, but because he sees the immense potential within you. Expect constructive criticism, even when you'd rather just hear praise.

Will attend your performances with a discerning eye, noticing every nuance of your technique and artistry. He might offer feedback afterward, which might sound harsh but is always intended to help you grow.

Would dedicate a space for you to practice, but also offer to be your practice partner, even if his own dance skills are… let’s just say “developing.” He believes in learning together and pushing each other’s boundaries.

Even though he's not a ballerina himself, he respects the dedication and discipline your art requires. He admires your strength and resilience, and he'll never let you slack off.

Brings you practical gifts after performances, like a new set of resistance bands or a gift certificate to a massage therapist. He understands the physical demands of your profession and wants to support your recovery.

Cooks you healthy, protein-packed meals, focusing on fuel and recovery. He’s all about optimizing your performance, and that includes your diet.

Depending on the importance of the performance, he might help you analyze your routines, pointing out areas where you can improve. He’s all about maximizing your potential.

For my girlies who are perfectionists, he’ll remind you that progress, not perfection, is the goal. He’ll challenge you to step outside your comfort zone and embrace the learning process.

If he can't be there in person, he'll send you a detailed text message with notes on your previous performance and suggestions for improvement. He’s always thinking about how you can get better.

Leaves you little challenges or exercises backstage, designed to push you further and hone your skills. He’s your coach, your confidant, and your (sometimes annoyingly) honest friend.

Scene: You’ve just finished a particularly demanding performance. You're backstage, trying to catch your breath and calm your racing thoughts. Sylus walks in, his face unreadable, but his gaze sharp as always.

You: "So, how was it? Be honest, I can handle it." (You try to sound casual, but you're anxious, knowing that Sylus doesn't hold back. You're hoping for some reassurance, but also bracing yourself for whatever comes.)

Sylus (leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he analyzes the performance): "Well, you definitely gave it your all. But your execution in the pirouettes? Needs work. You're overthinking it, and it's throwing off your timing."

You (nodding, feeling the sting but also knowing it’s coming from a place of care): "Yeah, I thought I lost my balance on that second turn. It's so hard to get it right every time."

Sylus (eyes narrowing, his tone still sharp but not unkind): "You’re not here to get it right every time, you’re here to get better every time. Perfection’s an illusion. But you need to trust yourself more in those moments. The next time you get to that part, don’t think. Just do."

You (trying to take in the feedback, despite the harshness, you're grateful for his honesty): "I know, I just… I want to be perfect, you know?"

Sylus (walking over to you, his demeanor softening ever so slightly): "Nobody's perfect. Not even me. But I do know you're capable of more. I’ve seen it. So if you’re not doing your best, it’s because you’re holding yourself back."

You (feeling a little frustrated, but also motivated by his words): "I don’t know… I guess I’m just scared of messing up again."

Sylus (smirking slightly, leaning in a little closer as if to emphasize his point): "That’s good. Fear is what pushes us. But you can’t let it control you. You’ve got the skill. Now you need to trust it."

You (sighing, still feeling a bit overwhelmed but grateful for his unwavering confidence in you): "I’ll try. But you really need to be nicer to me sometimes, you know?"

Sylus (grinning, his eyes twinkling with amusement): "I’ll be as nice as I can. But remember—if I’m not pushing you, I don’t think you’re working hard enough."

You (laughing lightly, feeling a little more at ease now that the tension has broken): "Fair enough. I’ll keep pushing."

Sylus (giving you a small, approving nod): "Good. And next time, no more second-guessing. We’ll work through it together." (He hands you a bottle of water with a small, almost teasing grin) "Now hydrate. I’ll be expecting better next time."

This headcanon and dialogue capture Sylus' tough-love approach to your development, as well as his genuine care and unwavering belief in your potential. Even though his honesty can be harsh, he’s always motivating you to rise above and keep striving for improvement.

CALEB

Ready and willing to be your personal cheerleader, Caleb is always your number one fan, and he shows up with an infectious enthusiasm that lights up any room. He’s not afraid to be over the top when celebrating your successes, big or small. He’s especially fond of calling you “Pipsqueak” in the most playful, endearing way, even when you're feeling like you could conquer the world.

Will attend every single performance, his eyes glued to you the entire time. He doesn’t just watch—you can feel his support radiating from the crowd, even when you’re up on stage. He might not always understand all the technical details of ballet, but he’s incredibly in tune with the emotion and heart you pour into every movement.

Would create a comfortable and supportive environment for you to practice, even if it means clearing out the living room, rearranging furniture, or getting hit by a stray pirouette or two. For Caleb, it’s all about your comfort and ensuring you have space to grow.

Despite not being a dancer himself, he adores your art and sees the beauty in the dedication and discipline it takes. He’s often asking questions about ballet—curious about the history, techniques, and why certain moves mean so much to you.

Brings you thoughtful and meaningful gifts after performances. Whether it’s your favorite flowers or a custom-made bracelet with an engraving that symbolizes something in your journey, he’s always thinking of ways to remind you how special and loved you are.

Cooks you comforting, soul-soothing meals, often crafting new dishes to help you recover after a performance. He knows how hard you push your body, and he wants to make sure you're well-fed and relaxed.

Might throw a small celebration or gathering with friends and family after your biggest performances. He believes in celebrating every milestone and loves surrounding you with people who appreciate your talent.

For the moments when you’re dealing with pre-performance nerves, Caleb is your rock. He’ll distract you with lighthearted banter, random jokes, and even a funny dance move or two to calm you down before the show.

If he can’t be there in person, Caleb will text you endless streams of good luck messages and memes to hype you up. Once the performance is over, expect him to be the first one calling you to ask how it went, buzzing with excitement.

Leaves little surprise notes or tokens of encouragement for you backstage, whether it’s a motivational quote or something silly that will make you smile. He always finds a way to remind you that you’re amazing.

Caleb: "You were absolutely incredible out there, Pipsqueak! Seriously, I can’t even believe what I just saw!" (He hands you the bouquet, his eyes sparkling with admiration. He’s practically radiating pride.)

You (laughing, slightly out of breath from the performance but already feeling lighter from his energy): "Thanks, Caleb. It wasn’t perfect, though. I could feel a few things were off."

Caleb (eyes widening in disbelief, as if he’s hearing nonsense): "Off? Pipsqueak, are you kidding me? I’m not just saying this—I swear, I’ve never seen you hit those moves with that much power. You were like—whoosh—total magic!" (He gestures dramatically, almost knocking over a water bottle in the process.)

You (smiling, playfully rolling your eyes): "Thanks, but I’m serious. I swear I lost my balance on that second turn. It was off."

Caleb (shrugging, unfazed): "Pipsqueak, that wasn’t off, that was amazing. You’re way too hard on yourself. You’ve got this talent, this thing—I just get to sit back and be like, ‘yup, that’s my girl.’” (He grabs your hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.) "You were stunning. Period."

You (softly, appreciating his sincerity, but still feeling a little uncertain): "I guess I just wish I could always hit everything perfectly. You know?"

Caleb (nodding, his tone becoming more serious, though still warm): "I get it. But, hey—perfection’s overrated. It’s the progress that counts. You’ve made leaps and bounds since I met you. Seriously. I’m not just saying that. And I’m always gonna be here to cheer you on, even if you fall flat on your face." (He grins mischievously, nudging your side.) "Though, for the record, I hope you don’t fall on your face, because that would be hilarious, but also, like... not the goal."

You (laughing despite yourself, feeling much lighter now that he’s here to lift your spirits): "You’re ridiculous, Caleb."

Caleb (playfully dramatic, making an over-the-top gesture): "Ridiculous? No, no. I’m just passionate! You’re a star, Pipsqueak. No matter what, you shine. And I get to be the one sitting front row, cheering you on." (He hugs you tight for a moment, making sure you feel the full force of his love and support.) "Now, c’mon, let’s go get some food. I’m starving, and I know you’re probably about to eat the entire buffet yourself after that performance."

You (laughing, feeling the weight of the performance lift off your shoulders, knowing Caleb is always there to remind you of the bigger picture): "Deal. But only if we get dessert."

Caleb (grinning widely): "Dessert’s a must. You earned it, superstar."

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter three, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, first day of training, sneak peak at possible allies? me not proofreading because its 3am

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you wake up to a white light. you blink a few times, slowly coming back into yourself, eyes dragging toward the bedside where a small floating orb hovers over the nightstand. the capitol doesn’t do clocks like back home. this one spins gently, its digital time cycling in slow motion along a ring of light, like a planet caught in orbit.

8:03.

you groan. it feels earlier. like the kind of early where the sky should still be dark and everything should be silent.

your head aches a little from the lack of sleep. you remember finally coming back to your room after standing out on the balcony with rafe. something about that quiet conversation settled your nerves, at least enough to try sleep again. maybe you’d felt . . . human. for a second. despite knowing what he was, what you were, what you both had to become.

you hear the door creak open just seconds later. no knock. of course not. and then a voice you’re already too familiar with.

“rise and shine, sweetheart.”

enobaria. sharp and smug and already dressed like she’s ready to give someone hell. your eyes roll before you even sit up, but you do as told.

the next half hour is a blur. your prep team cycles through you like you’re something to be tuned up. a hot shower, someone checks the water for you first. someone else towels off your hair. someone is already laying out your uniform for the day while you’re still dripping. another pulls your socks up for you.

it’s . . . invasive. overbearing. but you let it happen. what else are you gonna do?

your training attire is simple and dark: a black short-sleeved shirt with a stretch fit, soft red and light gray stripes that loop down your arms and underarms. your district number is stitched into both sleeves and the center of your upper back, almost like a warning label.

your pants match, black, breathable, striped down the sides. the shoes are all black too, a little stiff, leather with a hard rubber sole. you can already tell they’ll be louder than you want them to be. your hair’s pulled back into a tight style, something practical. you barely noticed it happening honestly.

rafe shows up in the hallway right as you’re stepping out, dressed the same. he gives you a once-over and then a small nod. doesn’t say anything about the bags under your eyes, though you can tell he clocked them. good. because you clock his too.

breakfast is short, mostly just food you don’t recognize. you and rafe talk in low murmurs on your way down the long, chrome hall to the training center eventually. just little things, like if he’s got a strategy, which stations he wants to try first. you don’t mention the quiet kid from five who hasn’t said a word since arriving. or the tiny girl from three who barely ate at breakfast.

you enter the training center soon. it's a massive underground space. cold but clean, stretching longer than you expected. the floors are matted in sections, polished dark rubber with drawn rings and arrows and symbols you don’t understand yet.

stations line the walls, each marked by clean signage and equipped with tools, instructors, and polished weapons. there are sections for knot tying, survival gear, plant identification, camouflage. a whole row of bladed weapons. another for climbing, throwing, agility. even a space that looks like a makeshift wilderness setting. nothing in here is for show.

everyone’s standing now, spaced out across a wide circle marked on the main mat. a foot between you and the next tribute. a few inches between you and rafe. no one’s talking. no one’s moving.

then, right on time, the head trainer enters. her uniform is clean-cut and razor sharp. her eyes move over all of you like you’re parts on a conveyor belt, and she stops in the center of the circle and raises her voice, cool and clinical.

“two weeks from now, only one of you will still be breathing,” she says flatly, like she's done this a hundred times before and doesn’t care to sugarcoat it. “the rest? well, you’ll figure out what that means soon enough. if you want a shot at staying alive, you better focus over the next three days—especially right now.”

“let me be clear. there’s no sparring with each other in here, save the bloodshed for the arena. you’ll go through four mandatory stations, the rest is self-guided. and before you all rush for the blades and axes . . . remember this: most of you won’t die from a weapon. you’ll die because you didn’t learn how to survive an infection.”

she pauses, arms crossed. eyes sharp.

“infection, thirst, the cold. all things that’ll gut you faster than any knife if you’re not prepared. so don’t waste time. and don’t waste my patience.”

her words last a minute or two longer, just explaining how the day will go. then silence hangs heavy after she finishes. you glance around slowly. some tributes look shaken, some expressionless. rafe stands still beside you, unreadable.

you glance up at him once the trainer finishes her little speech, her voice still ringing somewhere in the back of your mind. “infection, thirst, the cold”? all of it sounding so casual coming from someone who isn’t about to die.

rafe meets your eyes briefly, dull as ever. it’s the only interaction you get before the peacekeepers start lining everyone up. female tribute first, male behind. straight line. district order. you’re toward the front, but not the first obviously.

then you’re escorted to the first station.

the first test is some free climb, a forty-foot steel wall that’s like a rocky terrain, each handhold slightly different in texture or shape. some are slick. some jagged. it’s designed to screw with your muscle memory.

you don’t fall, but your arms shake by the time you reach the top and slap the buzzer. you hear someone below scream on their way down. not dead, but definitely bruised.

rafe climbs like he’s done this before. one hand after the other, legs locked in, perfect grip. he hits the buzzer before you’ve even caught your breath on the descent ladder.

the second station is rope traversal. thick ropes hang from one end of the platform to the other. the goal is to cross using only your upper body.

your palms burn by the halfway point, and your ribs feel like they’re being pulled apart by your own weight. you grunt through it, don’t fall, but you do let go with a near-drop at the end, stumbling onto the platform as you land.

station three is a weighted sprint. you’re handed a duffel bag filled with an unspoken amount of weight, and told to run two laps around the obstacle perimeter. it’s meant to simulate carrying gear or injured allies, maybe even dragging a kill?

you start off strong but slow on the corners, but you make it. you’re not bad. you’re not the worst. you’re surviving. but next to him, it’s clear. rafe’s built for this.

the final mandatory station is balance and precision.

thin beams rise ten feet off the ground, twisting and zig-zagging over a safety net. the goal is to make it from one side to the other, picking up three sandbags along the way without falling. if you fall, you start over.

you wobble on the second beam, your hand twitching just over the sandbag as you try not to look down. but you recover, breathing slow, keeping steady. you make it, knees bent, hands on your thighs, trying not to show how out of breath you really are.

you catch yourself watching rafe when he’s done, arms crossed over your chest, eyes narrowed just slightly. not in judgment. more like in thought.

you’re glad, in a way. not just because he’s from your district, but because he’s already in your alliance.

you think about districts one and four. haven’t even seen their faces yet, just vague impressions at the line-up from earlier. you don’t know who to watch, but you’ll figure it out soon enough. you have to.

once you finish the final station, your name is logged, and you’re finally cleared for individual training. most people make a beeline for the obvious, the weapons. so do you.

but tributes scatter to different corners of the gym, gravitating toward what feels familiar. some head straight for the swords, others to the climbing walls again, one to camouflage and another to the edible plant stations.

you walk, steady, eyes locked on a small rack nestled near the far wall, one you clocked earlier but hadn’t gone near yet. it's the dagger station. the setup is split in half: one side for still targets, the other clearly for simulations, like moving dummies, real-time challenges, all of it watched over by a quiet capitol instructor with a clipboard and an unnerving smile.

as you approach, there’s already someone there. a tribute. tall, lean, maybe from eight or six, you're not sure, but he’s lingering, standing too still in front of the rack of blades, like he’s weighing the decision to try or walk away before anyone notices his hesitation.

he notices you instead. your boots don’t make much noise on the padded floor, but you know your presence does. you don't say a word. just look at him, one brow slightly raised in passing curiosity as your gaze shifts to the daggers. that’s all it takes. he steps aside without protest. not rude, not scared, just smart. he can sense it, that you won’t wait or ask.

you don’t react. you just stop in front of the rack and let your gaze trail over the knives. sleek, symmetrical, clearly custom-forged here in the capitol. even the grips look different than the ones you’ve trained with back home. too polished. too perfect. not broken in. no bite in the steel yet.

you hover your fingers over the hilts, considering. but before you grab one, you look behind. not for anything in particular, just instinct, and you find him again. rafe. across the room near the maces.

he’s already picked one out. the thing’s massive, iron or something close enough, and he holds it with both hands, adjusting his grip once before bringing it down over the head of a practice dummy. the crash is loud. you can hear it even from where you’re standing.

it’s not clean. not like a sword would be. the mace is messier, heavier, built for blunt force damage. the dummy rocks from the impact, its shoulder tearing where the blow landed.

rafe pulls the mace back, steps aside, resets, and slams it again. over and over, calculated, patient.

you face forward again to wrap your fingers around the dagger hilt, finally. it’s just definitely capitol-made. they cared more about how it looks than how it feels. but it’s not bad. the balance is decent.

you turn it slowly in your palm, testing the blade’s alignment, the way your fingers press against the smooth edge of the guard.

you don’t throw the dagger right away. you just grip light at first, shift your weight slightly, and eye the targets set up in front of you. four of them. they’re just stationary, so they don’t move. not yet. they’re lined up in a row at the far end of the station, each shaped like the upper torso of a tribute with a head, chest, stomach. flat, padded, replaceable.

you roll your shoulder back and bounce the dagger once in your palm. it’s like it clicks into place, the way it fits.

then you exhale slow, step forward, and throw. it’s not precise, it’s just to see.

the blade sinks into the board, low, left, just below the ribcage. not bad, not a miss, but not what you were aiming for.

you tilt your head, glance down at your stance. your mouth tugs into the faintest smile, not out of arrogance, more like recognition.

there it is.

you get it now.

you throw five of them after. by the time you hit the last dagger, you don’t even hesitate. each one lands sharper than the last. headshot. headshot. headshot.

you nod to yourself, barely. just a small dip of your chin, like an invisible pat on the back. that was good. not perfect, because perfect would’ve been being able to get that first one right, but you were close. enough to be proud of without getting cocky.

you step aside to give the instructor room to collect the knives, brushing your hands against your sides and exhaling through your nose. you’re still rolling the momentum out of your shoulders when—

“that’s it?”

the voice is close. too close. it startles you. you turn quick, brows pulling together, and there he is. rafe.

you swear he was just across the floor a second ago. but now he’s here, leaning into your space like he’s always been there, like he didn’t just sneak up on you like some smug little shadow.

you press a hand to his chest, more like a shove. “you’re not funny.”

he barely budges, but his grin flickers to life anyway, crooked and amused. “you didn’t answer the question.”

you roll your eyes as you look away. “yes, i’m done.”

he glances at the targets behind you, then back to you with a raised brow. “you sure? i mean . . . impressive, yeah. solid hits. but kinda felt like the warm-up.”

“i didn’t ask for a critique.”

“i’m just saying.” he shrugs. “they weren’t even moving.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “and what, you think i can’t handle the simulation?”

“i think you haven’t tried it.” he’s already starting to walk backward, slow and deliberate, nodding toward the second half of the station. “which is weird. considering you’ve got decent aim. i figured you’d want to show off a little.”

you don’t move, arms crossed.

he stops a few feet ahead, hand resting on the edge of the rail track, glancing back at you like he already knows you’re gonna follow.

right. a career who doesn’t wanna show off. how is that gonna look in front of the tributes and gamemaker?

you’re silent, just watching. but you finally walk over, catching up to him with a narrowed stare, though there’s a faint smile threatening to tug at the corner of your mouth. he sees it. doesn’t say anything about it, but you know he sees it.

“fine,” you say, stepping into place. “but you have to show me your skills with a mace after.”

“deal,” he says, already watching like he’s waiting for a show.

you turn your eyes to the simulation track, grip settling around the hilt of a new dagger. no second to waste.

you flick your gaze to the instructor, give a subtle nod. no words, just that. he seems to get it right away. he taps a panel on the edge of the control board, and suddenly the whole station shifts.

you step back slightly, give yourself space.

the dummies begin to move.

not all at once, but in patterns. some slide laterally on hidden rails, others pivoting or swaying like they’ve got minds of their own. they’re not human, but they mimic the chaos, like fast feet, unpredictable angles. it’s the kind of motion meant to rattle your focus. but you don’t let it.

you take a slow breath. the dagger is already familiar in your hand. you twist it once between your fingers, then again, and your eyes lock on the first moving target. you step into it.

the first throw is clean. blade sinks into the chest of a dummy mid-glide. not dead center, but close. you don’t react to it, just shift to the next. you pivot on your back foot and hit another one on the right, this time with a flick of your wrist that feels more instinct than aim.

you’re not thinking hard anymore, just flowing. moving like this is something you've done before. not like a killer, but like someone who knows their body. where the weight is. where to let it go.

you spin once, low and fluid, like you’re dodging something invisible, then plant and launch another blade. it cuts through the space, hitting a target mid-turn.

you don’t look at rafe, but you feel him watching.

when the final dummy rolls into place, you throw the last dagger without stopping, and it hits so close to center it gives the instructor a pause.

you exhale, and finally turn your head to glance at your district partner.

he’s leaning against the rail now, arms crossed. his brows are lifted, and he nods once, slowly. “okay,” he says. nothing else. just that.

but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something else. a smirk. a compliment. a challenge.

you don’t push for it. you just smile, barely, and look away. like you didn’t care if he saw or not. like this was always just for you.

your smile swiftly fades the second your eyes drift past rafe. a pair of tributes are watching.

not in the casual, curious kind of way. not admiring. not impressed. they stand shoulder to shoulder at a nearby station, hands still at their sides, not even pretending to train. just watching. both of them.

the boy’s tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of sand after a storm. it flops over his forehead, nearly into his eyes. blue, if you look close enough.

there’s something striking about him, something almost familiar. you can’t quite place it until a memory drifts back. he looks like some victor from a few years ago. it’s obviously not him, but close. close enough it makes your throat dry a little.

next to him, the girl looks different. she’s composed, still, but with a simmer under her olive skin. curls spill down her back in a way that feels intentional, not careless. she stands straighter than him, more poised, like she’s already figured out the game and is choosing not to play her hand yet. she’s just watching with a kind of quiet calculation you’ve only ever seen in people who don’t speak until it matters.

they look nothing alike, but they match.

and they’re both looking at you.

rafe catches the shift in your expression immediately. his head tilts, a little. that lazy kind of curiosity he wears like a second skin. and then he turns. just slightly, barely a full movement, but it’s enough.

his gaze cuts across the room like a blade, and you swear you can feel it. the pair of tributes react immediately.

their eyes dart away fast like they hadn’t been staring at all. like they didn’t just watch every single move you made. they turn back to their station, grabbing at the spears in front of them with quick hands, and neither of them look back again.

you watch them for another second, then catch it, literally stitched in white thread on the upper part of their black shirts. a number.

district four.

cassaline’s voice flashes in your mind, that district four had shown interest in teaming up with you and rafe. an early alliance. a temporary one, if necessary. and now they’ve seen you.

you look up at rafe again. he’s still facing their direction, unreadable. but then he turns his head back to you, slow, steady. your eyes meet.

it’s like you’re both thinking the same thing again. they saw what you could do. and now you’ve seen them.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae

[missmadella]

Quiet Company (Mikey x Reader)

Summary: You never meant to meet him. You were just looking for air, for quiet. A rooftop far above the noise of the city, a place where no one asked why your hands still shook or why you only ever brought enough food for one. You didn’t know the pale-haired man already sitting at the ledge that first evening. And when you saw him, you didn’t ask anything. You just sat nearby… close enough to exist beside him, far enough to keep your pain to yourself.

Words: 13910

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive themes such as domestic abuse, emotional abuse, grief, self-blame, alcohol abuse, physical injury, and emotional vulnerability.

Please read with caution and consider your emotional well-being.

(It’s not as heavy as it might seem, but your mental health matters, and it's important to take care of yourself.)

The streets of Tokyo buzzed quietly beneath the weight of night. Neon lights flickered half-heartedly through a haze of exhaust and fatigue as you trudged past rows of closed storefronts. The sky was already dark, your shift long since ended, but your body still felt like it was on autopilot.

Your hand tightened around the thin plastic handles of the bag dangling at your side, its contents swinging gently with each step. Just one thing inside—a dorayaki from your favorite little shop. You didn’t really have the appetite for it tonight, but sometimes the ritual mattered more than the taste.

A tall, aged apartment building loomed ahead. It wasn’t your home. It wasn’t anyone’s you knew. But the rooftop was always unlocked, and you liked the view. Up there, the city didn’t press down so hard. It felt... distant. Manageable.

As you approached the rusted side stairwell, you didn’t notice the black luxury car parked in the shadowed alley beside it. Sleek, silent, and out of place. Inside, a man with pink-streaked hair and half-lidded eyes sat waiting, a lazy cigarette burning between his fingers. Sanzu watched you with passing curiosity, but didn’t move. You weren’t what he was here for.

You started the long climb up the stairs, the kind that made your knees ache and your mind quiet. Floor after floor. Step after step. The city felt miles away by the time you reached the rooftop door.

You pushed it open, greeted instantly by the night wind, and stepped out with a tired exhale.

But you weren’t alone.

A figure sat near the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the side, body hunched forward in quiet stillness. His hair—short, snow-white—caught the neon glint of distant signs. He didn’t turn as you entered, but there was something about his presence that made the air feel heavier.

You paused.

He didn’t seem startled, or even interested. Just... still. Like the skyline had absorbed him.

You debated leaving.

But he wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there. Alone.

And honestly, you were too tired to care.

So, without a word, you crossed the rooftop slowly and sat down several feet away from him—far enough for space, close enough to feel the breeze together. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just unwrapped your dorayaki, the crinkle of plastic loud in the silence, and took a small bite.

After a minute, you felt it: his gaze.

Not invasive. Not judging. Just... watching.

You looked his way slightly, meeting dark eyes. They were sharp, quiet, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

He spoke without looking away.

“…That’s dorayaki.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet, gravel-edged voice. “Yeah,” you said after a pause. “Want some?”

He hesitated.

“That used to be my favorite,” he murmured.

You broke off a clean half and held it out to him in your open palm, wordless.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then he took it, fingers brushing yours briefly—cold and calloused.

The wind picked up. The silence settled again.

But this time, it felt like company instead of solitude.

He took the dorayaki with a kind of cautious stillness—like he was unfamiliar with the idea of someone offering something without a price. His fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to, then withdrew.

You didn’t say anything. Just returned to your own half and took another bite, eyes fixed on the skyline.

From up here, the city didn’t feel quite so harsh. The lights glittered like they belonged to another world. One that kept turning, whether you kept up or not.

The man beside you didn’t eat his right away.

You caught it out of the corner of your eye—how he stared down at the dorayaki resting in his palm. Like it had brought back a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted. His profile was calm, unreadable. Beautiful in that delicate, worn-down kind of way. Not soft—more like something polished by grief and silence.

Still, you didn’t ask anything.

You didn’t need to.

People came to rooftops like this one to be left alone. You understood that. And yet... neither of you had left.

“I come up here to breathe,” you said after a while. Not loud, not asking for a response. Just offering it to the quiet. “Everything down there’s too loud sometimes.”

His eyes flicked toward you—brief, barely a second—and then away.

You didn’t mind the lack of a reply. In fact, it was a little comforting. Most people fill silence out of fear. He let it exist.

Eventually, he spoke, voice low, the kind you almost mistake for the wind.

“You come here often?”

“Couple times a week,” you said. “When work gets too much, or when I can’t stand my own apartment.”

A ghost of something passed over his face. Understanding. Maybe recognition. Maybe regret.

You smiled softly and glanced toward him. “What about you? Live nearby?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finally took a bite of the dorayaki.

Chewed. Swallowed.

“…Not really,” he said quietly. “I just… needed to be somewhere tonight.”

You nodded, respecting that. Some people needed bars. Some needed noise. Others—people like you—needed open sky.

The wind rustled again. The plastic bag fluttered beside you.

You noticed, absently, that his coat looked expensive. The way he sat—back straight, alert even in stillness—told you he wasn’t just any guy killing time. But there was nothing threatening about him. He looked... exhausted. Not from the day. From living.

You tucked your knees up to your chest and rested your chin there, staring out at the distant blinking red light atop a skyscraper.

“I won’t ask why,” you said quietly. “But I hope whatever brought you here… eases up soon.”

He glanced at you again. Really looked, this time.

And maybe—just maybe—you saw a crack in the wall behind his eyes.

“…You’re weird,” he said, but there was no venom in it. Just a touch of surprise. Maybe even something bordering on warmth.

You gave a tired little laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

That earned a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. But it was something.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that.

The city buzzed far below, and the sky above was starting to collect stars—only a few, barely visible against the light pollution, but they were there.

You finished your half of the dorayaki and wiped your fingers on a napkin from your bag. He still had a small bite left in his hand but didn’t seem to be in a rush to finish it.

He looked at it, then at you.

“What’s your name?” he asked, like it just occurred to him he didn’t know it.

You gave it, quietly.

He didn’t offer his in return. You didn’t ask. The moment didn’t need it.

The air was cooler now, brushing against your face with a gentleness that made your eyelids heavy. The city below was still alive, but it no longer pulled at your thoughts.

Beside you, the white-haired stranger sat in contemplative silence, half-eaten dorayaki resting between his fingers. It felt like neither of you wanted to speak in case you broke the fragile stillness—like talking too loud might scare it off.

But time, as always, pressed forward.

You checked your phone for the first time since arriving. A new message. A reminder of the world waiting for you downstairs.

You sighed, stood slowly, and stretched with a soft groan. Your body protested a little, but you were used to it.

He didn’t move. Just glanced up at you.

“I should go,” you said, brushing invisible dust from your clothes. “Early morning again.”

He gave the smallest of nods. Still seated, still quiet. You hesitated for just a second. Then, wordlessly, you reached into your plastic bag and pulled out the second dorayaki you’d bought—something you'd meant to eat tomorrow, or maybe not at all.

You stepped closer, slowly, and set it down on the concrete beside him. Just within reach.

You didn’t meet his eyes when you spoke.

“I think you need it more than I do.”

He looked up at you—actually looked this time. There was a flicker of something there that hadn’t been before. Not surprise. Not gratitude.

Something softer.

Maybe even human. You offered him the ghost of a smile. Not cheerful. Just real.

Then you turned and walked away, not waiting for a reply. You didn’t need one. You pushed open the rooftop door and let it swing shut behind you, metal hinges groaning.

Back in the stairwell, the world felt heavier again. No skyline. No breeze. No strange, quiet man with hollow eyes and a heart you couldn’t see—but maybe, just maybe, had started to beat again.

On the rooftop, Mikey sat alone once more.

He stared down at the untouched dorayaki beside him, then at the city stretched endlessly below.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like jumping.

___________________________________________________________

A week passed.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

He hadn’t said his name. He hadn’t made any promises. He’d just sat beside you in the quiet and accepted a piece of your night.

But something about him lingered—like the smell of rain on warm pavement. You found yourself looking at rooftops and alley corners a little differently, wondering if he might appear again in the edges of your world.

Tonight, the city was buzzing too loud in your head again.

So instead of the rooftop, you pushed open the cracked door to one of the old, abandoned apartments just a floor or two beneath it. You’d discovered it months ago—left unlocked, unclaimed, forgotten.

Dust blanketed everything. Paint peeled from the corners. But tucked into the far end of the room, beneath a window that faced the flickering skyline, stood an upright piano. Old. Out of tune in places. But still alive.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you, leaving the world out there in the hallway.

Your fingers hovered for a moment over the keys, then settled. You didn’t play anything complicated. Just soft chords. Gentle melodies. Music that didn’t need to prove itself. Notes filled the space slowly, like light pouring into water. The city outside blurred. Your heartbeat steadied.

You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt him. That same stillness from before—quiet, watchful, heavy. Not threatening. Just present.

Your hands didn’t falter on the keys. You didn’t turn.

You knew it was him.

He stood in the doorway for a while, silent as a shadow, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then—without a word—you reached out your left hand, palm open, fingers gentle and inviting.

An unspoken gesture.

Come here.

He moved eventually, quietly, walking across the creaking floorboards. He didn’t sit beside you—didn’t press too close. Instead, he lowered himself in front of the piano, back against the old wall, legs stretched out, head tilted up.

His eyes fluttered shut.

You kept playing. And in that abandoned room, you shared something neither of you had language for.

No names. No questions. No history.

Just music.

And the knowledge that somehow, despite the weight both of you carried, this moment felt like breathing.

The soft clinking of keys filled the room like dust caught in sunbeams.

Your left hand stayed extended for a while after he entered, the offer hanging gently between you. When he finally moved, it was with that same quiet grace—no sound beyond the floorboards creaking softly under his boots.

He sat in front of the piano at first, back against the wall, head resting lightly as if the silence itself was cradling him.

You continued to play.

But something in you wanted him closer. Not in front of you. Not across the room. Right there.

Without looking at him, your voice slipped out, calm and clear.

“…Come sit beside me.”

A pause. No movement. Then, slowly, he stood again. The sound of his coat brushing against itself. Footsteps muted.

He sat down on the piano bench. Not facing the keys. Back to you. Shoulders straight, arms resting at his sides, head bowed ever so slightly—like he wasn’t used to being this close to softness, and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You didn’t say anything more. You just kept playing.

The tune shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over familiar chords in a slow, dreamy rhythm. The kind of music that didn’t need perfection. The kind that felt like thinking out loud.

And then—you hit a wrong note. A flat clunk in the middle of something light and flowing.

Your fingers froze for half a second. Then a soft sound escaped you—a half-laugh, half-sigh. Not embarrassed. Just amused.

You laughed again, fuller this time. A warm, easy laugh that echoed off the empty walls and filled the room with something that wasn’t music, but was just as beautiful.

And for the first time, he reacted. His head lifted slightly. His eyes opened.

He didn’t turn to look at you—but you could feel the shift in the air. He had heard you. Not just your playing. Not just your words.

You.

The sound of your laughter settled into him like a memory he didn’t know he needed. Something small and gentle pressing against the cold edges of his mind.

You wiped at your eye with a knuckle and shook your head lightly. “Well, that killed the mood,” you murmured, still smiling.

He said nothing.

But the corner of his mouth moved. Just a little. Almost a smile. You kept playing, less carefully now. A little more freely. Not afraid to miss a note. And he sat there, back to you, eyes closed again. Not to shut you out. But to hold you in.

________________________________________________________

Your laughter slowly faded, and the last few notes of the song drifted off like smoke, unfinished. You let your hands rest on the keys, but didn’t start a new melody right away.

For a while, you both just sat there—him with his back to you, you still watching his profile out of the corner of your eye. He hadn’t said anything. But he hadn’t left either.

That was something.

You leaned forward a little, arms folding atop the piano as you looked out the dusty window.

“…It’s okay to laugh, you know,” you said softly. “Even if it’s just at me screwing up.”

His voice, when it came, was low and quiet. “I wasn’t laughing.” You tilted your head toward him. “No, you weren’t. But you listened.” A pause. He nodded once, barely.

And then: “You have a nice laugh.”

You blinked, surprised—not by the words, but by the way he said them. Careful. Like it wasn’t a line, or something he usually offered anyone. Just a fact. Something honest.

You smiled again, this time without laughing.

“Thanks. It doesn’t come out much these days.”

He didn’t answer, but his shoulder shifted slightly, as if he wanted to say something else and changed his mind halfway.

So you filled the space.

“You come here to think, don’t you?”

Silence again. Then:

“…I don’t know what I come here for.”

You looked at him, really looked, and for the first time, you realized something had changed since that rooftop meeting.

He looked less… frozen.

Still guarded. Still carrying something heavy in the slope of his shoulders. But there was color in him now. Not just pale white and black clothes.

“You seem different,” you said quietly. “From last time.”

That got his attention.

His head tilted just slightly in your direction, though he still didn’t face you.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” you said with a small shrug. “Like maybe… something got a little lighter. Even if it’s still hard to carry.”

He was quiet again.

But this time, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful.

Then—he finally turned.

Just enough to see you over his shoulder. His dark eyes studied you quietly, and you let him.

“…What’s your name again?” he asked.

You told him.

The corners of his mouth moved again. Like he was memorizing it this time.

And then—after a beat—he finally offered:

“Manjiro.”

The name settled in the space between you. Heavy, but somehow gentle too. Like he’d just handed you something private.

“Manjiro,” you repeated softly, testing the shape of it in your mouth. “That’s a nice name.”

Most people probably called him something else.

You could tell. But he gave you that name. The one he was born with. And you didn’t ask for more. Didn’t press. Didn’t poke at the mystery behind his tired eyes. You just gave him a small, real smile.

“I’m glad you came back.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer.

“…Me too.”

_____________________________________________________

It was a gray morning.

The kind that didn’t pretend to be anything else. No sunlight breaking through the clouds, no warmth in the air. Just stillness. And a soft, persistent breeze that moved the trees without a sound.

You walked the familiar path through the cemetery, the grass soft beneath your shoes, the paper-wrapped bundle in your hand held gently, like it might shatter.

You didn’t come here often. Not because you forgot.

But because sometimes, remembering felt like trying to hold water in your hands. Today was different.

Today, the ache had crept higher than usual. You’d woken up with a knot in your chest, and by midmorning, you knew where you needed to be.

You stopped at the little stone that bore no name. Only a date. You crouched down slowly, resting the flowers beside it.

“Hey, little one,” you murmured, brushing a few fallen leaves away. “It’s just me again.”

The breeze curled around your ankles, and you closed your eyes for a moment.

Just breathing.

Not far away, footsteps crunched the gravel path. You didn’t look up at first—people came and went here. Quiet mourners, distant relatives, caretakers with tired eyes.

But something in you stirred. That stillness. The presence you somehow recognized now without needing to see.

You turned your head slightly. And there he was.

Manjiro.

He stood beneath a tree not far off, a bouquet of pale lilies in his hand. He stared down at two headstones side by side. You couldn’t read them from here, but the way he stood—still and reverent, like he was holding a conversation without words—told you they were important.

You turned back to your own grief, not wanting to intrude.

But after a while, you heard his steps again. Coming closer. Slow, thoughtful.

He didn’t speak. Just stopped beside you. Not too close. Just close enough that you knew the silence was shared.

You stayed kneeling, hands folded in your lap, eyes on the stone. After a minute, your voice came out low.

“My daughter. She didn’t make it past the first day.”

You hadn’t meant to say it. But maybe some truths only rise to the surface when spoken to someone who carries their own ghosts.

He didn’t respond. Not with words.

But when you looked up, he was crouched beside you now, resting on his heels. Quiet. Present. After a moment, he nodded toward the small marker.

“Can I leave something?” he asked softly. You blinked. Then nodded.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out something small—wrapped in a paper napkin.

Dorayaki.

He set it gently beside the stone. You couldn’t speak for a moment.

“I used to bring her sweets when I was pregnant,” you whispered. “Silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly.” You looked at him.

And in his expression—still and unreadable as ever—there was something you hadn’t seen before.

Recognition.

He knew this feeling. He lived in it.

“Your family?” you asked gently, tilting your head toward where he’d been standing.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Yeah. My brother… and my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“Me too.” The wind picked up a little. A leaf brushed past your knee.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. But the silence didn’t sting like it usually did. It just sat between you—sad, but not alone anymore.

Eventually, you rose to your feet slowly, brushing your hands off and gazing at the little stone once more. “I’ll come again soon,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

You turned to Manjiro.

“You want to walk with me a bit?” He looked at you for a long second.

Then nodded.

As the two of you stepped away from the graves, side by side, nothing in the world had changed.

But something in your hearts had. Maybe not lighter. But not quite as alone.

__________________________________________________________

The walk back through the cemetery was silent, but this time it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Just quiet, in a way that felt natural between two people who hadn’t asked for the burden they carried but understood it all the same.

Manjiro didn’t speak until you were nearly past the gates, the stone pillars looming above like quiet sentinels. The cemetery was behind you, and the city had started to swallow the sky in its usual dull light.

“So,” he said, his voice low but not unkind. “What about you? What do you do… when you’re not here?”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“I—” You started, but stopped. “I’m a nurse. Work with the elderly mostly. Long hours. Not much time for anything else, to be honest.”

He nodded, the faintest tilt of his head. As if he was piecing it together. As if the quiet that surrounded you had somehow been a part of that.

“What else?” he asked, eyes steady on you, not judgmental. Just curious in that soft, unassuming way.

You hesitated, the warmth of the sun now barely reaching your shoulders as you walked, hands tucked into the pockets of your coat. There was a small sense of unease, like you were offering up something private without meaning to.

But then, you pulled it out of your coat pocket.

A cigarette.

It was wrapped in a simple paper, crinkled slightly from your grip. It wasn’t something you did often, just once in a while—one cigarette a year, usually after a quiet day like today. Something to tether you to that part of yourself before it faded back into the rest of the world.

You slid it between your lips, pulling the lighter from your pocket with slow movements. He didn’t stop you.

As you flicked the lighter, a small breeze caught the flame, and you held your breath for just a second, letting the fire catch.

The first drag was slow—something soothing. The weight of the day still on your shoulders, but in that moment, it felt lighter.

Manjiro didn’t look away. He just watched you, as you took another drag, the smoke curling upward in a way that felt like you were pushing everything away.

“Don’t usually smoke,” you said quietly, exhaling the smoke. “Just sometimes, when the quiet gets too loud.”

He was still for a moment, as if letting that sink in.

“...Does it help?”

You shrugged, taking another drag and blowing it out slowly.

“Helps enough for today,” you said.

A small silence passed between you.

You could feel his gaze still on you, but it wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t critical. Just... curious. Like he was getting to know the parts of you that weren’t laid out so easily.

He didn’t ask more about the cigarette, just like he hadn’t asked more about the grave. But there was something different in the way he looked at you now, like a new layer had been peeled away.

For the first time, he spoke again.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to…” He trailed off, almost hesitant. “But... what’s it like for you? Being a nurse, I mean. All those people you take care of. Does it make it... easier to let go of things?”

You paused, flicking the ash off the tip of the cigarette.

“It’s not about letting go,” you said after a moment. “It’s about... learning how to carry it. You don’t ever really get rid of it. It’s just a part of you now.”

Manjiro said nothing for a while.

You knew he understood.

Eventually, he spoke, voice softer than before.

“I think... it’s the same for me,” he said, almost quietly, as if revealing something he hadn’t admitted aloud in a while. “Trying to carry things. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve lost.”

You glanced at him as he said it. His profile was turned away from you, but his words still hung in the air.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said gently, voice quiet, but with an honesty that matched his.

His eyes flicked to you, just for a moment, before looking forward again.

For the briefest second, you saw something like a sigh behind his gaze. Maybe a relief he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

And for the first time, when you exhaled that last bit of smoke into the gray air, it didn’t feel like you were hiding.

You were just being.

Two people. Quietly carrying the weight of things together. Even if it was just for this moment.

You flicked the cigarette away, the ember fading as it fell to the ground.

“Well,” you said with a small, genuine smile, “guess we both know how to carry a little more weight now.”

He didn’t answer, but he did walk beside you for the rest of the way.

In the silence, you both shared a piece of the weight. Not through words. Not through promises.

Just through the company.

___________________________________________________

Mikey sat alone in the backseat of the car, the city drifting past in slow motion through the tinted window.

Sanzu was up front, saying nothing for once. Maybe he felt the difference in the air. Maybe he just knew better than to poke at whatever was sitting on Mikey’s shoulders.

The cigarette smoke still lingered in his mind, long after she flicked it to the pavement.

It hadn’t been sharp like most of the world. It had been soft. Faded. Like the kind of bad habit you hold onto not because you need it—but because it's the only thing that feels real on days when everything else is numb.

That was her, wasn’t it? Soft in a way that didn’t ask for anything. Strong in a way that didn’t announce itself. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-closed.

He could still hear her voice when she talked to the grave. Still see her fingers brush dust from the stone like she was tucking in a sleeping child.

He hadn’t meant to ask about her. That wasn’t how he operated anymore.

He didn’t chase people. Didn’t wonder about them.

But something about her made the silence feel different. Like maybe there was something left in this world that wasn’t soaked in blood or regret.

Still... she said she’d had a daughter. So where was the father?

His fingers drummed slowly against the car door.

Maybe he left. Maybe he died. Maybe he never knew. Mikey didn’t like guessing. Not about this.

“You know a woman who works in elder care?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

Sanzu turned halfway in his seat. “...You want me to find someone?”

Mikey said nothing for a moment.

Then: “She’s a nurse. Works with the elderly. Black coat, soft voice. Goes to the cemetery sometimes. I want to know who she is. What happened to her.”

Sanzu blinked slowly. Then a grin started to pull at the edge of his mouth. But one look from Mikey stopped it before it could finish forming.

“This isn’t for a job,” Mikey added. “Don’t trail her. Just find out what I asked. Quietly.”

Sanzu gave a slight nod. “Got it.” Mikey turned his face back to the window.

He wasn’t looking for leverage. He wasn’t looking for weakness.

He just... couldn’t stop thinking about the way she laughed after hitting the wrong note. The way she asked nothing of him. Not even his name—until he gave it freely.

There was something she carried that wasn’t guilt. It was grief, yes. But not rotten. Not black.

It was tender.

And somewhere deep in that tenderness, he saw a version of himself he couldn’t quite reach anymore. So he stared out the window.

And waited for something that felt real to come back to him again.

_______________________________________________

Sanzu leaned against the edge of Mikey’s desk, his phone in hand, eyes scanning the last few notes he’d taken.

“She’s clean,” he said, tone casual, bored even. “Name’s legit. Works full-time at a private care facility near Sumida. Neighbors say she keeps to herself. Doesn’t talk much unless it’s work-related. Always polite.”

Mikey said nothing, just tapped his fingers slowly on the armrest. Sanzu continued, glancing down at his phone again.

“Married once. A guy named Tsukamoto Riku. High school sweethearts. Got married young. He was a factory worker. Looked like it was going fine for a while.”

A pause. Then Sanzu’s voice shifted—barely noticeable, but a shade colder.

“Everything changed two years ago. She got pregnant. Baby girl was stillborn. Complications. Hospital records line up.”

Mikey’s fingers stopped moving. “She broke,” Sanzu said plainly, with no softness in the words. “But he broke worse. Started drinking. Bad. Real bad. Punched a hole in a wall once. The other time, it was her jaw.”

A long silence. Mikey didn’t flinch.

But something in the room felt colder now.

“She left six months later. No charges pressed. No family left, no friends in the city either. Just started over. Same job. Same routine. Goes to the same grave once a month. Leaves sweets, sometimes flowers. That’s it.”

He tossed the phone lightly onto the table.

“Like I said—she’s clean.”

Mikey didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on the grain of the wooden desk, unfocused. Sanzu stood there for a beat, waiting for something—anything.

Approval. Dismissal. Maybe even curiosity. But Mikey just sat there.

Eventually, Sanzu shrugged and turned toward the door. Right as he reached it, Mikey spoke.

His voice was quiet. “Thanks.” Sanzu looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. But he didn’t say anything else.

He left the room.

Mikey leaned back in the chair, hands steepled in front of his mouth, eyes still locked on nothing. A broken jaw. She had smiled at him.

Laughed, even. Still went to work every day. Still played piano like someone had taught her how to survive with grace. Still offered silence like it was a gift, not a punishment.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. The cigarette made sense now. So did the way she didn’t ask anything of him. She had already lived through someone who took everything.

And survived it.

Mikey wasn’t sure if that made him want to be closer to her—or afraid of what she might see if she got close to him. But one thing was clear now.

He didn’t want to leave her alone in that silence anymore.

_________________________________________________________

It’s late when Mikey returns to the rooftop building.

The city below buzzes in its usual chaos, but up here, the world has a different kind of stillness. One that he’s started craving without realizing it.

He doesn’t expect you to be there tonight.

But the soft sound of piano notes drifts from the open window like a quiet cry wrapped in music.

He stops outside the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the wall, just out of sight. The melody isn’t graceful like before—it’s shaky, like your hands don’t fully trust themselves. Like you're holding back something that wants to spill out.

A soft, broken note. Then another. He listens.

You speak—barely above a whisper, like you don’t even know anyone is listening.

“He came back yesterday…”

Mikey’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t move.

Your voice is thin, cracking. “He was drunk again. I thought—I thought maybe it would be different. Just to talk. I shouldn’t have opened the door.”

Silence. Just the echo of a few more soft keys, your hands moving slowly over the piano. Then you say it, quiet but with no shame.

“He said it was my fault. That I gave up on her. That I killed her.”

Mikey’s throat feels dry.

Still, he says nothing. Not yet.

“I didn’t fight back,” you whisper, hands frozen on the keys. “I never do. What’s the point?”

Slowly, you turn, finally noticing him standing there. Your breath catches when you see his expression—but you don’t flinch. Don’t try to hide.

The bruise on your cheek is stark in the pale light. Swollen, dark. A smear of dried blood near the corner of your lip. Your left eye still slightly closed from the swelling.

You give him the smallest, broken smile. “Guess I’m not so quiet after all,” you murmur.

He walks toward you. Not fast. Not angry. Just there.

His eyes lock on yours—dark and unreadable, but not cold. Never cold with you. You look like you’re waiting for something—judgment, maybe. Or pity.

But Mikey says nothing. Instead, he sits next to you, the bench creaking under his weight.

You turn back toward the keys, not playing, just pressing one softly. He reaches out—not to touch you, not yet—but to gently close the piano lid.

And then he says, voice steady, quiet: “What did you do after?”

You blink. “I left. I came here.”

He nods slowly, looking straight ahead. “Good.” Another silence passes.

Then—so softly you almost miss it—he says: “He doesn’t get to say what her death meant.”

You close your eyes. A tear slips down without permission. Mikey looks at you then, really looks. Not at the bruise. Not at the tear.

At you.

“You didn’t kill her,” he says. “You carried her.”

You cry, then—not loud or messy, just quiet tears that fall without needing to explain them. And Mikey doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you. Just sits next to you, letting the silence say everything you need.

You’ve held on so long. He can do the same, now—for you.

_________________________________________________

The apartment was in a dying part of the city—peeling walls, a leaking streetlamp outside, and a stairwell that stank of piss and smoke. The kind of place that never asked questions because the people inside didn’t want to hear the answers.

Mikey walked the halls alone.

No Sanzu. No guards. Just him in his black coat, steps measured, soft as dust. He stopped at the door. Apartment 302.

The man inside didn’t know he was coming. But he would learn.

Mikey knocked once. Then again—louder.

The door opened halfway.

Riku Tsukamoto.

Messy hair. Shadowed eyes. A mouth that curled like it had something to prove, even before Mikey said a word.

“The hell are you—?”

Mikey didn’t wait.

He stepped forward, fast, pushing the door wide with the heel of his boot, and grabbed Riku by the collar before the man could even think of resisting. The shove was clean. Controlled.

Riku stumbled backward into the wall. “What the f—who are you?!”

Mikey didn’t raise his voice. He just stared. Eyes like ice, unmoving.

“I’m the man you should’ve prayed never found her.”

Riku’s mouth worked soundlessly. Then: “You talkin’ about—her? She’s my—”

“You lost the right to say her name,” Mikey said, low and sharp.

Riku’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen. Maybe for a weapon. Maybe for an escape. Mikey stepped closer.

“She still flinches when someone knocks.”

Silence.

“You did that,” Mikey continued, voice soft but steady. “Not the grief. You.” Riku said nothing now. Just swallowed hard, the alcohol still faint on his breath.

Mikey didn’t punch him. Didn’t raise a hand. He just leaned in closer.

“You’re going to disappear,” he said, voice flat. “You're going to leave the city. And if you ever think about calling her—even once—you’ll wonder how I found you the first time.”

His tone never changed. That scared men more than shouting ever could.

Riku’s lip trembled. He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I—I'll leave. I swear—”

Mikey stepped back, eyes still locked on him like a shadow waiting for the sun to fall. Then he turned. Walked out the door. Didn’t slam it.

Didn’t look back. He made it halfway down the stairs before he stopped, hand resting on the metal rail.

And that’s when it hit him. He hadn’t done this for Bonten.

He hadn’t done it to maintain power, or fear, or respect. He’d done it because someone smiled at him with a bruised face and still sat beside him at the piano.

Because she had let him listen. Because she never asked him for anything—but still gave him peace in return.

So he stood there in the stairwell, the concrete cold beneath his boots, and whispered to himself—

“…Why did I care?”

He didn’t know the answer. But he knew he’d do it again. Without hesitation.

__________________________________________________

You didn’t remember how it started. You just remembered the knock.

The same knock. The one that made your skin tighten, your spine stiffen, your hands freeze mid-motion over your tea cup.

You hadn’t answered. But the lock gave out after the third slam.

He was drunk again. Drunker than before. And louder.

His fists were the first things you saw before you even registered his voice. The world became a blur of bruised noise and splintered light.

You tried to scream once. Only once.

Then you were running. Or stumbling. Or maybe just falling forward.

Blood in your mouth. Your ribs screaming. Your vision swimming through tears and sirens in her head that never reached the streets.

You didn’t even know where you were going.

You just ran.

Shoes skidding on the sidewalk. Hands catching on cold stone walls as the world tilted around you.

Then—just ahead— A dark car. Two silhouettes. One leaned casually against the hood, cigarette between his lips.

The other stood still, almost statuesque, pale hair glinting faintly under the streetlamp. You didn’t think.

Didn’t stop. You made it three steps before your knees gave out.

And then—arms. Strong ones. Fast. Familiar. Not cruel. Not cold.

“Hey—hey—!” Sanzu’s voice, rough with shock. Mikey caught you before you hit the ground. You barely saw his face. Just light hair. Tight jaw. The glint of rage crawling up his throat like smoke.

Blood dripped from your lip onto his coat. You clung to his shirt like it was the last solid thing on Earth.

“Manjiro,” she whispered. Your voice was so small it sounded like someone else.

His arms tightened. Then his voice, low, steady—quiet in a way that terrified more than screaming ever could.

“Sanzu.” A beat.

“Find him.” Sanzu didn’t hesitate.

“Leave no trace,” Mikey added, still holding her, eyes locked on the middle distance like he could already see the man bleeding.

Sanzu was already dialing as he walked away. “Consider it done.” You tried to lift her head, to speak, to explain—but Mikey shook his gently.

“Don’t talk.”

“I—he said—he thought—”

“I know.” He reached up, touched your cheek. His hand trembled just barely. “He thought I was your boyfriend, didn’t he?”

You gave the smallest nod. Mikey didn’t blink.

“Let him keep thinking that. Right to the end.” Your eyes finally closed.

Not from fear this time. But because, for the first time in a long time, you felt safe enough to let go. And in Mikey’s arms, you let the pain settle.

Because if there was one person who could carry it now—

—it was him.

___________________________________________________________________________

You woke slowly.

The kind of slow that made you question if she was really awake at all—if the pain was memory or present. If the silence was safety or something worse.

Then the rib pulsed. Sharp. Deep. And you knew you were still alive. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar—white, high, clinical.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet to be a hospital.

Her eyes moved—just barely—and landed on him.

Manjiro.

Sitting beside the bed in a black chair, coat folded over his lap, posture slouched but alert. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or maybe hadn’t even moved since she was brought in.

He didn’t look surprised to see her awake. He just leaned forward slightly.

“You’re safe,” he said, softly. Your mouth felt dry. “Where...?”

“Bonten facility. Secure. No one gets in without me knowing.” A pause. “You’ve got two broken ribs. Split lip. Swelling around the eye and shoulder. They said it’ll hurt like hell for a while.”

You winced, slowly shifting her arm. “They were right.” He smiled a little at that.

Not much. But enough. “Don’t try to move. Just rest.”

Your eyes didn’t leave his face. “You stayed?”

Mikey didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back slightly, arms folding over his chest.

“I did.” A long beat passed.

Then your voice, quieter: “Is he…?” Mikey’s gaze didn’t flicker.

“He won’t come back. Ever.” You closed her eyes. One tear slipped out before you could stop it.

“Why?” she asked. “Why would you do that for me?” His voice came low. Rough.

“I don’t know yet.” That honesty made something in your chest twist.

But not in fear. In understanding. They were both haunted by things they didn’t have words for. Mikey stood then, gently adjusting the blanket over you.

You watched him, too tired to speak again. But when he turned to leave, your hand reached out—shaky, pale fingers wrapping weakly around his sleeve.

“Don’t go yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at you. And for the first time, maybe even to himself

—he didn’t want to.

So he sat.

And the room, bruised in silence, breathed with them both.

_________________________________________________________

The room is still.

No machines beep. No footsteps echo down sterile halls. Just the distant hum of the city outside, softened by thick windows and reinforced walls. Mikey sits beside you, his fingers lightly laced together in his lap. He hasn't said anything since you asked him to stay.

But he hasn't moved either. You're the first to speak again—barely above a whisper.

“I named her Hikari.”

He turns his head slowly, eyes meeting yours. “She didn’t even get to open her eyes,” you say, voice steady now. “But I wanted her to have a name. Something soft. Something… warm.”

Mikey doesn’t speak, but something in his gaze shifts. You swallow.

“My ex never wanted to talk about her. He said it was easier to forget. But I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to remember the little heartbeat they let me hear… just once.”

A pause. Then, softer: “Do you think it’s stupid? To still talk about her like that?”

Mikey’s voice is hoarse.

“No.”

You look at him. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I had a brother. And a sister.”

The words feel like old bones being dug up from deep ground. “She was younger. Emma. He was older—Shinichiro. Both gone.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I didn’t know…” “You’re not supposed to,” he says. “I don’t talk about them.”

“Why tell me?” He looks down at his hands, then back at you.

“Because I think you’re the first person in a long time who’d understand what it feels like… to love someone who’s gone and still carry them every day.”

Your chest tightens, not with pain this time, but with something quieter. Something closer to understanding.

You reach for his hand—not forcefully, not even fully. Just a light brush of your fingers.

He lets you. Your hands sit beside each other on the blanket. Not tangled. Not held.

Just there. Two people who have both lost something too big for words. And somehow, in that stillness, it feels like the first real step forward.

“You’ll stay here.” Mikey’s voice is final.

You sit up in bed, slowly, one arm still pressed to your side where the bruises bloom beneath your skin.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say.

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re not.”

It’s the way he says it—like it isn’t up for discussion. Like protecting you is as natural to him now as breathing. You don’t fight it. You nod, small and quiet, and he stands to leave. But just before the door clicks shut behind him, you hear him pause.

“You’ll meet them soon. The others.”

“…The others?” He glances over his shoulder. His expression unreadable. “They’re family. Of a sort. But not like yours.”

Then he’s gone. It starts slowly.

First, Takeomi Akashi. Polite, sharp-eyed, skeptical. He brings you a cup of tea one morning—says it’s from Mikey, but doesn’t hide the way he watches you as you sip it.

“You play piano?” he asks eventually, arms crossed.

“Sometimes.”

“Hm.” His brow twitches. “Haven’t seen Mikey this still in weeks.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

__________________________________________________

Then Ran Haitani swaggered in one afternoon, twirling his signature baton, grinning like he already knew everything about you before you even said hello.

“So you’re the one,” he said, voice smooth like wine. “Didn’t think you were real.”

“I am.”

He chuckled, then leaned closer across the table where you sat. “Be careful, pretty girl. Our boss doesn’t let people in. And if he’s letting you in, that means something’s shifting.”

Behind him, Rindou stood quiet, frowning.

“Ran,” he muttered, “cut it out.”

“I’m just saying hi.”

“You’re poking a sleeping lion.”

Ran winked at you. “A lion in love is still dangerous, sweetheart.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

But later, when you saw Mikey standing in the courtyard alone, coat fluttering gently in the breeze, you realized something:

They weren’t afraid for you.

They were afraid of what you meant to him. Because Mikey was changing.

He was softer with you.

But the softness didn’t make him any less terrifying.

It just made him more human. And for men like Bonten’s top dogs, that was scarier than anything else.

The rooftop was surprisingly quiet for a Bonten building.

You sat on a bench by the edge, bundled in a borrowed hoodie and breathing in the dusk. Your ribs still ached, but the air felt clean up here. Easier to take in. Footsteps approached behind you—soft but confident.

You didn’t turn right away.

You already knew who it was.

“Didn’t think you’d be out here alone,” Sanzu said, his voice a little rough from a recent smoke.

“I needed air.”

He came to stand beside you, eyes sweeping across the skyline, pink hair glowing faintly in the fading sun.

“You healing alright?”

You nodded.

“Good.” He paused. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your brows drew together. “I didn’t ask to be.”

He let out a short laugh. “No. But you’re still here. And he wants you to be.” You looked at him now, more directly.

Sanzu wasn’t grinning the way he usually did. There was no teasing glint. Just a quiet seriousness, sharp as broken glass.

“You don’t like me,” you said.

“I don’t know you.” He flicked his lighter open. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t answer.

Sanzu inhaled his cigarette deeply, then let the smoke drift out slow. “Mikey hasn’t looked at someone like this in years. Not since… well. Doesn’t matter. The point is, you’ve got his attention. And that’s not easy to come by.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” He paused. “But it means something.”

You watched him, careful.

“Why are you really out here, Sanzu?”

He met your eyes.

“I wanted to see what kind of girl gets past the walls Mikey’s built with bodies.”

The air stretched thin between you.

“I didn’t try to,” you said softly. “He just… sat beside me one day.”

Sanzu laughed, bitter and brief. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “Just… don’t hurt him.”

You blinked.

It was the first honest thing he’d said all evening.

“I’ve seen what he becomes when he breaks,” Sanzu muttered, voice lower now. “It’s not something you ever want to be near.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and turned away, already heading for the stairwell.

But just before he disappeared, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Still. He chose you.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving you in the fading light.

And for the first time since you arrived, you wondered just how deep this went.

And what it would cost to stay.

____________________________________________________

Later that night, you were back in your room.

The lights were dim, the air warm, and someone had left a new pair of slippers beside the bed. You sat by the window, knees tucked up carefully to avoid the ache in your ribs, watching the city lights flicker.

The door opened with barely a sound.

You didn’t turn.

You knew it was him. Mikey stepped inside, wordless, and crossed the room until he stood a few feet away. He didn’t sit. Just watched you for a long moment in silence.

Then: “Sanzu talked to you.”

You nodded once. “What did he say?” You looked up at him.

“That I shouldn’t hurt you.”

Mikey's jaw shifted.

He came a little closer, resting a hand on the wall near your shoulder—but he didn’t touch you. Not yet. His presence felt heavier tonight. Like something coiled too tightly beneath his skin.

“And will you?” he asked.

You blinked. “Hurt you?”

A small shrug. “People do.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the low light.

“I don’t want to.” Mikey’s eyes dropped to your bandaged wrist. Then your cheek.

You watched something flicker there—regret, maybe. Or restraint.

“You stayed,” you said softly. “I did.”

“You protect me.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He hesitated.

Not because he didn’t have an answer—

—but because he didn’t know which one was true.

So many reasons ran through his mind:

• Because no one protected Emma.

• Because you looked at him like a person, not a king or a monster.

• Because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else holding your pain.

But all he said was:

“I don’t know.” You smiled, small and sad.

“That’s okay.”

He sat down finally, beside you, knees close but not touching.

Outside, the city breathed on. And for the first time, Mikey realized:

He didn’t need a reason to stay. He just wanted to.

Even if he couldn’t say the word for what this was—

—he was already too deep to walk away.

The hallway was quiet when you stepped out of your room.

Mikey stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms folded—like he had no intention of leaving. “I’m not tired,” you said, voice low.

He looked at you.

Then glanced at the clock.

“It’s nearly 2 a.m.”

“Does Bonten have a curfew?” He gave the faintest smile. “You’ll get in trouble.”

You shrugged, your bandaged arms still healing. “Not if I’m with you.”

That made him blink.

Then he pushed off the wall with a quiet sigh. “Come on, then.”

You walked in silence for a while—through back alleys and side streets, the city sleeping all around you. Everything was wet from an earlier drizzle. Pavement shining. Neon lights dripping reflections in puddles. You inhaled deeply, your breath misting. “Smells like rain.”

“It’s not supposed to storm again tonight.”

You grinned at him. “You’re very confident for someone without an umbrella.”

He gave you a side glance.

And then—as if summoned by your smile—the clouds broke open again.

Soft at first. Then heavier. Then pouring.

You laughed and tilted your head back, letting it soak through your hoodie. “I knew it.” Mikey blinked at you, standing very still, like the rain was some foreign concept.

“Come on,” you said, stepping toward him.

“What are you doing?”

You grabbed his hand, warm despite the chill. “Dance with me.”

He looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Then this is a perfect time to start.”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t let go. You just began to sway in the rain, slow and silly, your grip light on his.

The street around you shimmered. Water dripped from his white hair, from the tip of your nose.

“Don’t think about it,” you whispered. “Just feel it.” Mikey stood there, frozen.

Then—He took one step closer.

Just enough for you to wrap his other hand in yours.

You pulled gently, guiding him.

He let you. His movements were stiff. Hesitant.

But your smile didn’t waver.

You laughed, spinning once under his arm before bumping into his chest.

He caught you, barely.

And something in him cracked. The tiniest smile touched his lips—so faint it could’ve been imagined.

But it was real.

You looked up at him, soaked and glowing and so alive.

And for a moment, the storm didn’t matter. The blood, the pain, the past—it was all gone.

There was just you, dancing in the rain like the world hadn’t broken you both.

And Mikey—

For the first time in years—

—felt peace.

He didn’t say it.

He wouldn’t even let himself think the word.

But deep down, something inside him whispered:

I love her like this.

________________________________________________________

The rain slowed.

Your hair clung to your face. Your chest rose with soft breaths.

You looked up at him like you had all the time in the world.

“Come on,” you whispered, voice gentle now, worn from the cold. “Let’s go back before we catch something.” He nodded.

Didn’t trust himself to speak.

You reached for his hand again—not to pull him, this time, but just to hold it.

And he let you.

As you walked back through the empty streets, water dripping from your clothes and silence between you, Mikey’s mind didn’t spiral like it usually did. He just thought:

If this is what it means to live... I forgot. And maybe—

Just maybe—

You could remind him again.

_____________________________________________

The door clicked shut behind you, soft and final.

Your wet footsteps echoed against the polished tile floor of the Bonten guest wing. Everything smelled faintly like cold rain and something green blooming too late in the season.

You let go of his hand first.

Your fingers had gone pink from the cold.

“Bathroom’s there,” Mikey murmured, nodding toward the small adjoining room.

“You go first,” you offered.

He glanced at you. Your hair was soaked, hoodie clinging to you, water dripping gently onto the floor.

“You’ll freeze.”

“So will you.”

He sighed through his nose and peeled off the outer layer of his jacket. He handed it to you. “At least get out of that.”

You took it with quiet thanks and stepped away to change, leaving him alone with the sound of rain still whispering on the window.

When you came back out in one of the oversized Bonten T-shirts, Mikey had already changed—white tee, dry sweats, barefoot. Hair towel-dried but still sticking to his forehead a little.

He looked… human.

“You have extra towels?” you asked softly.

He nodded and handed you one without a word.

You towel-dried your hair sitting cross-legged on the bed, moving slowly so your ribs wouldn’t ache. Mikey sat across from you in the chair by the window, arms loosely draped over his knees.

It was quiet again. Comfortable. For once, not heavy.

“Thank you,” you said after a while, eyes flicking to his.

“For what?”

“For going with me.”

He shrugged, but his eyes didn’t leave your face.

“It was… the first time I’ve danced since I was a kid.”

Mikey let that settle.

And then said, almost too quietly, “You smiled like you weren’t hurting.”

You stilled.

“Even if just for a second,” he added.

You looked down at your hands. “Isn’t that the point? To forget long enough to breathe again?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

But his gaze never left you.

He was trying to memorize that look on you—half-wet hair, bruises fading, warmth returning to your skin.

You looked up again and caught him staring.

A soft smile curled your lips. “What?”

He blinked once. Then, a beat later, “Nothing.”

But you knew.

You both did.

And when you stood to hang the towel by the bathroom door, brushing past him, he caught the faintest scent of your skin. Clean, rain-soaked, soft.

It stayed with him long after the door clicked shut behind you again.

______________________________________________

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, golden and slow.

The rain from last night had left everything washed and silent.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen of the Bonten safehouse wing, wrapped in one of the oversized hoodies Mikey had given you. Your bruises were fading. The ache in your ribs was still there, but dull now.

Mikey was already there.

Sitting on the couch, hair still damp from the shower, barefoot, holding a cup of coffee with both hands like he needed it to stay tethered to this world.

You liked seeing him like this.

Real. Unarmored.

“You didn’t sleep much,” you said gently, approaching.

He didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer than usual. “Didn’t want to.”

You tilted your head. “Bad dreams?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You set a cup of tea on the table in front of him and sat nearby. Not too close. Just enough.

He glanced at it, then at you. “That for me?”

You gave him a quiet smile. “No, I brought it for the ghost that lives in your trauma.”

A pause. Then—

A small breath of a laugh from Mikey. Almost too quiet to hear.

He reached for the tea.

______________________________________________________

You didn’t talk much that morning.

You didn’t need to.

You leaned your head back, closed your eyes in the sun. He sat beside you, quiet, but not distant.

For once, nothing was heavy.

Not grief.

Not guilt.

Just the stillness of morning, and the soft sound of your breathing.

Later, you walked into the common area to find Sanzu and Rindou arguing over something pointless.

“Morning,” you said, moving past them to grab water.

Sanzu glanced over, raising a brow. “Look who’s comfortable.”

You raised your water bottle in a mock toast. “Your couch is softer than my last apartment. I’m not complaining.”

Rindou smirked. “You’re the first person I’ve seen Mikey tolerate this long in years.”

“That’s because I don’t ask him to talk,” you replied casually.

Sanzu’s grin sharpened. “He doesn’t just tolerate you, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, we’re saying it.”

Kokonoi passed by then, sipping coffee, and added, “He skipped two meetings just to bring you soup when you were knocked out. You think he does that for us?”

“Rindou once had a bullet wound and Mikey told him to walk it off,” Sanzu said helpfully.

Rindou nodded in solemn agreement.

You laughed softly, sipping your water. “Well, maybe I’m just special.”

“You are,” came a quiet voice from behind.

You all turned.

Mikey had walked in, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But his eyes were on you.

You blinked. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

And then, like it was nothing, he walked to your side and gently touched your back as he passed, steering you toward the hallway.

Sanzu gave a low whistle behind you.

But Mikey didn’t look back.

_____________________________________________

The morning had barely settled when you found Mikey in one of the smaller briefing rooms—alone, seated at the table with a file open in front of him, a cup of untouched coffee going cold beside his hand.

He looked up when you entered.

“You busy?” you asked.

He shook his head.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. “Didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

There was something in his voice—an edge, quiet and tired.

You didn’t push.

Just walked to the other side of the table and looked down at the open file.

A photo paper-clipped to the top—some middle-aged executive in a tailored suit, eyes that screamed entitlement.

You raised an eyebrow. “Client?”

“Investor.”

“Looks punchable.”

A small smirk pulled at the corner of Mikey’s mouth.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. Then he paused. “I want you in the room.”

You blinked. “What?”

He met your eyes, steady now. “The client—he likes… distractions. Pretty women. If we walk in without one, we lose the upper hand.”

“So I’m bait?”

He was quiet.

Your voice softened, though. “It’s okay, Manjiro. I just want to hear you say it honestly.”

He stared for a second too long.

Then: “You’re not bait. You’re leverage.”

You tilted your head. “And what if he’s disrespectful?”

“I’ll handle it.”

Your lips curved. “Will you stay calm?”

“No.”

That made you laugh.

A quiet sound that cut through the tension between you.

You reached out and slid the folder closer, scanning the contents. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You looked up again. “But I want to.”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Why?”

“Because you asked,” you said simply. “And that’s rare.”

That silenced him.

The air felt heavier now, but not in a bad way. More like something had shifted—finally.

You stood, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of the table. “When do we leave?”

“Two hours.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll go look dangerous.”

You turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“Hey, Manjiro?”

He glanced up.

“Don’t worry. If he crosses a line, I’ll make you look calm.”

Then you walked out, leaving him alone with your words—and the way they settled deep, right under his ribs.

______________________________________________

Two hours later, you were ready.

You had chosen an outfit simple enough to blend in, yet sharp enough to make your presence undeniable: a sleek black dress, fitted perfectly but not too tight, modest but somehow still daring in its simplicity. The colors complimented you—cool tones that made your skin glow. Your hair was loosely pinned back, a few stray curls falling delicately around your face.

But it wasn’t just the outfit.

It was how you moved. How you held yourself, like you already knew the game and the rules—and you weren’t afraid of playing.

When Mikey saw you, his chest tightened without him understanding why. You weren’t wearing anything special, nothing that screamed attention. Yet you had the kind of quiet grace that drew every eye in the room.

And, god, the way you stood beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. No fear. No hesitation.

And that made him…

…unsettled.

Mikey stood still for a moment, his gaze flicking over you, a little too intense for anyone to notice. But his heart had started to beat faster. Something in him wanted to keep you away from the eyes that had already begun to linger on you—on the curve of your neck, the way your dress fell just so, the way you carried yourself like you didn’t even know how beautiful you were.

But Mikey knew.

And for a split second, it made him uneasy.

He could see it in the others’ eyes, too.

Sanzu raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, but also… a little too interested.

Rindou smirked like he knew exactly how this would play out.

Kokonoi, ever the strategist, didn’t say anything—but the flicker of approval in his gaze told Mikey all he needed to know.

Mikey clenched his jaw.

You had no idea the storm you were about to walk into.

___________________________________________________

When the door opened and you walked toward the car, Mikey’s hand instinctively reached for you, fingers brushing your wrist before his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. It was casual, almost like it was nothing, but the message was clear.

You didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way you looked up at him was the only response he needed. Your lips barely moved when you spoke.

“Got my back?” you asked, voice soft but steady.

Mikey’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something in the way he looked at you now. Something possessive. Almost protective.

“Always,” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t know why he said it.

But something inside of him stirred at the idea of someone else looking at you the way they did.

_________________________________________________________

As you stepped out into the crisp, cool air of the city, the car waiting for you down the street, the others flanking you like shadows, Mikey’s grip on your waist didn’t loosen.

Sanzu raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t want anyone looking at her, huh?”

Mikey didn’t answer.

Instead, he made sure you were close enough, just far enough from the others, but not too far to be out of reach. His hand on you was almost an anchor—something to hold him down, keep the simmering storm inside from exploding.

You smiled up at him, that soft, knowing smile.

And Mikey’s heart did something strange.

He didn’t know what it was.

But whatever it was… he didn’t mind it.

When you reached the car, Mikey opened the door for you, never once letting you out of his hold. He leaned in slightly, voice low.

“I’ll take care of everything. Just stay close.”

Your smile didn’t waver. “I trust you.”

That was all.

______________________________________________________

The car ride felt longer than it should have.

Mikey sat next to you, his arm resting along the back of the seat, just close enough to you that he could feel the heat from your body. The tension between you was subtle, but it clung to the air like static electricity, making everything feel a little too real.

He could tell you noticed.

You weren’t saying much, just gazing out the window, your fingers absentmindedly brushing over the hem of your dress. He tried to focus on the upcoming meeting, trying to steel himself for the inevitable—discussions, negotiations, possible manipulation—but his thoughts kept slipping back to you.

The way your hair fell softly around your face. The curve of your neck. The way you’d stood in the room earlier, unafraid, unfazed by the glances that were being thrown your way.

You were too calm.

Too composed. Too beautiful.

And that made Mikey uneasy in a way he wasn’t used to.

His eyes flicked to you again, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“Why are you so quiet?” you asked, your voice pulling him out of his thoughts.

Mikey shifted uncomfortably, turning his head to look at you more fully. “Just thinking.”

You didn’t ask him what about.

But you tilted your head, eyes soft, watching him.

The silence in the car felt heavy. Too heavy.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared out the window, trying to shake the weight in his chest.

It wasn’t just the client.

It was you.

And he didn’t know why it bothered him so much.

But when he caught himself stealing glances at you again, his stomach tightened.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about how she makes you feel.

“Are you nervous?” you asked quietly, your voice like a thread pulling at the edge of his thoughts.

He blinked, surprised by the question.

“Nervous?” Mikey scoffed. “No.”

But the way he said it was a little too fast. A little too defensive.

You smiled faintly, almost knowingly.

“You’re lying,” you murmured.

He glanced at you again, but there was something in your expression now. A quiet understanding. A softness that made the whole world feel like it was just the two of you, stuck in this little bubble in the backseat.

“I’m not nervous,” Mikey repeated, a little more firmly this time.

But something inside of him wasn’t convinced.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it wasn’t the client he was worried about at all.

The car continued down the quiet streets, the only sound the hum of the engine and the distant chatter of the radio. Mikey was half-tempted to reach out and pull you closer, but he didn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand resting on the armrest, as if he could just will his mind to focus.

But it wasn’t working.

His thoughts wandered again, back to the meeting. The way the client had looked at you—like you were some kind of object.

Mikey clenched his fist.

He couldn’t stand it.

Every time that guy looked at you like that, Mikey’s pulse quickened. It was possessiveness, pure and simple, and he knew it. But what was worse was that he wasn’t just angry at the client. He was angry at himself.

Because he wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

He wasn’t supposed to care about you like this.

And the fact that he did?

It was… uncomfortable.

But that wasn’t the only thing.

It was the way you trusted him. The way you always looked at him like he was more than just the man in charge, more than just Bonten’s leader.

You saw him in a way no one else did. And that… that made him feel something he couldn’t put into words.

Your smile, the way you spoke, the quiet strength in your voice—it was like nothing else in his life mattered when you were around. You made him feel human, not just the monster everyone thought he was.

And that was the scariest part.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

____________________________________________________

As the car pulled closer to the meeting location, Mikey glanced at you again, his voice quiet and unsure.

“Just… stick with me, okay? Don’t let them get to you.”

You nodded, the same soft smile on your lips. “I’ll be fine.”

He looked at you, his heart beating faster again.

But this time, he didn’t fight it.

As the car came to a stop in front of the building, Mikey opened the door for you, holding out his hand. But before you could take it, he lingered, his eyes searching yours. For a second, there was a silent understanding between you.

Something unspoken, but strong.

And when you placed your hand in his, his fingers tightened just a little too much.

__________________________________________________

The meeting room was all glass and ego.

Polished floors, leather seats, a long table already set with water bottles and empty contracts waiting to be signed. The client—Hirano—stood from his seat as you entered, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile too sharp, too knowing.

His gaze landed on you the moment you stepped inside.

And it lingered.

“Ah,” Hirano said smoothly, stepping forward to shake Mikey’s hand. “I see you brought… entertainment.”

Your expression didn’t shift, but Mikey caught the slight tension in your jaw. He saw it. Felt it.

Sanzu moved to your side instantly, face unreadable, but his eyes were already assessing Hirano like a threat.

Mikey kept his face blank. “She’s here because I want her here.”

Hirano chuckled. “I didn’t realize Bonten had started mixing business with pleasure.”

You finally spoke, your voice calm but edged in iron. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

The client blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to speak.

“I’m not part of the deal,” you continued, stepping forward with all the quiet confidence in the world. “So if you’re only signing because of how I look, maybe we should reconsider the terms.”

The room went still for a moment.

Rindou raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly impressed. Kokonoi just sat back, watching with quiet amusement.

But Mikey?

He watched you like you were something untouchable.

Unshakable.

The client gave a fake smile. “She’s feisty.”

Mikey’s voice was low and sharp. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

Hirano hesitated. “It’s just business—”

“No,” Mikey interrupted, stepping forward. His tone didn’t rise, but the weight of it changed the air in the room.

“She’s mine.”

Everyone froze.

Even you.

It wasn’t a planned declaration. It just slipped out. Heavy. Honest. Unavoidable.

Hirano blinked. “Yours?”

Mikey’s hand slid around your waist again, not just for show this time. Not to protect a business move or intimidate a rival. It was his way of drawing a line. Not between you and the client.

But between himself—and his own denial.

“Yes,” Mikey said again, steady now. “So if you want to finish this deal, you’ll keep your eyes—and your mouth—off her.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

But Hirano didn’t argue.

He just sat down, suddenly reminded that Bonten’s leader wasn’t just a ghost in a white suit—he was a storm waiting to break.

______________________________________________________

Later, as you walked out of the building, you didn’t say a word about it. Not the client. Not the way Mikey’s hand had never left your waist. Not the word he’d used.

Mine.

But as you reached the car, you glanced up at him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mikey met your eyes.

“I know.”

But he didn’t let go.

______________________________________________________

The city lights spill through the tall windows of Bonten’s penthouse, casting soft gold across the floor as you pad barefoot across the cool marble. The meeting is over, the tension long gone—but one word still hangs between you like a ghost in the room.

Mine.

He hasn’t brought it up since.

Neither have you.

But it follows you anyway—through dinner, through silence, through the way he lingers behind you when you make tea, the way his gaze doesn’t stray far. Something has shifted—and you can feel it in your chest like gravity.

Mikey sits on the wide couch, a loose shirt hanging off his frame, white hair messy from the wind. He looks… tired. But more than that, he looks conflicted.

You stand a few steps away, sipping from your cup, studying him.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you ask quietly.

His head turns slowly toward you. No confusion in his eyes. Just… hesitation.

He doesn’t answer.

You take another step closer, setting your cup down on the table.

“What you said back there,” you continue, voice low. “When you told him I was yours.”

Still, silence.

But something flickers in his face—vulnerability, almost too raw to look at.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “I didn’t plan to say that,” he mutters. “It just… came out.”

You don’t push. You just wait.

He exhales, then leans back again, eyes unfocused.

“I’ve been trying not to feel anything. For a long time. It’s easier that way. Safer.”

His voice cracks just a little.

“But with you…” he swallows, “I feel things I don’t understand. You make me forget how broken I am. And that’s terrifying.”

You move closer, your knees brushing his as you sit beside him.

“And what do you feel now?” you ask, gently, carefully.

Mikey turns his head slowly, meeting your gaze.

“I want you close,” he says softly. “I want you safe. I want to hear you laugh, even if I don’t deserve to. I want you to stay. And that scares the hell out of me.”

You don’t say anything at first.

You just reach up, hand brushing against his cheek, thumb grazing his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the touch—like it grounds him.

“You don’t have to deserve me, Mikey,” you say with a small, warm smile. “Just be honest with me. With yourself.”

He opens his eyes again, and for the first time, you see it—clarity. Something settling behind his tired expression. Something like peace.

He reaches out slowly, pulling you in, one arm wrapping around your back until you’re tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder, your fingers still resting on his chest.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know,” you reply. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

__________________________________________________________

Your room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the window where the city glows like stars that have fallen too far.

You walk in first, slow and thoughtful, your hand still linked with Mikey’s. He doesn’t let go—not once—as if part of him fears that if he loosens his grip, you might fade from him again.

You turn to face him once you’re inside, your eyes searching his.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He gives a faint nod, stepping closer. “Yeah… I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You’re not.”

That’s all it takes.

You open your arms, and he moves into them instinctively. You lie down on the bed, your bodies curving to fit, like you’ve been doing this for years. Your head nestled against his chest, one of his arms cradling your waist. The other finds your hand, fingers curling around his.

Silence stretches between you—but it isn’t empty. It’s full.

His heart beats steadily beneath your cheek, slower than you expected. Calm. Or maybe… calm because you’re there.

Mikey presses his forehead to your hair. “You’re warm.”

You smile. “So are you.”

He laughs, just a breath of sound.

You stay like that for a while. The weight of the night slips off you both, piece by piece, replaced by something quieter. Something that feels like… healing.

Then you tilt your head up, looking at him.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask.

His eyes widen, just a little. Like the question startles him.

But he nods, slow. “Yeah.”

You lean in gently, your hand resting on his chest as your lips find his. It’s soft—uncertain at first, searching. But he responds quickly, like he’s been holding back for too long. His fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer as your mouths move together, slow and warm and full of everything you haven’t said.

When you part, foreheads touching, neither of you speaks.

He opens his eyes.

You’re smiling.

And for the first time in years, Mikey smiles back without even realizing it.

The kiss deepens in the silence, unhurried and full of tension finally released.

Your fingers move gently through his hair—so soft under your touch—and Mikey lets out the quietest sound against your lips, one he doesn’t even mean to make. Like he’s surprised by how good it feels to be touched with no expectations. No fear.

Just… held.

You shift, laying halfway over him now, your leg brushing against his, your hand resting lightly on the side of his neck as your mouths meet again—slower this time. Lingering. As if you’re trying to memorize each other, piece by piece.

When you pause, you stay close, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly.

Mikey’s fingers find your waist, holding you steady—not to pull you closer, not to control, but just… to feel you’re real.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “This doesn’t feel like something I should have.”

You trace your thumb across his cheek. “But you do. I’m right here.”

He looks at you for a long time. Not your face—not exactly. He’s looking at something behind it. Past it. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone like you could exist in his world. In his arms.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” he says. Quiet. Raw.

You lean down, pressing a kiss just beneath his eye. Then to his jaw. Then back to his lips.

“Then we’ll go slow,” you whisper between kisses. “And we’ll take care of each other.”

His hands move again, one splaying across your back, the other rising to tangle in your hair as your kisses grow slower, deeper. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just present.

Your body molds to his like a puzzle piece that has always been missing, and for the first time, Mikey doesn’t feel like something broken. He feels wanted. Held. Loved, even if you haven’t said it out loud yet.

And maybe he isn’t ready to say it either.

But he feels it.

Every second your mouth touches his. Every breath you give him in return. Every time you whisper his name like it means something.

He presses his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling in the small space between.

“Stay with me tonight,” he says, almost inaudible. “Just like this.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Always.”

And you hold each other in the dark, hearts open, bodies close, nothing between you but soft fabric and the comfort you never thought you’d deserve.

_____________________________________________________

The halls of Bonten headquarters fall silent when you walk through.

You wear no crown, no bloodstained ring, no weapon at your hip.

You don’t need any of it.

You are Lady Y/N, wife of the Boss himself, and the heart behind Bonten’s iron machinery. What Mikey rules with fire and silence, you rule with presence. Steady. Watchful. Untouchable.

A few lieutenants bow their heads as you pass. Others simply step aside, knowing better than to get in your way. Your name doesn’t need to be shouted. It moves in whispers and deference, in the way even Sanzu shuts up when you raise an eyebrow.

You get the message just after breakfast:

Come to the strategy room. Bring the coffee you make—not the staff’s crap. – M.

You already know what this is.

When you arrive, it’s all exactly as expected: Mikey lounging like a bored cat at the head of the room, his lieutenants in their usual spots, and a hot cup of coffee waiting in your hand.

The room quiets as you enter.

“My Lady,” Kokonoi greets with a nod, polite as always.

“Looking radiant, as usual,” Ran drawls, only half joking.

Rindou gives you a quiet “Good morning.”

And Sanzu—messy as ever, sprawled in his chair—just gives you a wolfish grin. “Guess the boss couldn’t stand another five minutes without you.”

Mikey doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

He holds out his hand. “Sit.”

You roll your eyes, but walk to him anyway, handing him the coffee before sitting neatly at his side—your seat now, unofficial but permanent. The others don’t dare question it.

Mikey takes a slow sip, then turns toward you, his voice softer than anyone else ever hears it.

“You free today?”

Your brow lifts. “Did you call me here for a meeting or a date?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

The men around the table smirk but stay quiet. They know better than to mock the bond between you—because behind Mikey’s sharp silences and blank stares, you’re the only one who can bring a glimmer of life back to his expression.

You cross one leg over the other and turn slightly toward him. “You know calling Lady Y/N into meetings just to keep yourself entertained is technically misuse of executive time, right?”

He leans closer. “I like misusing time when it comes to you.”

You blink. Once. Then smile.

And the entire room—murderers, strategists, men who’ve burned empires to the ground—knows: you own him.

But more than that…

You earned it.

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

The Feathertail Glider: this tiny marsupial is the world's smallest gliding mammal, measuring just 6.5-8cm long (not including the tail)

The scientific name of this species is Acrobates pygmaeus (literally "pygmy acrobat") but it's commonly known as the feathertail glider, the pygmy glider, or the flying mouse.

This is the smallest gliding mammal in the world, as its head and body have a combined length of just 6.5-8cm, and its tail measures another 7-8cm long. The tail is fringed on each side with a row of long, stiff hairs that give it a feather-like appearance -- a feature that is not found in any other mammal. This feather-shaped tail acts as a rudder, allowing the tiny marsupial to steer and brake as it glides.

Feathertail gliders struggle to stay warm in harsh conditions, and they must enter a state known as torpor in order to preserve their energy, as this article describes:

A fascinating feature of these tiny mammals is that because they are so small, they have trouble staying warm when it is cold or when there is a food shortage; like the Sugar glider, they enter a state known as torpor.

This means that for short periods, their breathing slows down, and the animal becomes unresponsive; the body temperature drops almost to that of its surroundings. This state is not to be mistaken for hibernation, which is for much longer periods and is not known to occur in marsupials.

This article also adds:

Groups of A. pygmaeus have been observed in practically any available enclosed space, from hollow tree trunks to telephone interchange boxes to bird nests or possum dreys. They form spherical nests (dreys) of vegatation, usually eucalypt leaves, bark and tree-fern fiber. They have been found in groups of up to 20 individuals, but these are not considered stable associations. It is believed that communication between mother and young is through a number of high-frequency sounds and marking with urine.

Feathertail gliders are found only in mainland Australia.

Sources & More Info:

Moonlit Sanctuary: Narrow-Toed Feathertail Gliders

Australian Museum: The Feathertail Glider

Animal Diversity Web: Acrobates pygmaeus

Mammalian Species: A. pygmaeus

Wildlife Information, Rescue, and Education Service: The Feathertail Glider

Wildlife Preservation Society of Queensland: Feathertail Gliders

Rares Foundation: Husbandry Guidelines for Feathertail Gliders (PDF)

[daycourtofficial]

Fireling

Pairing: Eris x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.5k | warnings: none

Summary: every father’s dream is to be there the day his son first uses his powers. Luckily for Eris, he gets just that.

Note: this is a part of my gingerfucker series and is for day 2 of @erisweekofficial 🥰 I guess you can decide for yourself if this is more of the childhood or legacy promot

Eris sighed as he moved through the halls of the Forest House, the wiggling mass in his arms not deterring him in the slightest. Every time one of his hands was loosened from the boy, it would reappear elsewhere, making the small version of himself wiggle even harder.

In all his years, he had helped raise all of his brothers, became quite familiar with several of the servant’s children over the years, and yet his firstborn child was an utter mystery to him. Almost three years old, Atlas had never been capable of sitting still for even a moment.

It made changing his nappy a monumental task.

A physical replica of himself, Atlas loved roaming the halls and seeing old portraits of Eris, slightly confused when he would be corrected that no, that was Dada. An answer he didn’t like, because the idea of his parents having lives previous to his existence was unfathomable at best and upsetting to the point of tears at worst.

He wiggled around in Eris’ arms, the High Lord looking absurd as he moved his arms to catch where the young heir would go next.

Atlas, above all else, liked routine. He enjoyed structure of some kind. It was very easy for the boy to fall into routines - if you did the same activity three days in a row around the same time, he began expecting it.

Which led Eris to open the door to Atlas’ room, letting the boy down to run.

He closed the door behind him, his son spinning around the room, soft giggles echoing through the space.

“See, dada?”

“Yes, now I understand why spinning in the front foyer was impossible and you had to do it in here under my watch.”

“Mama’s sick, so it’s Dada time.”

You were pregnant again, but it was during the early stages where you were tired all of the time, food did not sound appetizing, and you were incredibly sensitive to smells.

Eris had swelled with pride when you were able to tell him, before immediately throwing up onto his shoes. It was endearing how apologetic you were, even though he opted to just throw out the shoes, the socks, and the trousers before he spent a solid thirty minutes in the bath, scrubbing furiously as he tried to battle the conflicting thoughts that moved through his head. It filled him with immeasurable joy and excitement to see a new babe, his thoughts constantly wondering how much this second babe will resemble Atlas.

But a whole new set of worries came with a second babe. How would Atlas, the center of his world, react to having to share the attention?

Fae having children back to back so quickly was practically unheard of, so Eris had nothing to compare it to.

Atlas was - and remains - an easy babe. He’s a bit particular, but overall he is smart, kind and he cares so much about the smallest things, it constantly leaves Eris both in awe and slightly annoyed that his son insists they greet every tree by name whenever they pass them.

Eris watched as Atlas spun about the room, his red curls bouncing with each step.

You had been sick the past few days, spending the mornings cuddled up in bed with Atlas until his wiggling body made your stomach turn with nausea, which was when Eris would bring Atlas to his room and have him run, jump, and spin around until he wore himself out.

Thus a new routine was built.

Atlas’s giggles changed, becoming quicker and louder causing Eris to look up just in time to watch Atlas spin around the room, his arms outstretched into a ‘T’. As he spun through the air, little sparks began forming in his wake, tracing where he had just been spinning.

Eris stopped breathing, watching carefully. His thoughts stilled, knowing if he said or did anything, Atlas would stop. So he waited with bated breath, watching Atlas spin until he fell down, too dizzy to stay up on his small legs. As he fell, a burst of sparks erupted, small flames shot from his hands as he fell on the pile of pillows.

His giggles became louder, but Eris could hardly hear them.

It had been a few years since Beron’s death, since Eris felt the magic leave Beron’s body and his own absorb it - the same magic Atlas may one day possess. So much of his life was plagued with thoughts that always related back to Beron, all roads leading back to his father.

Some small part of him worried without Beron, there would be some hole in his chest, some emptiness at losing his purpose, the fire within him extinguishing with Beron.

His worries, like most these days, had been for nothing. He hardly ever thought about Beron since his death - only on nights when his dreams turn into nightmares, when various reminders of his father made their presence known amongst the hidden secrets of the Forest House.

Watching Atlas, his mind drifted to Beron. His son looked exactly like he did, but neither of them resembled Beron much. The only difference between Eris and his son were their eyes: Eris had Beron’s eyes - a cold, calculated look to them at all times. Meanwhile Atlas had the Lady of Autumn’s eyes - a bright, kind look that made the amber glow with warmth.

They were both the spitting image of Eris’s mother.

He thought of Beron as Atlas twirled about the room, tiny sparks coming from him getting bigger and bigger. He watched his son spin, the sparks catching onto his sweater before being burnt out.

Most of the clothing worn by anyone working in the Forest House was flame resistant - a lingering tradition from when Eris was young that continued well past the birth of each of his brothers, continuing well after Beron began delighting in making those that were incompetent walk around with flames adorning their clothes, the heat enough to make them sweat.

Eris’s thoughts whirled and swirled, the past few years a whirlwind of managing a court and becoming a father, a title so foreign to him he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Father.

An incredibly loaded word, always on the tip of his tongue as if he were still getting used to it after three years.

The High Lord title was easier to bear.

Atlas now stood, opening and closing his small hands, eyes widening each time he opened them. His brows crinkled as he looked on in determination, briefly flicking his eyes to check if Eris was still watching him.

His stance faltered as he made a small flame appear in one of his hands, amber eyes bright with the light in front of him. His gaze was pulled from the flame to his father, who was watching with a sad gaze.

Eris watched as Atlas produced the flame, a surge of pride and happiness growing in his chest, before the past reared its ugly head. He remembered when he first produced a flame intentionally - he was somewhere around his son’s age, and he had been so ecstatic he had spent the following weeks practicing to show his father.

He remembered how Beron looked down at Eris over his sloping nose, how Eris had felt extraordinarily small beneath his gaze. He thought it was how ants must look up at him.

Beron hadn’t said anything when Eris had shown him his powers, offering an unamused look at being disturbed before leaving the room.

He remembered watching him go, lip wobbling harder with each step, tears streaming down his face until new steps approached, and his mother watched him show off his new skills, despite having seen it each time the past few weeks.

He was jolted from the past, the present coming back to him in vivid colors as warmth flared against his cheeks, a tiny, freckled face looking at him. Atlas had crawled into his lap, his tiny hands too small to hold Eris’s face, but his touch remained there.

His hands were so warm, Eris drew back some of his own heat from his face to really feel his son’s power, to let his cheeks bask in the warmth of a son he never saw coming.

“Dada?”

It took that one word, a soft voice full of wonder and concern. One word from the small boy who warmed his soul.

He had spent months agonizing over what kind of father he would be - fears that were squashed each time Atlas looked up at him as if he had never done anything wrong. As if he held all the answers and all Atlas had to do was ask.

Atlas, much happier with Eris’s full attention on him, stuck out his tongue once more, deep in concentration before Eris saw from the bottom of his peripheral tiny flames dancing across his skin.

His smile was impossible to contain, and Atlas immediately mirrored his father’s expression.

He didn’t know what kind of father he would be. He didn’t know how Atlas and the new babe would speak of him decades and centuries from now.

But he would be there.

And he would try.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @panther-girl-124

[jaythes1mp]

Your secrets are ours, kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH10 -> CH9 -> CH8 -> CH7 -> CH6 -> CH5 -> CH4 -> CH3 -> CH2 -> CH1

8919 words, 46418 characters, 408 sentences, 290 paragraphs, 32.8 pages.

The car comes to a stop outside a fancy restaurant. The building is huge, the exterior lit up with soft, warm lights. A Doorman is standing outside, the entrance framed by a pair of elegant lion statues either side.

Bruce gets out first, holding out his hand to help you out of the car. His face is neutral as you step onto the sidewalk, his hand still gripping yours. He gives a short nod to the Doorman, who immediately opens the door to the restaurant without a word.

The interior of the restaurant is just as impressive as the outside. High ceilings, a grand lobby, and a row of archways leading to the dining areas. Expensive artwork hangs on the walls, the lighting soft but flattering. The interior is opulent, with glittering chandeliers and high arched ceilings. The soft buzz of conversation fills the air, mixing with the sound of silverware clinking against china.

The sound of soft classical music filled the air, mingling with low murmurs of hushed conversations. Almost immediately, as soon as Bruce steps inside, the atmosphere hushes. Every eye turns to look at him, then at you. The way everyone was watching you made you squirm. It was like everyone except you was in on some sort of secret.

Bruce leads you through the restaurant, his hand is still holding yours, his steps confident and assured. You get the sense that the staff know him well as you both pass, various people nod in greeting as Bruce murmurs a few words to them.

Finally, you reach a private booths, secluded in a corner, away from any potential interruptions.

The private booth you’re settled into has a dark, rich oak interior, with a large semi-circular leather booth wrapping around the table in the centre. The table is covered in a crisp white tablecloth, with a variety of fine china and sparkling silverware laid out.

Bruce motions for you to take a seat as he slips into the booth opposite you, his eyes still quietly taking in your features. You mumble a soft thanks in return. Feeling well underdressed.

A waiter appears beside your table, a tablet in his hand, a fake, courteous smile on his face as he addresses you both.

"Good evening, Mr Wayne. What can I get for you tonight?"

Bruce’s voice is measured as he responds, his gaze never leaving you. "Good evening. A bottle of the house red, and two glasses, please."

The waiter nods and disappears, leaving the two of you alone and enveloped in quiet. There's a strained atmosphere in the air, Bruce's eyes watching you intently as you shift awkwardly in the booth.

The atmosphere in the booth is tense, the silence between you and Bruce almost deafening. Trying to break the ice, you attempt a joke, your voice soft as you speak.

"Buffet, huh? You'd think a place this fancy would have a set menu."

Bruce quirks an eyebrow at your joke, a small smile flickering across his face. Despite the situation, he can't help but find it endearing.

He leans back in the leather booth, his broad frame taking up the majority of the space. "Well, I figured you might prefer to pick your own food.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes still trained on you, "Unless you'd rather I pick for you."

Your chuckle is nervous and soft, a strange mix of anxiety and amusement. You feel a touch out of place, sitting in this posh restaurant, with Bruce Wayne staring across at you.

"No, no," you say quickly, "I can pick my own food. I don't want to trouble you."

The tension in the air is thicker now, the weight of expectations almost palpable. You fidgeted nervously in your seat, your eyes darting around the booth before settling back on Bruce's unwavering gaze.

You take a deep breath, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the hem of your shirt. You feel embarrassed, almost vulnerable in your ignorance. "Um, actually," you admit, "I'm not really sure what's on the menu here."

There's a hint of vulnerability in your voice, a vulnerability you'd usually try to hide in these situations. But in front of Bruce, you can feel yourself slipping, your guard lowering just an inch. He always seemed to leave that effect with you.

His expression softens as he watches you fidget nervously across from him. He notices every little detail, the way your fingers play with the hem of your shirt, the way your gaze darts around the booth before settling back on him.

Bruce's eyes soften as he hears the hint of vulnerability in your voice. It's a sound that's all too familiar to him, yet coming from you, it tugs at his heartstrings nonetheless. He leans forward, his forearms resting against the table, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Don't worry about it," he reassures you, his voice gentle, "You don’t have to pretend to have a taste for fine dining or anything. You can tell me what you want, or I can order something for you."

Bruce's words are a surprising contrast to the confident, almost arrogant persona he usually exudes. Here, in this moment, he seems... gentle, almost fragile in his own way.

He pauses for a moment before continuing, his eyes studying your face for any kind of response. "Although, I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to find you out alone at this time of night."

Your head snaps up suddenly as realisation hits you. "Oh, shit." You curse under your breath, your eyes wide with realisation.

The guilt settles in as you start to consider the possibility that you've interrupted something important. Maybe Bruce had a prior commitment, a business meeting or a social event, and you've stumbled right into the middle of it.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly, your voice filled with genuine remorse. "I didn't mean to intrude. Did I ruin your plans for tonight?"

Bruce watches you carefully as your realization sinks in, your eyes widening in guilt. He notices how your body tenses, how your fingers twist nervously in your lap.

He lets your words hang in the air for a moment before responding. "Ruin my plans? You think you're the one interrupting my night?"

His words are soft, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone. As if the thought of you interrupting his plans is almost absurd to him.

Bruce had patiently waited for nearly forty-five minutes, his evening already planned out. He had booked out the entire restaurant, reserved for just the two of you, and a select few of nobodies, with the kitchen specially rented for your taste in food. He had gone through all of this trouble, just to see you.

And now, sitting across from him, you had believed that your little run-in had ruined all of his well-laid plans.

Bruce sees the guilt and worry in your expression, your shoulders tense and brow furrowed. He can't help but feel a pang of something within his chest at your expression. Of course, you would think you ruined his plans, that you somehow inconvenienced him or got in the way of something important.

As your words hang in the air, he considers telling you the truth. That these were his plans. That spending time with you - watching you grow, listening to you breathe, hearing your voice - meant more to him than anything else that the world could ever offer.

Spending time with you, his precious one, trumped all else. He would willingly cancel any other plans, rearrange any meetings, just for the opportunity to sit across from you like this. Spending time with you trumps anything and everything else.

Tonight, however, he would feign ignorance. He would act as if you were merely a convenient disruption to his otherwise busy schedule. He didn't want you to know the extent of his dedication and devotion to you. Not yet. One day you would come to be aware of the fact. Tonight however, he’ll pretend.

Bruce's face betrays nothing as he watches the guilt and worry etched on your features. He can see it clearly, the worry and guilt in the set of your shoulders, the furrow of your brow. It hurts him to see you this way, to think that somehow, you are the one who ruined his evening plans.

As your words hang in the air, a deep, silent pang resonates within his chest. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow as you chew on your lip. He notices every little change in your expression, and it makes his heart ache a little bit. He wants to tell you. He wants to reassure you. To tell you that you didn't ruin anything, that you were the plan.

Finally, he lets out a soft sigh, his voice breaking the silence. "You didn't ruin anything," he says, his voice low and reassuring. "I'm not too bothered. It's not like I had something particularly important to do tonight."

He pauses for a moment, watching as your expression changes to reflect the relief that washes over you. He can see the tension leaving your body as his words sink in.

He lets out a soft chuckle, his mouth curving into a small smile. "Besides, I'd rather spend my night out with you than anyone else."

He's treading dangerously close to revealing just how important you are to him, how much you actually mean. But he just can't keep the words from escaping. To not let you know who you really are to him. You were his child. His sweet, broken, child. One that he will soon mend back together gently. Give you everything you deserved yet never got to experience.

Your expression immediately relaxes, relief washing over your face as you take in his words. It's hard to describe the feeling that floods through you. It's a strange mixture of comfort, surprise, and reassurance.

His soft chuckle and smile bring a warmth to your chest that only he can manage to ignite.

As he says he'd rather spend the night with you than anyone else, your breath catches in your throat.

You can feel the danger in his words, his care and devotion carefully concealed behind a thinly veiled facade. There's a raw honesty to his tone that makes you shiver.

The meaning behind his words hitting you like a wave. This man, this powerful, wealthy, influential man, would rather spend his time with you.

You have to bite your lip to conceal the small smile. No one has said they’d rather spend their time with you. Definitely not that woman. It so unexpected and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.

The way your expression relaxes, the surprise and relief etched on your features, makes his chest tighten a little bit. It's a feeling he's never experienced before. You're reacting in a way that is completely foreign to him. Completely new. Something he's never really gotten to experience.

Bruce notices that you're biting back a smile, and a wave of satisfaction courses through him. He's able to elicit such an unexpected, genuine reaction from you. One he's sure you don't give to just anyone. It's a feeling of pride.

He’ll have to message Tim to send him the cameras footage of that moment later.

The waiter suddenly reappears at the table, a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands.

Bruce's attention momentarily diverts as he nods his thanks to the waiter, taking the bottle and the pair of glasses.

He gives the waiter a dismissive gesture, indicating that he can take his leave. The waiter murmurs a soft, "Please enjoy your evening, Mr Wayne," before he exits the booth once more.

He pops the cork from the wine with ease, his hands almost like a practiced expert.

He then pours a generous amount into both glasses, the liquid a dark, rich color as it sloshes against the glass.

He hands you one of the glasses, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment as his eyes meet yours.

"Take a sip," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“Oh. I’m not the biggest wine drin...” the words die on your tongue by the encouraging grin on his lips. You look down to the rich red liquid, swirling the glass for a second before closing your eyes and drowning down a small sip.

It... wasn’t bad.

He watches as you hesitate, the words dying on your tongue, before taking a small sip of the wine. He can see the surprise flicker in your eyes as you taste the liquid. There's a hint of doubt on your face, as if you're expecting it to taste awful.

When you don't wince or make a facial expression, he lets out a soft chuckle. A satisfied sound that's low and gravelly.

"See? I don't have that bad taste in wine, do I?"

You manage to make a small sound of agreement, despite the heat of embarrassment that creeps up your face.

His chuckle, low and gravelly, sends a shiver down your spine. It's a sound that never fails to make you feel both calm and a bit flustered.

You take another, slightly larger sip of wine this time, the liquid warm as it slides down your throat, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake.

He observes as you swallow the wine, his eyes never leaving your face. He can see the slight flush to your cheeks, the way your body reacts to the warm liquid in your system. There's a small spark of triumph in his eyes.

He takes a sip of his own glass, his gaze still fixed on you.

"You're not a frequent drinker, right?" he asks, his tone casual. He already knows the answer.

You shake your head, the heat still present on your cheeks. You take another small sip of the wine, almost in an effort to cool down.

"No, I'm not," you admit, your voice a touch more shy than you wanted it to be, "I don't really drink that much. Bad experiences in the past.”

It was the truth. You didn't drink often, and you certainly didn't want to accidentally embarrass yourself in front of Bruce Wayne of all people. And the men that woman used to bring home left a sour view on alcohol for you.

His eyes soften a bit at your admission, a look of quiet understanding passing over his features. He lets the silence hang for a moment before responding.

"I see," he says. There's an undertone in his voice, almost a hint of anger at the implications of your past.

But he doesn't press the subject any further. He has his suspicions, but he won't ask you to dig up painful memories. At least, not here. Not now. Maybe someday. Maybe someday he'll get you to open up to him fully.

As the quiet stretches between you two, you take another sip of the wine, letting the warmth of the liquid soothe your nerves.

You can feel his eyes watching you, his gaze steady and intense, even as he tries to soften his features. It feels both terrifying and reassuring at the same time. Terrifying, because you feel so seen under his gaze. And reassuring, because you trust that he's being sincere.

The wine is starting to take effect now, your head feeling a bit fuzzy, your inhibitions slightly lowered.

The change in topic is abrupt, but it allows you a moment to compose yourself.

Bruce's voice breaks the silence, his fingers absentmindedly rolling the stem of his wine glass between them as he addresses you. "Have you had enough time to think over what you're craving?" he inquires, his eyes fixed on your face, observing your expression. His gaze soft.

Your thoughts are slightly fuzzy now, the wine having settled in your stomach, making it easier for you to express yourself.

You think for a moment, your mind swirling as you try to think of something to eat. Your first instinct is to tell him it doesn't matter, that you can eat anything. But the look on his face, the way he's studying you, tells you that he won't accept that answer.

So you say the first thing that comes to your mind.

"Nuggets," you murmur.

Humiliation washes over you, the realization of your faux pas sinking in. You cringe inwardly, mentally kicking yourself for even entertaining the idea that there might be something like a children's menu in a high-class establishment like this one. There's practically a "no minors allowed" sign plastered over the door. You can almost hear the staff snickering behind your back.

You want to bang your head against the table, sink into the leather seats and disappear.

He can't help but raise an eyebrow at your response. Nuggets.

He almost wants to laugh, the sound bubbling up in his chest. He manages to hold it back however, sensing the embarrassment that's painted on your face. There's a certain... charm to your honest, albeit slightly tipsy response.

But he finds the suggestion endearing, the image of you with a plate of nuggets amusing. It's such a simple request, a request that so many people would immediately dismiss. But the fact that you had suggested it, had actually thought there was a possibility of this place offering such a thing, somehow makes his chest feel lighter.

Your ears burn with embarrassment, and your eyes fall to the table, avoiding his gaze. You half expect him to roll his eyes, to make some comment about how childish your choice is.

But instead, you notice a flicker of something in his eyes before he speaks. It's a mixture of surprise, and something akin to amusement.

He holds back a laugh, the sound coming out as a low rumble in his chest. When he speaks, there's a hint of a smile on his face. "Nuggets, huh?"

The heat on your face increases at his words, your cheeks flushed with a mixture of the wine and the embarrassment. Your hands fidget nervously in your lap, fingers twisting and untwisting, looking for something to do.

You can't believe you just admitted that. That you actually suggested you order nuggets in a fancy establishment like this one. God, this is so pathetic.

You open your mouth to try to amend your statement, trying to salvage the already ruined evening, but no words come out.

He notices your flustered state, the way your face is flushed and your hands nervously fidgeting in your lap. It's an endearing sight, and he feels a pang in his chest, a mixture of protectiveness and affection. He wants to reassure you, to tell you that there's nothing wrong with wanting nuggets.

He lets out another soft chuckle, his eyes softening even more as he speaks. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with that. I can order them for you."

He’s silently thanking Dick for the list of food places you frequent.

Your face only flushes deeper, the heat practically emanating from your skin now. You hadn't expected him to actually agree to it. You were sure he'd laugh, or tell you to pick something more suitable for your surroundings.

You hazard a glance up at him, meeting his gaze, and are met with a soft, earnest look in his eyes. He's not mocking you. He's not looking down on you.

The realisation sends a wave of relief through you, and the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. "You would? Really?"

Jason would have made fun of you for how you sounded.

"Of course," he responds immediately, his tone completely genuine.

He motions to the waiter, who's standing at a discrete distance, waiting to be summoned. It takes only a moment for the waiter to hurry over to the table, his expression schooled into perfect professionalism.

Bruce addresses the waiter bluntly. "Nuggets," he states, his eyes flicking back to you, silently asking you to confirm.

When you avoid the waiters eye contact Bruce lets out a small chuckle, quickly hidden into his palm as if he’d coughed. “And one medium rare steak with mixed vegetables.”

The waiter nods, his expression remaining neutral, though you can see a hint of bemusement in his eyes. To hear Bruce Wayne, billionaire and Gotham City's biggest philanthropist, order nuggets of all things must be an unusual sight for the man.

You can't help but feel relieved that the waiter doesn't comment on the order though. The last thing you need is even more embarrassment.

Your eyes widen a bit at the addition of the steak, and you shoot Bruce a questioning glance.

Bruce catches your questioning glance, his eyes sparkling with an impish mischief. He can see the surprise and confusion in your expression, and he can’t help but smirk a bit.

"Don't worry," he assures you, his tone a touch too innocent, “the steak's for me.”

You deadpan. Seriously? That was his way of assuaging your worries? Steak for him?

As you give him a flat look, he can't help but chuckle at your unimpressed expression.

"What?" he asks, feigning innocence, "I'm hungry."

He leans back into his seat, a small, amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches you. He can see the mixture of surprise and skepticism on your face, and he finds it almost endearing.

You roll your eyes, a small huff escaping your throat. Typical rich guy, ordering steak.

There's a comfortable silence that falls over the both of you, as you watch the waiter walk away from the table. The alcohol in your system has left you feeling a bit light-headed, and you can’t help but feel a bit more at ease. Like you can fully relax for once.

But a question burns at the back of your mind, and the alcohol makes it a bit easier to voice it.

You break the silence, your voice somewhat slurred as you speak. "Can I ask you something?" you say, your tone casual.

Bruce turns his attention fully back to you, his gaze steady and attentive. He can see the light flush on your cheeks, a result of the alcohol in your system.

"Of course," he responds, leaning forward a little bit, "ask me anything."

You pause for a moment, searching for the right words as you try to articulate your thoughts. Your mind is a muddled mess of alcohol and shyness, which makes it a bit harder than usual for you to speak. But with a bit of willpower, you manage to push the words out of your mouth.

"Why do you do what you do? Why do you want me to do it?" you ask, your voice soft.

His eyebrow raises in a silent, inquiring question, encouraging you to elaborate on your question.

Your voice cuts through the air, your words firm and a touch bewildered. "Everything," you gesture emphatically with your hand, the vague motion encompassing everything you're trying to convey. "The business. Helping people, charities. You could have anyone to do whatever you wanted."

You pause for a moment, your confusion and disbelief clear in your expression as you meet his gaze. "Why would you need to fund my random blog?"

Bruce leans back into his seat, his features taking on a contemplative look. He can sense the confusion and disbelief in your tone, and he can understand why you're asking such a question.

He takes a moment to answer, letting his words settle in your mind. When he speaks again, his voice is steady and sincere.

"It's simple really," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "I see potential. I see someone who’s willing to try, to make a difference. I suppose I just want to give you the means to do it."

It’s a nice sentiment, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

Your eyes flick to his face, searching his expression for any hint of deception. But there’s nothing but honesty in his gaze. He truly believes in you, in your potential. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

You try to process his words, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

There’s a question burning on the tip of your tongue, but you’re hesitant to ask it. It feels too personal, too vulnerable. But the alcohol in your system makes you brave, and the question slips out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop it.

"Why me?" Your voice is soft, almost inaudible.

Bruce's gaze softens at your question, his eyes studying your face intently.

"Why not you?" he replies. The words are simple, but they carry a weight to them.

He can see the vulnerability in your expression, the desire to hear a more detailed answer. But there’s a part of him that’s hesitant to fully divulge his reasons.

You lean back against the plush leather of your seat, your thoughts racing.

You're honestly not sure how to respond to that. The depth and sincerity behind his words catch you off guard, and you're momentarily at a loss for what to say.

Bruce watches the emotions play across your face, the mixture of surprise and flattery at his answer. He can tell you’re surprised, maybe even a bit wary in accepting his response. But he can also see a hint of curiosity, a hint of eagerness to know the why behind him.

He takes a subtle breath before he speaks, choosing his words carefully.

"Because I believe you have a voice worth listening to," he says quietly.

You bite your tongue, looking away in thought.

Bruce knew that his words would get to you. That he could charm his way through an explanation rather than admit the truth.

You can feel his words stirring something within you, a mixture of emotions. On one hand, it's flattering, almost dizzying, to know that someone like Bruce Wayne believes in you that much. But on the other hand, there's a nagging skepticism, an inkling that there's more to his reasons than he's letting on.

Your fingers pick at the fabric of your sleeve, a nervous habit you can never quite shake off. You glance up at him, your eyes meeting his.

"Is that really the only reason?" you ask, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Bruce can see the skepticism in your eyes, the way your fingers pick nervously at the fabric of your clothes. He can tell you're searching for more, that you want to hear a deeper reason for his actions.

His gaze doesn’t waver, his composure not faltering even a bit.

"Why? Do you think there's another reason?" he asks, his tone as casual as ever, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

You shake your head, feeling slightly flustered at his response. You had hoped he'd offer up more information, give you a deeper explanation. But he's not budging, not willing to divulge more than he's letting on.

You let out a small, frustrated huff, the sound almost inaudible. You're not sure how to respond to his casual denial, his nonchalance in dismissing your question.

For a brief moment, you almost contemplate asking more direct and personal questions. But the moment passes, and the waiter returns with your food.

The waiter silently places your plate in front of you, the golden-brown nuggets sitting innocently on the white china. There's an awkward moment of silence as Bruce and yourself glance at the plate, before the waiter quietly slips away.

You stare at the heaped plate of food before you, your eyes widening at the sheer amount of food placed before you. The white china plate is practically overflowing, not a single part of it left untouched by the generous portions of food. You swallow hard, your gaze shifting to Bruce, who is calmly cutting into his own steak.

"Why is there so much...?" you can't help but ask, your voice laced with bewilderment. "Is this normal here?"

No, this isn't normal. Bruce has made arrangements to ensure you have a substantial meal, much more than usual. He’d grown worried over the small portions you’ve been making for yourself recently. Each day watching the cameras with an angered expression. So you will be eating every piece of chicken on that plate and you will be enjoying it.

He’s scolded Jason far too many times for letting you do this to yourself, it’s about time he’d taken it into his own hands.

Bruce can see the surprise written all over your face, the way your eyes widen at the sight of the food on your plate. He lets out a small, amused huff, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"They tend to be... generous with their portions here," he responds, an air of nonchalance in his tone. "Don't waste it."

He cuts another piece of his steak, taking a bite as he watches you. His gaze flicks back and forth between his own plate and yours, making sure you’re actually eating.

You swallow hard, your gaze shifting back to your plate. You're not sure how you're supposed to eat this much food, let alone even finish it. The small bites you're accustomed to taking seem pitiful in comparison to the massive amount of food before you. But you know you can't refuse, not with Bruce watching you, silently waiting for you to take a bite.

You pick up a single nugget, gingerly taking a bite. The crisp texture and flavor of the nugget fill your senses, and for a moment you momentarily forget about your worries.

Bruce watches you carefully, his gaze fixed on your every move. He takes another bite of his steak, his eyes lingering on you for a few moments longer before he speaks.

"Slow down, you'll choke," he advises, his tone jokingly admonishing.

You pause for a moment, the nugget halfway to your mouth. You shoot him a brief glare, momentarily forgetting your manners.

"No, I won't," you argue, your voice slightly muffled as you chew.

Bruce can't help but suppress a small chuckle. Your stubbornness amuses him, your irritation at his comment almost endearing.

"You will," he says, his tone firm, though there’s an amused sparkle in his eyes. "You're eating too fast. Slow down, enjoy the food."

He takes another bite of his steak, his gaze still fixed on you. It’s amusing to see you pout at him, your expression somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment.

You huff in irritation, rolling your eyes at his words. But deep down, you know he's right, his voice echoing your own internal thoughts.

You take a moment to collect yourself, forcing yourself to slow down as you take another bite. The food is good, the flavors rich and satisfying. But you can't help but grumble under your breath.

Your words are delivered with a mix of petulance and half-hearted jest. "You're not my parent, you know," you mutter, the words leaving your mouth with a hint of teasing.

It's clear you're unaware of the way his knuckles tighten around the handle of the knife until they're almost white, nor do you notice the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly at your words. You're entirely oblivious to the possessive, dark fatherly look that flashes in his eyes.

Bruce has to bite his tongue to refrain from correcting you. He was your dad. You just didn't know it yet.

Patience, he has to remind himself.

Bruce is thankful for the years of his rigid self-discipline, years of controlling his thoughts, feelings, and emotions. He’s thankful for the tight control he has over his mind, the strict control over his senses. Because in that moment, the urge to correct you, to claim you as his child is immense. It’s difficult for him to keep his words at bay.

He clears his throat, the sound more of a forced noise than anything. His voice is slightly strained as he responds to your words. Though he forces the calm, steady tone of his words to remain.

"Just eat your food.”

You're too preoccupied with the taste of the food in your mouth to notice his brief change in tone. His words break you out of your thoughts, your attention shifting to him.

You glance back down at the plate in front of you, the pile of food still standing despite your efforts to eat it.

"I’m trying," you say, a slight hint of annoyance in your tone. "But you're giving me a lot of food here."

Bruce remains silent, his gaze fixated on your plate, calculating the amount of food left.

He takes a moment to think, silently observing you. He scans the remaining food on your plate, mentally calculating how many more bites you’d have to take. He’s not satisfied in the slightest, not until he can see your plate completely empty. He needs to be sure you're going to finish all of it.

“You can do it,” he says, his words a simple, casual statement.

You groan. “dude.”

You roll your eyes at his words, your annoyance with the situation growing. The amount of food still left in front of you seems almost intimidating, especially with Bruce silently watching you.

You’re not used to eating so much, and the thought of finishing all of it makes you slightly nauseous.

“I feel like I’m being fattened up for something,” you grumble under your breath, your tone half-serious, half-joking.

Bruce leans back in his seat, a silent chuckle escaping his lips at your comment. The sound is subtle, only barely heard in the quiet restaurant.

The corners of his mouth twitch, a hint of a smirk forming.

“You ate more than this the last time we were out together, kid.” He says in return, his voice teasing.

His words are meant in playful jest, but there’s a hint of possessiveness in his tone, a hint of protectiveness, the protective fatherly instinct lingering within him.

Your eyes widen in surprise at his words, your expression quickly morphing into annoyance.

"Oh, shut up," you retort, a hint of petulance in your tone. You continue to eat, trying to ignore the smug smile on his face.

You chew on a nugget for a few moments, contemplating his words. "...You remember that?”

Bruce’s smirk widens, watching as your expression morphs to an obvious mixture of surprise, annoyance, and mild humiliation. His tone is casual, yet the amusement is obvious.

“Of course I do,” he responds simply. “I pay attention to things.”

For a normal person, what you ate over two weeks ago would be forgettable, insignificant. But Bruce Wayne isn’t a normal person, not by a long shot. He’s observant, his mind committing details to memory almost second nature to him. Anything that relates to you he makes sure to keep note of. All of his kids interest, really.

You huff in annoyance at his response.

“Oh, right. You’re a billionaire, how could I forget,” you snark back, rolling your eyes at the casual way he responded.

The fact that he’d remembered such a small, insignificant detail of your night together caught you off guard. And for a brief moment, it makes you feel… special, the idea that you’re important enough for him to remember things about you.

“What else do you remember from that night?” you ask, your curiosity getting the better of you.

Bruce takes a moment to respond, his gaze locked on yours. There’s an almost imperceptible smirk on his face, a hint of pride.

He remembers the entire night, every little detail. Every word that slipped from your lips, every small gesture you made. He remembers it all, committing each memory to the back of his mind. And even if you could somehow forget the colour of your coat, he’s always got the footage from that night to look over time and time again.

But he won’t tell you that, not yet. Instead, he responds with a casual yet vague answer.

“I remember a lot.”

You hum, “mysterious.”

You raise an eyebrow at his response, the vague yet casual tone of his voice. It’s an answer that gives nothing away, yet at the same time makes it clear that he remembers more than he’s letting on.

The thought of all the possible things he could remember makes something churn in your stomach. Part of you wants to pry, to ask more.

But you know better. There’s a reason Bruce Wayne is Gotham City’s most popular billionaire. The man’s secretive, that much is clear.

Your curious expression does not escape Bruce’s notice. He can see the way you’re contemplating your next question, your mind working a mile a minute.

His gaze flickers over your expression, taking in every detail. He knows you’re tempted to ask more, to pry and probe him for more information. He can read you almost as easily as he reads a book.

But he remains calm and collected, his smile never wavering.

“Finishing your food, yet?” he asks in return, his tone shifting the topic away from his memory.

Your eyes widen in surprise, darting down to the plate in front of you. Two lonely nuggets stare back at you, their former coating of sauce now reduced to a glistening sheen.

The sight of the near-empty plate triggers a wave of realization. You had been so caught up in conversation that you hadn't even realized how quickly the food on your plate had vanished, the satisfying sensation of your grumbling stomach barely even registering in your awareness.

Bruce can see the moment realization washes over you. The way your eyes widen, the surprised expression that crosses your features.

He can tell you hadn’t even noticed how quickly you’d finished your food, too caught up in conversation to pay attention to the almost empty plate.

He lets out a small, pleased hum, his eyes flickering across your face for a moment longer before he speaks.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he teases quietly.

You flush, your cheeks burning slightly from embarrassment. It’s embarrassing to think that you’d actually finished all the food on your plate, without even realizing it.

You open your mouth to reply, but Bruce continues.

“One more bite,” he says, his tone almost fatherly, yet firm. His gaze flicks down to the two last nuggets on your plate.

You look down at the food, your stomach feeling full. You don’t think you can eat anymore without feeling nauseous. But the expectant look on Bruce’s face makes it clear this is not a request.

The tone of his voice, the fatherly insistence of his words, leaves no room for argument. The way his eyes flicker expectantly to the two remaining nuggets on your plate tells you that it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

You grimace slightly. The thought of forcing down one more bite of food makes your full stomach churn, the feeling of nausea rising in your gut.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” you protest, your voice almost a petulant whine.

“No, you won’t,” Bruce responds simply. He can see the nausea in your face, the look of discomfort in your eyes. But he’s not backing down from this, not now.

His jaw is set, his gaze unwavering as he locks eyes with you, silently making it clear he won’t accept any arguing.

He leans forward just slightly, his gaze intensifying the slightest bit. “Now eat, Sunshine.”

You want to simultaneously kick his face in and curl up into a small ball of fuzz.

You don’t think that you’ve ever been talked to this way. Not even by the woman who raised you. It’s new.

There’s an authority in his tone, a hint of possessiveness in his gaze. He’s telling you what to do, demanding you finish the food on your plate, expecting you to listen to his every word.

It’s a tone that makes you want to both melt into a puddle and stand your ground and refuse. It’s a tone that makes your gut flip, your heart flutter, the butterflies in your stomach suddenly flying around in an erratic mess. Not in any sexual way, but in a way that makes you long.

“...Sunshine?” you murmur, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow.

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Bruce’s lips when he notices your reaction to his tone, the arch of your eyebrow at his nickname. He knows it caught your attention, the way your eyes widened slightly, the way your voice came out as a soft murmur.

“Yeah,” he repeats in a matter-of-fact tone, the hint of a smirk still on his face. “Sunshine.”

His gaze flickered over your expression, taking in every little detail. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was almost preening.

The tone of his voice, the way he said the single word, sends a shiver down your spine. It sounds almost sweet, almost affectionate. The way he glances over you, the way his gaze seems to linger over you, it’s as if he’s claiming you as his.

“That’s a weird nickname..” you say, your voice almost timid. You can’t keep the hint of a flush from your cheeks.

“Why Sunshine?”

His smirk widening at your quiet words. He can see the way your gaze flickers away, avoiding his, the way the flush on your cheeks deepens.

“Why not?” he counters, his tone almost challenging. He takes a moment, his eyes flickering up and down your face.

“You’re a little ray of sunshine, kid,” he says eventually, his voice quieter but almost affectionate.

The rest of the night blurs together in a rapid succession of events that seem to move almost too fast for your brain to register. In a flash, you find yourself stepping out of the luxurious limousine, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the sidewalk.

Bruce’s larger hand still grips your shoulder, his grip both supportive and affectionate. His voice is warm as he bids you farewell, his words echoing in your ears.

"Good night," he says, his voice gentle yet firm. "I’ll see you soon."

Had you given the man your address...?

You chalk it up to the wine. Bringing your hand up to wave the black vehicle goodbye before adventuring up the worn down familiar steps that you called home.

As you wave farewell to the retreating car, you find yourself pondering for a moment whether or not you had actually given Bruce the address to your apartment. Perhaps the wine had been to blame.

With a slight shake of your head, you turn away from the departing limousine and begin your familiar ascent up the worn-down steps of the building you called home. The night air is cool and crisp, the glow of the streetlights casting elongated shadows on the concrete paths and cracked walls.

You linger outside the door of your apartment building, your keys clutched in your hand. For a few moments, you simply stand there, the cool night air caressing your skin as you press your forehead against the solid wooden frame.

You can't help but let out a soft sigh, the thought of facing Jason on the other side of that door not very appealing. You're not quite ready to deal with him just yet.

With a deep breath, you finally push yourself away from the door, the cool night air still caressing your face as you turn your attention back to the lock. You insert the key into the keyhole and twist it, the familiar click of the lock sliding open filling the air around you. As you push open the door, you brace yourself for what awaits inside.

As you step into the apartment, you're met with a peculiar sight. The living room is dark, save for a few dim shafts of light filtering in from outside and casting flickering shadows across the furniture. There's a strange stillness to the air, an aura of tension that you can feel even before registering the shape sitting nonchalantly on the couch, illuminated by the silvery moonlight.

Jason's tall form is casually sprawled across the piece of furniture, his body tense and his gaze focused on you with an unwavering intensity.

The moment you step into the living room, your eyes immediately land on Jason's form lounging on the couch. His tall frame is casually sprawled across the furniture, each muscle taut with an obvious tension. His eyes, sharp and dark, fix on you with a penetrative intensity that makes your skin tingle.

He doesn't move or speak, instead choosing to regard you with a quiet, almost unsettling stillness. The silence stretches on, the only sound the soft hush of the night outside and the faint ticking of the clock.

Your lips are caught between your teeth as you approach, your movements tentative and slow. Your eyes remain fixed on his face, his tense expression unwavering as you come closer.

Finally, you stop a few feet away, clutching a small bag in your hands tightly. Without a word, you hold it out in front of him, the rustle of the paper bag breaking the heavy silence.

Jason's eyes flicker to the bag extended towards him, tracking your movements with a guarded wariness. He makes no move to take it, instead regarding you with a suspicious eye.

A beat of tense silence passes before he finally responds, his voice low and gruff. "What's that?"

“An apology for storming out.”

Your response is quiet and deliberate, your voice carrying a hint of remorse. Jason regards you for a moment, his eyes fixated on your face. Finally, he shifts slightly, leaning forward to accept the bag from your hand.

His fingers brush against yours, the touch brief yet sparking a small jolt of electricity up your arm. "An apology, huh?" he responds, his voice a touch gruff but edged with a trace of reluctant understanding.

"It's your favourite," you motion, the words leaving your mouth in a soft whisper.

A small moment of silence passes before Jason responds again, his voice a bit gentler this time. "You didn’t have to," he replies, an unexpected but noticeable shift in his tone.

He regards you for a moment longer, a touch of surprise in his expression, before lifting the bag and peeking inside. At the sight of the familiar, beloved treats, a flicker of warmth sparks across his face. He looks up, meeting your gaze.

"You remembered," he mutters, his voice still gruff but laced with a hint of begrudging gratitude.

You nod your response, your movements weary as you finally collapse onto the couch beside Jason. Your body sinks into the soft cushions, the weariness of the day seeping into your bones.

"Made a stop on my way home," you explain, your voice quiet yet clear in the softly lit living room.

Jason grunts, acknowledging your explanation with a barely perceptible nod. He's still carefully avoiding your gaze, his focus fixed on the bag of treats. He’s not really angry. He never could be. Not with you.

After a moment of silence, he finally speaks, his voice a mix of gruffness and reluctant warmth. “Thanks,” he mumbles, the words a testament to his gratefulness despite his usual tough demeanor.

“Anytime man.”

Jason glances up at your response, his eyes flickering to your face. A brief moment of quiet passes, the sound of the night creatures outside the only background to the silent exchange between you two.

Eventually, he replies, a hint of gruff warmth lacing his words. “Damn right, anytime.”

Jason’s eyes flick up as you let out a small, amused snicker at his words. A small, sardonic grin pulls at his mouth, his shoulders relaxing just a bit.

"You think that's funny?" he mutters, his voice edged with amusement.

He teases, his voice taking on a more playful edge. "Don't see what's so funny about me saying you can bring home my favourite treats anytime you want."

Your snicker only increases in volume in response to his faux-offended tone, a smile slowly breaking out on your face. Jason's stoic expression cracks just a little at the sight, a reluctant smile pulling at his own mouth. He scoops his arm around your waist and pulls you close.

His large arm hooks easily around your waist, giving a gentle tug that pulls you closer to him. You end up pressed against his side, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. Despite the initial surprise at the sudden movement, you don't resist.

Jason keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you against him as he shifts a bit to make room for you on the couch. His body is warm and solid beside you, a comforting presence in the dimness of the living room.

He leans back against the couch, his arm still around you as his gaze once again drifts down to the bag of treats in his lap.

"You always know what’ll get me to forgive you, don’t you?" he mutters, his voice low, yet holding a hint of affection.

His fingers idly play with the edges of the bag, the slight rustle of the paper filling the quiet space between you.

“Yep.” You pop the p.

No use of y/n, no descriptive features for the reader mentioned, no gender.

Did I drone on about nuggets? Whattttt nooooo… you must have read that wrong.

Tag list: @zero-s-tea @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk @small-mushroom-fae @wpdarlingpan @dhanyasri @tojislvrr @phoenixgurl030 @mel-star636 @lilyalone @lavender-moony @nickey-diano @sociallyakwardpanda @obsessedwithromance @thickerthanthieves @nckcn @xxrougefangxx

For the Americans, your weird only being able to drink when you’re 21 law doesn’t exist anymore, you’ve joined the rest of the world at 18.

[emilielhess]

── on air, off ice ─────────

── pairing: hockeyplayer! vi x nerdy! radio host! reader ── tropes: stranger to lovers, college, secret identity, late night radio vibes ── summary: You're done being alone most of the time. That's where the old, dusty mic in a forgotten corner of campus comes in handy, letting you talk to people without anyone really knowing who you are. You talk about music, the terrible food at the canteen, the chaos of collage life, and even the hockey team everyone obsess over... but never about yourself. Vi, captain of the hockey team, wasn't supposed to care. She already carries enough; the weight of expectations, constant comparisons to the legendary team that came before her, and the pressure to lead while still trying to find herself off and on the ice. But your voice? This quiet, anonymous presence makes her feel seen. Not directly, not openly, but in a way that shakes something inside her.

── chapter 02

<- previous | next ->

"Oh, now you want to work?"

Two firm smacks, more out of frustration than logic, and your control board finally sputters to life.

All the lights flicker across the console as you fixed your fingers, the sting from the punch still pulsing dull and warm across your palm.

A few wires still hang loose under the panel, curled like lazy snakes. Untangling them would cost you more than just nerves, so for months you've let them be.

You've already tried the classics; unplug, replug, beg. It's not the first time you have to choose violence, which makes you wonder how much time it has left. The answer is probably not much.

"Don't even think about shutting down on me, pretty please," you mutter sweetly, your voice dropping to the same syrupy tone your mom uses on her flowers back home. Not sure if that works on inanimate tech objects, but it doesn't hurt to try.

Your thermos thunks gently against the table as you capped it, your bitter-sweet, still-steaming coffee heating your chest. The clipboard, technically legally stolen from your journalism class, lays on the side with your glitter pen and highlighter that rolls off near the edge.

You catch it with one hand, suddenly using it to nervously tap some kind of decent rhythm.

Ekko disappeared with a mumble, "Be right back," and a sharp turn towards the Department of Science and Mechanical Engineering as you both caught a glimpse of electric-blue braids just behind the corner - something about a girl named Jinx. If that was even her real name.

You didn't ask. Just nodded with your stomach doing a flip.

Ekko is as good with showing up as with leaving and you still don't know where he draws the energy from. Kind of person who doesn't need a nap after a social meeting.

ekko: i would have walked you later to the rink but i cant right now ekko: i will come for you after ekko: not replying? you still in library again?

Not hard feelings, but still. Today isn't supposed to be solo and here you are bitting your inner cheek, your pens and nails.

You give the mic a tap with your knuckle, mini red light blinks awake. The soft crackle fills the small space and grounds you like always.

It takes away a small part of your stress, but it's better than nothing.

With gained confidence now, your fingers find the controls again.

Deep breath. Smile in your voice.

"Good morning, Piltover! It's me again. Your favorite radio host."

Vibration.

ekko: it's her again!! ekko: first time she goes on air twice in a row

"This week's been a ride, hasn't it? One of those 'when life gives you lemons' moments. You know make a lemonade or something."

Another ping.

ekko: how's your question going btw?

"But no-one ever tells you what to do when lemon juice sprays straight into you eyeballs. And guys... It burns like hell. Anyway, happy Tuesday and if you detected sarcasm, your speakers are working just fine. Three more day until the weekend. Let's just survive this. Nothing more, nothing less."

A low buzz hums against the desk's scratched surface. Your phone lights up, displaying a blurry snapshot of your golden retriever with his tongue lolling, paws mid-air, chasing a tiny duck moments before you scrambled to stop him.

A message pops over your wallpaper.

ekko: hello?? fifteen minutes to the interview and youre not replying

You already know. No need for reminders. It's all that's swirling inside your head right no for the past hours.

The interview.

The questions you rehearsed in your head for two hours straight, probably just to end up reading them off the page anyway. Your eyes flicker down to the clipboard resting on the desk. Notes are neat. Painfully neat. The fear of butchering names or mixing up stats slowed your hand to a crawl.

Some questions feel solid. A few even sharp. But most? You're wincing just at the fought of these weak fillers you'd hate being asked yourself. Maybe you should cross them out.

The panic presses up in your chest again, mounting with every line your eyes scan.

ekko: i would have walked you but i cant right now ekko: meet the coach first ekko: he doesnt like people wandering on the rink during practice ekko: ill come for you later good luck

I'll need more than just luck. Realization hits you.

You grab your notes in one hand, tucking the clipboard securely under your arm. With your free hand, you fumble for the small, black recorder, fingers brushing the cool metal just as you reach for your termos. You almost forget your lucky, yellow highlighter. Probably it won't help today.

Juggling these things feels like a circus act, but you manage to clasp them tight enough to keep from dropping anything.

You push the doors with your side and then close them with your knee. Lessons are over, the hallways are mostly empty, students rushing back to their dorms or the college fancy parking lot. You should be going past the gate right now, then turn right and go straight to your dorms and wrap yourself with a blanket, but no.

This time you're heading straight into the rink, a place you've never set foot before.

The icy air sneak in. You left your coat back in a booth, but that's not your deepest concern right now. Cold bites at your arms, creeping under your sleeves as you climbed the stairs toward the glassy wall that frame the entrance to the two-level arena.

Your warm breath fogs into bursts, even when you'd pushed the heavy, modern doors and stepped inside.

It's no warmer here.

Rink is nothing like the comforting silence of your booth. The air is even crispier, sharper - stings your bare thighs just above where your high boots ends. You shiver, being used to stale ambience of library, thick with paper and dust. The scent of cold metal, fresh floor cleaner and heavy smell of hockey gear worn through countless games and practices makes you stop in the middle.

You hear the scrape of blades cutting the ice, mixed with shouts and clashing sticks. Practice seems to begin without a coach.

Your fingers brush cool metal railings that line the walkway to further parts of the arena. You follow them up, the sounds of your footsteps echoing into a yawing ceiling above you.

As you go, you can see how much space is taken by the ice-cold rink with navy-colored benches around it. It stretches wide, giving the players room to maneuver.

Ice shimmers beneath angled reflectors. You can't help but tilt your head up - rows of fresh seats for a better view, college flags ripple quietly and the scoreboard looms overhead.

You swallow hard, the clipboard digging into your side, the weight of your nerves heavier than the dread of upcoming midterms.

You shake yourself, pushing past the intimidating image of player seemingly born with skates on - passing, shooting, shouting. Your eyes sweep the rink, searching for the coach's office. At the far right, a narrow corridor opens into a small nook that lead into another hallway.

You spot the silver nameplaque.

Vander Warwick. Head Coach.

You clear your throat before knocking. The door swings open soundlessly.

"Good afternoon," you begin, your confidence already diminished. "I'm here for the interview. I'm professor Heimerdinger's student."

Coach Vander glances up, his finger hovering over the keyboard of his laptop, a pause. The office around him is all about straight, sharp lines, navies and steel grey furnitures. Everything's brand new.

"Right. Heimerdinger's kid." He runs a hand through his hair and tugs his cap forward with block letters: PILTOVER COACH. "Ellie, right? You know the drill. Rink's open for you."

Your mouth opens before your brain is ready.

"Actually-uh, I'm here on Ellie's behalf," you say. It comes faster than intended, failing to match his steady tone. "If... that's okay."

His eyes lift fully from the screen, studying you a beat longer this time as if he's searching for dissimilarities between you and Ellie.

Looks like he finds them as he pushed himself back on his chair.

"That's new," he finally says, voice gruff but not unkind. "I've told her not to go rough with them. When she'll start to listen, this kid..." He sighs and starts to look for something in his drawers.

Eventually, he slides a clipboard toward you.

"Sign this-and the visitor log on the next page. Liability, rink rules, the usual. Means you won't sue me if you take a puck to the face."

...What?

"Which won't likely happen," Vander adds, like it makes it any better. "Standard precautious. Being on the rink during practice without any protectors is always a risk. Hope you know that, kid."

You bite on your lips before stepping forward. You take the black pan from him and scribble your name on the waiver. Your hair slides into your face as you lean over, trying not to smear the ink with your creamy sleeve.

"So... Ellie resigned?" Vander asks, closing his laptop with a soft clack. "Thought she liked her sports column."

"She didn't resign. She's just-sick, I think." You fumble with your clipboard, avoiding eye contact. "Professor Heimerdinger wanted the handoff to go smoothly. So... I'm here instead. I'll send her whatever I gather."

"Huh, that's a pity. I liked her. She took her job very seriously," one of his eyebrows goes up. "Well, before you start, read the rink rules. You journalists tend to charge in like you're on deadline."

That's not wrong, actually.

"And watch your teeth, by the way. That's advice, not a warning."

Great. So not only are you winging a last-minute interview with hockey team, but you're also apparently in mortal danger? How much does a dentist appointment cost right now?

"Yes, coach."

"Keep that attitude up and maye we'll recruit you," he chuckles, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt. "Go sit over on the benches, read the code. Practice starts in five. You sure you want to wait here?" He puts on his huge coach and zip it with one fast move.

"I think I'm sure. I'll wait."

Get my head around all of it and try not to pass out in the process.

"Fine." He gathers his things and hangs a lanyard with a whistle around his neck. "Try not to distract anyone. And for the record, Ellie knew what was a fair game for publication. I hope you and your editor will be just as careful. I don't need drama in my locker room, or outside it."

Great. Well, I am the interviewer and the editor now. All in one convenient, panicking package.

Just perfect.

"Of course." You awkwardly juggle your stuff, tucking the recorder under your arm to free up your hands as he passes you printed rules.

Where are you, Ellie?

"You can go now. Good luck, kid. Write something good. I like a decent read after practice."

You give him a stiff nod. No pressure.

You mumble something resembling thanks and make your way toward the side benches.

The sharp slice of skates on the ice and the echo of shouted calls hit your ears again. You walk past the boards, the translucent wall rising between the rink and the empty stands. Dropping onto the icy bench, the cold seeps straight through your skirt to your butt.

How do you cope up with all this shit?

Your head kept down, you open the paper.

PILTOVER COLLEGE ATHETLIC DEPARTMENT Rink Access Guidelines for Press, Guests and Affiliates 1. Do not interfere with coaching staff, players or building operations during practice or scheduled games. 2. No filming or audio recording without the express consent of the individual being recorded. 3. Respect the locker room and equipment areas considered to be private spaces. 4. Rink-side acces id granted at your own risk. The College is not liable for injuries, equipment damage, or physical contact due to stray pucks, player movement, or coaching activities. 5. Avoid flash photography and loud conversation near the rink.

Your eyes skim the list. Rule number four sticks in your mind the most.

At your own risk? I don't even want to be here.

As if the rink wants to prove a point, a loud crack of impact explodes just feet away. You jump, nearly dropping the rules, your heart pounding heavily in your chest as you whip your head up - just in time to see a blur of motion and steam where someone's slammed into the plexiwall.

Number O2. Sevika. Broad-shouldered, her one arm wrapped in that neon-reactive sleeve you've seen flashing in every reel and repost. She doesn't even glance your way, her jaw tight in focus, already skating off like it's just another Tuesday.

You blink, wide-eyed. Paper still in your hands with blood thudding in your ears.

"Get your ass here, Sevika!"

The voice slices like a blade, unmistakably done with someone's shit.

You try not to look really, your questions still needing correction, however your eyes go up anyway.

Vi. Number 09 skates toward Sevika, jaw clenched the same as her teammate's with that same coiled energy you've only ever seen in a bad footage. She flicker her stick up, pointing it at the defensive zone.

"Where's your position, huh?"

Sevika leans on her stick like she's got all the time in the world. "What's the matter, captain? Someone not listening to you for once?"

Vi's mouth tightens even more.

"Don't start."

"You started, Vi," Sevika snaps back. "Barking orders like you didn't just show up ten minutes late with your jersey half-on."

"Fully dressed or not, still left you eating ice," Vi fires, sliding a little closer.

"Back in positions. Both of you. Now."

Vander's strict voice snaps through the arena, reverberating off plexiglass as he walks out of his office. The rink falls so silent, you can hear his boots thudding against the floor as he strides closer.

"We have a guest today," his voice hit almost like a warning.

And just like that, every head turns toward you, dozens of eyes locking on you.

Exactly, what you'd been trying to avoid.

A voice from the ice, you can't place who, chimes in with a low whistle. "Someone's feeling hot, guys."

Your face burns. You immediately tug your sleeves down over your frozen hands. Instant feeling of regret not having turned back for your coat that would hide your short skirt too.

"Behave. All of you."

The grip on your clipboard feels tighter now, your body shrinking.

Just go after that puck or something.

Your fingers fumble around the edge of the rule sheet as the silence stretches out. You should have sat lower, hide behind the boards, you think, two or three scrapes of skate movement breaking the silence.

Move, please.

But your pleads are not heard.

Pink-haired captain looks at you, small smirk tugging at her lips. Then, casually, she raises her stick, resting it against her shoulder.

"Guess I'll have trouble keeping that order, coach," she says, loud enough to echo.

A few of her teammates snort under their breath. Sevika doesn't laugh, she just lets out a dry scoff, rolls her eyes and skates off, muttering something you can't really catch.

Doesn't matter, because your heart's just collapsed.

"Let's warm up." Their coach folds his arms on his chest. "Vi. Additional ten laps for your big mouth."

You jolt again, taken aback by the command.

Vi smirks to herself, fixing her gloves, almost proud of yourself.

"Don't make me double it."

You watch as Vi pushes off the ice with long, confident strides, skating past the clustered players with an effortless grace, apparently starting her routine.

Her team doesn't look surprised, just amused to her indifference, allowing her to go first to catch up with them later.

She leans into the curve, pink hair brightening the pale ice and just when she's near the bench you're sitting on, her eyes seize you up with a self-pleased hum.

"Totally worth it."

You press your knees together.

You're not going to interview her. That's not gonna happen.

You could swear your butt's frozen solid from sitting on the bench through over two-hour practice. Everyone is gone to change, so at this point, you push yourself from your sit with a wince and drift toward the wall near the locker room doors.

Not too close, taking Vander's rule number three pretty seriously.

You manage to calm down during their practice. After the first half, you actually abandon the idea of rereading your questions over and over again and observe them gliding through the glassfield.

Maybe, you'll draw something from it, you think.

Nobody since then really pay attention to your presence, which you are grateful for and nobody comment about how your eyes were following move's of certain someone.

Player 09 is immaculate. You don't have to be pro to realize that. A perfect source to gather the material from, but... There are always some buts. And, the captain of the female hockey team doesn't seem like a good starter subject for you to test your wobbly interviewing skills.

You don't think she even blinked when Sevika tried to body-crash her when she was about to take a shot.

If that's how she is on the rink, what's she like off it?

This aggressive confidence, talk and muscle.

Testing that firsthand? Yeah, no thanks.

So, when Sevika goes out first out of the locker room, her sport bag casually shoved over her shoulder, you push yourself off the wall, gripping the thermos tighter.

"Sorry - Sevika, right? I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. Really short ones."

You try hard not to let your voice falter when she doesn't stop walking, creating a distance between you both.

"Interviewed by a mascotte? You got a death wish or something?"

"Five minutes. Please."

"It's not a playground, freshman."

You want to protest, correcting her you're sophomore, but she pulls out her phone like you're no more than an irritating background noice.

"You'll have to forgive Sevika," casual, amused voice comes again this day. "Her pride's still doing snow angels somewhere near the attack zone where she fell."

You turn just in time to see Sevika freeze mid-step. She doesn't bother looking up from her phone.

"First of all, there's no snow on the rink. Second of all-" she lifts her hand, slow and deliberate, her middle finger shows up, "go fuck yourself."

"Gladly, Sev. Gladly." She tosses a respond, not really offended.

Their exchange make you bite down on the inside of your cheek and lower your eyes, too aware of how much ignorance she fed you, as the rest of the team starts to pass by, heading out of the locker room. No one stops. Not even a glance your way. Cleats clack on the floor, laughter and tired chatter trailing behind them.

That's all for today, you say bitterly in your head.

You shift your weight and sigh.

Good job, the scholarship is yours.

You make your way toward the exit doors, ready to cut your losses.

But then her voice hooks you halfway.

"What? You've already got your answers?"

You stop, then turn slowly.

"Not quite."

Vi looks better than she does on the reels you sometimes watch after the game later at night.

Her pink hair is even more vivid up close, damp strands falling across her eyebrow, the rest pushed back. The hoodie hangs loose on her frame, shoulder broad beneath the fabric and sleeves shoved up just enough to show the defined line of her forearms, which feels to you unfairly attractive.

She stands in front of you with her arms crossed, weight shifted to one side.

Oh.

Your palms are grossly clammy. You wipe them against your skirt in a nervous loop, but the more you try to get rid of the sweat, the worse it seems to get.

She reaches out her hand, but you just lower your gaze after catching a glimpse of her powder blue eyes.

"Fuck the introduction part, huh?" she scoffs, rather amused than annoyed, and shoves her hands into the big pocket of her navy hoodie. "I'm used to journalists who at least tell me their name."

You stand there awkwardly, your fingers gripping the recorder tighter. "Uh-yeah, I'm (Y/N)."

"Vi," she gives you a small nod.

"I know- I mean, everyone knows, probably," you stumble, nerves rattling in your throat. "And I saw the back of your jersey too, so... yeah." You lick your chapped lips. "Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions? Just... a couple?"

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth and how pathetic they sound and how the silence that follows stretches tight.

Then-

She leans in, her lips almost brushing your ear, voice hushed with a playful edge and you swear you might forget how to breathe. "I'd love to, but looks like I wasn't your first choice. Don't know if I can swallow it, cupcake."

Her tone is half-joke, half-offended, and the nickname feels almost provocative - next time, choose wiser, causing you to loosen up your grip.

Your fingers lurch out in a chaotic grab, but the recorder slips through your hands, tumbling down toward the floor.

"Shit," you crouch quickly, your cheeks burning even hotter as you snatch it before it can shatter to pieces.

You straighten up, swallowing the lump in your throat, and Vi's grin only deepens.

You don't know what scares you more. The fact you almost broke an expensive device you could only afford to pay off with your scholarship money you don't have, or the way her shoulder brushed yours as she walked by.

note from Emi: Hey my loves 💌 I hope you're doing okay! I was struggling with this chapter. characterization of Vi scared me off a little bit, didn't want to mess her up, but here it is! Still, I'd love to read a feedback from you ❤️ And, no banner since I used some of the free stock pictures but used AI to combine them and decided to take it off. Thanks for helping me rethink that. I hope I'll manage to create something different (my digital art skills suck... anyway...) Take care 🥰

taglist: @sycamore55, @baylegend6, @summerwriting, @tsujifreya, @sevikas-whore, @jnksvelvet, @eriiwaiii2, @wooziil, @bluminescent-moon, @thxtmarvelchick, @klallx @freakyjorker @lqqkis, @chellecunttt, @cottagegirlworld-blog, @sapphicscripts, @spicedcherrylolli, @cucumbernimbus, @sludg3, @veoomvroom, @oidloid

[fellominaarcher]

2 HOUSES, 1 FAMILY - Karina x fem!reader

→ Two couples. Four disasters. Zero boundaries.

EPISODE 1 — Welcome to the Block!

SYNOPSIS

→ When Yunjin and Chaewon move into the house next door, chaos immediately follows as Y/N and Karina "help" with the unloading, mostly by bickering and dodging real work.

→ author's note: I'm sorry if this doesn't match up to your expectations

──────────────────────

— COLD OPEN

EXT. KARINA AND Y/N’S HOUSE — SEORAE GROVE, SEOCHO-GU — LATE MORNING

It was forty minutes away from noon in Seorae Grove, a quiet neighborhood in Seocho-gu where tall, modern two-story houses stood in neat rows. The streets were clean, the hedges trimmed, and everything smelled faintly of wealth and pine.

Out front of one such house stood Karina and her wife, Y/N, loitering near their black Hyundai Tucson parked in the driveway.

“Are they arriving?” Karina asked, exasperation lacing her voice as she cast a sideways glance at Y/N.

Y/N nudged a small rock with her sandal, not bothering to meet her wife’s gaze. “Do you see a moving truck anywhere, Rina?” she replied dryly, one brow arched.

This was just how they communicated—mildly sarcastic, always borderline bickering, and perfectly in sync.

Karina said nothing at first, but raised an eyebrow in return and crossed her arms. She stared out at the empty street, unimpressed. “We’ve been standing here for at least fifteen minutes, Y/N.”

Y/N sighed, a little dramatically. “Just a bit longer. My sister and her wife are moving in next door—it’s our duty to celebrate this... significant event.” She trailed off mid-sentence, eyes lighting up. “Oh! They’re here!”

A white moving truck appeared at the end of the street, a white sedan leading the way. Y/N straightened with visible excitement and waved both arms as they approached. “They’re here!”

At that moment, Karina’s phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and held it to her ear. “Perfect. A call from the office. You,” she pointed at Y/N with a raised brow, “entertain your sister and your in-law. I’ll be inside. Bye!”

And just like that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house.

[Marriage Days Count: Karina and Y/N have been married for 2,289 days.]

INT. YUNJIN AND CHAEWON’S NEW HOUSE — LIVING ROOM

Yunjin and Chaewon waddled into the empty space, each carrying a box. Their arms were sore and their patience thin, but their eyes gleamed with excitement. As soon as the boxes hit the floor, they looked at each other with growing smiles and embraced tightly.

Yunjin sighed into Chaewon’s shoulder. “Finally. A good home to live my whole life with you.”

Chaewon nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Just... you, me, and your sister living next door.”

Her tone was light, but there was a hint of hesitation underneath.

“I knooow,” Yunjin groaned, dragging the word out. “You already know Y/N, and Karina unni is chill.”

Chaewon gave a tight smile, unconvinced.

From the hallway came a clatter and the sound of boxes being awkwardly kicked along the floor.

Y/N entered the room, panting lightly, pushing a stack of boxes with her foot. Her face was flushed but she still managed to give them a big thumbs-up.

She was clearly thrilled to be involved.

[Marriage Days Count: Yunjin and Chaewon have been married for 152 days.]

Fifteen minutes passed.

Y/N had helped carry in a few boxes but mostly the food and lighter items and had now settled comfortably on the sofa, scrolling through her phone with a bag of chips in her lap. Chips that definitely did not belong to her.

In the kitchen, Yunjin meticulously arranged appliances like she was curating an art exhibit. Being the executive chef she is.

Meanwhile, Chaewon knelt on the living room floor with an IKEA manual in one hand and a plank of wood in the other.

She glanced over her shoulder and cleared her throat. “Um, some help, please?”

Y/N didn’t react. Chaewon cleared her throat again, louder.

Finally, Y/N looked up, blinking. “Huh?”

Chaewon gestured toward the unassembled shelf. “Mind helping me set this up?”

Y/N gave a sheepish grin. “Let me rest for a bit. I was sweating. Plus, you just moved in. No rush, right?”

Chaewon opened her mouth to respond, but the doorbell interrupted her.

She placed the shelf part down gently and moved to open the door.

Karina stood on the porch, holding up a white-and-blue tote bag with a bright, polite smile. “Can I come in?”

Chaewon stepped aside to let her in. “Sure.”

“Here’s your housewarming gift,” Karina said, handing her the tote.

It was a clearly branded freebie from a bank’s wellness event. The material was thin, the logo loud.

Chaewon forced a smile. “Thank you… It’s... very modern.”

She took the bag with both hands, feeling the unmistakable crinkle of cheap promotional fabric.

──────────────────────

CONFESSIONAL — INT. CHAEWON AND YUNJIN’S HOUSE

Chaewon sat on the couch, legs crossed, eyes on the camera. “I don’t know how Y/N managed to convince Yunjin to move in next door,” she said flatly. “This is... interesting.”

Her gaze shifted off-camera briefly, toward the freebie tote in the corner.

Then she looked back, expression unreadable.

──────────────────────

EXT. OUT FRONT OF YUNJIN AND CHAEWON'S HOUSE — AFTERNOON

An hour had passed since Yunjin and Chaewon officially began moving in. The furniture was being unloaded from the moving truck, and the front yard had become a small chaos of boxes, cushions, and shouted instructions.

Near the porch, Y/N stood with her arms crossed, occasionally waving or gesturing like a low-budget traffic controller.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t tilt it like that! You’ll lose balance carrying it!” Y/N called out, squinting critically at the movers struggling with a TV shelf.

One of the men glanced at her, squinting back in disbelief, then shook his head and continued hauling the shelf into the house without a word.

From across the driveway, the familiar shuffling of slippers announced Karina’s arrival. She stepped out of their house, arms folded, expression unimpressed as she took in the scene: Y/N standing there micromanaging while doing exactly zero heavy lifting.

“Go help your sister unpack or something,” Karina said, her voice sharp over the noise of boxes scraping and movers grunting. She mimicked Y/N’s frantic hand-waving motions with exaggerated flair. “Instead of just standing there doing this, that.”

Y/N sneered and turned to her wife, gesturing lazily toward the truck. “Eh, why don’t you help them instead?”

Karina gave her a long, slow once-over before raising her hands and wiggling her fingers in the air. Her nails gleamed a delicate light blue-white in the afternoon sun.

“I just got my nails done yesterday,” she pouted, her voice dramatically soft.

Y/N eyed her nails with a judgmental squint, her face full of betrayal. But instead of arguing, she huffed and returned to helping the workers by telling them where not to put things.

Meanwhile, Yunjin and Chaewon emerged from their new house, scanning the front lawn for the next batch of boxes to carry inside. They were halfway down the steps when a new voice cut through the afternoon buzz.

Just then, from across the street, a familiar figure approached.

Ms. Ko, the sixty-year-old retired school principal, was striding over, waving a hand enthusiastically in the air.

“Oi! Karina! Y/N! Looks busy out here!” she called, a wide grin splitting her face.

Y/N's smile faltered. Under her breath, she muttered, “Not you again,” through gritted teeth, sending Ms. Ko a side-eye full of dread.

Still, both Karina and Y/N quickly pasted on polite smiles and greeted her in unison.

“Hello, Ms. Ko.”

──────────────────────

CONFESSIONAL — INT. KARINA AND Y/N'S HOUSE, HOME OFFICE

Karina sat behind her tidy desk, arms folded, looking directly into the camera.

“Ms. Ko is the neighborhood's self-appointed... information officer,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “One time, Y/N and I were arguing in the driveway over something important, like whether the stray cat we're feeding should be named ‘Vladimir’ or ‘Prof. Whisker’—”

She paused, deadpan.

“Ms. Ko comes marching over, asking if we’re getting divorced because we were 'shouting about the disagreement of naming a child.'”

Karina blinked slowly at the camera, her voice flat. “It was the name of a cat.”

She threw up her hands, leaning back in her chair with an exhausted sigh.

──────────────────────

BACK TO SCENE — EXT. OUT FRONT OF YUNJIN AND CHAEWON'S HOUSE

Ms. Ko chuckled lightly at the new faces and the familiar ones clustered near the porch.

“We’ve got new faces here! And who are you lovely people, if I may ask?” she said, turning her attention to Yunjin and Chaewon.

Chaewon stepped forward with a practiced, polite smile. “I’m Chaewon, and this is my wife, Yunjin. We just officially moved in today,” she said proudly, gesturing toward Yunjin.

Yunjin nodded brightly, adding, “I’m also Y/N’s younger sister!” She pointed between herself and Y/N, grinning like she was unveiling a grand secret.

Ms. Ko’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. She leaned in, squinting hard, as if trying to find the resemblance through sheer will.

“Oooohh, you don’t look alike at all,” she said, peering even closer. Then, without missing a beat, she added cheerfully, “Yunjin looks more okay compared to Y/N.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

Y/N's glare could’ve set fire to concrete, and Yunjin’s smile faltered into a confused half-frown.

Ms. Ko, oblivious, waved a hand airily. “Ah, I can’t stay too long! I’ve got a dating show to catch up on, Yunseo is talking to another man in the show,” she said with a little giggle, excitement twinkling in her eyes.

“I’ll see you all again!” she called over her shoulder, already retreating back across the street, disappearing into her house like a mischievous ghost.

The four women watched her go in stunned silence.

Finally, Chaewon broke it. “By the way,” she said, turning toward Yunjin with a slight frown, “I can’t find my Sour Patch Kids or my pizza-flavored Pringles.”

Her voice had the distinct tone of someone realizing a crime had been committed.

Y/N, suspiciously silent, suddenly found the sidewalk, the tree, the clouds, literally anything else fascinating to look at.

Karina, standing right next to her, noticed immediately.

“We all know what happened to your snacks,” Karina said with a sigh, flashing a knowing smile toward Chaewon and Yunjin. “The answer’s right in front of your eyes.”

She patted Y/N’s shoulder with faux affection. “Anyway, I’m heading back inside. I have a monthly report to finish.”

And with that, she turned and strolled away, leaving Y/N frozen in place under the accusing stares of her sister and sister-in-law.

──────────────────────

INT. YUNJIN AND CHAEWON'S HOUSE — EVENING

Hours had passed. The house was no longer a hollow, echoing space. It had transformed into a warm home, filled with bits and pieces of Yunjin and Chaewon’s lives.

With the help of the movers, most of the heavy lifting had been done. Y/N carried lighter boxes inside, munching on stolen snacks while explaining the "neighborhood politics" to Chaewon like it was compulsory.

Karina? Well, she floated in and out, sweeping half-heartedly, placing a few decorative pieces here and there, then mentally calculating how much it would cost to “refresh” their own house's aesthetic. Priorities.

Now the space was halfway complete and already felt like a reflection of Yunjin and Chaewon:

A milk-colored couch draped with a light blue blanket.

Simple IKEA shelves lined with Yunjin’s prized cookbooks, framed wedding photos, and Chaewon’s oversized ring light, always ready for impromptu selfies.

And, of course, Yunjin’s precious kitchen—designed with the same precision as her restaurant, Dear Roseburn. Every pot, knife, and pastel-colored chopping board had its place. Each item was dangerously cute.

Chaewon’s idea, actually.

Meanwhile, Y/N was just happy to be near the kitchen toys, bubbling with an excitement usually reserved for dogs seeing their leash.

It was nearing six in the evening, the sky outside burning in soft hues of orange and purple. Time for the older couple to leave the newlyweds to their first night at home.

“Welcome to your new home, Yunjin and Chaewon!” Karina said cheerily, standing by the door with Y/N holding it open. “If you're having a housewarming dinner soon, don't forget to call us over!” she added, laughing a little too awkwardly.

Y/N gave Karina a weird look.

Inviting yourself already?

Yunjin and Chaewon, exhausted but smiling, waved them off.

“Yes, yes! I'll cook something nice for you both soon. Sorry I can't do a dinner tonight! We're beat!” Yunjin apologized, still waving.

And with that, Karina and Y/N made their way back next door. Karina unlocked the door with a quick twist of the key, both slipping into the familiar scent and neatness of their own home.

──────────────────────

INT. YUNJIN AND CHAEWON'S HOUSE — MOMENTS LATER

Chaewon flopped onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, tucking her bob hair behind her ear.

“Finally,” she muttered, flashing Yunjin a small smile.

“Finally, a home with you,” Yunjin beamed, entirely missing the pointed tone of her wife’s complaint. She plopped down beside Chaewon, their knees bumping.

──────────────────────

CONFESSIONAL — LIVING ROOM

In front of the still-cluttered coffee table, Chaewon sat cross-legged, her body angled slightly to the right—her "good side" for the camera, of course.

“I meant it. Finally,” Chaewon deadpanned, tossing a thumb over her shoulder toward the chaos behind her. “My sister-in-laws were... a little bit of a help. Y/N was actually the biggest help, but mostly because she got excited about the pastel knives.”

She sighed softly, glancing off-camera.

“But our snacks... Yeah. Rest in peace.”

──────────────────────

INT. KARINA AND Y/N'S HOUSE — BEDROOM

Their master bedroom was a soft mix of lavender and grey—elegant, modern, and smelling faintly of the lavender candle Karina always lit depending on her mood.

If Karina was upset, she switched to the scented "Red Virgin Sacrifice" candle and the scented candles will be lit by Y/N one hour before Karina returned home from office.

Karina sat cross-legged on their bed, scrolling through a spreadsheet on her iPad, looking very pleased with herself and her young CFO status.

One of the many things to justify—she justified—her Penny Pincher tendencies.

The door creaked open and Y/N entered, happily munching on a big bag of strawberry-flavored mini wafers.

Karina glanced up, arching an eyebrow.

"What’s that?" she asked softly, pausing her scrolling.

Y/N popped another wafer into her mouth and grinned.

"This? This is food. Something that’s tragically rare in this house," she said dramatically, holding up the bag.

Karina frowned. "Don’t eat sweets in the bedroom. We'll get ants." She pointed her stylus pen at Y/N like a warning sword.

“I’ll clean up, Jjim-Jjim," Y/N sang out sweetly, using the special nickname she reserved only for Karina. A name she forbade anyone from using and defended jealously. "I got this from our sisters next door."

Karina's eyes narrowed.

“You mean you stole it from them? They just moved in, Y/N!”

Unashamed, Y/N nodded proudly and popped another wafer into her mouth, winking.

Karina chuckled and held out her hand.

"Give me some. But if we get crumbs on the bed, you're cleaning up."

Y/N straightened dramatically and bowed.

“Yes, my queen!”

Karina laughed softly, patting the empty space beside her. Y/N leapt onto the bed like an overexcited kid, settling in close and feeding Karina a wafer.

The room filled with the easy, quiet sound of laughter and stolen snack, the kind that comes from being married for six comfortable, ridiculous years.

Outside, the last traces of the sunset faded into night. The street was still, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Yunjin and Chaewon’s house stood proudly beside Karina and Y/N’s, their windows warm with light.

— EPISODE CLOSE

EXT. SEORAE GROVE - NIGHT

—NAVIGATION

> 2H 1F main m.list | > main m.list

> Next episode | > random Pinterest meme I found

— TAGLIST:

@minaripenguu @julieroseburn @ficmarathon @yuzeemin @1luvkarina @chocolatestrawberrykryptonite @somedaydream @aliceiwk @whatarewereally1111111 @yuyuy90 @xochitlisbest @jaythegirlkisser @ral-nessieee @sbbflowers

[bluemantics]

JULANCE DAY 11: STORMS

There’s a storm on the horizon. Lance can feel it deep in the marrow of his bones, that slight crackling of energy signifying a downpour. He loves the feeling right before a storm, the humidity and charge and anticipation of it all. Over the course of this war, he’s learned that he thrives in that spot, the fear and panic associated with a before moment.

When the team turns to him, right as they’re about to enter a battle, and asks, Lance, what do we do?

Somehow, he almost always has an answer. He’ll relay his formation to Keith and watch as the black paladin takes the violent, sudden plunge. It’s breathtaking to witness the lightning finally break, wind curling in spirals and lifting them higher than Lance ever thought possible. Battle becomes less of a tornado and more of a precision shot. Keith and Lance have become less rivals and more teammates. Friends, even, especially under the cover of late nights.

The liminal space nighttime affords breaks new grounds for them. As they do paperwork and review reports, their exhaustion lowers their walls, opens their conversations up in front of dark, star-studded windows. On lighter days, they laugh over memories like Keith trying to fight the Arusians or their awful pool attempt. Other times, they bare their hearts more meaningfully. Lance opens up about his family, missing his siblings and his parents, wondering if the war has changed him beyond recognizability. Keith first shares his lack of family back on Earth in very short detail. Most of the team knows the basics; Keith finding out about his alien heritage exposed some of the less-fine details. Then, however, he delves into more.

Keith isn’t a storyteller. His words are blunt, simple, and honest. Still, Lance has always had a vivid imagination, and Lance can picture it all as Keith describes it (and then some).

A young boy, with only a father, both living out of a somewhat-ramshackle desert home. Eating quick microwaveable foods, but thinking they were “awesome,” because your dad said the other firefighters ate them too. Being somewhat of a loner at school, too shy to talk to the other kids, and maybe too odd to be approached.

Getting pulled out of class. Learning about the fire that killed him.

“And Allura tells me I’m the guardian of fire, when we find the lions,” Keith remarks with a bitter laugh. “I was 17, and even then, I knew that was fucked up.”

It sticks with Lance, makes him hurt. Every ounce of his effort goes into holding himself back from wrapping Keith tight in his arms and forcing him to stay, to feel comfort for once.

They find solace in one another, in the blanket-fort security only late hours can provide.

“You were strong anyways, red.”

“Did we have another option?”

Lance thought things were going well, for them. Keith and Lance, side by side, chasing greatness together like a story out of his favorite childhood movies.

And then he senses it: the storm. It comes on slowly, a few warnings happening in a row right before the flood. He should’ve known better than to feel settled in a war, alongside a partner known to run at the start of a drizzle.

First: the injury.

“Lance, Lance, Lance,” Hunk’s voice shrieks over the comms. They’re on the ground on a horrible planet, one made of desert sand colored bright orange. Over and over, they have to wipe their visors as they engage Galra forces, clearing dust and debris. It’s so hot that Lance can barely breathe between his shots.

“What, buddy?” Lance shouts back, alarmed at the fear in his voice. Hunk’s consistent phobias haven’t vanished, but he has become more sturdy with time. It takes more than a small incident to shake him, now.

“It’s Keith!” Hunk continues as Lance kicks away a sentry and clubs another. “He’s hurt!”

The world stops. The universe stops. For barely a second, Lance lets the words sink in, lets the reality crash over him. He wants nothing more than to run right to wherever Keith is and grab him, drag him to Red, and zip back to the castle. Or to scream his lungs out.

Then, he feels a tugging on his arm, and looks slightly downward. Pidge is there, eyes wide and worried, and fuck, Keith is down. He has to make the calls. Lance can’t just rush toward him with fury and fear.

“Keep going, Pidge,” Lance orders, patting her shoulder and sending her off. She nods sharply, a calculating but rage-filled expression overtaking her features as she spins back in the fray. To hunk, he continues, “Get Keith back to the castle and hand him off to Coran! We clean up here, we get out, and he’ll be fine. Damage assessment?”

Hunk, loyal and kind, ignores the way his voice breaks on the last phrase. “Long slashing wound to lateral thorax!”

Lance quells the flash of emotion that threatens to consume him. “Go, Hunk!”

“Roger.”

And Lance hates himself as the comms isolate to Pidge and Allura’s cross battle talk. He should be there, by Keith. He wishes he was there. Realistically, though, he knows he made the logical, correct call— Hunk is much stronger than him anyways, and Keith won’t be alone. Lance trusts Hunk with every fiber of his being.

That still doesn’t stop him from cutting through Galra soldiers like his life depends on it, anger and frustration channeled into expert shooting.

They clean up. Everyone gathers by Keith’s pod to wish him good luck on healing, but they trickle out after a few minutes. Healing pods have become routine after their months of fighting. Keith especially is no stranger to them.

Lance only steps away for ten minutes, to take a fast shower. He returns to wait by Keith’s pod for the remaining four hours, an Altean library tablet propped on his knee. It’s better than watching Keith, too still and too pale. When the pod finally opens, he jumps to his feet to support Keith. He’s grateful they’re alone, at first.

“Let me,” he demands, supporting Keith’s back and shoulders with an arm looping around him. Keith, for once, accepts the help and lets Lance lead him out of the pod with trembling legs. He feels cold to the touch, but he can stand. Thank God.

“Lance?” Keith blinks, clearly still out of it. Lance clasps his free hand in Keith’s.

“I’m here, samurai.”

“Aren’t you always?” Keith snorts. It stirs up warm feelings in Lance, so at odds with Keith’s state.

“Shut up,” Lance mutters, because he’s although he matured, he hasn’t really changed.

“I was so useless,” Keith groans out of nowhere. The statement makes Lance freeze, a deep frown taking over his features.

“You weren’t. We all get hurt.” Keith just huffs in his hold, shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t have made that call. You did good. Better, than I would.”

A pang threatens to bowl Lance over. He stays standing, steady, if only for Keith.

“We don’t know that.”

“We do, though.”

Maybe Lance should have seen the sparks even back then. Perhaps he was willingly blind. Instead of continuing the conversation, though, he instructed Keith to get rest.

“You’ll make more sense in the morning, Kogane.”

Second: the unthinkable.

Shiro is back. He’s alive. The whole team rejoices, eyes bright, relief and love palpable. Pidge practically climbs all over Shiro, desperate to learn what happened to him. Hunk is beaming. Coran claps a hand over his heart. Allura is practically giddy.

Keith? He’s quiet. Keith engages briefly with Shiro, overwhelmed and happy and desperate to see him again. Then, after their reunion, he retreats slightly. Lance isn’t sure what occurred between the brothers, and isn’t able to hide his shock at the brevity of their conversation.

“Don’t you want to chat with Shiro more? He’s back, man!” Lance prods Keith with his finger while they sit at the edge of the room.

“I don’t want him to ask about my leading,” Keith responds shortly. He’s staring at Shiro from the walls, expression unreadable.

“What are you talking about? We did great.” Lance pushes his shoulder gently with his fist.

“I’m not looking for your input, Lance,” Keith snaps.

Which, ouch.

“That’s not what these past few weeks have shown,” Lance shoots back, pissed off at the quick dismissal.

“Stop getting in my business.” Keith stands abruptly and makes his way toward the doors, every line of his body sharp and tense. The shadow he leaves behind threatens to envelope Lance, a cloud of invisible smoke.

He supposes these kinds of conversations are strictly reserved for twilight.

Lastly: Lance.

It’s his fault. Of course it is! Every problem Lance has woven himself into has been with his speedy tongue, too energetic and fast-paced, speaking before he can fathom the consequences.

But he’d just been so used to talking to Keith. Sure, there’d been that one dismissal earlier. Still, though, he feels he can tell Keith anything. This is the man who learned every member of Lance’s family over reports, for goodness’s sake. So he approaches the black paladin with his insecurities.

Six paladins, five lions. Lance is hardly the best at combat or mechanics. If he has to step down, he’ll be fine.

Keith reassures him with some strange platitudes (who says “leave the math to Pidge” as a means of reassurance?) and Lance is grateful for the effort. Keith’s hand on his shoulder is unusual, while not unwelcome.

The strangeness of it all doesn’t leave him. Later that night, he tries to sleep, and can’t seem to fall fully into it. He’s restless with the day’s hubbub.

Suddenly, he hears something in the hall: soft tapping, a light grunt. Awareness crawls through his body in a sudden wave of cold air. He draws himself up to a seated position in the dark, bare feet touching the ground as he hears the tapping grow louder, then quieter.

Then it vanishes entirely.

Lance knows what direction those footsteps came from. Only two rooms lie at the end of the hall: Pidge’s and Keith’s. Pidge rarely moved once she found a perch for the night. That leaves one troubled leader, who Lance knows like the back of his hand. His decision isn’t fully thought out before he throws his robe on and runs down the hallway, chasing after those footsteps.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lance grumbles under his breath, turning brightly lit corridors and ignoring how the light burns his dark-adjusted eyes. It doesn’t take long to arrive at his destination: the emergency pods. Ten line the wall, but only one has a duffel bag and a dumbass beside it.

“Oh no you don’t!” Lance repeats, loudly. He jabs an accusatory finger and Keith’s owlishly blinking face. “You can’t leave us in the middle of the night!”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Keith hisses back. He’s dressed in his plainclothes and has one leg half in the pod already, a hand pushing up the door.

“Stay!” Lance practically explodes.

“I can’t. You said it yourself. We have an extra paladin, and I’m pretty much useless, now,” Keith explains. His words sound clinical leaving his mouth, stirring Lance’s blood further.

“I didn’t mean that you had to leave! I mean I’d step back!” Lance yells, volume increasing. “Don’t just run away! Shiro just returned, man.”

“And he’ll be safer with you than with me,” Keith argues. “I’m bad luck. You know that.”

“Not to me,” Lance says, raw and exposed and hurting once more. “Please don’t. I can’t. You’re our leader.”

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Lance knew Keith had always struggled to accept his leadership, even as he shone in the role.

“Goodbye, Lance. Take care of the team.”

He slides into the pod and shuts the door, taking Lance’s breathing with him. Keith has always hidden from the watchful eye of a surge, when he senses one coming. Lance wishes he could scream, as the clouds open up above him and unleash torrents upon his body. He wishes he could beat his fists against the pod door and curse it and make it stop its flight path. He wishes he could pull Keith out of the pod and wrap him in his arms. He wishes he could run to his side, throw caution to the wind.

Instead, he lets the rumble of thunder still his motion. Keith runs, and Lance stays, awaiting the hurricane he has brought upon them.

Because Lance McClain has always thrived in the moments before.