#FULL OF EMOTIONS JUST FULL OF FUCKING EMOTIONS

[hoshifighting]

heyy there!!

I was wondering if you could write a fiction where the svt members give a silent treatment to the reader but she is too sensitive and starts crying (because she thinks she doesn't deserve them)

Please feel free to reject it if ur uncomfortable 😚😚

seventeen reaction when you start to cry when they give you a silent treatment

a/n: guyyyys im the worst with angst, but i tried!! 🙏

seungcheol the second you start shaking, he’s up on his feet, crossing the room and pulling you into a tight, crushing hug. he’s warm, solid, his hand gently cradling the back of your head. “my fault, my fault, my fault,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “i should’ve been better. i should’ve stopped this. i didn’t mean to hurt you. god, i didn’t mean it.”

jeonghan’s regretting it the whole time. too good at keeping his distance, until he sees the tears running down your cheeks. then, he freezes “hey, hey…” he pulls you into his arms, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “shit, i’m sorry. you know i was just being stupid, right?” he leans his forehead against yours, brushing his fingers through your hair. “don’t cry, baby. it kills me to see you like this.”

joshua he’s always so gentle, i dont even see him giving silent treatment to someone. he’s instantly at your side, cupping your face in his hands. “please don’t cry. i hate this. i hate that i made you feel like this.” his voice wavers as he presses his lips to your forehead, his touch feather-light. “i love you, okay? i’m so sorry. i should’ve never let it get this far.”

junhui’s been avoiding your gaze, trying to keep the silence going even though it’s killing him. that first broken sob makes him almost freak out, he’s at your side, his hands trembling as he touches your arm. “oh— i— no, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice in purew panic. he gently pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you.

hoshi snapd. of course he snaps. he practically flies out of his seat, rushing over to you, arms wide. “oh, shit—no, no, don’t cry, don’t cry,” he blurts out, voice frantic as he wraps you up in the tightest hug, almost lifting you off the ground with how desperate he is. his fingers stroke your back awkwardly, trying to soothe you, and his voice is trembling.

wonwoo when he sees the tears fall, something inside him bursts. he’s not good at dealing with emotions, but he can’t just sit there while you’re crying. he pulls you gently onto his lap, his hand awkwardly stroking your hair. “i’m sorry, i don’t always know how to show it… but i care. a lot. i never wanted to make you cry.” he presses a kiss to your temple, his heart racing. “don’t cry, please. or I will cry too.” wonwoo says—already crying.

woozi stands up, awkwardly hovering for a second before pulling you into a tight hug. “fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. “i didn’t mean to push you this far.” his grip on you tightens, and he rests his chin on your head, letting out a shaky breath. “i can’t stand seeing you like this.” fingers twitching like he’s about to break any second.

minghao crouches down now too, right in front of you. he doesn’t say much at first, just gently tugs your hands away from your face, his touch delicate, like he’s scared to break you even more. “this was stupid, i shouldn’t have done this. it was childish.” he holds your gaze, his eyes serious “you didn’t deserve that.” kisses the back of your hands, laying his head on your knees begging you for forgiveness.

mingyu is already full of shame before you even start crying. but when the sobs hit, he stops dead in his tracks. he rushes to you, kneeling down in front of you. his large hands cup your face, and his thumbs brush away your tears. “fuck, i never wanted to make you cry.” his voice cracks, and he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, his head buried in your shoulder. looks like he’s about to break down himself.

seokmin gets on his knees beside you, eyes wide and watery, his usual smile completely gone. “my love i—” he says in this tiny voice, like he’s terrified he made everything worse. his hands flutter near your arm before he finally grips your sleeve like he needs you to believe him. “please don’t cry because of me.”

seungkwan’s been fidgeting the whole time, hating every second of the silence. thinking it couldn't get worse until you break in front of him “oh my god,” he blurts out, rushing over to you, his voice frantic. he pulls you into his arms, holding you as tight as he can. he lets out a shaky breath. “you’re everything to me. i’m sorry for making you feel like this.”

vernon is not sure how to fix it, thinking that in all ways, this sucked. the second you start crying, his chest tightens, and he’s at your side, pulling you into his lap. “i’m so so sorry. i didn’t mean to let it get this bad.” he wraps his arms around you, holding you close, trying to look into your eyes, pressing his lips into a line when you look away. “i’m here, okay? i’m here.” he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

chan would be standing by the door, but the second you sob again, he’s crossing the room in three big steps, hands flinching to touch you and flinching back at him again as if he would burn you if he did. he would rather sit beside you still in silence, to find the best words since he hasn't talked during this whole time.

[warmsol]

♫

Elia: (Elia quickly turns away) ..You don’t mean that. 

Kai: I do.

Elia: No. 

Kai: (gently) Look at me. Are you sure you want to marry him?

Elia: (pleading) Kai, don’t.

Kai: I need to know. Are you sure?

Elia: You’re being ridiculous.

Kai: Answer me, please. 

Elia: Why are you doing this? You were happy for me, you swore. 

Kai: (Kai is hesitant to answer)

Elia: Why?!

Kai. Because I can’t believe it’s real now.

Elia: It’s always been.

Kai: Part of me figured it’d never get this far, that he’d fuck it up again.

Elia: Are you sure you weren’t hoping for it? 

Kai: Pfft. Not like I have to. It's the kind of guy he is, I expect it. 

Elia: How can you say that? (angrily) You don’t even know him! 

Kai: He doesn’t know me and he sure as hell has his assumptions! 

Elia: Which is exactly why I invited you here, so you two could meet and stop these selfish, immature outbursts!

Kai: Selfish? 

Elia: You heard me.

Kai: (scoffs) Bullshit. 

Kai: All I’ve ever done is try to protect you, to put you first! Even here and now. 

Kai: I.. I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.

Elia: And that is?

Kai: Rush into marriage before you’re ready. Especially when it’s with some prick who screwed over his first wife.

Elia: (huffs) Kai —

Kai: (Kai’s voice softens, he faces Elia towards him) Listen, flower. 

If this angers you, fine. 

Kai: But I won’t hide my worry for the woman I love, even if you resent me for it.

Elia: (Stunned, confused, the word is hardly a whisper) ..Love?

Kai: (Eyes locked, hearts racing, Kai leans in closer) 

Kai: Always.

Elia: (Before the moment consumes them, Elia suddenly pushes back)  

Kai: Wait — 

Elia: (Full of emotion, she rushes off) You don’t need to worry about me. 

Kai: I will anyway.

[itneverendshere]

you said i have to trust more freely - r.c series (four)

requested here; (one); (two); three

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader(the duff inspired) word count: 5k

Why did it feel like his stomach dropped out his ass when Nate showed up? 

It wasn’t like he actually expected you to choose him over Nate. The guy was practically perfect—your textbook version of what a guy should be. Clean, nice, predictable. The opposite of him.

But watching you hesitate like you were weighing your options right in front of him? That hurt like a bitch and he hated how much it did.

He couldn’t shake that look in your eyes.

Like you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore. While every time you were around, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. It’d been like that since the beginning, even back at that party when you tossed your drink in his face after he called you that stupid fucking name. He could still remember the way you glared at him, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing. He’d been a cocky little shit, sure, but that fire in you? It hooked him.

Yeah, he liked messing with you. Always had. But lately, it didn’t feel like just messing around anymore. It felt different. It felt like he was doing it because he didn’t know how else to get close to you.

And now Nate was here, acting like he had some claim. Offering you lunch like it was some kind of test. Rafe should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve let you go. But instead, he was standing there, watching the whole thing go down, and all he wanted to do was grab you by the hand and pull you out of there. Away from Nate. 

Away from all this... bullshit. There he was, full-on spiraling because of a girl. Because of you.

He knew he was developing feelings, had been knowing, which terrified him because it was unfamiliar territory—he was used to being in control and suppressing emotions, not feeling vulnerable or emotionally attached.

Because maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to be the guy you rolled your eyes at anymore. Maybe he was done playing the part of the asshole who didn’t give a fuck. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Rafe walked faster, trying to shake off the feeling. But he knew. It was the way you laughed when you were around him, even when you were annoyed. The way you always gave as good as you got. The way you’d looked at him today—like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as immune to him as you tried to be.

You were off having lunch with Nate.

The safe choice. And if there was one thing Rafe Cameron wasn’t? It was safe. And maybe, deep down, he hoped that was the reason you wouldn’t be able to walk away from him for good.

He kept walking, his footsteps loud in his head, like each step was trying to drown out the voice that was screaming at him to turn around. To go back and say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He wasn’t that guy. Not the one to chase after someone, to make a big scene. No, he was the one who sat back, arms crossed, and watched the whole thing play out like it didn’t bother him. Like it wasn’t tearing him up inside.

Rafe realized he was pissed. Not at Nate. The guy was just playing his part. But at you. No, not really at you either. He was pissed at himself. For letting things get this complicated. For letting you get under his skin the way you had.

It wasn’t like you were his. It wasn’t like he had any right to be jealous.

But damn, the way Nate had just swooped in like it was nothing, like it was so obvious you’d say yes to him. The dude barely had to try, and there you were, actually considering it. Maybe you even wanted him to. He stopped walking, running a hand through his hair, trying to clear his head. 

Screw this. He needed to get out of here, away from the whole situation. Maybe blow off some steam, hit the gym, or go for a drive. But the thought of you sitting there with Nate, laughing, maybe even flirting—it was enough to make his jaw clench.

What if you were actually into that guy? What if all this back-and-forth with him was just... nothing to you? Some game you were playing because you liked the attention, but when it came down to it, you’d always pick someone like Nate?

If you picked Nate, fine. But if there was even a part of you that was feeling the same thing he was—if there was even a chance you weren’t as over him as you pretended to be? He wasn’t going to let you walk away that easily.

Not without a fight.

Rafe dug his phone out of his pocket, stared at the screen for a second. He could text you. Could hit you with some sarcastic line, ask how lunch with Captain America was going, but it felt... small. Petty. And, honestly, he didn’t want to come off as that guy—the jealous, insecure type. But not doing anything felt worse, like he was just letting things slip through his fingers.

He leaned against a nearby fence, staring off into the distance. Part of him was waiting for some kind of sign. Like maybe you’d ditch Nate and text him instead. Maybe you’d realize that this whole thing with Nate was boring, that you needed something more. 

Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d laugh and smile at Nate’s predictable jokes, and that’d be it. You’d pick the guy, the one your friends would probably approve of. The one who didn’t make you feel like you were on a rollercoaster every time you were around him.

Rafe kicked the fence post. He hated this. Hated feeling out of control, like someone else was calling the shots. Like you were making choices that didn’t involve him.

And yet, there he was. Waiting.

He was about two seconds away from hurling his phone into the bushes when it buzzed in his hand. His heart actually stopped for a second. No way. There was no way.

He glanced at the screen, and there it was—your name, lighting up his phone.

Every instinct told him to play it cool. Let it ring a few times, don’t seem desperate. But his hand moved on its own, thumb swiping across the screen before he could stop it. He brought the phone up to his ear, heart hammering in his chest, trying to sound normal.

“Yeah?” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, like he wasn’t dying inside.

And just like that, everything else—Nate, the frustration, the whole stupid back-and-forth—faded into the background. Because right now, you were calling him.

⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ೃ⁀➷⁀➷ೃ

Lunch with Nate was proving to be exactly what you expected: normal. easy. boring.

He talked about his classes, his weekend plans, asked you a couple of questions about your own. And you answered, smiling, nodding, doing all the things you were supposed to do. But your mind? It was somewhere else entirely.

It was with Rafe. With the way he looked at you before he left, like he was daring you to stop him. Like maybe he wanted you to say something, anything, to keep him from walking out. And as much as you tried to ignore it, that little flutter in your chest hadn’t gone away.

“So, how’s studying going?” Nate asked, pulling you back to the conversation.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s fine. Just... a lot,” you mumbled, forcing a smile.

Nate raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the fact that you weren’t all there. “You sure? You seem a little distracted.”

You hesitated, your mind flashing back to Rafe. To the way he’d been so close to you during your study session, leaning in like he had every intention of pushing your buttons. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he’d talked about the bonfire, about seeing you as more than just someone to mess with. And for the first time, it felt like maybe Rafe wasn’t just a flirt. Maybe he was actually trying to tell you something.

“I’m fine,” you lied, stabbing at your sandwich with way too much enthusiasm.

But you weren’t fine. Not even close.

You knew why. Sitting here with Nate, everything felt... off. It was like you were trying to make this picture-perfect version of your life fit, but the edges weren’t lining up. You were supposed to want this—supposed to be happy that the guy you’d been into for months was finally showing interest. But instead, all you could think about was Rafe. About the way your heart had sped up when he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he was being serious, when he wasn’t hiding behind that smirk.

God, why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

Nate cleared his throat, snapping you out of it again. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

You bit your lip, nodding, but it was like the words were stuck in your throat. “Yeah. Just... got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Like how you might’ve just let Rafe walk away.

Nate didn’t push it, and part of you was relieved. The other part? It was screaming at you to stop pretending. To be honest, at least with yourself. Because the truth was, as much as you wanted to want Nate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Rafe was the one you should’ve been sitting with right now.

And that scared you. Because choosing Rafe meant choosing chaos. It meant diving headfirst into something that had no guarantees, something that could blow up in your face. But it also meant feeling alive. Because with him, everything was more intense. More real.

As you and Nate left the sandwich shop, walking back to campus, you couldn’t help but glance around, half-expecting to see Rafe somewhere. But he wasn’t there. He was gone, and now you were stuck wondering if maybe you’d just made a huge mistake.

Nate smiled, oblivious to the storm inside your head. “So, you wanna do this again sometime?”

Your heart sank a little at the question. Because the answer should’ve been a yes, no hesitation. But instead, all you could think about was Rafe. About how you wished you were with him, laughing, arguing, feeling that electric tension that seemed to hang in the air whenever he was around.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah, sure.”

But as the words left your mouth, you knew you were lying.

And Nate, being Nate, didn’t seem to notice. He was still smiling, probably thinking the lunch went fine, like everything was falling into place just the way he thought it should. But you? Your mind was miles away, stuck on other guy and the way he’d left without looking back.

You felt like you should say something to him, like you should be more present in the moment, but every time you opened your mouth, nothing came out. 

Did you really want Nate? Or had you just been chasing the idea of him this whole time because it was easy, because it was safe? Because he was the kind of guy you grew up thinking you should be with?

But then there was Rafe. And the more you tried to push him out of your head, the more he stayed there, taking up space, making everything with Nate feel... dull in comparison.

“So, I was thinking,” Nate said, breaking the silence, “Maybe we could check out that movie this weekend? You know, the one you mentioned a while back?”

His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you blinked, trying to focus. “Oh. Yeah, maybe.”

But the truth was, you didn’t care about the movie. You didn’t care about any of it right now.

“Hey, you okay?” Nate’s voice snapped you back again, his eyes narrowing in concern.

You plastered on a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah, sorry. Just... distracted, I guess.”

 “Well, if you’re busy this weekend, we can always reschedule.”

“I’ll let you know,” you replied, hoping he wouldn’t push it any further.

Nate nodded, but you could tell he wasn’t convinced. And honestly?

Neither were you.

By the time you made it back to your dorm, you were mentally exhausted. Nate had left with a casual wave and a promise to text you later, but as soon as he was out of sight, you let out a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone like a fucking idiot. But no messages came in, no missed calls from Rafe or anyone else. It was just you, sitting there, replaying the whole afternoon in your head.

Why did everything feel so wrong with Nate? He was supposed to be the plan. He was supposed to be your choice. The easy, right choice.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your hand, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your heart jumped in your chest as you glanced down, half-expecting it to be Rafe. But it wasn’t. It was Nate, sending a follow-up text about the weekend plans.

You stared at the message for a long moment, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

What were you doing? Why were you still holding onto this idea of Nate when your heart was clearly somewhere else? Somewhere messy, complicated, and... dangerous.

Before you could stop yourself, you closed out of Nate’s message and opened Rafe’s contact. Your thumb hovered over his name for a second before you hit "Call."

The phone rang once. Twice. Your heart pounded in your chest as the seconds dragged on. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you should just hang up before he—

“Yeah?” Rafe’s voice came through the line, a little gruff but unmistakable.

You froze for a second, suddenly unsure of what to say. But then you took a deep breath. “Hey, uh... you busy?”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “What, finally realizing Nate’s not as fun as you thought?”

 “Something like that.”

There was a beat of silence, and you thought maybe he was going to tease you some more. But then his voice softened, just like it had earlier. “You wanna meet up?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Another pause, and then: “Same spot?”

You knew exactly what he meant. The library, third floor, in the corner where you’d been studying. You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“See you in a few.”

And just like that, the line went dead. What had you just done? 

You hung up, heart racing like you’d just agreed to do something you weren’t supposed to. But wasn’t that the whole point? This thing with Rafe—it was unpredictable, messy, and completely off-script. 

As you grabbed your jacket and headed out the door, you couldn't help but feel like you were crossing some kind of line. With Nate, things were clear-cut, easy. But with Rafe? It was like stepping into the unknown. You knew there was a chance this whole thing could blow up in your face, but for once, you didn’t care.

You wanted real. You wanted fire. And right now, that was Rafe.

As you walked to the library, the campus around you blurred, your thoughts spinning back to every moment you’d had with him. Every teasing comment, every cocky grin, every time he’d gotten under your skin without even trying. Maybe you had been pretending with Nate—pretending to want something you were never actually sure about.

But with Rafe? You weren’t pretending. Even when it terrified you.

When you reached the third floor of the library, it was quiet, almost too quiet. Your footsteps echoed as you made your way to the spot you both knew so well. And there he was, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world, like he wasn’t the reason you’d been tied up in knots all day.

You rolled your eyes and crossed the room, dropping into the chair across from him. “Don’t start,” you warned, though the edge in your voice was weaker than you wanted it to be.

Rafe’s grin widened. “What, can’t handle me being right for once?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Right about what? You being a total pain in my ass? Sure, I’ll give you that.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand like he was amused by your whole existence. “C’mon, you know why you’re here.”

“So,” you started, trying to act casual, like your heart wasn’t pounding out of your chest. “I guess lunch with Nate didn’t really do it for me.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement. “No shit. Figured as much.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that crept up. “Why are you so smug about it?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table, “I knew you’d come back.”

Your breath caught in your throat at how sure he sounded.

Of course he knew. That cocky, self-assured grin of his said it all. He’d been waiting for this moment—waiting for you to realize what he had probably known all along.

And damn if it didn’t piss you off.

You sat down across from him, trying to hold onto the last shreds of your resolve, but it was slipping. Fast. Because the way he was looking at you? Like he was daring you to admit what you were really feeling—it was messing with your head.

“So, what now?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Rafe crossed his arms, biceps bulging in his stupid polo, like he was giving you all the space in the world to figure it out. “That’s up to you.”

That’s the thing about him—he could act all indifferent, like he wasn’t bothered, but you could see it. There was something behind his eyes, just barely kept in check. And it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t just some game to him. Not anymore.

But you weren’t ready to give him that satisfaction. Not yet. 

“What makes you so sure I’m not just here to tell you I’m picking Nate?”

That smirk faltered for just a second. “You’re not.”

You couldn’t be. 

“How do you know?”

“Because if you were, you wouldn’t have called me.”

The way he said it—so simple, so damn certain—made your heart skip. He was right, and you hated that he knew it. Hated that he had this pull on you that no one else ever had. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny the truth. Not when it was staring you in the face, wearing a smug expression and leaning back like he had all the time in the world.

“What if I did?” you shot back, still trying to hold your ground.

He shrugged, that infuriating grin never leaving his face. “Then I guess I’d have to live with that. But I’m not worried.”

Lies.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “You’re so damn cocky, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he said with a wink.

You wanted to roll your eyes again, to act like he wasn’t getting to you. But he was. And he knew it.

You rested your elbows on the table, your eyes meeting his. “And what if I told you I wasn’t sure? What if I told you I’m still figuring it out?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just kept his eyes locked on yours, like he was seeing right through the bullshit. “Then I’d tell you to take your time. Figure it out.”

The way he said it—so calm, so sure—made your stomach twist. He wasn’t asking you to pick him. He was daring you to. Because Rafe didn’t do half-measures. He didn’t do safe. He was all or nothing, and right now? He was putting it all on the table.

All you could think about was the way your heart was hammering in your chest, the way every part of you was screaming that this—this—was what you really wanted.

And that’s when it hit you: you weren’t scared of Rafe. You were scared of how much you wanted him.

“Rafe, I—” You stopped yourself, unsure of where you were even going with that.

His expression softened, just a fraction. “What? What do you want to say?”

You wanted to say everything. That you weren’t just messing with him anymore either, that you couldn’t stop thinking about him, that you were tired of pretending like Nate was some perfect choice when he wasn’t even in the same league. But saying all that? To someone who hurt you so much before?

He had that look, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind but was giving you space to figure it out on your own. But you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure if you were ready to say it out loud. Admitting how much Rafe meant to you felt like letting him win, like handing him all the power. And after everything, after all the back-and-forth, you didn’t want to be that vulnerable. Not with him.

“I know I’ve been an asshole,” he started, almost hesitant. “All those years, the shit I said—it wasn’t right. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that.”

Your breath caught in your throat. 

He ran a hand through his hair, like he was trying to figure out how to keep going. “I just... I don’t know. It was easier to push you away, to act like I didn’t give a fuck, you know? Like messing with you made it better somehow. But it didn’t.” He paused, his voice softening. “It made me feel like shit.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You just sat there, staring at him, trying to process the fact that Rafe Cameron—Rafe—was apologizing.

He swallowed, looking down for a second before meeting your eyes again.

 “I know I’m a mess. Hell, I’ve always been a mess. And I get why you’d pick someone like Nate. The guy who won’t make you lose sleep wondering what the hell is going on.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But the truth is, I fucked up. I’ve been fucking up since the beginning. With you, with us. And I hate that I did that." He pushed back slightly, running a hand over his face like he was frustrated with himself. “I’m not good with this... with feelings. With being upfront. But I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to figure it out. I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that or trust me after everything I’ve pulled. But I want you to know I’m not the same guy I was back then. It sounds fucking insane, but I’m not. I want to be better. For you. Because, fuck, I don’t want to lose you to some guy just because I couldn’t admit I was scared of this—of us.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to speak just yet.

“And look, I know I’ve made it hard for you to believe me,” he said, his voice softer now, more honest than you’d ever heard him. “But you should know that you’re not just some game to me. Not anymore. You’re... everything I’ve been too afraid to want.”

The guy who spent years acting like nothing could touch him, like he was untouchable, was now sitting across from you, pouring his heart out. And you had no idea what to say.

Your mind was racing. It felt like everything you thought you knew about him, about what you were feeling, was suddenly flipped upside down. You'd always assumed Rafe would never be the guy who’d sit down and admit he was scared of something, especially not scared of you.

But here he was, looking like he was waiting for you to say something—anything.

What? What were you even supposed to say? That you forgave him? That you didn’t? That you were still figuring out how you felt about everything? You weren’t even sure yourself. But you did know one thing—whatever this was—it was real. 

You couldn’t deny that anymore.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know that I’m not going to play around anymore. Not with you.”

Your heart clenched at that. And the thing was, you could see it in his eyes—he meant it. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky attitude. Just him. Raw and real and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.

And suddenly, you realized that was what scared you the most. Not Rafe, but the way he made you feel. The way he pushed you to stop pretending, to be real, even when it terrified you.

You stared at him, feeling like your brain was short-circuiting. He was spilling his guts to you. It felt... unreal, and you were torn between wanting to laugh and maybe freak out a little.

All you could think was, How the hell am I supposed to handle this? This wasn’t what you were expecting. Not from him.

“So, what,” you started, leaning back a bit, trying to keep your voice casual, “you’re just, like, a totally different person now? Is this the part where you tell me you’ve been secretly going to therapy or something?”

Rafe’s lips twitched, but he didn’t fully smile. “No, not exactly,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But... I’ve been trying to figure shit out. With myself. With us.”

With us. Your stomach did this stupid little flip at that, but you ignored it. “That’s a big statement, Cameron. You’ve had, like, two whole epiphanies and suddenly you’ve got everything figured out?”

He sighed, “I’m not saying I’ve got it all figured out, alright? I’m just trying to be honest for once. I’m done screwing around with you.”

His tone was sincere, and as much as you wanted to keep teasing him, the look in his eyes made your throat tighten a bit. You shifted in your seat, your mind running a million miles an hour.

“I mean, I guess that’s an improvement,” you muttered, keeping it light even though your heart was pounding.

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “You guess?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, crossing your arms and giving him a pointed look. “You were, let’s see, kind of a dick for a long time.”

He didn’t argue. “Yeah. I was.”

That caught you off guard. No defense, no excuses. Just... agreement. 

“Okay, so... what now?” you asked, trying to play it cool. “You apologize, and I just forget all the crap from before? You’re really not making this easy,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, but your voice betrayed you, sounding a little too soft.

Rafe shrugged, that little smirk threatening to return. “Didn’t think you wanted easy.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to keep your composure. “You think you know me so well, huh?”

“Better than you think.”

Your heart raced. “Right, because I just love being confused and frustrated. It’s my favorite hobby.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth. “Well, you could always just admit that you’re intrigued. That might save us both some time.”

“Intrigued? Please. More like I’m questioning my life choices.”

Rafe leaned forward, “Hey, at least it’s not boring, right? I mean, look at us. This is way more interesting than whatever you were doing with Nate.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “True. But interesting doesn’t mean it’s not a total trainwreck waiting to happen.”

“Maybe,” he said, “But it could also mean something different.”

 “You’re really pulling out all the stops, huh?” you said, trying to lighten the mood again. “What’s next? A serenade?”

“Actually, I’m not a bad singer,” he quipped, flashing that trademark grin. “But I think I’ll spare you the performance for now.”

“Wow, I’m overwhelmed by the humility.”

He chuckled softly, “You love it. And you know it.”

There it was again—the way he said things like it was a fact, like he could read you better than you could read yourself. And the worst part? He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“You don’t know everything about me, Rafe,” you said, your voice quieter now, but not weak. 

His smile softened, just barely, like he heard what you weren’t saying out loud. 

“Maybe not everything. But enough to know you’re not here by accident.”

It was easier to blame the pull he had on you. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just him. You were here because something between the two of you, no matter how messy, no matter how confusing, felt unfinished.

You crossed your arms, trying to gain some control of the situation. “You’re awfully confident for someone who doesn’t have all the answers.”

“Not all of them,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair again, “But I know enough to know I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

There it was. That line you didn’t know you were waiting for. The line that said this wasn’t just some flirty game for him anymore. That maybe he was as scared of losing you as you were of admitting how much you wanted him.

And in that moment, sitting across from him, with all his defenses down and no jokes left to deflect with, you realized something terrifying: you weren’t ready to walk away either.

“Well,” you said, your voice softer, “I guess we’ll see if you’re really up for it, won’t we?”

His eyes locked onto yours, something serious flickering there for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah. We will.”

[partywithponies]

Common subtypes of comfort media:

Comfort Blanket Media:

Usually either media aimed at very young/preschool age children, or very gentle lowkey old lady media that you used to watch at your nan's house when you were 8

Uncomplicated media that reminds you of early childhood, when everything seemed simpler, and gives you that warm safe feeling

A hug for your inner child

Comfort Trash:

Usually some kind of reality show or gameshow, or otherwise just utter substanceless brainrot nonsense

The junk food of comfort media: contains literally no intellectual, mental, or emotional benefit, but it's very comforting to switch your brain off to when you need to de-stress, or you can't sleep or don't feel well

Comfort Learning:

Anything educational, like a well researched documentary, or a non-fiction book, or an educational podcast

Both the opposite and the very close cousin of Comfort Trash: requires your full brain and focus so you can't think at all about whatever going on in your real life or how you currently feel.

Comfort Character Petting Zoo:

Media you only really engage with to get a quick burst of content of a character or characters you're wildly overattached to, that you probably then use as fuel to switch off and immersively daydream about the character(s) for hours

Quality Time With My Close Good Friends:

Any (usually entirely mundane) footage of the celebrities you have the fattest crush on/you're in a parasocial relationship with that's unreasonably fascinating and entertaining to you, even when they're just sat there eating a sandwich or whatever the fuck

Discomfort Comfort Media:

Media that makes you upset. Makes you cry. Makes you uncomfortable. Makes you feel an ache in the pit of your chest and a dull heavy feeling in your tummy. Maybe even reminds you of personal grief and trauma. It's cathartic. It's personal. It's beautiful. You greet the pain like an old friend.

Maybe I Like The Misery™️

You Again?

Media you've been a fan of for so long that it's become a part of you. You can’t cut it off, it's melded onto you like a parasite. Even if you think you've moved on, you suddenly become aware of it again, and realise it's been there this whole time. Echoes of it bleed into all your other interests. There is comfort in the familiarity. It's with you til the bitter end.

(Can and often does overlap with any of the former)

[tiyoin]

just frat boy jade thoughts

not proofread or edited, we die on this hill

frat boy jade who would rather run the bar then be out on the dance floor like his brother. there’s a sense… power jade gets deciding who gets alcohol and who gets watered down fruit juice.

frat boy jade who has a ‘celebrity’ each night who he monitors. maybe it’s a girl with a skimpy outfit and botched features. maybe it’s a desperate brother who’s scanning the dark basement for a hookup. it could be an entire friend or just 1 member of the group. it could be multiple people at once or no one at all…. jade did not discriminate.

even on door duties jade would mentally file away who stepped in, and when rotated to bar duty there was a little game he liked to play where he’d recite any piece of information he had on them…

but never before has jade made a move on a target. never before had he kept the same target for more than a couple nights.

floyd had invited himself and a few basketball team members to this party… and there you were, tucked under the wings of protection of your two best friends, deuce and ace. ace was a more than familiar face and deuce was the occasional guest star at the frat.

but you? once, if not twice did you enter jade’s domain. out of all your little friends you were the most elusive, a forbidden fruit jade must savior.

not once had you come by the bar. floyd and the guys have, including ace. yet you and deuce have yet to pay him a visit. it was beach theme tonight, and jade wouldn’t mind a closer look at the bikini top you wore and the tropical skirt you had on.. a pair of biker shorts ruines the picture that is you, but jade gives a nod in approval at the choice after all, there are perverts out there and one must take every precaution against them, especially a cute girl as yourself.

an hour in, jade’s forgotten about you and your company, busy bar tending the other party goers. it’s only when floyd, drunk off his ass, saunters over, lip stick stains running down his neck and chest and… lower.

“isn’t shrimpy s’nice jade” he drawls drunkenly “pull’s out fireball shooters left and right- like a magician!” jade rolls his eyes as he goes to give floyd his usual as it took them longer to get drunk. floyd smiled intimidatingly at a shirtless guy who was starting to push him to get a drink “what’s the rush buddy?” jade has shove floyd his drink to spare the fight. “ah ah, shrimpy’s run’n low so she’s gonna need some of your juice” floyd’s eyes flash from behind his rose colored glasses as he takes a sip.

jade, bent over and eye level with the red kisses on his brothers lower stomach before his eyes flick over to you. like an angel under ethereal lighting you’re dancing with deuce and ace. jamil close by as he notes the somali markings on the three men…

“floyd..” “jade” “what’s with the…” floyd’s eyes widen as he follows his brothers gaze onto his stomach “oh!” his face lights up mischievously “shrimpy was… very happy with our recent win and wanted to congratulate us” taking the now full cup from his brother, floyd looks him up and down, jades own tropical shirt closed conservatively, “won’t catch a shrimp look’n like that” he said before leaving.

watching his brother lift the two drinks up as he navigated his way back to the back of the basement as bodies danced and jumped to the beat. strobing colored lights and the smell of sweat and alcohol seemed to slow down as jaded watched his brother take one of the red solo cups into his other hand, now holding both of them with his fingers as he tucked a flap of his shirt into his pants. and with a sly look to his brother, he reached you bending down to whisper as he handed you the juice. your tiny hands appeared on his bare shoulder as he saw a peak of your face, emotions running free on your face as you listened to the annoying eel. your eyes roamed the room as you-

fuck.

turning towards the next party goer, jade bends down quickly, pours a beer into a cup and slams it on the bar top.

he needs a break.

[merryslilhobbit]

There are so many things about the Daniel Ricciardo situation that frustrate and anger me, so I'm getting them off my chest before I lose the plot. I'm sure other people have said the same things, but here we go.

Horner made a whole big show of picking Daniel up after the McLaren debacle, bringing him back into "the family". Made himself out to be some sort of saviour. Rebuilding Daniel's confidence, his physical and mental health. Got a dig in at Zak in a press conference about "feeding Daniel up" because he was skinny. Invited DTS to see his return at Silverstone 2023. So to kick Daniel to the curb just a few races before the end of the season? Because they have "a lot of data on Daniel" and need to see other options for the future? Hypocritical c*nt.

Next, replacing him with someone they're not confident enough in to give a contract to straight away? Yes, Liam did a good job in Daniel's absence last year. This is absolutely not me shitting on Liam - I like him, and I think he and Yuki will be good teammates. But he's been out of full time racing for a while. Allegedly RB weren't overly excited about his testing times in the summer. While it will be interesting to see how he compares to Yuki, why are RB hanging onto Liam when they don't seem confident enough to give him a full time seat? Why are they so determined to keep pushing this one? (Yes I know the answer is probably contracts, but still.)

Then there's the fact that Daniel has actually outperformed Yuki in 6 of the last 9 races (since the start of the European leg). In the same period, they've scored the same number of points. Daniel has also been more consistent in his finishing position than Yuki. In terms of form, Singapore excluded (but I think we can forgive him that one, given the media shitstorm), he's been the better of the two and isn't it meant to be that the first person you need to beat is your teammate? There's only so much you can achieve in a tractor.

And we can't forget the Checo situation. Following the first six races he's bombed in comparison to Max. He's probably cost Red Bull the Constructors'. He was given a few races to improve, didn't and then was kept anyway (probably because of money and the Mexican GP). He often qualifies further behind (in time) Max than Daniel does Yuki. I know Red Bull are coming out now and saying they found a problem with their design from Barcelona last year, when Checo first started reporting issues but frankly I'm calling bullshit on that. As mentioned, Checo had six very good races and results at the start of 2024. And some decent ones at the end of 2023. At one point there was speculation that Daniel might even replace Checo mid-season (some reports say it was a done deal), so in the space of a few weeks to go from that to being dropped himself? I have whiplash.

And I think that's the hardest part. A lot of people were probably aware that it could be difficult for Daniel to get a seat for next year. But at no point was there any suggestion that he might get replaced mid-season. Not even in the middle, six races before the end. When Red Bull confirmed in the summer break that both Checo and Daniel would see out the seasons in their current seats.

Red Bull have created an absolute PR disaster and they deserve it. Driver of the Day, amongst many other things in the last 48 hours, reflects the love and respect so many people have for Daniel. People who see how emotional he was, who see that he didn't have an opportunity to say goodbye properly (fuck, even McLaren did that - remember the Monza 2021 photo on his steering wheel?). People who recognise that dumping him so close to the end of the season is ridiculous.

In the end, I hope that Daniel really is at peace with it all and is in better shape than he left McLaren; that he can be proud of all of his achievements in the sport. Drivers come and go, but very few make their mark in the way Daniel has done. He may not have broken records or won championships, but the fact that he will still be remembered for a very long time despite those things is a testament to his character, to the sort of person we all know and love.

[devinox-art]

My MC!Detective I've made for the @sanguinesky-if , Darcy Rowe. Her first outfit is definitely more of a "what she really wants to wear". Her second outfit is what she usually wears (jewlery, shirt styled in some way). The third outfit is how she ends up dressing during the events of the story (no jewlery, less styled, more stressed). Her hair is usually up while she's at work, I just couldn't resist drawing it down. A couple things:

- Yes she has black wavy hair + micro bangs, and black eyes.

- Her twin's name is Lorelei and not only is her hair longer, but she has light brown eyes and curtain bangs.

- Yes she has chronic closed-eyes-always-smiling anime trope syndrome.

- Yes this means Kyle managed to bag a goth baddie (and is fumbling her so, so hard).

- She fancies herself as a composed person who can not only handle her own emotions and emergencies, but other people's emotions and emergencies as well (which is why I always have fun pairing her with the hotheads). This has yet to be challenged.

- I like to headcannon that the rest of the precinct finds her to be cold hearted since she's continuing to act as if her mentor and father figure hasn't just died.

- (As if little things are starting to slip out behind closed doors, like how she fought against the feds taking over her case).

- Klemmens is just the dad from Full Metal Alchemist.

- If she can't hold someone at gun point and look hot doing so then what is the point™️

- If looks could cut...

Personality wise:

She's blunt, reserved, and distant except with her sister and Lexie (these scenes mess up her stats so I don't regard anything in the stat page as "canon"). Her sense of her humor can be dry and usually taunting, often leaving people who don't know her well to question if she's even joking in the first place.

Her relationships currently:

Lexie: Her good friend and someone whom she absolutely adores (but is completely friend-zoned; Darcy might be bi, but I was never really fond of the friends-to-lovers trope).

Kyle: The guy she hates to love. He's more than proven himself to be capable and reliable. In certain situations she even finds his temperamental nature enduring. But the way he seems to be satisfied with leading her on is leaving quite the bitter taste in her mouth. More than once she has concidered outright rejecting him and putting an end to what she keeps thinking is mutual attraction, but something always has her hesitating to do so...

Morgan: They call her by her title. They work well together, but not knowing them outside of work has always left a divide between the two. Their relationship is mostly professional, but after learning their actually a CID agent she is left her unsure on how to handle their relationship going forward.

CID: Initial encounter aside, she's chosen to be dismissive of them. She doesn't feel the need to respond to them unless it directly involves work. (She actively ignores R and has taken more of an action speaks louder than words approach).

Side Note: Kyle is her cannon route but I've been exploring the CID's routes with her with a "Kyle won't fucking do anything but the new arrivals seem to be interested" mindset, which is really fun. They are all so interesting ✨️

S: She keeps at a distance but can't help but to want know what he knows... as long as it's during office hours.

Definitely drawing more for this IF eventually!

[thedamselzelda]

Don't Wake Me Up

Featuring: Chūya Nakahara

Author Chat: Part One! I feel so bad bc I have left DBH and LBH high and dry bc CHUYA FUCKING NAKAHARA has taken over my brain for the moment. Do not fret, I will return to darling Dazai, but I wanna get this short little three parter done so Chuya can leave me alone. (TBH I have a Chuya plush on the way, so he's never truly gonna leave me alone.)

Will update with main story page eventually, will also update the navigation of my page eventually... hopefully.

wc: 6.7k, sfw, slightly proofread, mild cursing, a little angsty ngl

hope you guys enjoy! Reblog and like if you enjoyed this! <3 DamzelZelda

Chūya Nakahara doesn’t dream. Or at least, he believed that he couldn’t… There was only one time he was truly able to do so, but even now that seemed like a distant memory.

"Ane-san's back! She's back!" 

"Yes, finally!"

Chūya navigated through the dark, winding tunnels of the underground base, guided by the excited voices echoing off the damp stone walls. He rolled his eyes, hearing the unbridled enthusiasm in their tones about your return. The irony wasn't lost on him; you'd be gone just as quickly as you'd arrived, like a fleeting shadow. Not quite a full member of the Sheep, but not an outsider either. Your ambiguous status never sat right with him, though he grudgingly acknowledged that the others trusted you. After all, you were a member before him.

As he approached, the voices hushed to whispers. Chūya's gaze fell upon you, watching as you offered a soft, enigmatic smile to the younger teens. They looked at you with admiration, as if you were some divine being gracing them with your presence. He let out an annoyed sigh, waiting for you to finally acknowledge him.

"Happy to see me, Nakahara?" Your voice carried a hint of amusement, and your attention fluttered up to him. His eyes darted between yours and the younger Sheep among you, feeling a heat arise to his face.

He let out a puff and shifted his weight, crossing his arms as he glared at you with feigned disinterest. "Did you at least come back with something useful?" He ignored your question hoping to provoke some flicker of emotion from you.

Your head cocked to the side, a knowing smile playing at the corners of your lips. "Of course I did. Never disappointed, have I?"

Chūya could only grit his teeth, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance as he turned away. "Let's just hurry up then, that way you can go on about filling their heads with more nonsense."

Your laugh pierced the air, neither harsh nor melodious. To Chūya, it felt mocking, further souring his mood about your return. The sound of your boots clicking on the stone floor followed him as your voice lulled the others away, promising to see them before they succumbed to sleep for the night.

"If you're that envious, I could offer you a taste of what they're so excited about," you teased, your voice grating on Chūya's nerves. He felt your hand on his shoulder, halting his escape through the dim corridor.

Chūya whirled around, feeling the embarrassment rise to his face. "I'm not jealous, alright?" He snapped, hating how defensive he sounded. Despite his irritation, he couldn't bring himself to shake off your touch. Your hand was impossibly soft against his shoulder, its warmth even seeping through his jacket. He tried to ignore the way it made his skin tingle.

He watched your eyes narrow, still maintaining that infuriatingly gentle, calm look you always wore. When you spoke, your words had a teasing lilt that made Chūya's stomach do an uncomfortable flip. "Come on, Chūya. You told me once you think you can't dream. Don't you want to find out if that's really true? I could at least try, you know?"

Chūya's gaze darted between your eyes, searching for any hint of mockery. He didn't hate you, not really, but he'd never admit how much your composed presence affected him. It was unsettling, how you could make him feel so off-balance.

With a dismissive click of his tongue, Chūya shrugged your hand away. "Whatever. We don't have time for this right now, ‘kay? There's actual important stuff to deal with," he muttered, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Ah, yes..." you mused, your tone shifting. Chūya bristled at the hint of disapproval in your voice. "I heard whispers of your little display today. Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't actions of that magnitude typically require approval from all council members?"

His eyes narrowed as he watched you glide past him. "You weren't here," he countered. "We took a vote in your absence."

You waved a dismissive hand, your casualness infuriating him further. "I would have voted against it. You’ve put quite a big target on us for attacking a Mori Corp airplane."

Chūya scoffed, trailing behind. His eyes caught glimpses of your neck as your hood slowly slipped off your head, and he quickly averted his gaze, annoyed at himself for noticing. "I was sendin’ a message. We have to show we aren’t to be messed with."

"Now, now, Chūya," you purred, spinning around so suddenly that he nearly collided with you. Your faces were mere inches apart, and he could feel the warmth of your breath as you spoke. "Your time to act would’ve come, but now, we have to act. If you had known the rumors flooding the Port Mafia right now, you’d know the time to move would’ve been any time after yesterday.”

Chūya found himself frozen, caught between the urge to step back and the inexplicable desire to remain close to you. He couldn’t even bring himself to murmur out any questions. The mischievous glint in your eyes left him simultaneously frustrated and intrigued. He hated how easily you could get under his skin, how you always seemed to know more than you let on. Yet, a part of him couldn't help but be drawn to the mystery you presented, even as he tried to deny it.

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Chūya felt his cheeks burn as your eyes bore into him. Why did you have to look at him like that? It was unsettling, the way you seemed to focus solely on him, ignoring the other council members. Even Shirase's attempts to catch your attention with fond glances went unnoticed. It made something twist in his stomach, a feeling he couldn't quite place.

"They'll be distracted for a while," you began, your voice low and confident. Chūya watched, trying to keep his expression neutral as you shifted your weight, placing a hand on your hip. The casual gesture shouldn't have been so... distracting. He forced his gaze back to the map.

"Rumors are circulating about the current boss and his predecessor. Seems the depths of hell couldn't hold him after all." Your finger landed on the map, and Chūya found himself following its movement as it glided between two buildings. He tried to focus on your words, not the graceful motion of your hand. There was something strained about your tone, as if you were taking the rumor personally. "It's the perfect time to strike. Two caches of newly imported booze, guarded by about five men each. They'll be too preoccupied with the rumors to properly defend them."

Chūya groaned, letting his head fall to the side to hide the conflicting emotions on his face. "No way," he muttered, hating how his voice cracked slightly.

"What's wrong, your majesty?" Your mocking tone sent a shiver down his spine that he desperately tried to ignore. "We can handle this without you. Quick in and out."

"It's too dangerous, regardless," Chūya argued, moving around the table. He stopped just before you, close enough to feel the intensity of your presence. It made him feel off-balance for a moment, and he had to fight to keep his voice steady. "You'd send barely armed, non-ability users near Port Mafia territory? Are you tryin’ to get ‘em killed?"

Your eyebrow raised, and Chūya felt his heart skip a beat. He hated how you could affect him like this. "Who said I wasn't going with them?"

Chūya clenched his fists within his pockets, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside him. On one hand, your recklessness infuriated him. Didn't you understand the risks? The Sheep weren't just pawns to be sacrificed. But on the other hand, a part of him wanted to agree; this would be the best time to strike.

He settled for glaring at you, hoping the anger in his eyes would mask the confusion underneath. "And what if somethin’ goes wrong?" he growled, his voice low to hide its slight tremor. "The Sheep aren't expendable. We can't just throw ‘em into danger on a whim."

Chūya knew he was fighting a losing battle - both against your persuasive arguments and the inexplicable pull he felt towards you. He forced his eyes back to the map, desperately focusing on the proposed mission, on anything but how your presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. The Sheep came first. They had to. No matter how much a part of him wanted to agree with your every word.

"We could leave it to a vote?" Your voice drew his attention back like a magnet. He noticed your hands clasped behind your back, a gesture he'd seen countless times before. It irked him how such a simple thing could look so authoritative coming from you.

Chūya sighed, rolling his eyes as he looked to Shirase, hoping to find an ally. "My vote's obviously a 'no'." He hated how his voice betrayed his frustration.

Shirase, predictable as ever, nodded in agreement with you. The others murmured amongst themselves, and Chūya felt his irritation growing. Always caught between the two of you, never able to make a decision on their own.

He scanned their faces, already sensing his defeat. "Fine," he spat, "but I'm not savin' your asses if you get caught." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

He always lost when it came to you. You held more sway, more influence over their decisions than he ever could. Some 'King' they'd made him. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly.

"No."

Your voice cut through his thoughts. Chūya's head snapped up, confusion etched on his face as you turned to address the others. "I'll leave the room, allowing for an anonymous vote. I understand Chūya has some doubts."

You turned back to him, offering a small bow that left him feeling off-balance. "You should at least be able to state your case. I have other matters to attend to now that I've shared the information."

Chūya stared at you, caught off guard by this unexpected move. He couldn't quite read the expression in your eyes, and it left him feeling even more unsettled than before. As you moved to leave, he felt a confusing mix of relief and an unwelcome urge to ask you to stay. He pushed both feelings aside, focusing instead on the opportunity you'd just handed him. Maybe, he could turn this around without you there to sway everyone's opinion and save himself the headache.

In the shadows of a dilapidated warehouse, just above the war room, Chūya found you cradling two of the younger Sheep members. The kids were about thirteen, he guessed. Your hands hovered above the children's heads, emanating a soft blue glow that shifted to lavender as Chūya approached. The sight mesmerized him—your ability manifesting like the northern lights dancing across a night sky.

Chūya whispered your name, his voice barely audible over the creaks and groans of the decrepit shelter. As the glow faded from your hands, you turned to him, your eyes holding a warmth that seemed out of place in their world. With practiced gentleness, you tucked the kids into threadbare futons, pulling frayed sheets over thin shoulders.

He could never quite figure you out. These tender actions contrasted sharply with the impulsive, almost reckless decisions you made during missions. It was as if two people inhabited your body, and Chūya never knew which one he'd encounter.

"I thought your ability was about creating dreams," he said, meeting your gaze. Something in your eyes made him uneasy—an invitation to a hidden world you longed to share. The idea tempted him, but the dark circles under your eyes betrayed the toll it took.

"Dreams are just part of it," you explained softly. "I can manipulate the entire sleep cycle, pushing someone through different stages at will. Dreams are flashy, but the real power is in controlling sleep's restorative aspects."

Chūya nodded, processing this. Your ability, like you, remained a mystery. Standing in the gloom, surrounded by their sleeping makeshift family, he wondered what other secrets you held.

"So, you're giving them... what, super-sleep?" he assumed.

You chuckled. "Something like that. They'll wake feeling more rested than they have in years."

Comfortable silence fell, broken only by soft breathing and distant sounds of city life. Chūya found himself stealing glances, noticing how the dim light caught in your eyes and the slight furrow of concentration between your brows.

Suddenly, you huffed out a small laugh and snaked your arm around his. "Come on. I have one more piece of information to relay."

"Wha—what?" Chūya stammered, feeling a strange heaviness as you tugged his arm. He jerked back, confused. "Where are we going?"

Your face softened in understanding. Leaning in, you cupped your cheek and whispered, "We have to go where the walls can't listen."

Curiosity overrode his hesitation. What information could be so sensitive? He allowed you to link your arm with his again, walking compliantly as you led him through the drafty corridors of the abandoned building. This place, meager as it was, was home to him and the other Sheep. He wondered if you felt the same, given how often you vanished into the shadows, hunting for information.

As you neared the back door leading to roof access, a voice called out your name. Shirase. Chūya noticed the flash of irritation across your face and had to suppress a grin.

You forced Chūya to turn with you, and he suddenly realized how this might look to Shirase—the two of you walking arm-in-arm in the darkness, an oddly intimate picture.

"Shirase." Your voice was strained, patience clearly already wearing thin.

Chūya tensed, sensing the underlying current of tension. Whatever information you wanted to share, it was clear Shirase's interruption was unwelcome. The air grew thick with awkwardness as Shirase approached, giving Chūya an odd glance before focusing entirely on you.

"Hey, so..." Shirase began, his voice cracking slightly. He ran a hand through his messy hair, a nervous habit Chūya had noticed before. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind... you know..." He raised his hands, wiggling his fingers in a vague gesture that made Chūya cringe inwardly. "Doing your thing... your ability... on me?"

Chūya fought the urge to roll his eyes. Shirase's crush on you was painfully obvious, and his clumsy attempts at flirtation were almost unbearable to watch. The way Shirase stood there, with that goofy grin plastered across his face, made Chūya want to disappear into the shadows.

You answered in a tone that was polite but firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I'm honestly really tired, Shirase. I've got to leave early tomorrow for the next assignment, since we aren’t going for the alcohol. You know how it is."

Chūya watched as Shirase's face fell, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow. It was almost pitiful, the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes dulled.

"Oh, yeah, sure. I totally understand, no big deal," Shirase mumbled, his gaze darting to Chūya. The look in his eyes was a mixture of embarrassment and something darker.

Chūya shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of your arm still linked with his. He wanted to say something, to break the suffocating silence, but words failed him. The whole situation was mortifying, and he found himself wishing he could use his ability to manipulate gravity and just float away from this awkward position, but he remained still.

You cleared your throat, your voice taking on a gentler tone. "Look, Shirase, I appreciate the thought. But my ability isn't something to be used lightly. It takes a lot out of me, and right now, I need to conserve my energy. You understand, right?"

Shirase nodded glumly, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Yeah, of course. The mission comes first. Always does."

Chūya felt a twinge of sympathy for Shirase, despite his annoyance at the interruption. They were all so young, thrust into this dangerous world of abilities and shadowy organizations. Moments like these – awkward, painfully human moments – were rare and somehow made everything feel more surreal.

"Maybe another time," you added, though Chūya could tell from your tone that you didn't mean it. "We should all get some rest."

As Shirase mumbled a goodbye and shuffled away, Chūya felt the tension in your arm relax slightly. He glanced at you, noticing the way your eyes followed Shirase's retreating form with a mixture of pity and frustration.

"That was..." Chūya started, not sure how to finish the sentence.

You sighed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Yeah, it was. Come on, we still need to talk."

You guided him towards the door, grasping the ladder outside. As you hoisted yourself up, Chūya followed, trying his best to focus on the rungs rather than... other things. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut at the thought. Instead, he noticed the absence of your blue bracelet, finding it odd you didn't wear it even when wandering the halls of their base.

A sigh of relief escaped you as you reached the top. Chūya looked up to see you glancing down at him, a mischievous smile stitched across your face.

"Couldn't you have just used your ability and beat me up here?" you teased.

Chūya laughed, shaking his head. "Where would’ve been the fun in that? Also, I was followin’ your lead. Chivalry isn't dead, you know."

"Oh, how very gallant of you, King Chūya," you replied with an exaggerated curtsy.

He watched as you moved to the edge of the metal roof, sitting down with a dull thud. He followed suit, leaning back on his arms and gazing up at the star-studded sky. Despite the living conditions, at least it always came with a beautiful view...

"I'll probably be gone for a while..." you spoke into the midnight air, snapping his attention back to you.

"Oh? Planning a vacation?" Chūya quipped, raising an eyebrow.

You gave a small laugh. "Wouldn't you want to extend your outing after an awkward encounter like that? I hear Siberia's lovely this time of year."

He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "I haven't really been on the receiving end of unwanted attention like that.”

You expelled air dramatically. "Are you kidding me? Yuan practically has heart-eyes whenever you so much as breathe in her direction."

Chūya’s eyebrows shot up. "Nah, I don't really notice her like that. She probably just wants to see my ability in action or something."

"That's the thing though, isn't it?" Your voice softened as you curled your legs inward, resting your chin on your knees.

"It's like..." you continued, your voice soft and contemplative, "to them, we're these larger-than-life figures. Not quite gods, but definitely not just regular humans either. In their eyes, we can do no wrong. We're the kings and queens they make us out to be."

Your words hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. Chūya found himself staring out at the city lights, pondering this new perspective.

"But we're not," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm no king... even though everyone keeps callin’ me one… We're just... us. Right?"

You turned to him, a sad smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, we are. But sometimes I wonder if anyone else sees that anymore."

A comfortable silence fell between you as you flattened your legs on the metal roof. Chūya noticed you picking at your hands, the skin red and raw. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hand to stop you.

You looked up at him, hesitation in your eyes before speaking. "What I wanted to tell you, without anyone else hearing... it's about the old Port Mafia boss."

Chūya felt a jolt of excitement mixed with apprehension. "What about him?"

You grasped Chūya's hand tighter, the touch unfamiliar but oddly comforting. His eyes widened slightly at the gesture, but he didn't pull away. "The rumors..." you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "they're saying Arahabaki has something to do with his return."

Chūya's breath hitched, a mix of curiosity and unease washing over him. "What? What do you mean?" he pressed, leaning in closer, his red hair catching the moonlight.

You shook your head, frustration evident in your voice. "That's all I could get. I tried to find out more, I really did. I'm sorry." Your shoulders slumped slightly, disappointment clear in your posture.

"Hey, nothing to be sorry about," Chūya said, his tone softening as he tried to catch your eyes. A reassuring smile played on his lips. "I know getting that information must've been tough, considering."

You hummed in response, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Anything to do with the Port Mafia is nothing short of exhausting, especially after being their property…"

Chūya tensed up momentarily, thinking back to your explanation of your escape and arrival at the Sheep. He quickly shook off the dark thoughts, focusing on the present.

"Oh, and there's more." You squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back to your words. "Supposedly, there's going to be a Port Mafia member lurking around Suribachi, searching for information."

"Dammit," Chūya hissed, his free hand clenching into a fist. Then, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "Of course they're gonna snoop around our territory. But... it could be an opportunity."

Your grip on his jacket sleeve tightened, concern evident in your voice. "Just promise, nothing reckless like today."

A playful smirk crossed Chūya's lips, his earlier tension melting away. "Shouldn't I be telling you that? You're the one constantly putting yourself in the Port Mafia's crosshairs."

You returned his smile, a mischievous glint in your eye. "I have my ways. Men will do a lot for a good dream and rest."

Chūya huffed out a laugh, remembering Shirase's earlier request and your offer. His curiosity piqued, he asked, "Speaking of... if you were to give me a dream, what would it be?"

You glanced back at the cityscape, considering for a moment. "A good life... one where you didn't constantly worry about the Sheep or whoever you were over. Where being 'king' just means being strong and respected, not having all this weight on your shoulders." You turned to him, a soft determination in your eyes. "I'd make that true for you."

Chūya nodded, looking out at the city, the lights twinkling like earthbound stars. "Sounds like a good dream," he said softly, not quite grasping the full depth of your words, but appreciating the sentiment all the same.

He nudged your shoulder playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "But hey, who needs dreams when we've got all this?" He gestured dramatically at their surroundings - the rusty metal roof, the distant glow of the city, the vast starry sky above.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "Oh yes, living the high life here on our luxury penthouse."

"Exactly!" Chūya grinned, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Five-star accommodations, breathtaking views, excellent company... what more could a guy ask for?"

Your laughter, genuine and unguarded, filled the night air, and Chūya found himself grinning wider, enjoying the sound.

"You know," you said after a while, your voice taking on a more serious tone, "whatever happens with this Port Mafia business, whatever turns up with Arahabaki... we've got this, right? You and me, the Sheep... we'll figure it out."

Chūya felt a warmth spread through his chest as he gazed at you, his friend and confidant, silhouetted against the night sky. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice filled with determination and a hint of excitement for whatever challenges lay ahead. "We've got this."

He watched curiously as you gave a curt smile and began unzipping your outermost jacket. "Here," you said, shrugging it off.

"Hmm?" Chūya's eyebrows quirked up, wondering what you were up to. He observed as you bundled up the jacket and placed it behind him with a gentle pat.

The nudge on his shoulder caught him by surprise. "I'll give you a dream," you explained. "Just a real quick one, twenty minutes tops."

Chūya hesitated for a moment before giving in to your urging. As he laid his head onto your jacket, he couldn't help but notice the lingering warmth you had left behind. It was... nice. Comfortable. "Oh yeah?" he quipped, unable to resist teasing. "That dream you mentioned earlier seems like it'd take longer than twenty minutes."

Your laugh rang out once again in the night air. He watched as you raised your hand above his head, your fingers hovering just above his eyes. "No, I just had another idea. A dream where you'd actually win at an arcade game for once."

"Hey!" Chūya protested, his hand shooting up to grab your wrist. "That was one time." He felt a flicker of embarrassment at the memory, but it was overshadowed by amusement.

Your playful head tilt and the smile that followed made Chūya's cheeks warm unexpectedly. "Oh yeah? Then how come it kept happening?" you challenged.

He scoffed, releasing your wrist in feigned annoyance, but he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face. "Whatever, just try and give me this dream," he grumbled good-naturedly.

The sudden smack on his chest caught him off guard. "If you even act angry it'll affect the dream so stop it," you warned, your tone light but your eyes serious.

Chūya closed his eyes, exhaling sharply as he tried to empty his mind. It was harder than usual, especially with your presence so close, warm and comforting beside him. 

"Ability: Exhaustion," he heard you intone softly.

As sleep began to tug at the edges of his consciousness, Chūya found himself both skeptical and hopeful. All he ever saw when sleeping was emptiness, a void of darkness. But if you could actually manipulate a dream for him... well, he hoped he'd remember it. The thought of experiencing a real dream, even if it was just about winning an arcade game, filled him with a childlike excitement he hadn't felt in a long time.

Chūya stood before the full-length mirror in his apartment, his nimble fingers working on the knot of his silk tie. The warm glow of the setting sun filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room. He hadn't realized he had zoned out until a sharp vibration from his suit pocket jolted him back to reality.

A scowl crossed his face as he remembered Mori's insistence on his attendance at this event. A gathering of executives, sub-executives, and other Port Mafia affiliates was enough to make his blood simmer with irritation. Social niceties had never been his strong suit.

With a sigh, he slid his hand into his pocket, retrieving his phone. Kōyō's name flashed on the screen, and he could practically hear her stern voice already. No doubt she was calling to ensure he hadn't found some convenient excuse to bow out.

"What?" he answered, his tone clipped as he wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, returning his attention to the stubborn tie.

Kōyō's voice came through, tinged with exasperation. "Are you even dressed yet? I feel like I've been waiting down here for over twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes, tops. The unbidden thought flashed through Chūya's mind, accompanied by a fragment of a long-ago memory. He shook his head, nearly dropping the phone in the process.

"I'm nearly done," he grumbled, finally conquering the tie. "Whatcha so in a rush for, huh? Not like this is a business meetin' or anythin'."

He heard Kōyō sigh on the other end, a sound he was all too familiar with. "Have I taught you nothing about punctuality, Chūya?"

Rolling his eyes, he set the phone down on the dresser, speaking louder as he shrugged into his jacket. "It doesn't even start till thirty minutes from now, we're fine!"

A groan emitted from the receiver, followed by Kōyō's voice, quieter now. "You really have learned nothing."

Chūya snatched up his favorite hat, settling it at a rakish angle on his head before picking up the phone again. "You gonna keep lecturin' me or should I just call it quits on this whole thing?"

He could practically see Kōyō's stern expression through the phone. Despite his irritation, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Some things never changed, and Kōyō's motherly concern was one of them.

"Just get down here," she said, a hint of fondness creeping into her tone. "And Chūya? Try not to scowl too much. It's unbecoming."

With a theatrical sigh, Chūya ended the call. He cast one last glance in the mirror, adjusting his hat slightly. The man staring back at him looked every inch the Port Mafia executive, but his eyes held a hint of something else. He shook that feeling off too. He didn’t need anyone questioning him tonight about his thoughts of days long gone.

Even as the sleek black car glided through the neon-lit streets of Yokohama, Chūya couldn't help but drift back to the memories that had surfaced earlier. The plush leather seat beside Kōyō felt a world away from the cold, hard rooftops of his youth.

He remembered that night, waking up with a smile that had become foreign to him since joining the Mafia. Your face had been hovering above him, alight with excitement to share the dream and hear his thoughts. In a rare moment of unbridled joy, he had hugged you tightly. You were warm despite the cool breeze, your heartbeat seemingly synchronized with his own.

Chūya squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the memories away. You had told him to forget, after all. But the images kept coming, vivid and relentless.

He saw you crouching before him, water splashing up and soaking your jacket. You were dressed in all black, an oversized hood casting shadows across your face, leaving only sadness visible in your eyes.

"Heard some rumors about you, Chūya," your voice echoed in his mind, "about the Sheep."

He remembered the pain, the stab wound in his stomach pulsating with each labored breath.

"The Sheep... they're gonna be split up. That way something like this doesn't happen again."

Even now, years later, he could feel the grimace on his face as he had looked up at you. "What about you?"

Your soft smile, the gentle touch as you brushed stray hairs from his face - it all felt so real. The handkerchief you had produced from your jacket, wiping away the sweat from his brow.

"I'm not a member of the Sheep, Chūya. Not really, remember?" Your words had stung more than the wound. "So... it's best you forget about me."

He had wanted to reach out, to grasp onto you, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

"But, that dream, what I made for you nights ago... I think you're gonna get that now. The Port Mafia will take care of you, Chūya."

Even now, he wanted to object, to call out the lies. It couldn't have been real, just a nightmare born from blood loss and pain.

"You'll be a king. Just... don't let people get into that head of yours."

The memory of your touch on his cheek, the soft press of your lips against his forehead - it all felt too vivid, too real to be just a recollection.

"Even throughout our endless bickering and fighting because our passions differed," your whispered words ghosted across his skin, "And of all the dreams I've had, you were always in my favorite ones."

Chūya's eyes snapped open, the present rushing back in a flood of sensory input. The purr of the car engine, the faint scent of Kōyō's perfume, the glittering lights of Yokohama streaming past the tinted windows. He took a deep, steadying breath, pushing the memories back into the recesses of his mind.

He was Chūya Nakahara, executive of the Port Mafia now. A ‘king’, just as you had predicted. But as he straightened his tie and adjusted his hat, he couldn't help but wonder if this was truly the dream you had envisioned for him all those years ago.

"What's got you all silent for once?" Kōyō's melodic voice cut through Chūya's reverie, accompanied by a gentle nudge from her ornate fan.

Chūya scoffed, crossing his arms defensively as he shifted in his seat. The leather creaked softly beneath him. "Can't I be silent in peace? Already don't wanna go to this event," he grumbled, his reflection in the window scowling back at him.

Kōyō's laughter filled the car, light and airy. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she opened her fan, the intricate design catching the passing streetlights. "Surely it won't be that bad," she mused, fanning herself gently. "Just come and make an appearance, and maybe Mori will allow you to leave early."

Chūya rolled his eyes, the action exaggerated by the tilt of his hat. "What's the point of this event if even Mori's going to mope the entire time?" he retorted, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "He's still not over that bastard up and leavin'."

A playful lilt colored Kōyō's response, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Sounds like you aren't either."

Chūya's eyes widened, his body recoiling as if he'd been struck. The mere suggestion sent a jolt of indignation through him. "Hey! I'm glad that suicidal bastard ain't here anymore!" he snapped, his voice rising sharply in the confined space of the car.

Kōyō's laughter only grew at his reaction, the sound both infuriating and oddly comforting. Chūya gritted his teeth, choosing to let it go rather than dig himself deeper. With a low growl, he turned back to the window, watching as familiar buildings rushed past in a blur of neon and shadow.

Not much longer now, he thought to himself. Then he could make his appearance, play his part, and leave all the sooner.

As the car jerked to a halt, Chūya’s hand was already on the door handle. He pushed himself out, the cool night air a welcome change from the stuffy interior. Turning back, he offered his hand to Kōyō, feeling the delicate pressure of her fingers as she gracefully exited the vehicle.

Closing the door behind her, Chūya took a moment to survey his surroundings. The buzz of anticipation in the air was almost palpable, mixing with the subtle scents of expensive colognes and the night-blooming flowers adorning the entrance. A steady stream of Port Mafia members and affiliates moved towards the building, their finery a stark contrast to the shadows at the edges of the property.

Chūya’s eyes were drawn upward, tracing the lines of the imposing structure before him. The 'Mori Corporation' sign gleamed overhead, its golden letters a beacon in the night. He couldn't help but smirk at the audacity of it all.

Following Kōyō's lead, Chūya stepped into the building. The familiar opulence of the interior hit him anew – soaring ceilings, glittering chandeliers, and the low hum of power that seemed to emanate from every surface. Even after five years, a part of him still marveled at the sheer grandeur the Port Mafia commanded.

His gaze swept the room, cataloging faces both familiar and unknown. Leaning closer to Kōyō, he muttered, "So, who's even here from the affiliates? We don't really deal with them, that's Mori's business."

"Well," Kōyō began as they approached the bar, "I believe the Nagano group Shirubā Sanzu's leader is here. I can never remember his name." She waved dismissively, clearly unbothered by the lapse in memory.

Chūya grabbed two champagne flutes, handing one to Kōyō as she continued. "The Tokyo sister group Onikai is here too. I remember when that girl used to be just an assassin and whisperer. She was so good, I surely thought she'd make executive, but no! She took the job of taking over that syndicate group. She hardly ever shows up to these though."

As Kōyō reminisced, Chūya’s attention drifted. His eyes scanned the room, finally landing on Mori. Good, now he could make his presence known and start planning his escape from this tedious affair.

As he began to move towards Mori, Kōyō following, something made him pause. There was a smaller figure beside the Port Mafia boss, and for a moment, Chūya felt as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet. It couldn't be... could it?

"Then the Mito group—" Kōyō continued, but Chūya cut her off abruptly.

"Wait," he said, his voice tight with sudden tension. "Go back. The other group – what's the leader's name?"

Kōyō's response sent a jolt through him. The name she spoke – it was so close to yours, yet more formal, a longer version of your name. As if she were talking about a person he once knew intimately, now turned stranger.

"I actually think that might be her over there," Kōyō added, but Chūya barely heard her.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he strained to get a better look at the woman speaking with Mori. A whirlwind of emotions surged through him – disbelief warring with hope, uncertainty tinged with a sharp edge of something he couldn't quite name. Could it really be you? After all this time?

Chūya's world narrowed to a single point of focus. He had to know. He had to see your face and confirm whether the past he'd thought long buried was about to come crashing back into his present. Without a word, he passed his champagne flute to Kōyō, barely registering her questioning look in his peripheral vision.

His feet began to move of their own accord, carrying him forward. He didn't care if he was about to make a fool of himself. He had to know he wasn't dreaming.

As he drew nearer, Mori's smooth voice drifted into earshot. "I just wish you would return, my dear. I could instate someone else for you to come back. It's just too nice to finally see you in person again. Ah, it makes me remember your youth."

Your voice – so familiar, yet changed – came clearly in response, laughing off the proposal. "And let my hard work go to waste? Come now, Mori, you know better than I that this has been the best venture for me, for us."

Chūya's gaze locked onto you. Your eyes squinted as you smiled, a practiced look you had no doubt given thousands of times. Mori merely chuckled at your rejection, one you had probably offered several times before.

He noticed your hands clasped behind your back, fingers mindlessly picking and rubbing your nails together – a habit he remembered all too well.

Chūya's lips parted, but no sound came out. He tried to steady his breathing, silently cursing his quickening pulse. He swallowed hard and tried again, hearing your name leave his lips in a shaky whisper.

Mori turned first, then you. Chūya couldn't read the expression on your face, only noticing your eyes dart between his as your lips parted in surprise.

If it weren't for Mori's knowing chuckle, Chūya might have remained frozen in disbelief.

"I'll let you handle this one, dear," Mori said, his tone laced with amusement. "Seems it's time for you to clean up your mess." He patted you on the shoulder before giving a small bow to Chūya and departing.

Chūya watched as your eyes drifted downward, your gaze seeming to bore holes into the polished marble floor. He caught the sharp exhale that escaped your pursed lips, the sound barely audible above the ambient chatter of the gathering. Your shoulders tensed, a minute movement that he might have missed if he hadn't been so intently focused on every detail of your presence.

You gave a harsh swallow, your throat bobbing visibly with the effort. Chūya's eyes traced the familiar line of your neck, memories flooding back unbidden. Slowly, achingly slowly, you raised your head to meet his gaze.

The look in your eyes struck him like a physical blow. It was a complex mixture of emotions – regret, apprehension, and something that looked unsettlingly like pity. Your brows were slightly furrowed, creating a small crease between them that Chūya had the absurd urge to smooth away with his thumb.

"Chūya," you began, your voice soft and hesitant, a stark contrast to the confident tones you'd used with Mori moments ago. "I can explain."

[redsrooftopprincess]

Assassin, Part 3

Fem Reader x Raphael

Warning: graphic description of a bipolar crash (or, at least how I experience them) over this chapter and the next. Please take care of yourselves and don't read if you think it might trigger you. Much love to my fellow rapid-cyclers. 💚

After the storm of emotion had passed, Splinter sat with Raphael until the moon had crossed over the house, discussing the matter more calmly with his son. Eventually, Raphael felt stable enough to at least make it to bed.

The front steps groaned under his weight, and the paint flaked off the banister like snow in July, as he made his way up the front porch. Today had been a lot.

It had started out beautifully. The early morning mist held fast to the light of dawn as the five of you spent the morning setting everything up. Light swirled around your waist as you worked on place settings, and he was pulled to you.

He walked up behind you, just watching for a moment, affection blooming in his chest. You had ruined his life in the best possible way. Meeting you had brought up so many things he thought he'd let go of a long time ago. It made him hurt in ways he can't even begin to describe. And he is so very grateful.

You'd held each other, swimming in the golden light, and for just one moment he knew how it felt to hold sunlight in his arms.

Then, the ceremony.

Raphael reaches for the screen door handle and depresses the button, pulling it open. The hinges screech their usual protestations, and he cringes as the sound digs the exhaustion headache further into his skull.

That low had hit hard and he should have been expecting it. It'd been a minute since he got triggered like that, but you've always had a way of getting inside his head... You were so damn beautiful...

"Hey," you'd said, peeking around the door to the "boys room" where Casey and the guys were drinking waiting. "You guys almost ready?" When you stepped around and into the room, Raphael forgot how to breathe.

Perfectly coifed and painted in pin curls and neutral make up, and adorned with matching teardrop moissanites in your ears and around your neck (a pre-wedding gift from your brother), you looked like you'd stepped off the silver screen in 1940.

The silk of your floor length forest green dress flowed around you like ink in water, and the thin straps holding it up might as well have been non-existent. His eyes followed the curve of your neck down to your shoulder. His mouth watered and his mind wandered. He wondered what it would taste like. He looked away. Fuck's sake. Couldn't he just look at his beautiful friend in peace?

Minutes later, you'd slipped your arm through his as the two of you waited for your cue to walk down the aisle. A light dusting of pink bloomed in your cheeks when his arm had brushed against your silk covered breast, and your warmth radiated through contact. That warmth poured into his veins, and he felt something in his chest begin to spin.

It had been such a good week. Too good. And some part of him knew that. He'd drawn a deep breath, and exhaled, maintaining a mask of calm. He could feel the crash coming, and prayed he could at least make it to the other side of the wedding before it hit.

He'd spent the week in bliss, planning, packing, driving, and setting up his best friend's wedding with the most beautiful, sweet, smart, and sassy woman in the world. Now, he was going to pay for it.

Don't think about it. Don't think about where you are, or what this is, or that she's literally about to walk down an aisle with you. *Don't* think about it.

The awaited cue came and the two of you stepped out into the early evening light. He'd tried so hard not to look at you as you crossed the threshold, but it had been a lost cause from the beginning.

A Summer Goddess walked beside him. Skin full of golden sunlight, you'd caught his eye out of the corner of yours and your playful smile could have lit up the world. When three steps in the skirt of your dress fully bloomed to reveal a scandalous amout of leg from the slit three-quarters of the way up your thigh, he nearly tripped.

Every look, every brush of silk against his skin sent ripples through him, pushing the spinning in his chest faster. It was the longest twenty-five feet of his life.

When you reached the archway, you turned to him and your hand slid, feather light, down his arm into his. He gazed down at you and smiled.

He wanted to stop you. To pull back on your hand and pull you into him. To take his own and place it softly against your cheek, the other around your waist. He wanted to look into your eyes with every word he's choked down since the moment he met you. He wanted to slide his hand into your hair, tilt your head up, and capture your mouth with his.

This was the closest he would ever get.

With one last gentle squeeze, your hand slipped from his, and his fingers tingled from the loss of contact. You'd each walked to your respective places, and when the music changed over and Bride walked down the aisle, all eyes were on April.

Except his.

...

Tag list:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll

[queerweewoo]

my hand slipped and i wrote 2K of About To Be Cheating Cheaters buddie (sorry tommy!). here's one half of what i've gotten down so far.

.

“That's why I'm here, hermano. To make your drunk ass drink lots of water, and to stop all that spiralling shit in its detrimental tracks. If you haven't figured it out by now, I don't much like things that hurt my family.”

Eddie's head is still spinning. 

“Hermano? Really Buck? I've only ever been a brother, never had one. But I'm pretty sure any brother of mine wouldn't look a lick like you.”

Dios, Eddie is so, so drunk, and such a horrible person for being so, so glad that Buck is here, with Eddie, instead of someplace with his boyfriend that Eddie definitely does not want to be thinking about.

Eddie needs Buck like oxygen right now because Eddie is a pathetic mess. What the fuck would some perfect pilot that's built like a brick shithouse know about being a pathetic mess? Screw you, Iceman—Buck and Eddie are the Maverick and Goose of this movie, fuck you very much. Always have been. Always will be. 

Buck's eyebrows are trying to migrate and join up with his hairline. “Oh, really? What, I'm not good-looking enough to be a Diaz? Is that it?” 

That is very much not it. 

Eddie teases, “Aw, guapo, you worried you're not pretty enough for me?” because he clearly left his last bit of sanity in the hook and ladder down on Main. He feels like he's having an out of body experience, looking down on himself from up on the ceiling and can practically see his blood fizzing beneath his skin like someone injected popping candy into his veins while he wasn't looking.

What the fuck is he doing? 

Buck isn't as drunk as Eddie, but he suddenly looks stone cold sober, blinking furiously through whatever emotions are gripping him right now. Eddie can usually tell what Buck is feeling without having to so much as look at him, but there's currently so much candied rum in his system that it's numbing his higher brain function.

“Uh, that's, uh—it's—that's not exactly what I was getting at, Eddie,” Buck stumbles, trying to right himself from the suckerpunch. 

“So what exactly are you getting at, Evan.”

Eddie never uses that name. Not once before telling Buck about changing his will, and never since. He'd only opted back in that hospital room to call Buck by what is printed on his birth certificate to get his full attention, so he understood that what Eddie was telling him was really fucking important. Back when Eddie had very almost told Buck how he feels about him, before bailing on the notion at the last millisecond like the chicken-shit he is and always has been. 

Tommy calls Buck Evan. Only ever calls him Evan. As if he knows the first fucking thing about Eddie's best friend! Eddie thinks that at this exact moment in time, regardless of how the guy is supposed to be his shiny new pal, he might just despise Tommy Kinard with every fibre of his being. Who the hell does he think he is, flying in on his helicopter like every day is leg day, with his stupid, funny fake-mouth-static and those stupid, handsome cheekbones, pissing all over Eddie's territory with his probably Incredible Hulk sized dick and trying to take Eddie's Buck away from him?

You're mine, he thinks. Almost says it, too. And he might say it yet, if Buck keeps on squirming as beautifully as he is right now, the raging heat of his twitchy body searing into Eddie's side like a branding iron that states If Lost Return To Evan Buckley. 

And I'm yours, he thinks, and knows it to be true. Knows he could make it true, that it could maybe be everything, potentially, if only Eddie stopped being such a yellow-belly. 

Fuck Kinard. Fuck all of them that have come before and after Eddie. None of them have loved, or love Buck the way he does. None of them. Eddie knows this because he loves Buck so much it somehow fortifies his heart to make it able to force its way through the spaces between his cracked rib cage and break free to beat wildly in double-time, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. 

Eddie, feeling drunker by the second, hasn't looked away from Buck in a hot minute—Buck who now looks like he might be having a minor stroke. Stretching across to plop his glass clumsily onto the coffee table and missing the coaster by a Texas mile, Eddie then dries any possibility of lingering water droplets from his moustache with a clunky swipe of his thumb and forefinger, before turning to face Buck with a lot more cock-surety than sense. 

Buck is Eddie's best friend. His partner. The man who loves his kid. The man who Eddie gave his kid to because they both love his kid that much. He's the lunatic who has unofficially moved in with Eddie—because Eddie has driven their kid away with his epic levels of bullshit—even though he currently has a boyfriend.

Buck, Buck, Buck, who Eddie is now positive should be his boyfriend. 

Licking his lips, he feels like he's forgetting something. Like maybe all of the reasons he's steered himself clear of this iceberg for so long—only he's far too drunk, and far too selfish, to try to remember that or care. 

Buck swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and Eddie wants fervently to get his teeth and tongue around it. Then he's muttering, “Eddie, I just meant—” 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, begs, demands. 

His fingertips have found the soft fabric of Buck's deep blue waffle-weave shirt, where it's covering the expanse of his chest. He's trying to get to his heart, he realises, feeling blindly for any sign of double-time, wanting to taste the blood in its chambers the way Buck has tasted Eddie's.

“Yeah,” Buck breathes, mirroring Eddie which doesn't make a lick of sense apart from the fact that it makes perfect sense, to Eddie. 

Eddie's cheeks are burning but he thinks fuck it, throwing the both the extinguisher and life ring overboard and going full steam ahead. 

.

[spideyhexx]

sam woodbridge fact sheet

a long overdo list of random facts for sam (an OC), enjoy <3

Samuel Alexis Woodbridge (s.a.w., yes those are his initials)

age range 26-29 ish??? Never discussed, but this is what I have been envisioning.

Pitcher for the Yankees (undetermined on the team, but that's what we last talked about)(his number is 47)

Has four sisters, two younger, two older.

Originally from a small town in Maine, but now permanently lives in NYC

Has one earring and a nose ring (both silver)

one time got a tongue piercing on his off season and loved it

His teammates gave him the nickname, "Woody," yes because of his name, but also because he got a boner in the middle of practice when he was a rookie and he hasn't lived it down since

Went to college, played baseball there, but also majored in sports journalism and minored in fine arts

Was usually deemed a class clown in school, was a theater kid in high school just for fun

Deep sleeper

Loves taking pictures with a digital camera

Super talkative. Sam is outgoing and friendly, just loves conversation and new people

Love languages are physical touch and quality time

Will be a full on slut for you

Any and all photoshoots of him have a silly vibe

JUST A SILLY GUY!!! He doesn't take himself too seriously, and sometimes he's okay with knowing when to tone it down and be serious, but once in a while, misses the cue on when to stop and actually be serious

Absolutely loves Sabrina Carpenter's music, but otherwise, most of his music is all from the 90s in a variety of different genres

Dresses casually, lot of jeans, t shirts, sweaters, crewnecks, henleys, etc. A good baseball cap, sneakers or work type boots.

Sends voice notes and middle of the day selfies no matter what he's doing

Shuts down during arguments and has a little trouble communicating in those high emotion moments, which leads to ignoring the situation for a little bit

Which also leads to him brushing off some emotions he's feeling and using humor instead

He is online and a fan favorite of the team

Was always an athletic guy

Is an Eagle Scout

Did a manscaped ad once

His family has iconic christmas parties

Penguins are his favorite animal

Only into baseball, he doesn't care for any other sport (besides maybe mini-golf and bowling)

Loves tender love-biting (reciprocating and receiving)

An overdramatic man when he has a minuscule cold

Got his nose ring piercing because his sister was scared to get his ear pierced and he made the deal he'd get a piercing with her

His favorite snack is three oreos

has texted "prepare your panties," on multiple occasions

Huge hsm2 fan

looks like a fuckboy sometimes, but he's nowhere near that, he really is just a sweet guy

muttering tiktok audios 7 times out of 10

More dominant than submissive in bed, but only focused on both him and his partner having a good time

One time shaved his hair into a buzzcut and bleached it like his other teammates, but never again after his family's (and you's) reaction

Curses a lot (favorites are; fuck, motherfucker, dickhole)

Will make a tiktok with his friends and partner

definition of gentlemen in the streets, freak in the sheets

[daincrediblegg]

Ok, my headcanon for Francis and our dear Lady Terror is that Francis makes literally the world's best hot chocolate. His recipe is unparalleled, and he loves making it for you all the time.

Also he loves laying on the bed/sofa with his head on your chest and your arms around him while you read to him cause he loves your voice so much.

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Ok but literally. I believe that. AND IN FACT. THERE IS HISTORICAL PRECEDENT FOR THIS!!! Max Miller did a video on hot chocolate and good god it looks fucking delicious, and I bet you Francis would absolutely have his own special recipe with a lovely blend of spices.... gOD... IT'D BE DIVINE (check out the video it's really cool)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA YES. HE LUVS BUBBIES. he finds rest in the bosoms. and god damnit dude yOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME CRY THINKING ABOUT HIM LISTENING SO INTENTLY AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭👍

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Archery Nemesis.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 4)

—

Tw: descriptions of body horror, Dr. Crane has PTSD and Does Not Realize, Crane has an actual panic attack and just doesn’t care, the Riddler makes one (1) sex joke about Batman

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) (Prev here) - (Pt. 5 here)

(Masterlist here)

—

Dr. Jonathan Crane is in his lab, the acrid scent of chemicals filling the air, and his hands are shaking.

Danny’s health, for the first week that he had him, had been steadily improving at an extremely quick rate. However, his healing had begun to stagnate. Danny said that it was because his body had run out of ectoplasm, and that while there was a lot of ambient ectoplasm in Gotham, he needed a stronger type in order to heal.

And so, that led Dr. Crane here.

He had stolen the research notes from the Penguin years ago regarding his experimentation on him.

(He quite vividly remembers the sound of bone creaking and groaning as it twisted, lengthened. The squelching of shifting tendons and muscles, the strange fabric-like tightening of skin. The feeling of going from man to monster, of losing all claim to his humanity.)

Danny had called him Liminal, part ghost. He had said that he was transformed by, among other things, a kind of synthetic ectoplasm.

Danny needed ectoplasm.

Crane had the research notes. He had every ingredient necessary. And yet, attempt after attempt failed.

The chemical smell burns his nose. His hands tremble.

Dr. Crane is not afraid.

He doesn’t feel fear anymore. He’s tried to, many, many times, but nothing has worked. And yet, his hands are shaking still.

(The horrifying sensation of vertebrae pop-pop-popping along his spine, growing and lengthening. The unbearable itching beneath his skin as toxin glands begin to form. The feeling of his teeth sharpening and elongating, of his skull growing, of his vision changing and brightening. The awful stench of chemicals. The awful stench of ectoplasm.)

Jonathan takes careful note of his shaking hands, his blurring vision, his accelerated heart-rate and shallow breathing.

(Human hands. Human vision. Human heart and lungs and organs.)

He takes note of them, but he does not let that distract him from the task at hand. Danny is not a chemist, but Jonathan is.

The boy knows enough about chemistry in theory, but he won’t go anywhere near Crane’s equipment. He seems to have some sort of intense fear of laboratory settings, probably developed during his stay with the GiW, and Crane is willing to respect that, if only because he cannot afford to lose him.

As such, Crane is the only one qualified to do this. And, unfortunately, if he isn’t successful the boy may very well die.

He heats the chemicals to precisely the right temperatures, adding each one to its correct container.

Dr. Crane thinks of the Scarebeast, that creature born of cruelty and greed and a sense of superiority. That creature which he tries to ignore is a part of him, that can never be removed. A damage which cannot be undone.

He pours the contents of a small beaker into a larger flask, watching the liquids swirl together. The stench in the air is becoming closer and closer to the one burned into his memory.

Crane’s whole body is wracked with unpleasant sensations. It’s truly unfortunate, he thinks, that despite his mind’s lack of fear, his body still reacts so harshly.

Jonathan’s eyes wander, eventually settling on a purple and green card sitting innocently on the corner of the table.

Right.

Even if they wiped out the GiW tomorrow, and even if Danny could survive without ectoplasm, he would still be in danger.

Crane has to get him back to good health. It’s the only way he can be sure that the boy can defend himself properly.

The solution in the flask begins to foam, and Jonathan does not hesitate as he adds the final ingredient. He pours the mixture into a new container, capping it and placing it into a freezer set to -40 degrees.

Hopefully this time he got the timing right.

Jonathan tries to relax, the ventilation in the room slowly but surely clearing the familiar smell from the air.

He thinks of the letter.

Surely, he thinks, that man can come up with some better material for his jokes. Or, at least something new.

Same old threats, same old attempted poisoning.

Aiming his threats at Danny, though, that was new. New and utterly unacceptable.

Scarecrow did what he had to.

He doubted that his solution would last forever, of course, as with that man it never did. As such, he would prepare both himself and Danny for the inevitable moment that his choices came back to bite them.

However, for the moment, they were safe. Danny could rest and recover, and Jonathan could figure out a plan to minimize possible damages.

Jonathan is no longer shaking.

He’s exhausted. This is his fifth attempt today, and each one leaves an unfortunate strain on his mind and body.

With a sigh, he settles himself into his seat at a nearby desk, opening up his computer and logging his most recent attempt. He still has to wait for it to chill to know if it was successful, but he can always update the logs later.

Once he’s done, he stretches, joints popping loudly as he walks to the freezer.

When he sees the results of his tireless work, the ghost of a smile flits across his face.

Success.

Jonathan picks up the jug of ectoplasm and leaves the lab, which is in all actuality the basement of the new apartment that he moved himself and Danny into after receiving the note. The scrappy old woman who was his landlord had told him that as long as he paid her five hundred dollars up front, she would let him set up in the basement without any questions or cop calls.

And so, the most expensive apartment in the Narrows was his.

At least, he thought, the distance between the basement and the apartment was short enough that Danny didn’t have to sit in while he was doing his labwork.

Jonathan knew that he didn’t exactly have a strong grasp on the concept of ‘lab safety,’ proven by his built-up immunity to almost every toxic chemical he’d ever encountered, and he doubted that Danny should be around such an environment.

He was back to the apartment quickly, not bothering to hide the self-satisfied smile on his face. Danny is sitting in his armchair, trying to read one of his books. Danny looks up, ready to greet him, when he sees the jug in his hands and pauses.

“Is that..?”

“Synthetic ectoplasm,” Jonathan says proudly, “I found the Penguin’s research notes and decided to recreate it, since you said that you needed it to heal properly. I’m not sure if it’ll work the same as what you usually have, but I hope it’s helpful all the same.”

Danny is standing, now, and looking at Jonathan with a strange look in his eyes. He looks, Jon thinks, like he’s about to cry.

Then Danny is rushing forward and wrapping his arms around Jonathan, his scrawny form shaking.

Jonathan is, for a moment, horrified. Did he do something wrong somehow? Why is this child, who’s so afraid of touch, hugging him?

And then he hears Danny’s voice, and he knows that it was all worth it.

“Thank you,” he’s mumbling, over and over, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Jonathan says softly, because what else can he say?

The boy cries in his arms for a while, and Jonathan briefly wonders what his life must have been like before, if a person like him can be seen as a comforting figure.

Then, Danny pours himself a small glass of the synthetic ectoplasm, putting the rest into the small fridge which had come with the apartment, and he settles back down, sitting in the armchair once again.

Jonathan sits opposite of him, and they chat with one another as Danny drinks.

Danny talks to him about the stars and tells him about different spaceships, and Jonathan makes sure to pay attention and ask the boy questions.

He doesn’t miss the way that Danny lights up every time he asks him something about his interests. He’s so passionate, so smart, a trait that he seldom sees outside of his fellow rogues, and Jonathan wants to encourage that.

It’s…nice. Peaceful, almost.

And then the front door flies open, because Jonathan isn’t allowed to have nice things.

“Jon,” a familiar voice rings out, “what the hell?!”

Danny is frozen in place, clearly terrified.

Jonathan heaves a sigh, turning to face the nuisance who’s entered his apartment.

“Eddie,” he drawls, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Edward’s face is red with anger as he invades Jonathan’s apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that you sent a bunch of rogues a cryptic message and then dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks! I was worried, Jon!”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement.

“I didn’t think it was that cryptic,” he says, picking up a book in order to pointedly ignore the Riddler.

“Oh, of course you didn’t, you straw-stuffed hickory dickory dickhead. I swear, you’re always—” he pauses, finally having noticed Danny sitting opposite of Jonathan, “—who is this?”

“My apprentice,” Jonathan replies, dreading the upcoming headache he was no doubt going to develop from Edward’s company, “he’s helping me hunt down the GiW. His name is Danny.”

Edward gasps dramatically.

“You—an apprentice?! And you’re letting him sit in the old man chair?! You don’t even let me sit in the old man chair,” he wails, draping himself over the headrest of the couch with a flourish, “Jonathan, I thought I knew you!”

“Edward,” Jonathan says, “get out of my apartment.”

“Oh my goodness, this is incredible. You’re becoming the bat!”

“I am not becoming the bat, Eddie, now get out.”

Edward has a shit-eating grin on his face as he waltzes over to Danny. Danny, who seemed terrified when he first appeared, is now looking at him with obvious amusement written all over his face.

“I mean, look at him! The hair, the eyes, the scrappy build. If you put him in one of those traffic light vigilante costumes, he could easily pass as a Robin!”

“I’m not doing this with you today, Eddie.”

“Riddle me this, Jon: I am a treasure hidden inside of a chest. You can break me, or steal me, or give me a rest. I can flutter, or pound, or attack, or drop, but if you don’t have me, you’re certainly fucked. What am I?”

Jonathan pauses for a moment before he groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Eddie.”

Danny sits still, a confused look on his face as he repeats the riddle silently. Then, his face lights up in delight.

“A heart!”

“Jon, I like this one,” Edward says with a smile, ruffling Danny’s hair, “you are correct! A heart, something that I wasn’t aware that our dear Jonathan had!”

“Eddie, stop.”

“No, no,” Edward says, “I was worried about you, you deserve this. I mean, you even missed girls night! You never miss girls night!”

“Girls night?” Danny asks, absolutely delighted.

“Oh, of course,” Edward says, sprawling over on the couch, dangerously close to just laying in Jonathan’s lap, “we have it once a week. I’m invited because of Selina and Jon’s invited because Harley likes him.”

“And what does girls night entail, exactly?”

“Eddie,” Jonathan groans, “please.”

“Well,” Edward hums, “we usually paint our nails, or watch a movie, or gossip about the other rogues, and occasionally, we tell each other about any ‘encounters’ we have with Batman,” he says, raising his eyebrows up and down.

Danny’s jaw drops.

“Edward, shut up,” Jonathan says, an irritated tone in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“No way,” Danny says, “I thought that Batman, like, hated you guys or something. You mean he actually..?”

“Oh, the Bat is much like a bottle of liquor or a cheap cigarette, in that he was made to be passed around.”

Danny chokes on air.

“Edward Nygma,” Jonathan hisses, getting out of his seat and looming over the man, “get the hell out.”

Edward pales.

“Leaving, leaving!” Edward says, dashing away from Jonathan. He pauses, turning to flash Danny a quick smile.

“Remember Danny, I’m your favorite uncle! Not any of the other rogues, me!”

With that, he leaves, the room falling completely silent.

And, as per usual, that silence does not last.

“You full-named him?” Danny asks gleefully, “and it worked?”

Jonathan just sighs, sitting down on the couch and rubbing at his temples.

“Please, don’t take anything Eddie says seriously. He’s a moron.”

“Dr. Crane, please let me come to girls night with you,” Danny pleads, his eyes sparkling, “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

Jonathan groans.

“Of course you won’t, Eddie will do it for you.”

“Come on, please?”

“I think we’re a bit busy with the GiW at the moment,” Jonathan snaps. He pauses as he notices the crestfallen expression on Danny’s face.

This boy is going to be the death of him.

“Perhaps, though, when all that is taken care of…”

Danny cheers, grinning wildly, and Jonathan is not at all relieved to see him happy again. Certainly not.

The rest of the day is relatively normal.

Danny works on trying to get information from the GiW database while Crane refines his his fear toxin, both preparing for a raid on the GiW base they located in Gotham.

It was only a temporary base, nothing of note, but there was a chance of discovering more bases through it, and that wasn’t something either of them were willing to give up.

Still, something like this would take time. Rushing would only lead to failure.

…

Late in the night, long after Danny is fast asleep in his room, Jonathan pauses.

The GiW are not the only threat out there. They aren’t the only threat to him or to Danny. Perhaps it could be helpful to reach out to someone with greater resources than himself.

He sends a quick message to Red Hood.

Hopefully, he thinks, everything will go smoothly.

—

[moongothic]

Madoka is the promise you won't turn from a child, full of hopes and dreams and the wish to save the world, into a bitter adult who just wants to hurt others and ruin people's lives

Madoka promised to be there for you to remind you of the person you wanted to be and to stop you from becoming what you sought to destroy

Madoka made that promise and became the very embodiment of it

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

fantasy au whiteboard scribbles <3