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witherby · 4 months ago

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Sooooooo excited for a SickBed Part 2 for Mouse!!!! also i’m literally obsessed with your writing - i check for updates on any of ur series like all the time!! 💞💞

That's so sweet to hear! Have something considerably less sweet! Chef's been craving some serious angst for days 😈

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 2

Part one is Here!

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Content warning: Young sick child, descriptions of a seizure, descriptions of a hospital environment ⚠️

You're transported to the hospital after receiving several doses of anti-seizure medication for monitoring and tests. Unless he'd wanted to risk giving away their secret identities, Bruce has to act like he doesn't have access to an entire medical bay in the cave under his house, and lets them take you. Hal gets in the back of the ambulance and Bruce remains behind with his sons, shuffling tiredly into the kitchen and looking like the world is on his shoulders. It's rare that he wears his exhaustion so brazenly.

"They're stable," he announces to the room. Several pairs of shoulders un-tense, and Alfred offers him a mug of hot chocolate. His fingers curl around the handle, but he settles for cradling it while staring down into the liquid. "You can all go back to bed."

"Fuck off," Jason says, "you think any of us can go back to sleep after that?"

"Language," Alfred gently chides. "Master Bruce is right. There is little else we can do for the evening. Our young Flittermouse is in good hands, and Master Harold will alert us to any significant changes, if there are any."

"And Dick," Tim says. He's drained his cup. Bruce gives Tim his, and he takes it to keep his hands busy. "He texted me back. He's gonna meet Hal at Gotham Central."

"Thank you for telling him," Bruce says. He turns to Damian, who hasn't looked away from his own cup. "Damian? How are you fairing?"

"Fine," he says too quickly. He grimaces and tries again. "I am just fine. Merely surprised the illness turned this bad."

Surprised is the understatement of the century. You're alive, you're in good hands, but he can't get the image of you foaming out the mouth and jerking uncontrollably out of his mind. He can't stop hearing you choking and gasping for oxygen. He can't stop thinking about how you might be dead right now if he hadn't listened to his gut and checked on you.

You might be dead right now if he hadn't checked on you. Surrounded by a family of vigilantes who had been none the wiser.

"I want to go to the hospital," he says suddenly. "I know you won't permit me to drive, so someone else needs to take me there. Now, preferably."

Bruce rests a hand on Damian's shoulder. "You did your part, son. You got help and they're gonna be okay. You don't have to —"

"I'm sorry," Damian says, "I don't know why I phrased it like a request. I need to get to the hospital, so I can either be driven there or find my own way."

There's silence for a minute. Damian sits still while wordless conversation is exchanged with everyone else at the table. For a brief moment, he feels like the baby of the family again.

He almost would have reclaimed that title if he hadn't found you —

A hairline crack appears in his mug. He stands from his seat and Bruce's grip on his shoulder briefly gets tighter.

"I'll take you," Bruce says. "Pack a Go Bag and meet me in the driveway in ten minutes."

"I'll be there in four," Damian replies, heading off. He fetches a change of clothes, his sketchbook, a phone charger, and swings by your room to grab the plush bat you sleep with in your bed.

Dick is sitting in a stiff plastic chair in the emergency room lobby, dressed in a thick hoodie, sweats, and a baseball cap to avoid getting any excessive attention at three in the morning. He won't stop chewing on his thumbnail when Damian walks in and kicks his leg.

"Report," he demands.

"Hello to you, too, baby bird," Dick mumbles. He tips his head up just enough to be able to make eye contact under the lip of his hat.

"I'm growing very tired of repeating myself in this family," Damian hisses. Dick sits up fully at that and sighs.

"They stopped seizing," he explains. "Haven't woken up yet, so they're in an observation room getting some blood drawn and being prepped for an MRI. Only one family member's allowed back at a time, so Hal is with them."

"Tell him to switch me places," Damian demands. "I don't have his number."

"You're gonna put it in your contacts after this," Dick says. A statement, not a question. Damian nods solemnly. "Good. I'll text him."

Damian sinks into the chair beside Dick and sets his bag on the ground, digging out his cellphone. He takes a peek at the group chat he's in with his brothers, scrolling through more recent messages talking about your upcoming birthday, and whether or not you're turning old enough to get a cellphone of your own. Bruce insists a seven-year-old will not need one, but everyone has been collaborating on a PowerPoint presentation to show Bruce all the points in favor of it.

All of Dick's points have just been "I can ask for selfies any time," and all of Jason's have just been "I'll finally have a reason to use my own if I can call Mousey whenever I want," so it's largely been Damian and Tim coming up with points that might actually sway Bruce.

He scrolls further back in the chat history in lieu of anything else to do, stopping to look at any pictures each brother has exchanged. A new book series Jason took interest in. An article about high tension wires Tim shared. Lots and lots of selfies from Dick. God, his eldest brother's picture should be in the dictionary next to Vanity. An article featuring Dick on the cover of Vanity Fair.

He's about to close out of the chat when he spots a picture Jason sent about two weeks ago of you. You're outside in the Manor gardens and clearly asleep in a patch of sunflowers, likely having worn yourself out playing. The sky in the background is clear for once, and the sun is just starting to set, which means the flowers are starting to turn to the next brightest source of light.

They're all facing you.

The framing is impeccable. It's a beautifully-captured, candid moment, likely taken seconds before Jason descended and woke you up with a surprise tickle ambush, as he tends to do when he finds any sibling napping somewhere, the bastard.

Damian makes it his lock screen, then pockets his phone and waits there in silence with his brother.

You're sleeping when Damian finally gets to see you again. Hal relented to switching places with him, knowing he would find his way to you regardless of his answer, so he didn't put up any fight.

He stands quietly in the observation room the entire two hours it takes to run all your scans, then follows the nurses as you're wheeled into a room and hooked up to some fluids and a heart rate monitor. They tell him that you're not likely to wake for at least a few more hours, but he's adamant that he's to stay at your side.

When he's alone, he snags your charts and looks them over, using his limited medical knowledge to glean as much as he can from the report. As far as he can tell your brain is fine, which is the biggest relief, but he's still going to grab a nurse and make them explain the parts he doesn't understand to him so that he can get the whole picture.

Damian digs your bat plushy out of his bag and gingerly tucks it under one of your arms. Your skin is pale and clammy when he makes contact with it, and he scowls.

"If you get any worse, I'll be livid," he tells your unconscious body. "Stop scaring your family. It's unbecoming of a Wayne."

You, understandably, don't respond. Damian watches your chest move smoothly up and down, watches the monitor display your heart rate, but he still keeps a hand around your wrist to track himself. The tangible proof of life helps settle the deep anxiety in his chest.

"I mean it," he mutters, "if you develop some kind of complication, or seize again, or d —"

He grits his teeth and shoves away the surge of panic that threatens to overwhelm him. Breathes slowly and deeply. Moves his hand from your wrist to lace your fingers together with his, squeezing tightly.

"The thought should never have crossed my mind. You simply have to get better," he says, factual. "You don't have a choice, even if I have to give up my mantle to...hnn."

Damian falls silent as he looks at you. An idea forms in his mind, blooming quickly. Roots take shape and travel down his spine, until they find a home in his chest and curl around his heart. He's hit with a wave of certainty he's never felt before in his life.

He messages the group chat with his brothers, sending a singular text, then digs out his sketchbook and a pen with one hand while he continues to hold onto yours.

Damian to All: I want to go to medical school.

You awaken with a massive headache. It's bright and hot and you're terribly dizzy. You're confused, knowing you went to sleep last night in your large, dark bedroom, with silky sheets and your stuffy, but now you're lying in a tiny cot with one scratchy sheet and being blinded by the overhead light.

"Daddy," you try to call out, but your throat is hoarse and you start coughing. It feels like you've swallowed a box of knives. Something squeezes your hand and you feel a palm against your forehead. "D-...D..."

"You're safe. Breathe as slowly as you can. I'm going to sit the bed up."

The voice is familiar. You squint blearily in the light and can just barely make out your brother's face.

"D-Dami?" You croak, wheezing for breath.

"Yes, Flit, it's me," he says. Once you're more or less upright, he briefly leans across you. "Pardon the reach. I'm going to put a cup of water in your free hand. Drink it very slowly."

You fumble with the cup. Damian helps you hold it, and you take small sips. It doesn't soothe the stinging in your throat, but he looks so uncharacteristically worried for you that you just keep drinking the water until it's empty.

"How do you feel?" He asks.

"Bad," you mumble. "Where are we?"

"Gotham Central Hospital." Damian puts the empty cup aside and sits down in the chair next to your bed. He still hasn't let go of your hand. "Your illness took a bad turn, and you had a seizure last night. Doctors brought you here to make you better."

"Oh. Am I better now?"

"Not yet." Damian grabs the clipboard with your information on it and glances over it again. "We know that you have severe viral pneumonia, but it's not lobar or interstitial like I thought. I suspect your seizure isn't part of the original problem, just a manifestation...of...um."

Damian stops talking when he notices your confusion. You scrunch your nose and give him a helpless frown.

"I don't know what that means," you say softly. You look absolutely devastated. "Am I gonna die?"

Damian's heart leaps into his throat. He squeezes your hand almost painfully tight and stands from his chair, leaning over you with wide eyes. The green in his irises almost seem to flash, like Jason's when he's extremely angry.

"No," he says fiercely, saying your name with a shakiness you've never heard before. "You will not die. I won't let it come to that."

You stare back at him, sniffling.

"Promise?"

"I promise. I swear it."

You relax a little. "Okay. I trust you, Dami."

Your brother's face does a strange twist. It looks like his eyes start to get shiny, but he leans down and rests his head against your shoulder before you can really find out. He smells like home, instead of the weird, chemically-clean scent of the hospital room, which is comforting.

His arms come around you in a gentle hug. You lift your hands and reciprocate as best as you can, limbs feeling like jelly. It's nice. Damian doesn't hug you very often, so you do your best to savor it. When he pulls away, his expression is carefully neutral and closed off again. He sits back down and resumes holding your hand.

"Father and Timothy are in the waiting room, if you'd like to see them," he says, checking his phone. His notifications have been flooded with questions from his brothers (and demands for pictures from Dick, for some reason. You're sick, not posing for a photoshoot). He brings up his dial pad, ready to call whomever you want.

"Yeah," you nod, desperate for comfort from more of your family. You don't like the bright hospital room. You hope having more people around will make it less eerie.

Damian rings Bruce without fanfare and tells him your room number, then hangs up again. He goes to stand, about to leave the room, but you tighten your grip on his hand before he can slip away.

"Stay?" You ask quietly.

He sits back down instantly, brows raised. You don't spend much time with Damian, considerably less than you do with your other brothers, but he seems taken aback by you seeming to enjoy his company just as much as the others'.

"Yes," he says, voice whisper-soft, "I'll stay with you."

You give him a tired smile. Then your ears start ringing and your vision whites out. The last thing you hear before losing consciousness is Damian's frantic cry of your name.

#littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #damian wayne #bruce wayne #jason todd #platonic batfam #gn reader #angst #tim drake

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ari-ana-bel-la · 1 month ago

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Ok, imagine this. Lewis being a father and when he is at Ferrari, his daughter is helping him with his Italian, because daughters mother is from Italy. Maybe Lewis and the Mom still being good friends and daughter always spending a few months in Italy since she has been small so that is why her Italian is so good.

Sorry, English is only my second language!

Rosso e Sole

When Lewis stepped into the Ferrari garage for the first time, clad in red from head to toe, there was a buzz in the air. Not just because of the legend now standing under the Prancing Horse emblem, but because standing beside him, a touch shorter than his shoulder, was a girl with wavy dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and greenish-brown eyes that sparkled like the Italian coast.

Her name was Yn. Sixteen, confident in her quiet way, and with an Italian lilt to her English that made the engineers smile every time she spoke.

“Papa,” she said that morning, standing just outside the hospitality suite, looking up at her dad who was clearly trying to memorize his morning briefing in Italian, “you just said the car is made of bread. You meant carbonio, not pane.”

Lewis blinked down at her. “Wait, really?”

“Veramente,” she smirked. “You said: ‘la macchina è fatta di pane.’ Which would make for a deliciously fragile car.”

He groaned. “Oh my god. Why is this language so hard?”

Yn shrugged, stepping up beside him and tapping on his tablet. “You’ve just got to stop trying to make everything so literal. Italian is a feeling, not a formula.”

Behind them, a few of the mechanics stifled chuckles. One even whispered to a colleague, “La ragazza di Hamilton è meglio di lui in italiano.”

And she was. Always had been.

Yn was born under a hot sun in Tuscany, in a small private hospital where her mother, Maria, had insisted on giving birth near her parents’ home.

Lewis had been there, holding Maria’s hand, tears falling on the baby’s blanket when Yn let out her first cry. They had been young, ambitious, wildly in love, but even then, they both knew that love alone wouldn’t be enough to build the life Yn deserved.

So when Yn was barely a year old, Maria and Lewis sat together on the terrace of Maria’s father’s home, drinking espresso while the baby slept inside, and made a decision that would shape the rest of their lives.

“We’re not going to make each other happy, not in the way we thought,” Maria had said softly.

Lewis nodded, fingers fidgeting with the sugar packet in his hand. “But we’re going to make her happy. That much, I know.”

And they did. They built something beautiful out of what they had. A friendship that turned into a lifelong alliance. Two worlds that somehow always made space for each other.

Yn grew up between two countries, two languages, two lives. When her parents had to be away—photo shoots in Paris, testing in Bahrain—she’d stay with her Nonno and Nonna in a house full of lemon trees, espresso machines, and old records of opera playing in the kitchen.

She never minded. She never resented it. Because her parents never made her feel like she came second. Every reunion was filled with joy, every phone call with love. They never missed a chance to tell her she was adored.

Now at sixteen, Yn was becoming her own person—curious, witty, always carrying a journal around to sketch or write little thoughts in Italian and English. And since Lewis joined Ferrari, she had become somewhat of a celebrity in the paddock.

“Hey, principessa,” called one of the engineers as she passed the garage entrance. “Did your papa learn how to say ‘rear wing’ yet?”

“Not unless he wants to tell you about his red wine again,” she quipped, without even turning around.

That afternoon, Lewis and Yn sat together under the canopy outside the Ferrari motorhome. She was scrolling through her notes app where she’d written down a few helpful phrases for her dad to memorize before his post-qualifying interview.

“Okay,” she said, handing him her phone, “repeat after me: La macchina ha avuto un ottimo bilanciamento oggi.”

Lewis furrowed his brows. “La macchina ha avuto un ottimo... bilanc... bilanciamento... oggi.”

“Perfetto!” she grinned.

“Wait. What did I just say?”

“That the car had great balance today.”

“Right. That’s... true, I guess. We can pretend it did.”

She laughed, and then leaned over to fix his collar.

“Fans love this, you know,” Lewis murmured. “Us talking like this. Teaching me Italian. You’re becoming more famous than me.”

“Impossible,” she teased. “But they do like it. Especially when you mess up.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Papa,” she said, her tone suddenly softer. “You know I love this, right? Being here. With you. Watching you race.”

He looked at her then, his expression warm, the lines around his eyes softening. “You don’t think it’s weird? That we missed so much time together when you were younger?”

“Not weird. Just… life,” she shrugged. “I never felt unloved. Not once. And I always had Nonna and Nonno. They taught me how to cook and yell at the TV during football.”

“I owe them everything,” he whispered.

“We all do,” Yn replied.

There was a beat of silence between them before Lewis spoke again.

“Do you ever wish we’d done it differently? Your mom and me, I mean?”

Yn tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But then I wouldn’t be me, would I? I wouldn’t have grown up between London and Florence. I wouldn’t have learned to be strong, or independent. I wouldn’t have learned to miss people and still love them just the same.”

Lewis stared at her for a long moment, then pulled her into a hug. “You’re too wise for your age.”

“I read a lot of Italian poetry,” she smiled into his chest.

That Sunday, after the race, Yn stood in the paddock, holding her dad’s race suit jacket while he did interviews. As usual, she corrected his phrasing gently when he slipped up.

“No, Papa, it’s soddisfatto, not soffritto. You just said you were ‘onion-fried’ with the car’s performance.”

Somewhere nearby, a fan held up a cardboard sign that read: Yn for Italian Teacher of the Year!

Maria arrived a bit later, fresh from a photoshoot in Milan, her heels clicking on the pavement. She waved at Yn, who ran into her arms, and then the two joined Lewis for a brief chat near the motorhome.

“We’re thinking of renting a place in Rome for the summer,” Maria said. “You should come.”

Lewis raised a brow. “You mean all three of us?”

“Why not?” she shrugged. “She’s growing up. We should enjoy the time we get.”

Yn beamed. “Can we? Please?”

Lewis smiled. “Only if you promise to keep teaching me Italian.”

Maria smirked. “And maybe some fashion, too. You still can’t dress without her help.”

“Rude,” he said, but laughed.

As the three of them stood there, blending the past and the present, the paddock moved around them, fast and loud. But in that moment, Yn didn’t feel like a girl caught between two worlds. She felt exactly where she was meant to be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-💚🐍

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heritageposts · 1 year ago

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The Grayzone has obtained slides from a confidential Israel lobby presentation based on data from Republican pollster Frank Luntz. They contain talking points for politicians and public figures seeking to justify Israel’s assault on the Gaza Strip. Two prominent pro-Israel lobby groups are holding private briefings in New York City to coach elected officials and well-known figures on how to influence public opinion in favor of the Israeli military’s rampage in Gaza, The Grayzone can reveal. These PR sessions, convened by the UJA-Federation and Jewish Community Relations Council, rely on data collected by Frank Luntz, a veteran Republican pollster and pundit. [...] The Luntz-tested presentations on the war in Gaza urge politicians to avoid trumpeting America’s supposedly shared democratic values with Israel, and focus instead on deploying “The Language of War with Hamas.” According to this framing, they must deploy incendiary language painting Hamas as a “brutal and savage…organization of hate” which has “raped women,” while insisting Israel is engaged in “a war for humanity.” [...] Luntz’s Gaza war presentation puts his poll-tested tactics back in the Israel lobby’s hands, urging pro-Israel public figures to stay on the attack with incendiary language and shocking allegations against their enemies. In one focus group, Luntz asked participants to state which alleged act by Hamas on October 7 “bothers you more.” After being presented with a laundry list of alleged atrocities, a majority declared that they were most upset by the claim that Hamas “raped civilians” – 19 percent more than those who expressed outrage that Hamas supposedly “exterminated civilians.” Data like this apparently influenced the Israeli government to launch an obsessive but still unsuccessful campaign to prove that Hamas carried out sexual assault on a systematic basis on October 7. Initiated at Israel’s United Nations mission in December 2023 with speeches by neoliberal tech oligarch Sheryl Sandberg and former US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, a recipient of hundreds of thousands of dollars in donations and speaking fees from Israel lobby organizations, Tel Aviv’s propaganda blitz has yet to produce a single self-identified victim of sexual assault by Hamas. A March 5 report by UN Special Representative on Sexual Violence Pramila Patten did not contain one direct testimony of sexual assault on October 7. What’s more, Patten’s team said they found “no digital evidence specifically depicting acts of sexual violence.”

They also advice to use different language for Democrat and Republican voters, which inadvertently provides one of the most succinct explanation of the difference between the two genocidal parties that I've ever come across:

To make their arguments stick, Luntz recommends pro-Israel forces avoid the exterminationist language favored by Israeli officials who have called, for example, to “erase” the population of Gaza, and to instead advocate for “an efficient, effective approach” to eliminating Hamas. At the same time, veteran pollster acknowledges that Republican voters prefer phrases which imply maximalist violence, like “eradicate” and “obliterate,” while sanitized terms like “neutralize” appeal more to Democrats. Republican presidential candidates Nikki Haley and Donald Trump have showcased similar focus-grouped rhetoric with their calls to “finish them” and “finish the problem” in Gaza.

One of the slides, illustrating what language to use:

There are several more slides in the article. I recommend reading the whole thing, start to finish. One more thing I'd like to highlight though:

Luntz acknowledges Israel’s mounting PR problems in a slide identifying the most powerful tactics employed by Palestine solidarity activists. “Israelis attacking Israel is the second most potent weapon against Israel,” the visual display reads beside a photo of a protest by Jewish Voices for Peace, a US-based Jewish organization dedicated to ending Israel’s occupation of Palestine. “The most potent” tactic in mobilizing opposition to Israel’s assault on Gaza, according to Luntz, “is the visual destruction of Gaza and the human toll.” The slide inadvertently acknowledges the cruelty of Israel’s bombardment of Gaza, displaying a bombed out apartment building with clearly anguished women and children fleeing in the foreground. But Luntz assures his audience, “It ‘looks like a genocide’ even though the damage has nothing to do with the definition.” According to this logic, the American public can become more tolerant of copiously documented crimes against humanity if they are simply told not to believe their lying eyes.

. . . full article on GZ (6 Mar 2024)

#free palestine #palestine #israel #gaza #hasbara

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Nine

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, mild angst, mild fluff

Word Count: 6k

The mandate becomes clearer. You start your first day at the archive. Ghost shares information.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter (UN Mandate I)

Pillar I: Genetic Continuity: All citizens capable of reproduction must contribute to the gene pool unless medically exempt.

Pillar II: Historical Memory: Each Safe Zone and its civilians must preserve human history, language, and art, ensuring no generation forgets humanity’s origins.

Pillar III: Weapons Compact: All Safe Zones are forbidden from producing, obtaining, or trading weapons of mass destruction without prior UN Council approval. Military force may be used only under UN mandate to prevent genocide or extinction-level threats. The production or attainment of firearms, explosives, projectiles, blades, or any instrument of war by civilians is prohibited.

Pillar IV: Bioethics: Non-consensual testing on humans is prohibited. Artificial intelligence, cloning, and biotechnology is outlawed unless authorized by UN Council and must prioritize long-term human well-being.

Pillar V: Reintegration: No persons may be denied sanctuary in a Safe Zone on the basis of origin, gender, or religious belief. All survivors have the right to seek safety and sustenance.

Pillar VI: Equity of Resources: Vital resources, such as water, food, medicine, and power, must be shared across Safe Zones under UN allocation protocols, and redistributed in times of shortage.

Pillar VII: Rewilding: Each Safe Zone and the citizens therein must preserve or restore a percentage of surrounding ecosystems to maintain biodiversity and prevent ecological collapse.

Pillar VIII: Cultural Sovereignty: Safe Zones and the citizens therein retain cultural autonomy, as long as that autonomy does not propagate ideologies that promote extinction, discrimination, or historical erasure. Minority cultures, languages, and traditions must be legally protected.

Pillar IX: Equal Dignity: All individuals, regardless of origin, ethnicity, religious belief, sexual orientation, or country of birth, are equal under the law and entitled to equal protection and opportunity.

Pillar X: Anti-Extremism: All Safe Zones and the citizens therein must report, identify, or otherwise notify the respective authoritative bodies of any organizations, groups, collectives, or movements advocating genocide, supremacy, or systemic subjugation.

You close the pamphlet, shutting out what you didn’t want to know but need to understand. The Preservation of Humanity Charter. Mandate I. Specific and yet entirely vague—open to interpretation. On the surface, nothing appears nefarious, yet you detect hypocrisy in it, that as you dig deeper and ask more questions, fractures will appear.

Your gaze shifts to the collection of reading materials the transitional advisor and family planner handed you when you departed. They stare back, mocking. With a sigh, you set the pamphlet down and reach for another. This one is black with white lettering. “Bill of Rights” is embossed on the front near the top of the thin booklet. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations.

Opening it, you scan the introduction.

In recognition of the fragility of civilization and the enduring worth of all persons, the United Nations affirms the following rights and protections as universal and mandatory for all Safe Zones, Neutral Zones, governing bodies, and military authorities. These rights are preserved under The United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter, Mandate III, in alliance with the global standards set forth by the United Nations Continuity Council.

You pause in your reading, mind drifting toward all that’s been lost. There was so much chaos when the structures in place began to collapse—when everything destabilized and devolved. No one believed that any of this would happen. When world leaders threatened one another and preached for isolationism, nothing seemed to come of it. People went to work, lived their lives, spent time with their friends and families.

Then came the trade wars, the tariffs, and sanctions. Even then, people only complained about rising prices and the cost of living. Land and border disputes followed. More empty threats where nothing happened, and the news cycle carried on. But one country put boots on the ground. Another did the same in retaliation. Like a faucet being slowly turned on, the droplets became a stream and then a current.

Article I – Right to Existence and Liberty.

All citizens have the right to life, dignity, liberty, and autonomy. No persons shall be subject to enslavement, forced labor, or arbitrary detention.

All “citizens.” You’re not a citizen—not yet. Where does that leave you? Will they grant you full status when probation is lifted?

Article II – Equality Under Law.

A loud, repeated thudding fills the room, coming from the front door. Clutching the thin black booklet, you head for the door, yanking it open, only to find Lieutenant Riley on the other side holding a cardboard box.

“You’re here early,” you blurt.

“Brought you something,” he replies, voice raspy but gentle.

Behind the balaclava, all you can see are his gorgeous brown eyes. There is no crease in his brow—nothing that indicates any emotion. Yet his shoulders are a tad slumped, almost as if he’s exhausted and would rather be in bed.

You step to the side, holding the door open enough for Lieutenant Riley to enter. Shutting the door, you follow behind him as he makes his way into the bedroom. Placing the cardboard box on the bed, Lieutenant Riley rests his hands atop it, silently observing you as you approach the box.

“You brought me something?” you ask with a hint of excitement.

Neutrality becomes softness. A flush of pink blooms at the edges of the balaclava. Ghost taps the top of the box and takes a step back, extending an arm in open invitation.

“Go on,” he urges.

Placing the thin, black booklet on the bed, you reach for the box with eager, itching fingers. Anticipation flowers in your stomach. Only days ago, Lieutenant Riley dumped you out of his lap and left, hardly giving you a glance as he walked out the door. Now, here he is, bringing you a gift.

You open the box and find an array of colors.

“Is this…” you trail off, reaching into the box, fingers gliding along soft fabric.

Lifting it from its home, you unfurl it. A sweater. Deep maroon by the color. The fit looks almost perfect. Holding the sweater off to the side, you peer down into the box.

“Have you brought me clothes?” you ask, almost choking on your words.

On your release from quarantine, you were given a single outfit. You’ve been rotating through two shirts and two pants the last two weeks. Placing the sweater on the bed, you start removing more items. There are tank tops, dress pants, and cardigans. There’s even a sundress. A wave of joy washes over you, drowning you in rapt glee as you retrieve more clothing items out of the cardboard box.

“I guessed on your size,” says Ghost as a mountain of clothes begins to form on the thin duvet. “Wasn’t sure about color. Or style.”

While the clothes are clearly second-hand, all of it is in good condition. You’ll have more than two shirts to wear. More than two pants. Ghost has brought you an entire wardrobe.

Gratitude explodes within you, bringing you to the brink of tears.

“I can exchange what you don’t like,” he continues, rambling on like he’s suddenly nervous. “If something is too big, can always have it resized.”

“Lieutenant,” you whisper, clutching a pair of black slacks to your chest.

“Do you like it?” he asks, taking a step toward you.

He sounds so eager—so hopeful.

Words form and then promptly leave your head, escaping into the air. So, you don’t speak. You walk around the corner of the bed, and push into Lieutenant Riley’s space. Placing your hand on his arm for support, you go up on your toes, pressing your lips to his balaclava-covered cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, squeezing his arm. “For thinking of me.”

Lieutenant Riley’s brow is soft and delicate. He leans in your direction, pure affection in his gaze. It’s startling, sending a rush of heat up your neck and a little flip of your stomach. You quickly drop your hand, backing up.

“You start at the archive today,” states Ghost that soft gaze following your every step.

“I do,” you exhale, smiling in his direction as you delicately fold a pair of jeans. “I’m excited to be around books again.”

“Should pick something out,” nods Ghost. “Look your best for the big day.”

“You’re right,” you grin. “I should.”

After a long deliberation and several spins for Lieutenant Riley’s viewing pleasure, you select a simple black dress with a forest green cardigan. It’s plain and comfortable but professional.

Ghost lightly tugs on the hem of the cardigan. “Fit all right?”

“It’s lovely,” you beam, shying away from how intensely Lieutenant Riley watches you.

It’s hunger but not lecherous in nature. Like dark water, you cannot see into his depths—you cannot begin to guess what he might be thinking. Yet you like the attention, and whatever animosity that lingered between the two of you from the other night is gone. Lieutenant Riley’s body language is relaxed and intimate. The man is in a good mood, and that contentment only heightens your own happiness.

You should enjoy this day. It’s a fresh start. A new beginning in the face of all that you’ve lost.

Ghost releases the cardigan, his arm returning to his side. “Ready?”

You nod. “Ready.”

Out on the street, Ghost escorts you toward a black SUV.

You come to a dead stop. “Is this yours?” you ask in disbelief. “People own cars?”

Ghost opens the front passenger door. “No,” he answers, stepping to the side to indicate that you should get in.

“No this isn’t yours? Or no people don’t own cars?”

“Yes.”

You poke him in the chest, but you’re grinning. “Don’t you dare,” you laugh.

“Dare what?” he replies in mock confusion.

You shake your head good-naturedly, sliding into the passenger seat. Ghost shuts the door, circling around the front of the vehicle to hop into the driver side.

You arch an eyebrow. “Why are you taking me to work in a non-military vehicle?”

“How do you know that?” counters Ghost, draping his arm across the steering wheel.

“So it’s a civilian vehicle?”

“Didn’t say that,” he says casually, leaning back in the seat, reaching into his pocket as he digs around for something.

You open your mouth. Shut it. Ghost chuckles, and you playfully smack his bicep with the back of your hand. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, Ghost sets both in the middle console. The SUV roars to life, the floor gently rattling beneath your feet. Ghost checks the side mirror and shifts gears. The vehicle rolls forward, cruising slowly down the street.

Two weeks behind the wall and all you’ve seen is the inside of your temporary apartment, and a few surrounding streets. This is furtherment—a consolidation of what was and the exploration of possibilities. Home is behind you, though it dwells in your heart, and for now, you must make peace with your new reality. You must navigate this to your advantage, happiness, and well-being.

That is the core of survival after all. To carry on.

“Where is the archive?” you ask, peering upward through the windshield at the towering buildings.

“It’s inside the library,” answers Ghost, turning on his blinker as he rolls up to a stop sign. “In the civilian zone.”

“We’re going to the civilian zone?” Your voice is laced with excitement.

All you’ve known is grim-faced men and a militarized looming presence. This might just be your first real sense of normalcy in almost a month.

“We are,” replies Ghost.

You can’t sit still as the SUV shepherds the two of you along. Beneath your skin is a buzzing adrenaline. It pushes you to twist and turn, to try and absorb everything around you. The neutral greyness of the militarized zone starts to change, shifting toward greenery. Where there were only sidewalk, road, and buildings, trees and plants begin to appear at even intervals, adding a touch of color.

Ghost slows the vehicle at a small guard gate. The barrier lifts, and a guard waves the SUV through. The transition to the civilian zone is almost instantaneous—a whiplash. While there are several vehicles on the road, the majority are buses, and beside those in designated lanes are bicyclists and motorized scooters. No one walks around in uniform. It’s so…ordinary, and yet so strange, like you’ve been transported back to a time before the collapse or shoved into a parallel reality.

There is a communal quality to the way people move in groups or pairs. No one appears to be any hurry. Lieutenant Riley turns, and you nearly tell him to stop the car. You press your face to the glass, mouth agape as he drives by an open market.

As he takes another turn, you whirl around in your seat. “What was that? Can we stop there?”

Behind the balaclava, the skin around Lieutenant Riley’s eyes wrinkle, hinting at a hidden smile. “Another time,” he murmurs. “Promise. Don’t want to be late on your first day.”

You press yourself against the seat, head tilted in the direction of the window. While everything appears clean—utopian even—there is an underlying rawness, a wear and tear that can only come from age and lack of sufficient resources. Questions fire off in your head. There is so much you want to ask Ghost. If he weren’t so goddamn stubborn, you’d talk his ear off for hours. Instead, you sit still, toying with the hem of your dress as Lieutenant Riley guides the vehicle along.

A few more turns, and then you’re solidified, staring up in shock at the building before you.

“Oh my God,” you say aloud.

Lieutenant Riley snorts at your outburst.

The library’s front façade are book spines in various colors and titles. This is not a structure built in the collapse but from the time before, when libraries were receiving adequate funding, the government cared about knowledge, and learning was publicly free institution. The very center of the building, where the stone stairs meet the entrance doors, is a wall of glass, splitting the book spines into two sections.

“This is—This is amazing,” you gasp.

Ghost grunts in what must be an agreement. Either way, you don’t particularly care. This is a library, a place you never thought you’d see in all its glory again.

“Are you crying?” asks Lieutenant Riley, reaching across the center counsel to place his hand on your shoulder.

“Yes,” you hiccup, wiping away a wayward tear.

“What’s upset you?” He sounds genuinely worried, and that only makes you cry harder.

“I’m happy. I promise,” you say through a shaky breath.

The crease in the middle of Lieutenant Riley’s brow doesn’t abate. “Need to take a minute?”

You nod, sniffling, using the sleeve of the cardigan to absorb the remaining tears. “Just a bit overwhelmed.” Ghost nods but remains the quiet companion as you gather your composure. “I’m ready,” you murmur after a minute.

Lieutenant Riley leans away from you, fingers pressing against the door lock buttons. You hear the audible transition of the locks disengaging. Reaching for the handle, you take a deep breath, readying yourself for what’s to come.

The car door opens. Crisp, cool air rushes in. You inhale sharply, slipping from the seat, landing on solid ground. Glancing over your shoulder, you lock gazes with Lieutenant Riley. He gives a little nod, an encouraging inclination to go.

You raise your hand in the smallest goodbye, slamming the SUV door. Through the window tint, you watch him watching you. Backward step. A turn of your heel. Forward step by forward step. Stairs.

At the top, just before the glass doors, you turn one last time. Ghost is still parked at the curb. Waiting. This is a different version of him, a patient and caring Lieutenant Riley you haven’t seen before. He’s certainly flirted, found ways to comfort you, but there has always been distance—a separation. You consider this change as you enter the library, questioning whether Lieutenant Riley’s motivations are pure.

Who did they assign to you?

Why does it matter?

It matters to me.

The bit of joy that’s made a nest in you fractures. Small cracks. Tiny fissures. Not enough to notice but just wide enough to allow bitterness in.

I was offended they didn’t make me an offer.

Perhaps Lieutenant Riley’s motivations aren’t pure. It’s clear that he wants you to himself, but why? Why you when he could probably have anyone?

As you enter the library, you’re greeted by a warmly lit space, the interior all dark wood and polished stone. Overhead, you notice a balcony of a second story. All you can see of it are the tops of the shelves, but that isn’t what captures your attention. As you approach the front desk, you notice the lack of books on the shelves. Some are completely empty, others full. Most are partially stocked with sections of barren shelving, dust collecting in the corners.

You give your name at the desk, and the receptionist smiles.

“Follow me,” she says, voice soft and lyrical.

As the two of you head toward the back of the building, your awe becomes worry. Most of the lights are turned off back here. The bit of light it does receive comes from the main windows up front and a few skylights that cut through the middle of the second-story ceiling. Rope barricades close off endless rows of empty shelves. Destruction has not touched them. They are simply empty. Bones and broken skulls that once held neural gore.

“Through this door, dear,” says the receptionist, indicating a door that says, “Archival Department” and below that “Employees Only.”

“Thank you,” you reply, but she’s already off, shoes clacking against the marble.

You press your hand to the door, standing there in the muted shadows. Instinct is rising, whispering to run, to seek shelter in more familiar places. But there is nowhere for you to go. Even if you were to walk out the front door, Lieutenant Riley might not be out front, and you don’t know how to return to your apartment.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the door with the other hand on the handle. “Fuck.”

You have to do this.

You have to—

Turning the handle, you shove it open, barreling through without looking where you’re going. You nearly take a tumble, righting yourself at the last moment. The door slam shuts behind you, and three pairs of eyes stare back.

“That’s certainly an entrance,” comes a masculine voice with a thick Irish accent.

A tall, lanky man with wire-thin glasses sits behind a plain wood desk covered in stacks of paper and various office supplies. His auburn hair has a touch of grey in it—messy too like he’s only just rolled out of bed. In his hand is a white mug with black lettering that says Yes, I really do need all these books.

“Hi,” you manage, raising your hand in greeting.

When he smiles, there is a fatherly touch to it. You instantly gravitate toward it. “I’m Arthur,” he says, rising from his chair and circling around the front of his desk, arm extended, hand offered in a handshake.

You give your own name, clasping his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re me new archivist.”

“I am,” you nod.

Arthur beams. “Welcome.” He turns to the other two people in the room. Both are women around your age give or take a year or two. “This is Hannah.” He nods toward a blonde with a head of tight curls. “And that is Eloise.”

“Hello,” they greet in unison, all smiles.

The room itself is a quaint office space. Along the far wall are large windows that let in natural light. There are four desks in total, three clearly belong to Arthur, Hannah, and Eloise. The fourth sits empty and must be yours. Beneath your shoes is worn, dark wood and the walls are an off beige with one accent wall in dark green. Pushed up against the three walls without windows are rows and rows of shelving, all of it packed and overflowing. A few of the wood shelves sag inward, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“Charles mentioned your experience,” says Arthur. He takes a drink from his mug. “We’re happy to have you. Too much work for three.” He chuckles. “Not that four will be much better.”

“I noticed all the empty shelves,” you reply, taking a leap in what he might be referring to.

He nods solemnly. “This library services the entire Safe Zone. You’d think they’d assign more staff.” Arthur shakes his head. “We can’t process all this material fast enough. Demand is high but we’re only three.” He lifts his coffee mug in your direction. “Four.”

“Staying busy sounds nice,” you reply, because it’s true. You need out of your fucking head. You need to be away from Ghost and from that apartment for a bit. “And books make me happy.”

Arthur nods. “Hopefully you’ll still love them as time goes on.” He clears his throat. “Now, about the job.”

An endless sea of information rushes at you. Eloise and Hannah float about the office, the two of them chatting in French as they rifle through paperwork. Arthur leaves them to it, taking you on a full tour of the office space and then into the library itself. You stay politely silent through most of it, asking questions when there are lulls. Meandering through the library, Arthur circles back to the office, bringing you to another door.

“Behind here,” he begins. “Is everything we have yet to duplicate.”

While walking through the library, Arthur explained the only books on the shelves were ones they already had duplicates of. There are plenty more where there are only singular copies. Some in pristine condition, others needing a reprint. But it’s not all physical. There are digital versions too that are sitting, waiting to be processed.

“It’s a maze in there.”

“I’m ready,” you smile.

Arthur opens the door, the two of you stepping inside. The quality of the air is immediately different. On the wall next to the door are several panels indicating temperature, air quality, and humidity. It’s all being monitored. But that’s not what shocks you.

Arthur wasn’t joking. The place is a fucking maze.

“What—what is all this?” you ask, turning toward him, gesturing at what can only be called a mess.

Arthur sighs, adjusting his glasses. “That is too much work for four people.”

There is no organization. To order in the chaos. It’s just rows of shelving, stacks of cardboard boxes and storage bins. There are even stacked books pressed up against the wall. A home was found, even that means home is on the goddamn floor.

“No kidding,” you whisper.

Just as Arthur opens his mouth, the door swings open.

“It’s lunch,” says Hannah.

Arthur checks his watch. “Look at that.”

“And someone is here for you,” adds Hannah, smiling in your direction.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there might be another of you lurking in the stacks.

Hannah’s smile shifts, becoming a knowing smirk like she’s holding on to a little secret.

Arthur claps and pats his stomach. “Lunch is an hour. A full hour.” He winks. “We take that seriously around here.”

At the library reception desk, you find an unexpected visitor.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, approaching Ghost slowly. “Are we leaving?”

You don’t want to go. Only a few hours in and you’re eager to stay, to idle amongst the shelves.

In one hand, Ghost carries a soft-sided insulated cooler bag. Tucked under that arm is large blanket. The receptionists gaze lingers on the two of you, observing with abject curiosity. Ghost is in his all-black fatigues and balaclava.

“Thought I’d bring lunch,” he states.

“That’s kind of you,” you murmur, reaching for the blanket.

Ghost surrenders it without protest. “There’s a park across the street.”

You nod, clutching the blanket to your chest. “I’d like that.”

A few minutes later and you’re sitting on the blanket, soaking up the sun as Lieutenant Riley opens the cooler bag. He retrieves a glass bottle of water along with sandwiches, fresh fruit, and some cut raw veggies.

“Eat as much as you want,” sighs Ghost as he settles onto his back, arms tucked behind his head.

Unwrapping one of the sandwiches, you take a bite, chewing slowly. “Thank you.”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “You didn’t pack a lunch. Knew you’d be hungry.”

“Looking after me?” you tease.

“That’s my job.”

You snort and take another bite. As you chew, you pour yourself some water. It’s cold and crisp. Refreshing. “Didn’t work today?” you venture to ask.

“Work every day,” sighs Ghost. “Price doesn’t mind if I slip away for an hour or two.”

“Must be nice,” you murmur.

“First day treating you well?”

You nod, still chewing. Swallowing, you answer him. “It’s a good fit. Keep me busy.”

“Good.”

“Arthur is the Lead Archivist. And Irish. Hannah and Eloise speak French, but their accents are different.” You take another bite. “Pretty sure Hannah’s Canadian and Eloise is from France,” you muse. After a few seconds of silence, you continue. “Is that normal for all the Safe Zones?”

Ghost adjusts, stretching. “Is what normal?”

“Is it normal for people from different countries to all live in a Safe Zone together?”

Lieutenant Riley stares up into the sky. “It’s on purpose.” You start to formulate a follow-up question, but he carries on. “To dispel supremacy movements. Can’t gather support if the remaining population is scattered across hundreds of Safe Zones.”

“There are hundreds of Safe Zones?” Ghost nods but doesn’t elaborate. “How many exactly?” you probe.

“Just over two hundred.”

Two hundred? There aren’t even two hundred countries. You recall the map in Commander Graves’ office, of the different colored stars that dotted the unlabeled land masses. Of the stars, there were eight different colors, but now that you consider it, they easily could have been two hundred of them on it.

“Are they all large like this one?”

“No,” snorts Lieutenant Riley. “Most are small. Only a few dozen are the size of this one. Ten that are even larger.”

This is the most information Ghost has given you. He appears more open than before. Relaxed. You take another bite of your sandwich, knowing that you need to take advantage of this opportunity.

“Is that why the country flags are black on your uniforms?”

Like a sudden breeze that chills the bones, Lieutenant Riley’s demeanor shifts to a somber note. “Partially,” he answers, voice raspy. “Black flags used to mean something different. Now it’s a statement of grief and remembrance.”

“I don’t entirely understand,” you say softly, shifting closer to him. “There’s so much I don’t know. And no one is willing to talk to me about it. They just…stare at me like I’m dumb.”

You recall Commander Graves’ disgusted expression, and the aloofness you received from Charles. Joann didn’t acknowledge your lack of understanding either.

Ghost still stares into the sky. “Countries exist by law and not land. Borders don’t bloody matter when half a continent is devasted by warfare.”

A sourness blooms in your stomach, the food sitting heavy. “What about your home?”

“Habitable. But destroyed. The infrastructure is gone. All the major cities are craters.”

You reach out, placing your hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Lieutenant Riley finally looks at you, a sadness settling in his brow. “I’ll be fine, dove. Everyone I care about is here.”

You give his arm a little squeeze before retreating, fiddling with the paper wrapper your sandwich sits in. While you’d like more answers, it’s clear that this topic upsets him. Lieutenant Riley’s home is gone—obliterated. It’s not a pleasant topic for idle conversation.

“With the school attached, I might be asked to lead a writing or reading class. Maybe sub if someone is sick. Arthur mentioned that they try to go there once a week to help those students who are behind reading level.”

It’s an attempt to turn the conversation around, to divert Lieutenant Riley’s thoughts elsewhere. He takes it, some of that sadness receding.

“You interested in that?” he inquires.

You incline your head. “Yes. Did it all the time in my previous community.” Taking another bite of your sandwich, you chew thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t call what we had a ‘school.’ Did our best though.”

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze is soft. There is a lightness to it, an affectionate edge that reminds you of this morning. You fluster under that stare, staring down at your lap.

“You’ll be brilliant,” he states with such confidence that you believe it too. A smile forms on your lips, spreading wide until your cheeks hurt. Lieutenant Riley rolls onto his side. “Can I kiss you?”

Startled, you blink rapidly. “I—” You giggle. “Yes.”

As you lean toward him, Ghost reaches out, grasping the back of your neck to draw you closer. With one hand on his chest, and the other pushing up his balaclava to reveal his lips, you don’t care if anyone is watching. The sweet connection is instant sunshine—a flowering of a season. Low in your core, a heat stirs.

Soft and slow, Ghost restrains himself, and that only fuels the desire swirling inside you. This is the Lieutenant Riley you like. The one you want to know. Even though you’ve been ripped from your home, you could make a new one here, with him, if only it were always like this.

“Dove,” he breathes against your lips.

That name he calls you. An endearment. You pretend to hate it, but the way he always says it with a husky tone sends you over the edge every time. It drives into your skull. Burrows in your bone.

“Need to take you back,” he whispers, nuzzling your cheek. You linger here, eyes closing as his thumb traces the underside of your bottom lip.

The walk back is silent but not awkward. You stand close to him, arms occasionally brushing against each other with the sway of your body. The urge to hold his hand is suffocating, but you resist. There is no relationship here—only a terrible back-and-forth that you cannot wrap your head around.

The rest of your workday is a blur. It’s combing the library catalog and organizing stacks of paperwork Eloise places on your desk. There is no clear organization. Most of the paperwork are inquiries from other Safe Zones, wanting to know if they have extra copies of certain materials. You do not touch anything in the storage room, but neither do Arthur, Hannah, or Eloise. It dawns on you then, that the work happening requires far more people than what’s been staffed.

When Lieutenant Riley comes to pick you up, you’re almost thankful. Exhaustion settles over you, and you don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep in the passenger seat until Ghost awakens you. Every step is a drag, and all you want is your bed.

With a groan, you flop onto the duvet. Beside you, the bed dips as Ghost sits.

“Are you staying?” you ask into the bedding.

“No.” Silence. Then, “I have to take you to the family planner at the end of the week.”

Your eyes pop open, the tiredness vanishing. Pushing up, you turn toward Lieutenant Riley. “Did they say why?”

He shakes his head. “Just that they want to see you.”

This is it.

The push.

“You’re being pushy.”

“I’m sorry if I’m coming across that way.” Joann folds her hands in front of her on the desk. She has this superior look about her, as if to say, I know more than you. “I’m simply thinking ahead. Better to start the search now than wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready,” you scoff, still in complete belief at Joann’s audacity to hurl this at you. “I haven’t even been assigned my new home after probation. I just started my job a few days ago.” You shake your head. “This is all very sudden.”

Joann puts on an air of false sympathy. “I completely understand. It’s a difficult transition. But if you put this off, you’ll find yourself rushing later.”

I fucking doubt that, you think even as the words threaten to leave your mouth.

She raises her hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t think of it in the way you’re thinking. You don’t need to make a decision tomorrow.” Joann shrugs. “Think of it as shopping.”

“You’re asking me to shop around for a potential spouse?”

“Or sperm donor,” interjects Joann. “We are inclusive here.”

You wince, wanting to be done with this conversation. It’s not as easy as saying no and moving on. Joann isn’t here speaking with you just for you to throw a no in her face. Not that she gave you the option. I put you down for single’s social, she had said with a bright smile, as if that’s something you wanted to hear today.

“Do I need to wear anything specific?” you ask. “Is this a casual event? Or…”

“It’s casual, but I’d recommend something that compliments you.” She laughs. “No one is going to be in a suit if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Didn’t know those still existed,” you mutter.

Joann ignores your comment. “Look at this as an opportunity. I’ve already received a few inquiries about your eligibility.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “You’ve received what?”

Joann continues like she didn’t hear you. “All of them will be there. And I’ll likely receive more after you attend.” She sighs dreamily. “Especially from those military boys. They see what they want and go after it.”

No. Fucking no.

“This will overwhelm me,” you chuckle nervously. “I shouldn’t go.”

Joann blinks. “Course you should. It’ll do you good to get out. Talk with people other than Lieutenant Riley. I know he’s mysterious and has a bit of a bad boy reputation, but he’s not the only option.” She smooths her hand over the small stack of papers in front of her. “It’s also an excellent opportunity to make some connections. Maybe find friends.”

You could use some friends, but your coworkers are starting to fill that gap. Eloise brought you some croissants she made, and Hannah presented you with your very own coffee mug with “Book Sniffer” on it because she caught you smelling a particularly beautiful copy of War & Peace.

Gathering up the papers, Joann gently taps them against the top of the table. “Lieutenant Riley will be there but I recommend you branch out. I know that he’s probably a place of safety for you right now but lingering at his side all night isn’t the best idea.”

“Why is that?” you snap.

While you’re genuinely interested in knowing, you’re also a bit pissed off that Joann called you out. Ghost is your safety net, and if he’s attending, why would you leave his side to speak with anyone else.

“It’s not fair to others,” answers Joann simply. “Stick by Lieutenant Riley’s side during the whole social and people will think you’re spoken for. They’ll complain.” She looks at you pointedly. “And we don’t want that.”

Fuck.

Causing problems. It’s the exact thing you don’t want to do while you’re on your probationary period. Once you’re past it, things might be different. Charles hasn’t discussed what comes after. He didn’t say whether or not you receive immediate citizenship or if there’s an additional process.

No one is giving you clear direction. No one wants to fully explain. It’s expected submission, to look down and follow along. Pushing back or questioning too much seems to aggravate everyone.

“No,” you agree. “We don’t want that.”

Joann’s face lights up, and you immediately want to slap it off her face. “Brilliant,” she sighs. “Here’s the information. Can’t wait to hear all about it when I see you next.”

Fucking doubtful.

With a half-hearted smile, you make your exit, meeting Ghost in the lobby of the building. When he notices you, he immediately turns in your direction, walking toward you with purpose in every step.

“Everything good?” he asks, grasping your arm to pull you in.

You hand him the information instead of speaking. Ghost takes it, gaze roaming over the piece of paper rapidly.

“You’re fucking joking,” he growls.

429 notes · View notes

storiesoflilies · 8 months ago

Text

in your peach blush dreams

synopsis : in which sukuna unexpectedly stumbles upon something – or rather, someone – he almost never believed could exist. w.c: 2.7k.

pairing : soulmate!florist!sukuna x f!reader

warnings : FLUFF! non curse au. adorably grumpy sukuna who only pretends he doesn’t believe in love or soulmates.

a/n : based on this request. hope you enjoy nonie!! @gothsuguru @bungalowbear @hiraethwrote , i hope you love your cameos <3

divider / ao3

ryomen sukuna was a skeptic.

point. cut. blank.

anybody who knew him knew it well.

he didn’t believe in ghosts, poltergeists, or any of the things that cry and go bump in the night. there was always a logical explanation for everything and anything that happened outside the realm of normalcy. the world was ruled by physics and chemistry and numbers, and even though he was a florist, sukuna understood and wholeheartedly accepted the beauty of science.

however, there was one teeny, tiny thing that completely – and rather rudely – disregarded all of his beliefs.

and it was only a little dream.

one that he had been having since he was old enough to remember things.

sukuna couldn’t remember if there were before this particular one started, or even if any occurred after it. but he always remembered how he knew it was coming – the way his stomach would churn and lurch, like he was being catapulted from a cannon, free-falling through a black expanse of space and time and stars.

and then, sukuna would land face-first into a field of marshmallow-soft petals, bathed in the light of a pink sunrise.

at first, he didn’t know what sort of flowers had cushioned his fall. it took him quite a number years to even attempt sketching them, using a cheap set of coloring pencils he’d bought with his pocket money. and even, not a single person he showed his scratchings to had any clue at all.

it frustrated him to no end.

sukuna would always end up crumpling his drawings in his little fists and hurling them straight into the bin.

and try again.

and again.

it wasn’t until he was sixteen that he finally found the answer he had been looking for.

sukuna had just gotten a job working part-time at a flower shop after school. at first, the thought of being there was beyond humiliating. his twin brother had relentlessly teased him about it when he found out, which quickly resulted in a flurry of knuckles and fists.

he arrived to his first shift with a sour look and a black eye.

io, the shop owner at the time, gave him a humorous look with soft, chocolate eyes and taught him how to speak the language that only flowers knew. how to listen to the soft poetry held within the curl of their leaves and petals, telling you everything they needed to bloom.

in time, sukuna learned to enjoy it.

but he would never admit it to anyone.

one day, the shop received a rather large delivery of frighteningly familiar baby pink flowers. sukuna froze, his hands slippery and wet from the water droplets falling from the stems.

“what are those?” he’d gritted out, disbelief coated on his cracked lips.

io took one glance at the flowers in his grip, and answered, “oh, they’re zinnia flowers.”

zinnia flowers.

he whispered under his breath, testing how the letters rolled over and under his tongue.

after all this time, the answer to the mystery flower was finally in his palm, and sukuna couldn’t decide whether or not he felt relieved or disturbed about it.

all he could muster in response was, “right.”

io stared at him, and a young sukuna felt himself shrink a little under her gaze, his cheeks blossoming a brilliant red shade like the david austin roses beside him. he pretended to ignore her, distracting himself by placing bunches of flowers into water buckets and slowly, meticulously, arranging every single stem beautifully in the display window.

sukuna hated every second of it.

he felt like every single pink petal on those flowers were mocking him, laughing at him for being so wound up over them.

it was so unbelievably pathetic.

he’d never felt more like a loser in his whole life.

because despite all his beliefs about the supernatural and a higher power, he couldn’t hate those flowers even if he tried to, not really.

because they were hers.

the other person already sitting there in his dreams in an endless field of zinnia blooms.

she wouldn’t notice him straight away, even though sukuna crash-landed in a heap just beside her leg. she was too busy staring up at the clouds painted in strokes and swirls of blushing pink, with the sun bleeding in tones of vibrant peach. all he could notice was how her lips were parted in wonder as she took everything in around her with a wondrous energy.

it was only when he pushed himself up to sit beside her that she finally noticed him.

and laughed.

and it was the most beautiful thing sukuna had ever heard in his life.

it was joyously infectious, and he couldn’t help his own laughter from bubbling up from deep within his chest like a volcano. they laughed together for what seemed like hours, the limits of time stretching on forever in the land of dreams, and sukuna felt the angry fire in his soul simmer just a little.

and he would become sad.

because he knew this was when the dream would always end.

he’d open his bloodstained eyes to the dreadfully familiar, dull white ceiling that belonged to his bedroom, and sukuna would know he was back at square one all over again.

feeling alone.

so unbearably alone.

because the dream would still linger in those precious few minutes after he woke up, a ghost hovering over a gray sea. sukuna could feel the other half of his soul slipping away to wherever she belonged to in this vast world, and he would selfishly claw for her, begging and screaming in his mind.

don’t go! don’t go! don’t go!

sukuna wasn’t stupid; he knew she couldn’t stay, but that didn’t stop a bitter taste from spreading over his tongue like a drop of lemon juice.

it twisted him inside, and he hated the universe for making him yearn so deeply for someone he had never even met.

and might never.

it didn’t take long for io to catch on. she was always acutely aware of people, and to be known by her was to always be seen and understood.

“they scare you, don’t they?” io murmured to him gently, too gently for sukuna’s liking. “the zinnias.”

he snorted dismissively, cutting perfect forty-five degree angles into the stems of snow peonies. “i am not afraid of a fucking flower, io.”

she arched a brow, unimpressed. “no?”

“no.”

“are you sure?”

sukuna huffed and rolled his eyes, adding tufts of baby’s breath to the bouquet he was assembling. io leaned over the birch countertop, her wrists adorned with various pink ribbons and a playful twinkle in her eyes.

“i know what it is,” she said in a sing-song voice, drumming her nails against the wood.

he ignored her again, a blooming pink starting to grace the tips of his ears, and busied himself wrapping a brown piece of paper around his finished piece.

“what?”

she didn’t answer, cryptically singing about knowing things and of a man she would know one day come to know, with hair as white as the peonies in sukuna’s bouquet and eyes brighter than bluebells. it was only five years to the day, when io married that very man she had been singing about, that he realized she had known all along what had been on his mind.

and now, at the tender age of twenty-one, ryomen sukuna wondered when it would be his turn to love.

and be loved in return.

❀᭢᜴꤬

when she was a child, she used to love drawing.

and the thing she loved to draw most was him.

the boy she saw in her dreams. they weren’t very good drawings – just two stick figures holding each other’s circles for hands, one with bright fuchsia hair because that was the closest color she had in her pencil kit. they would be standing in a field of flowers too, though the blooms were just colorful blobs scattered around their stick feet.

“not it!” she’d exclaim, pouting pitifully. “not what he looks like!”

her two best friends, kairo and ari, shuffled through their pencil cases, offering her shade after shade of pink pencils, but she shook her head at them each time. after a while, she would start to wail, despair clutching her little heart in its claws. her friends would put their arms around her, offering her all the trinkets and sweets they had in their pockets, just to see her smile again.

but they couldn’t understand how she really felt, how lonely she was sometimes, because they had already completed their souls.

ari had their kenjaku – their kenny.

and kairo had her suguru.

they had found their souls at such a young age and would never know just how much of the rest of the world felt for most, if not all, of their lives. they always had someone to watch over them. even now, the two twin boys were staring at them, gauging whether they would also burst into tears alongside her, ready to step in and make them smile again.

that was all she wanted, really.

for the pink-haired boy in her dreams to make her smile when she needed it.

as she grew that little bit older, her dream became more vivid. she could remember more details – how the sky was aflame in peach and coral, the sweet smell of the flowers beneath her, and how her boy would land next to her. she could even feel how much it was him that needed to smile.

so she laughed.

and laughed and laughed until he did too.

she wished she could stay there in that dream with him and make him laugh forever.

but she couldn’t do that.

in his sadness, there was strength too – something unyielding, strong enough to bring mountains to their knees. it told her to stay strong, to be like him, to keep her chin up and tell the world that she would live.

so she did.

she went on with her life, making sure to laugh often and well.

she grew up witnessing and being surrounded by love. high school and university presented their own challenges, filled with late-night cramming sessions and caffeine-induced hazes. she watched more and more of the friends find their souls, pairing off in effortless harmony while she lingered on in the stardust of their love.

but she still continued to live.

still kept an eye out for a particular head of pink hair wherever she went.

and now that she was done school, entering the big, bad world of work, her heart longed all the more for the boy from her dreams – who no longer looked like a boy at all.

he was a beautiful man now.

with dark tattoos etched into skin, mysterious lines and circles that perhaps told the story of his life. she wanted to know all about them, if they even meant anything to him at all, and if they were a angry shield to protect himself from people getting too close.

she hoped it wasn’t.

she didn’t want to be one of those left locked out.

“you’ll find him,” jess said encouragingly to her one day, as she was lost in a daydream of pink flower fields.

jess always knew when she was there.

she hummed softly, chewing on the plain cheese sandwhich she’d brought for her lunch break.

“so,” jess began, in an effort to distract her. “any nice plans for your time off?”

“uh, yeah actually. my best friend is getting married, so i’ll be helping her out this week to get everything ready.”

“oh, that sounds really nice!”

then, nanami kento walked into the staff room, his tired eyes brightening at the sight of jess sitting there, happily munching on the lunch he had no doubt prepared for her that morning. her friend sighed wistfully, a fond smile on her face as the blonde man took a seat beside her.

suddenly, there were two and a half souls in the room.

and she couldn’t help but smile, hoping that her time was coming.

it had to be.

❀᭢᜴꤬

“hea, do we have any lilies in the back? i need them.”

sukuna took another quick glance at the behemoth of a man in front of him, who shifted from one foot to the other, his green eyes darting all around the shop.

“urgently.”

“just a sec!”

the shop was silent for a moment, with only the sound of the fan blowing and the soft snip, snip, snip of sukuna trimming zinnia stems. he looked up again at customer, raising an eyebrow at how nervous the poor man looked while waiting.

“we have these white roses here,” sukuna suggested, pointing with his scissors at a small bunch. “in case we don’t have any white lilies.”

the man shook his head. “no, no. they have to be lilies. her name is lily.”

sukuna might have once laughed, but it was the way the man said her name with a hushed sort of reverence – and the tip of a velvet box peeping out from his trousers – that he understood who she really was to him.

so sukuna didn’t laugh.

“it’s really important,” he added, dark locks sticking to his forehead, as if that alone would convince the grumpy florist.

sukuna sighed, setting down his scissors and wiping his hands on his shirt. “i’ll see what i can do for you.”

so he went to the back himself, assembling a bouquet of white lilies, adding white pampas grass for flair and eucalyptus for softness. sukuna spent quite a bit of time on it – more than he probably should have – fluffing and adjusting every petal and leaf until it was absolutely perfect.

it was worth the effort.

the man’s palpable relief was infectious, making the corner of sukuna’s lips twitch upwards.

“keep your money,” he grunted, his nose slightly turned up. “just come back here to get what you need for the wedding.”

the bell at the front door tinkled in farewell as the man left, and sukuna picked up where he left off. there was a bridal party order for tomorrow, and of course, he was in charge of creating the bride’s bouquet.

sukuna always was.

“hea!” he called out. “if you need a hand with the bridesmaids’ bouquets let me know. i’m almost done here.”

the doorbell tinkled.

but he wasn’t looking up.

“i’m good!” hea answered back, her voice faint.

sukuna clicked his tongue disapprovingly, not liking the shade of ribbon he was holding against the peach-colored zinnia in the bouquet. he dipped down behind the counter, arms stretched above him and fingers drumming on the wood as he scanned through the mess of ribbons and other decorations tucked away in small cubicles.

hmph! nothing.

sukuna pushed himself back up.

and there she was.

staring at all the shades of pretty pink zinnias that sukuna had painstakingly displayed the day before.

his heart actually stuttered.

and before he knew it, he had somehow slipped and landed face down on the ground.

“fuck!”

“oh!”

sukuna pushed himself back up, stumbling like a newborn foal, his eyes completely and utterly fixed on her while a poor zinnia lay crushed beneath his foot.

but that didn’t matter in the slightest.

because holy good god, she was looking at him too.

with her pretty lips parted in shock, and her pretty eyes wide and glossy, and her pretty hair looking exactly like it did in his – no, their – dream.

she’s here. she’s here. she’s here.

“i’m here for the bridal flowers for kairo!” she blurted out suddenly.

sukuna inhaled sharply.

what a pretty voice.

“t-that’s– ahem – not due until tomorrow,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

her eyes widened a fraction more, if that was even possible. then, her features completely relaxed as she tipped her head back and laughed.

and laughed.

sukuna felt like he was back in his dream again.

only it was real this time – more real than anything.

he chuckled lowly, his laughter rising like helium, melding with hers in a gloriously wonderful crescendo.

and all sukuna could think of was.

finally.

i love you, i love you, i love you.

❀᭢᜴꤬

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gay-impressionist · 2 years ago

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Hi! I’m starting to learn French and one thing that’s both cool and weird to me is how everything is gendered in a way (referring to someone/whose saying the statement/etc.) and I was wondering how that relates to people who identity as non-binary or gender fluid in France? Are there equivalents to they/them pronouns or neo pronouns in French?

I do plan on doing my own research about this but I figured since I love your blog and you’re really open about different cultural lgbtq+ communities I’d try here first!

That's an awesome question... with a complicated answer lmao. So buckle up and bear with me !

Basically, you can't be non-binary in French. The community found ways to do it but it's not mainstream. Most of the time, they're going to get misgendered or will have to misgender themselves to get understood.

Some things I'm going to list here are not proper French. Actually, they can even be forbidden in some circumstances, according to the law (the use of inclusive language, and more specifically le point médian, was made illegal in schools in 2021 for ex) or simply because your company etc forbids it. So use this wisely, there is a time and place for inclusive language in France.

That said, things have greatly developed over the last two decades. Which was partly because of the queer community and mainly because of feminists, who are tired of the way French erases women. More and more people are using inclusive language, at least in some circumstances and circles (for ex, i wrote my master's thesis in inclusive language and it was accepted bc i was in a leftist faculty). And inclusive language is debated as a serious issue now, which is saying something.

So, how do you use inclusive language in practice?

There are different ways, as it's informal and mostly new. People are still testing new things and trying out various methods. You can stick to one or alternate or mix them up.

Pronouns

Officially, there isn't a gender neutral pronoun. We don't have an equivalent to they. You're either talking about a man or a woman. If it's both, you use masculine pronouns ("masculine trumps feminine" rule). Same thing if you don't know the gender of the person ("masculin générique").

The most common neopronoun is "iel" (plural : iels), which is obviously a contraction of the masculine pronoun "il" and its feminine equivalent "elle". It works for nb folks or to avoid talking about someone's gender or to refer to a group of men and women. So it's equally used by the queer community and feminists.

I'm pretty sure other neopronouns exist but I can't think of any at the top of my head.

Choosing the right words

Sometimes, inclusive language is just about learning to use alternatives.

Instead of using gendered words, you can choose to use gender-neutral words or words "épicènes", aka words which are identical in their feminine and masculine form. For ex, instead of "homme politique" or "femme politique", you can use "personnalité politique". Personnalité is a feminine word but it's actually gender-neutral as you can use it for women and men alike. "Élève" (student) is épicène, as a female student and a male student are both referred to as "élève". Although épicène words as a gender-neutral option only work in their plural form, as you have to choose either a feminine or masculine article for the singular ("les élèves" is inclusive but it can only be "un" or "une" élève).

As good as this method is, it can be quite limitating. Your vocabulary will be drastically reduced and it can be quite hard to master that kind of speech so you can reach the point where you don't have to think everything over for ages before you open your mouth.

With oral French, you can take it a step further by choosing words that sound the same even if they have a different spelling. Ex, friend is "ami" or "amie" but it's pronounced the same way so if you say it out loud, people can't know how you're gendering it (as long as there isn't a gendered article/word with it ofc).

It avoids misgendering people but the downside is that, as masculine is considered neutral in French, people will often think : no gender specified = masculine. Not even because they're sexist or whatever, it's just so ingrained in our brains that it's a knee-jerk reaction.

That's also why most feminists often prefer to use explicitly feminine words when talking about women. For ex, they prefer the word "autrice" to "auteure" (female writer) because the second one sounds the same as its masculine version "auteur". And as previously mentionned, out loud, people will assume by default you're talking about a man. It's a big debate though, lots of women prefer words that sound masculine - going as far as refusing to use feminine words at all! Which sounds cool and gender-bending as fuck but in reality comes from feminine words traditionally seen as less legitimate and serious. Even today, if you look up the word empress "impératrice" in a French dictionary, the first definition that comes up is "wife of an emperor". "Woman ruling a country" comes second. Using a masculine title to refer to women can also be a way to mock them and show they're not welcome (a french deputy got fined in 2014 because he called the female president of the national assembly "Madame le président" and refused to use the feminine title "Madame la présidente").

Recently the tendency and official guidelines have been to feminize words, so I'd say go with that by default, but respect other people's choice if they specify how they want to be called.

Anyway I'm getting off-track but what I meant was that in French, if you avoid talking about gender, you're automatically erasing women (and nb people). So if you want to include everyone, you need to make it obvious.

Inclusivity as a statement

The most common way to make women and men equally visible is the "point médian" rule, which you can also use to refer to non-binary people as it avoids picking a specific gender.

Basically, it means pasting together the masculine and feminine forms of a word and using dots/middle dots/hyphens/parentheses/capital letters to create an inclusive word. For ex, instead of saying acteur (♂️) or actrice (♀️) for actor, you'll write "acteur.ice". For the plural form, there are two schools of thought : either you separate the feminine and masculine form AND the suffix used to signify the plural, or you don't. Aka, "acteur.ice.s" or "acteur.ices". Personally I prefer the second option because less dots makes it easier to read and faster to write, but it's an individual choice, both work.

There are two major downsides to this method : it only works in writing + it isn't doable for every word, as feminine and masculine words can be quite different and pasting them together that way would be unintelligible. Ex, "copain" and "copine" (friend or boyfriend/girlfriend depending on the context) would give something like "cop.ain.ine"...

You can work around that by choosing alternative words (as previously stated!). And it's still a pretty good method, especially as it works for any type of word (adjectives etc). Some people argue that it's hard to read and ugly but personally I think it's just a matter of habit (although it does pose a problem for people using screen readers). Be aware that it is the most controversial version of inclusive writing, as it's the furthest structure from how languages typically work.

If you don't like dots or want an alternative for oral speech, you can also straight up create new words that sound both feminine and masculine, making them gender-neutral. To use the previous example, "copain" and "copine" become "copaine".

Obviously, this only works if it's obvious which words they're based on. I think it's a great way to make French more inclusive but I'd advise against using it with uninitiated people as it would probably confuse them more than anything. This method is still quite niche.

An inclusive, yet binary language

As you've probably figured out, inclusive language remains quite binary in the way we approach it. It's more about making things both masculine and feminine than transcending gender and creating gender-neutral alternatives. Probably because inclusive language was more often a will to stop women from being erased rather than a non-binary friendly gesture.

Which means, there are also some rules that were created to avoid the "masculine trumps feminine rule" but don't allow room for non-binarity at all. I'll still explain them because they're interesting and you might encounter them at some point.

The proximity rule ("règle de proximité") is one of these. It existed in Ancient Greek and Latin but was dropped in Modern French in favor of the masculine trumps feminine rule. Basically, you gender things according to what's closest in the sentence instead of systematically using masculine words to gender a mixed group. For ex, instead of saying "Les hommes et les femmes sont beaux" you say "Les hommes et les femmes sont belles", as the subject "femmes" is closer to the adjective "beau/belle" than "hommes".

Another method is to systematically use both masculine and feminine words (which I personally find excruciating to write and read). Meaning, instead of writing "Les étudiants mangent à la cantine" (students eat at the cafeteria), you'll write "Les étudiantes et les étudiants mangent à la cantine".

This is mainly for the subject of the sentence : adjectives and such are gendered according to the masculine trumps feminine rule. The point is to explicitly include women, not to make the sentence unintelligible or gender-neutral.

When following this method, you also have to pay attention to whether you put the feminine subject first or the masculine. The rule is to follow alphabetical order. For ex, in "l'égalité entre les femmes et les hommes", "femmes" comes first because F comes before H. But in "Les auteurs et les autrices de roman", "auteurs" comes first because E comes before R. Etc.

This method is common as it's the only inclusive language you can get away with, given that it's a valid way of speaking French. It's even mandatory in some situations now, like in job descriptions for the french administration, in the spirit of gender equality.

So, how do I gender a non-binary person?

In short, you can use the pronoun iel + avoid gendered words and/or use the point médian and/or make up new words.

But keep in mind that if you're not talking to someone familiar with these rules, you'll have some explaining to do. And looots of people are still very anti inclusive language, because they're sexist and/or transphobic, ignorant, language purists, etc. A few years ago it was the thing to be angry about for conservatives and anti-feminists so it's still very controversial. But if you're in a trans inclusive queer space or talking with intersectionnal leftists, go for it !

I hope I covered everything (fellow french, don't hesitate to comment!) and didn't put you to sleep lmao. If you want to see some examples, you can look it up on Wikipedia or check #bagaitte on tumblr (it's the french queer tag) 😉

#it's a slow but steady effort!#the fact that it was accepted by my uni teachers shows how far we've come already #a decade ago it would have probably been dismissed #i don't even know if i was aware this existed a decade ago #😅#anyway THANK YOU for this ask #i hope it was comprehensive and helpful #ask #language inclusif #écriture inclusive #inclusive language #upthebaguette #bagaitte #french #languages

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nerdgirlbutinpink · 3 months ago

Text

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 | dave lizewski x fem!reader

| 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐮 |

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: i’m not sure what warnings to put, maybe use of language, implied letters being sent out, teenage angst

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 931

𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗶 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝘂𝘃!

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

dear dave lizewski,

you probably don’t remember, but in freshman year, you let me borrow your hoodie in the library because the air conditioning was broken and i was wearing a tank top and literally freezing to death. it smelled like laundry and mint gum and a little like cinnamon toast crunch. i didn’t give it back until a week later, and when i handed it to you, you smiled and said, “you kept it warm for me, huh?”

i think that’s when i started liking you.

you always had this… energy. like the world could be on fire and you’d still crack a joke about your math test. like nothing really scared you.

not even the guys who used to trip you in the halls. not even the rumors that maybe, just maybe, you were kick-ass.

(you weren’t. or maybe you were. i never really knew for sure.)

anyway. this letter isn’t a confession. it’s not even a love letter, technically. it’s a goodbye.

because i don’t like you anymore. not like that. i swear.

i just needed to write it down and get it out of me.

so yeah. this is goodbye.

—yours never,

[your name]

──── ୨୧ ────

the letters live in a hatbox in the top of your closet. five total. five boys.

dave, freshman year. josh, your older sister’s boyfriend, your old best friend. noah, your camp counselor from middle school. cj, your sophomore year lab partner. beckham, an old friend from model UN.

five versions of your past self clinging to moments and daydreams and maybe-love.

they’ve never been mailed. not once. not ever.

because they’re not for them.

they’re for you.

you write a letter, seal it, and it’s like the feeling gets smaller. easier to hold.

like you don’t have to carry the weight of what could’ve been anymore.

it’s over. safely tucked away, pink envelopes and bad handwriting and all.

until it isn’t.

──── ୨୧ ────

it starts with jade slamming open your bedroom door like she’s the fbi.

she’s holding her phone in one hand and a bag of hot cheetos in the other. her hair’s in two messy buns, and her eyebrows are already raised in suspicion.

“babe,” she says, mouth full. “you need to check your texts.”

you glance up from your homework.

“i’m busy.”

“no,” she says. “you’re about to be emotionally annihilated.”

that gets your attention.

you grab your phone. open your texts. and—

there it is.

a message from dave lizewski.

| hey… got your letter?

you freeze.

no.

no no no no no—

“what the hell,” you whisper.

“what the hell.”

jade sits on the bed like it’s a front row seat to your psychological breakdown.

“sooo… he got the one where you said he smelled like cereal?”

you whip your head toward her.

“how did he get it?”

“you tell me. unless your hatbox developed legs and a thirst for chaos.”

your hands shake as you throw open your closet. the hatbox is there, but something’s off.

you open it—

and immediately want to die.

the letters are gone.

all five.

gone.

──── ୨୧ ────

the next day at school is the most stressful day of your entire life. and you once had to present a group project alone because your group bailed. so that’s saying something.

you try to avoid dave. hide in the back hallways. pretend you’re invisible.

but of course, life hates you.

because fifth period comes, and there he is.

standing outside your chemistry class.

envelope in hand.

looking way too smug.

“hey,” he says, sliding into step beside you.

“hi,” you mumble.

he holds up the envelope like it’s a winning lottery ticket.

“so… laundry and gatorade, huh?”

“please forget you read that.”

he doesn’t. obviously. instead, he grins.

“you’re a good writer. kind of poetic, actually. should i be flattered or creeped out?”

you stop walking. cross your arms.

“i wrote that three years ago.”

“really? wow. i must’ve made a strong impression.”

you groan.

“i’m literally begging you to stop talking.”

he laughs.

but then he pauses. and his voice drops, just a little.

“so… do you still feel that way?”

you look at him. really look.

he’s taller now. older. still scruffy around the edges, but something about him is softer than you remember. kinder, maybe.

you shake your head.

“no,” you lie. “it’s old. it was just a stupid letter.”

he nods slowly.

but the look he gives you… it lingers.

“okay,” he says. “cool.”

but as he walks away, he turns back—just once—and smiles.

like he knows something you don’t.

and just like that, everything starts to unravel.

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: i hope you guys like this!! this took awhile to write it it’s so worth it, and im definitely gonna make this a series >_<

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translatingpostsinfrench · 4 months ago

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I think a very fun thing is how much the vocabulary of reproductive organs changes from English to French, especially how they're used.

- "You got so much pussy !" / "T'as tellement de chatte" means you're so lucky , "your ass is bordered by pasta" too. Meanwhile in english "being a cunt/twat " is an incredibly rude thing, "being a pussy" is being a coward, and "serving cunt" / "being cunty" is being show-stoppingly cool in aave ?

- "You're a dick at Mario Kart" means you're really bad at that game, meanwhile in english "you're a dick in mario kart" means you're an asshole

- btw we don't have "he's an ass" but "he's an asshole" is the same in both languages (yay)

- but we have "he's a dick-head / knot-head", meaning he's dumb and not nice

- "He's a wanker" just means he's lazy, not that he's mean

- "You're un-wankable" meaning you're laser-focused and nothing can bring you down (positive)

- And least we forget, "con" is an incredibly old timey way of saying vulva, like "quim", and now we use it for everything. "C'est con" to say it's dumb, but "Salut mon con" is a term of friendship. "Connard/ Connasse" to mean they're an prick and a bitch. "C'est des conneries" to mean so much things, mostly "it's falsehoods OR stupid shit OR dumb errors OR mean stuff" .

- and that made me think of Couillon, which could be "a baller" or "a nutter" or "a testes-er" but means "the dumbest fucking guy". And "couillonnerie" / "couillonnade" (a ballering ? A nuttering?) means a scam OR a very dumb act.

- And our main interjection, "Whore", which is used the same way as "shit" and " fuck" in english :,)

Anyway it's just to say, it's very funny to hear some of my fave streamers play mariokart and their dialogue, directly translated, is : "I'M SO UNWANKABLE ! " "No you just have a pussy, don't do gender !" "You just say that because you're a dick at it." "No i- WHORE ! i just took another pillar..."

the bottom line got me crying. so unwankable.

#question

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hanasnx · 10 months ago

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" A SIMPLE LOVE WITH A COMPLEX TOUCH " — symbiote!peter parker x reader.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: first picture source; second picture source is pinterest; third picture source is pinterest, edited by me; draft from november. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ sable!reader ノ established relationship ノ gun mention ノ cocky ooc spider-man bcos hes wearing the symbiote and its affecting his behavior ノ mild toxicity.

"— and I want guys on every level of that building, do you understand?" you command, prodding the schematics with your finger to direct your subordinate's attention. Obediently, he nods, gathering up the plans to disperse them accordingly as you straighten from your hunch. As papers crackle and crease from his ministrations, you continue, "We can't afford another mistake."

Commotion alerts you, and you seek it out as your hand securely rests on one of your pistols. "I'm here! I'm here. I was late but I'm here now." That voice. Your lips press into a thin line as you release your weapon, approaching your officers who surround the newcomer.

SYMBIOTE!SPIDER-MAN glances around uneasily. "Guess I don't get Employee-of-the-Month this time 'round, huh?" His un-welcoming party closes in and he raises his hands in surrender. "Yeesh. You guys take punctuality very seriously."

"Spider-Man." At the sound of your voice, your employees part, and his gaze lands on you. It's subtle, but his visor narrows. "This is a restricted area. My associates will escort you out." The order is heeded, and they reach for him. Uncooperative as ever, the hero takes a step back.

He tilts his head, giving his surroundings a scan as if to search for his response. "Are you serious?"

Your brows raise indignantly. You are not fond of being questioned. "Spider-Man—"

"—So formal."

"Because of your inexcusable misconduct and your inability to follow my orders, you were fired. You no longer work as my consultant, and you cannot access this facility. Exit now, or we will use force." It's not that it hurts you to treat him so coldly, you're still angry at him. Right now you treat him as you would treat any trespasser.

There's a shift in his behavior. The way he pivots his head to eye you from the side, familiar body language betraying your unprofessional relationship. It exploits your feelings for him. The old Spider-Man would've respected your boundary. You don't know who stands before you now. "C'mon," A scoff emits from him. "Don't do this." You don't appreciate being bargained with, and you turn your back on him.

It's your subordinates' signal to move in, but they don't get close enough. He vaults over, landing in front of you to cut off your path. There's a fierceness in your eyes at his utter lack of respect, boring into him as he towers over you. His abrupt presence had caught you off-guard, having expected him to accept it's time to leave, and your hand reflexively tucks under your trench coat to fix on your pistol. There's a new level of danger to Peter Parker, he's unpredictable, and you don't trust him. Part of you knows it's the right move to have your weapon handy when facing him, and it's the part that wins.

"What are you gonna do?" he questions, regarding the position of your hand. "Make me?" In the uncharacteristic tone of his voice, you can make out his hurt hidden behind his challenge.

As he advances, you take a cautious step back. The din of guns cocking and aiming onto the new threat sounds behind you, but you and Peter are locked onto each other. You know you can't make him do anything, not with the strength he possesses... he knows that, too.

It's not like him to make a show of his power, how he bullies other into submission. He's always the bigger man—always. Now that size is used against you, looking up at him, and praying he doesn't try something. He inclines into your direction, testing you as he waits for you to put him in his place; his shoulders slack arrogantly, hanging his loose arms as you arch away from his face in yours. His slow descent into your space is a tactic.

"Walk- away." you warn.

A second passes—a second that feels like forever. He straightens, receding from you. "I'll walk." he concedes, and you hold your sigh of relief. "If you're the one that escorts me."

You consider it, pulling your lips to one side as you blow hot air through your flared nostrils. Reluctantly, you disarm, and snatch his bicep. You yank him over, towing him to the exit.

Once out of earshot, Peter seizes the opportunity to ask you the stupidest question he possibly could. "Are you mad at me?" He's used to your professional attitude, how standoffish you can be, all things that he's faced when you two had met.

You can't even speak. Thoughts run at a million miles an hour through your head, reconsidering every aspect of this interaction. Your jaw clenches. The entrance to the fence is close, and you can't wait to be rid of him so you can get back to work.

"Baby, talk to me." he lowers his voice, a surprising croon to it as if he seeks to appeal to your emotional side. You wouldn't put manipulation past him right now, considering his erratic disposition as of late. "I haven't seen you since—"

"Since you screwed up my investigation?" An anger flares in your chest at the petname, you don't feel anything like his baby right now.

At the accusation, his tone hardens. "I was hoping to talk."

"I don't want to talk." Your sharp pronunciation is a dead giveaway to your adverse opinion of him currently. "There's a reason you were fired then, and your re-introduction today does not look good for your future employment. You'll understand if we're less friendly the next time you trespass on a restricted area." With the warning, you toss him forward, and he stumbles through the gate.

He rounds. As expressionless as a suit can be, you've learned his body language like the back of your hand. He's frustrated. The way his shoulders square, and his fists form at his sides, you can tell he's getting fed up.

"That's how it's gonna be?"

"That's how it's gonna be." you confirm.

#au: symbiote!peter #ch: peter #indy: drabbles #peter parker drabble #sable!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #spider-man x reader #spiderman x reader #spider man x reader #peter parker angst #reader insert #symbiote spider man #marvel's spider man 2

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layla4567 · 10 days ago

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Language of Love

Gn!Spanish speaker!reader x Thunderbolts*

Warnings: Spanish curse words

BOB REYNOLDS

💋 He loves you every time you speak Spanish, he just stares at you like he's seeing an angel, pure devotion and admiration

💋 Secretly he also wants to learn so he can start conversations with you, even though you also know English. Bob simply feels that it is a way to get to know you better and be closer to you.

💋 So he start reading articles in Spanish online, buy books in that language, and even take classes or courses online.

💋 He's a little shy when trying to talk to you in your language and when you ask him how much he's learned so far he sweetly just says "un poquito"

💋 You are more than happy to help him improve his language skills (although despite some language stumbles, he does quite well).

💋 You start sticking Post-it notes on objects throughout the tower, like the kitchen refrigerator or the bathroom sink, so he can learn more easily. Although more than one teammate has complained about getting a Post-it note stuck to his shoe.

JOHN WALKER

💋 Whenever he listens to you, he boasts that it's no big deal and that he could speak your language without any problems and even do it better.

💋 But the reality is that he is jealous that you know something that he doesn't.

💋 You decide to test him and give him a tongue twister to recite. He clearly does poorly at it, and while everyone laughs, he realizes your prank and walks away feeling humiliated.

💋 Arguments with him are always hilarious. You always say "Concha tu madre", or "Vete a la mierda" And he just stares at you, confused. And only when you're really angry do you practically start ranting in Spanish, forgetting that he can't understand you. When you stalk off, huffing and puffing, John asks the others, perplexed, "What did they just say?"

💋 You promised yourself that until he stopped having an ego as big as a house, you wouldn't deign to explain to him what the words you use from time to time mean. Finally, John gives in and agrees to let you teach him a word or two.

💋 In fact, it's helpful because he inadvertently starts copying your mannerisms, and every time he gets frustrated, he lets out a bad word in Spanish. Sometimes he pronounces them wrong, but at least he knows what it means.

AVA STARR

💋 At first she thinks you're doing it to show off, so she looks at you suspiciously or rolls her eyes.

💋 but she becomes interested in you when she realizes it's actually your native language (obviously she hides her curiosity or downplays it when inside she's dying to know more)

💋 Secretly she tries to repeat to herself the words she once heard you say, only the most beautiful ones that seemed to her, like "arcoiris" or "paisaje"

💋 Ava doesn't dare ask you to teach her how to pronounce them correctly, so she just convinces herself that she is pronouncing them correctly.

💋 Somehow you find out and since you know she will never ask you, you simply leave her a note in her room with several words and her way of pronouncing them.

💋 From that moment on, you two exchange notes or small letters in Spanish, either under the table or in each other's room without anyone knowing.

YELENA BELOVA

💋 She's not surprised that there's another bilingual person in the group or when you throw out random Spanish words; she and her father do it all the time with Russian.

💋 In fact, she finds it funny and even cute. She doesn't understand much of what you say, but thanks to the fact that she speaks two languages, her brain already intuits the phonemes and relates them to words she already knows, so she just guesses and often gets it right.

💋 You two agree to annoy Walker, out of nowhere you start having a small conversation in your native languages and although neither of you know what you are saying, you are amused that John also has no clue.

💋 Eventually you both will teach each other phrases in the other's language and you even add Ava to the conversation teaching her what you know too, just to make fun of the US. Agent (and Ava is more than happy to) You love to see him get angry.

💋 But this is also useful when both have to work as spies since they need to speak in code and what better way to do it than in languages that not many people speak?

💋 You two have the best insults, that's the tweet 🤝

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV

💋 He's excited the moment he hears you speak. He'll be all ears.

💋 He'll ask you a thousand questions, like where are you from? Where did you learn to say that? etc. He's like a kid with his favorite superhero.

💋 He wants, no, he NEEDS to learn your language. He constantly asks you to teach him at least one word.

💋 At first, he seems to learn quickly, but when you try to teach him long sentences, everything goes to hell. "I told you a thousand times, it's puedes pasarme la sal?. It's not that hard, geez."

💋 very protective of you, if someone makes fun of your accent he will defend you no matter what.

💋 Many times he's wanted to include a Spanish word when arguing with someone. "Yeah, and you are...! *turns to look at you* Wait, what did you say? Oh, yes, a mamahuevo!"

BUCKY BARNES

💋 Bucky surprisingly already knows Spanish so you can't tease him by saying some funny word because he'll just reply "Nice try, and watch your language"

💋 You caught him listening to Latin music several times.

💋 He never tries to speak Spanish unless it's in his job as a congressman, but when he's simply in the tower, he's content to listen to you speak.

💋 He is the type of person who will have a conversation with you, but you will speak Spanish and he will speak English, and yet he will understand you and answer you correctly in English.

💋 He's also secretly amused when you argue with Walker and insult him, it's as if you're doing what he'd like every time John goes too far, and when that happen, he smiles slightly.

💋 Although he speaks Spanish, isn't perfect either, when he says a word wrong or forgets one, you helped him and he thanks you. And like Alexei, Bucky is very protective of you; he's not afraid to hit someone if they made you feel bad.

#alexei shostakov #marvel mcu #imagine #x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts headcanons #bob thunderbolts #james bucky buchanan barnes #ava starr #john walker #yelena belova #bob reynolds #spanish speakers #new avengers #headcanons

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heylittleriotact · 2 months ago

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💚 WIP WEDNESDAY (because I actually have a WIP for you!) 💚

Here’s a chunk of Chapter 19 of i heard people are saying to get in here.

Tagging: @emmg @aldisobey @razildor @preciouslittlebhaalbae because i am a nosy nelly

💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚

Rook had been helping him set up a service in the main chapel when Vorgoth materialized seemingly out of nowhere, while she was setting out the RESERVED chair covers on the first two rows for the family.

"Rook."

She flinched and whipped around at the sound of the enigmatic manager's stoic baritone, nearly dropping the stack of green velvet fabric draped over her forearm. "Fuck!"

Emmrich glanced up from arranging the urn spray around the base of the handsome brass urn containing the cremated remains of Mr. Herbert Knox.

If Vorgoth had taken issue with Rook's language, they made no indication of it, their face - solemn and bearing same sort of ageless wisdom as hewn granite - remained as unreadable and emotionless as ever.

"Sorry–" Rook said, shoulders slackening. "I didn't hear you come in."

"The maintenance staff has done well to ensure that the hinges of the chapel doors are appropriately lubricated: they shall be commended for their diligence."

"Errr... uh... good?" Rook offered, smiling weakly.

"Is your duty pressing?" Vorgoth asked, though it wasn't really asking - they had a knack for re-arranging your priorities as they saw fit. "It falls to me that I must discuss a matter of great importance with you."

Emmrich might as well have been invisible for all the notice Vorgoth had spared him - as far as they were concerned, they and Rook were the only ones in the room. He frowned and went back to primping the blooms and leaves around the base of the urn that was set out on a set of nesting cherry wood tables at the front of the chapel, keeping an ear open: what important matter?

"Uh... yeah, sure." Rook sounded just as caught off guard by this as Emmrich was. Hopefully it was nothing unpleasant... another chargeback, or Maker forbid a family complaint, but he very much doubted it: Rook was so detail oriented in her work, and had an undeniable aptitude for knowing how to meet the bereaved on their level in terms of communication and body language.

"Follow me." Their head turned with a smoothness that was decidedly un-human, and their dark and undeniably unsettling black eyes met Emmrich's. "Take care, Volkarin."

"And you, Vorgoth."

"Pray for me," Rook mouthed to Emmrich after Vorgoth turned and started silently retreating up the aisle, and then she followed them.

She wasn't gone long - a bit more than ten minutes had passed before she slipped back through the chapel doors, heaving a huge sigh as she ensured they were closed behind her.

"Is everything all right, darling?" Emmrich felt his stomach twist unpleasantly at the grim expression on Rook's face. He set down the photo frame he was wiping down with a dust cloth and met her halfway down the aisle.

"They put me on probation," she said sullenly, eyes turned downwards as if she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "I guess a family I helped with an obituary complained because it ran in the Times with a pretty big mistake that I didn't catch. It's not my fucking fault they gave me a printed copy of a typed obituary to re-type - if they'd sent me the actual Word document…”

"Probation?" Emmrich repeated in disbelief: how could such action be justifiable when the employee in question was held in high esteem by colleagues and management alike?

"Yup. Gotta straighten up and fly right, I guess..."

She still couldn't look at him, her shoulders hunched with shame and embarrassment, all of the wind stolen from her typically confident, self-assured sails.

His heart ached at the sight of her in such a state, and then ached further when it occurred to him that, of course - yes - they had dinner plans tonight to celebrate Rook passing her road test and getting her license. This certainly put a damper on the occasion...

"Rook..." He drew her into a hug in the middle of the serene space and stroked her soft black hair as he held her close in an attempt to comfort her.

Oh dear, the poor thing... he could feel her trembling against him.

"Sweetheart..." He pulled back enough to get a look at her, fully expecting tearful eyes and wet cheeks only to find himself gazing into Rook’s beaming face. “Wha—?”

“I love fucking with you.” She grinned. “Flora is being let go and they want to move me permanently to Pemberly Crossing!”

Brat. You are a brat, Rook Ingellvar, playing games with an old man’s heart-rate like that, he wanted to say.

#emmrook #emmrich x rook #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #emmrich volkarin #dragon age emmrich #dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #Veilguard #modern au #funeral home au #wip wednesday #emmrich #v writes #this is an emmrich thirst post #i heard people are dying to get in here #I’ve basically just made Vorgoth a cryptid who works at a funeral home and no one seems to care or mind

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witherby · 2 months ago

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Do you know about the cookie challenge on TikTok? If you do, can you write a small story about that? With batfam and littlest Wayne

I do know!

For those unaware: typically a mother, father, and their child sit together in front of three covered plates, but it can be any three people as long as the third is unaware of the game.

The father goes first and has one cookie. The child goes next and has two cookies. The mother goes last and has zero cookies. It's a test to see if the child will share one of their cookies with their parent to make it fair for everybody.

The Littlest Wayne: Cookies

Masterlist is Here!

"Mouse, d'you wanna play a game?"

You lift your head from your pile of colorful letter blocks and blink at your mama. Hal smiles sweetly down at you, holding several plates in one hand. They're covered, which means they're a mystery. You fucking love mysteries.

"Yah," you nod. Hal holds a hand out and you grab it, allowing him to help you to your feet. You toddle after him into the kitchen, where Dada's sitting at the counter. When Bruce sees you, he gives you a big grin and holds out his hands.

"Hi, Mouse," he greets. You run into his arms and chomp on his wrist. "Okay we talked about this. Ouch."

"Dada!!" You shout, uncaring of his pain and eager to share the good news as he sits you in a high chair between himself and Hal. "I p'ay game wif mama!!"

"I know," Bruce huffs, amused, "I'm gonna play, too."

"Oh. I win, okay?"

"I mean, this might be a game where nobody wins. Or everybody wins. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"No." Dada is stupid. Obviously winning is the best thing ever and you have to win always and forever.

Hal snorts and quickly covers his mouth, turning away from Bruce's flat glare.

"Anyway," your dad says, distributing the plates — one in front of himself, one in front of you, and one in front of Hal — "here's how we play the game. Hal is gonna — no don't peek yet, honey — Hal is — don't peek. You gotta play fair. — Hal is gonna — no peeking — .....Okay..... Hal is — oh my god, I said don't peek, English is your first language baby what are you doing — "

Hal flicks the napkin off of his plate before Bruce can give himself an aneurysm trying to stop you from touching your own. "I got a cookie, Mouse! Look!"

You ignore your own mystery plate as you hear the magic word, eyes snapping to Hal's priceless treasure. Your mouth immediately starts salivating.

"Mama," you chirp, pointing a finger at it in case he couldn't see the treat for some reason, "dat's a chocco chip cookie!"

"I know!" Hal says, gesturing to you. "Okay, your turn! You can move the napkin now."

"Are you gonna eats it?" You ask, completely ignoring what he said. You are laser-focused in on his treat. It's got more than five chocolate chips in it (you can only count to five), which means it's extra yummy delicious. You can't even believe it's still on the plate un-devoured right now. His willpower is insane.

"I...yeah, in a minute," Hal says. He's smiling like he's trying really hard not to laugh. "Mouse, what's on your plate?"

"I dunno," you say, pointing at the cookie on Hal's. Again, to ensure he's aware of the glorious object before him. "Is it soft cookie?"

"oh my god," Bruce whispers, defeated. Hal wheezes, then coughs to collect himself.

"I think so. Mouse, do you think there's a cookie on your plate?"

That finally gets you to lock back in. You take the napkin off of your plate and swear a heavenly choir starts singing. There's two cookies on your plate. Holy fucking shit. This is the greatest day of your life.

"I GOTS TWO COOKIES!" You shout victoriously, like the winner you are. You get your fist around one of your prizes and cram it in your mouth immediately. Hal has his head in his arms on the table and he's wheezing loudly. Probably sobbing because he doesn't have two cookies like you do. Because you won and you're a winner.

"Wow, that's great," Bruce praises, gently patting your back. "Let's see what I got."

He removes his napkin from his plate.

No cookies.

Dada pouts at you. "Aw. I didn't get any."

Indeed, he did not. Hal got one, and you got two. That's three total. Bruce got none.

Fuckin' loser. You point at his plate and giggle, which sends Hal over the edge. Literally. He slips off the edge of his chair and crumbles to the floor, laughing so hard his face is turning red like a cherry.

Bruce's bottom lip is wobbling. He's trying his best not to start laughing, too.

"Mousey," he admonishes, "it's not nice to laugh at those less fortunate."

Hal squeals on the floor. You start laughing, too, as you finish eating your first cookie. There's chocolate and crumbs all around your mouth and hand.

"I really wanted a cookie, too," Bruce continues, looking pointedly on your plate where your second cookie is resting. "If only someone were willing to share so that we could all have a cookie. Three cookies between three people means that we could all have one..."

You contemplate his logic. It's pretty sound. Dada is kinda smart sometimes. He can count above five, so that means he knows everything. Three cookies...between three people...

Like a puzzle piece sliding into place, you understand what he wants.

You reach over and grab Hal's abandoned cookie off his plate.

"Here!" You say proudly. Hal's barking laughter on the floor sounds inhuman as it grows higher in pitch. You think you hear him stammer out that he's gonna pee. You've already peed in your pull-up. You didn't know they made pull-ups for grown-ups.

Bruce ducks his head, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. He reaches a trembling hand out and takes the offered, stolen cookie.

"W-wow, baby," he mutters, a broken man, "thanks."

You kick your feet and smile. You're such a good person. You see Alfred enter the kitchen, likely investigating the noises of the dying seal on the ground, and perk up.

"G'ampa!" You cry, picking up your second treasure. This is the greatest act of selflessness you could ever perform. "Do you wan' dis cookie?"

Bruce joins his boyfriend and collapses to the floor. Alfred hides a smirk behind his hand and clears his throat.

"My, how very polite of you, little Flittermouse," he says, holding his hand out. "Thank you for this generous gift. It means the world to me."

You grin, chocolate staining your teeth. You really might be the most altruistic person on the planet.

"You welcome!"

#littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #gn reader #bruce wayne #hal jordan #alfred pennyworth #platonic batfam #edit cause i forgot to tag batlantern #batlantern #bruhal

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linaslore · 4 months ago

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r.a. | you can hear it in the silence (one-shot)

a/n: not sure how many fans of the oc are left here, but i've been watching it recently and i became obsessed with this cutie (if you haven't watched the show, wtf are you waiting for????). anyways i started writing this as something entirely different, but then it didn't convince me so i rewrote it. i also think this is the longest piece i've written so far.

warnings: mature themes: mentions of assault, death, anxiety; language, credits to the gif owner! not really proofread.

summary: you had moved to newport recently and after a horrible situation with your ex-boyfriend, ryan swooped in and saved the day. you can imagine the rest.

ryan atwood x f!reader [strangers to friends to lovers]

🚫do NOT copy, translate or put my work thru an AI.

Ryan sighed to himself as he exited the pool house. He needed some silence to study for upcoming tests and, unfortunately he wasn’t going to get it with Seth right there talking his ears off about his latest drama. Although his quirky, talkative, and awkward personality had weirded him out at first, he learned to appreciate his friendship – but sometimes, like now, he could get insufferable. So, he grabbed his bike and headed to the school library.

He didn’t really feel like listening to Seth rambling about the new chapter of the Summer/Anna novel. He had a lot on his plate already, especially regarding his relationship with Marissa. It’s been a couple of days, but he still hasn’t recovered from all the chaos that Oliver brought into their lives. Thinking back about it all – how many times he had warned her (and everyone) that there was something off about that guy, only to have his concerns brushed aside – was enough to stir anger and frustration deep inside of him. He still couldn’t believe that Luke, of all people, had been the only one to back him up and had seen through Oliver’s web of lies almost as quickly as he did. And that was why he couldn’t date Marissa again – not yet, at least. Every time he looked at her, that pang of betrayal and resentment flared in his chest, refusing to go away.

Once he arrived at the library, he remembered he had to grab a history book for an assignment on World War II, so he rummaged through the shelves until he found it. However, he encountered something else. Or rather, he heard something that called his attention. He followed the track of voices until, in a secluded corner of the library, he saw a boy and a girl talking far too close for a casual conversation. At first, he thought about leaving the two of you alone – it was common knowledge that lots of couples used this library as a secret make-out spot, but, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, so he ended up hanging around, hidden by one of the bookshelves. The girl turned her face over where he was standing, and he recognized her from school. You two had never actively exchanged words, but you had shared a few classes at Harbor School.

“Come on, doll”, the guy sneered, trapping your body between his and the wall of books behind you. You took a deep breath, wishing this interaction would end as soon as possible. “I missed you. I couldn’t believe you left without telling me.” His hands landed on the bookshelves, one on either side of your head, boxing you in.

“Jake, please, go away”, you pleaded in a defeated whispering tone but he didn’t seem to care at all.

“Now that I found you, I was thinking we could go to a motel. I saw one on the way out of the city”, he said leaning his lips closer to yours. “And, you know…”, the smile he gave you made your stomach churn. You felt you could throw up right there – not only because of the situation, but also because his breath smelled terribly. Before you could shove him away, he started kissing your neck with roughness.

That was Ryan’s cue to leave the two of you alone. Even though he couldn’t make out what you were saying, he had no interest in sticking around for what was about to happen.

That was until he heard you scream and froze on his tracks.

“No! Get off me, you prick!” you yelled, struggling against him. Sadly, he didn’t even move an inch because he was stronger than you. Time seemed to stop at that moment and all you could manage to do was screaming. “Stop, please! Let me go!”

“The less you resist, the better, baby”, he grabbed you by your chin and you closed your eyes and your mouth into a thin line, imploring the ground to swallow you whole. “You might end up enjoying it.”

And just when you were about to give in, you felt a strong force yank Jake away from you. You opened your eyes slowly, too scared to move any other inch of your body and there he was.. your savior. Ryan Atwood. You knew him from school; you have crossed paths once or twice. Turning your head to the other side, you saw Jake sprawled on the floor.

“She said no”, he spoke slowly, but with a steady and threatening tone. If looks could kill, Jake would be burning alive. Ryan was slightly shorter than Jake but his toned physique made him look unshakable.

The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating – like the humid air on a rainy summer day in Newport. You stood frozen in your place, unsure whether to move or speak, but Jake beat you to it.

“Who the hell are you, dude?” Jake retorted, getting back up on his feet. Ryan didn’t even flinch. “She’s MY girl and I can do whatever I want with her.” Most girls read these types of lines in books and think they’re sexy, but this was so not the case. Jake said it in the most disgustingly creepy and possessive way. “Besides, she has been begging for it… I mean, have you seen that skirt?”, he pointed his index finger at your bare legs, causing you to look down at your outfit and feel very self-conscious. “It’s basically screaming ‘Fuck me, I’m a slut’ all over this fucking place.”

“All right.”, Ryan nodded and clenched his fists. He wasted no time in delivering one single powerful punch to Jake’s face. The latter walked backwards, letting out a groan and grabbed his now bleeding nose. The blond jabbed his index finger at him. “Don’t even think of saying or doing anything to her ever again, you heard me? Or next time I won’t be so nice and I’ll kick your ass until you can’t walk. You understand?”

You were afraid that Jake was going to hit Ryan back – you could practically see the idea flash across his mind for a split second. However, he decided against it and then his eyes darted between you and Ryan before storming off the library.

You let out a deep breath, not realizing you have been holding it all along.

Ryan turned his frame towards you and for the first time your eyes locked. You hadn’t imagined they would be this blue – just as pretty as the ocean.

“You ok? Did he hurt you?”, he asked while scanning you with a hint of concern.

“I’m good now”, you gave him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure. Anytime”, he replied and started looking anywhere but your face as his regular awkwardness started to creep in. “Well…”, he cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll see you around", the right side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile and then he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

But as he began to walk away from you, an inner voice urged you not to let him go so easily. “Ryan?…Wait!”

He stopped on his tracks and turned around slowly, with a confused look on his face.

“I don’t wanna take up much more of your time but thank you… really”, you said the first thing that came to your brain. “You didn’t have to step in, you know? But I’m glad you did. So, yeah, thank you for saving me. That’s it”, you concluded your small rambling. It’s one of the things you did when you got nervous.

Ryan shrugged his shoulders with a carefree expression. “No worries really”. You noticed how his usual tough demeanor softened just a bit and how he gave you a faint grin. “Apparently, this is becoming my specialty these days.”

You let out a rather loud laugh at his comment because you weren’t expecting Ryan Atwood to crack a joke around you. You have heard stuff around school about what happened with Marissa, Oliver and him, so you had a feeling that it had to do with that. His lips curved into a toothless but sweet smile and then he made a goodbye gesture with his right hand and exited the library.

You stood there for a couple of more seconds, not fully believing what had happened. Then, you shook your head, grabbed your backpack and left this place as well.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Next Monday, you spotted Ryan sitting at the school cafeteria, focused on reading a book and scribbling notes. You debated whether you should approach him or not. You wanted to thank him once again and, if you were being honest, you wouldn’t mind getting to know him. He seemed really nice despite his tough and mysterious demeanor and also, he had recently joined the Newport community just like you, so you felt you had a bonding point there. You decided your next move was to buy two black coffees and made your way to where he was sitting.

“Hi”, you greeted him as you placed the drink on the table, careful not to spill anything on his stuff.

“Oh, hi”, he recognized you from the other day at the library, but you could see a hint of confusion in his eyes.

“I brought you coffee… as a thank you gift”, you pointed to the cup in front of him. “Hope you like black coffee, or americano, as people like to call it here”, you frowned your eyebrows.

“Yeah, I do”, he let out a small laugh. “You shouldn’t have, you know?”

You shrugged your shoulders, telling him it was the least you could do.

“Thanks”, he grabbed the cup and brought it to his lips, sipping slowly in case it was hot.

“Uhm, do you mind if I sit here? I've got a free period now.”

“No, of course not”, he gestured to you to take the seat in front of him and you gladly did so.

After taking everything you needed from your backpack and setting it on the table so you could review for your biology class, you started reading your notes. However, the minutes were passing by and your attention kept diverting to the boy in front of you. While finishing your own coffee cup, you found yourself stealing subtle glances at him, not wanting him to notice you were staring – and if he did notice, he was good at pretending he didn’t. He kept his eyes focused on the book and his notes, apparently not interested in making any conversation.

You knew he wasn’t the talkative type. You have seen him once or twice in the school corridors with Seth Cohen and it was obvious who wore the pants, conversation-wise at least. Seth would be animated, gesturing wildly, jumping from a topic to the other. Ryan, on the other hand, would simply listen quietly and at times, he would look confused, as if trying to follow Seth’s train of thoughts, but failing miserably. Other times, he would slightly narrow down his eyes, silently questioning himself whether Seth’s stories were worth the effort to untangle. And yet, there was a flicker of patience in his expression and always managed to find a witty remark, which resulted in Cohen scoffing.

Just as you were thinking of a question to ask him to break the ice, the school bell rang and he looked up, closing his book and grabbing the rest of his stuff.

“Sorry, I gotta go to class now, but thanks for the coffee”, he smiled at you one last time, not really waiting for your response, and got up to exit the cafeteria.

You stared at the empty spot where he had been sitting, feeling a mix of confusion and disappointment settled over you. So much for wanting to get to know him… You let out a deep breath and grabbed your pen, forcing yourself to continue working on the summary of types of cells of the human body.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

In the days that followed, your interactions with Ryan remained minimal: a casual ‘Good morning’ when you entered the same classroom or a faint smile you’d give him from the opposite cafeteria table in those rare occasions when his eyes would meet yours. He was always looking down, focused on a book or playing with his food; or even when talking to Seth, he was always lost in his own world. Some days, you’d seen him exchange a few words with Marissa Cooper, but that was it.

You started believing he didn’t really care about making new friends. You didn’t take it personally though; he came from Chino and that wasn’t a great place to grow up. He seemed like the type who learned the hard way not to trust people so easily. And you had a doctorate on that topic, coming from a similar town. You were too familiar with building up invisible walls around yourself as a coping mechanism to avoid getting hurt.

And then, there was the world of Newport itself – so polished, so privileged, so alien to all your previous life experiences. Therefore, you couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to make a connection with people that made you feel out of place, whether they wanted it or not. Still, you wanted to show him you were not one of those people. You saw pieces of yourself in the way he carried himself and perhaps that’s why there was something inside of you saying you couldn’t give up that easily.

So, against all odds, you found yourself seeking out opportunities to spend time with him, hoping to break through his quiet and lonely demeanor. Every time you approached him at the cafeteria to spend your lunch break together and try to spark some casual conversation, he wouldn’t brush you off but his responses were politely short and hurried, no matter how much effort you put into finding topics you might have in common. In class, he didn’t seem to mind if you sat next to him. Some other times, you’d accidentally meet him at the library with the pretext of needing something that you actually didn’t.

However, after all the silent looks, shrugs, or the one-word responses, you started questioning if your attempts to befriend him were a mistake. Perhaps you were in the wrong. Maybe you had read too much into the day he saved you from Jake – maybe he just did that out of common courtesy.

So eventually, you started letting him go slowly; you didn’t wanna be a bother to him. You stopped seeking him out at lunch as often: you chose instead to sit with other people or sometimes you’d eat on your own. Whenever you did sit together in the classroom or at the library, you adopted a more reserved demeanor, not engaging much in conversations or just giving him a faint smile as a response.

And Ryan.. at first he felt indifferent at your change of attitude. He was used to being alone, to mind his own business. It was a lot simpler that way. He already had Seth, Marissa, Luke and even Summer and that was enough friendships for a lifetime in his books.

Or that’s what he thought…

After a couple of days, he started acknowledging the gaps you had left behind. He’d find himself scanning the school cafeteria, his food tray in his hands, trying to spot you. He couldn’t actually explain the pang of something he felt on his chest whenever he saw you talking or laughing with your other classmates. Or the smile you evoked on him whenever he came across at your cute concentration pout while reading a book or writing something on your notebook. Even the library seemed too quiet and empty.

It wasn’t until the following weeks that he finally realized he missed you – even if he would never admit that outloud. It happened while he was hanging out with Seth in his room; he was rambling on about a comic he’d just finished reading, but Ryan’s thoughts kept diverting to you for some reason. He found himself thinking about what you could be doing at that moment and he kinda looked forward to the next day so he could see you at school. And that was when the truth hit him. However, you weren’t giving much more than the time of the day, so he had to do something to get you to talk to him or at least acknowledge his existence.

The next day, in an effort to make amends for his past behaviour, he sought you out after the science class. He found you at your locker carefully tucking some notebooks, pens and your algebra manual inside your backpack. He didn’t put much more thought into his plan and walked towards you before he could get second thoughts.

You, on the other hand, were pretty much into your own head so the gentle tap on your shoulder made you jump slightly. But then, fear was replaced by surprise when you saw who it was. A rush of energy ran through your body. What was he doing here?

“Hi, Y/N”, Ryan started talking, as awkward as ever, and cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Uhm, I’m struggling with the analysis of To Kill a Mockingbird that Mr. Brown asked… would you mind helping me?”

It was a flat-out lie. Ryan had finished the assignment this weekend, but he needed an excuse to talk to you so that’s the best he could come up with. He distinctly remembered you mentioning once that Literature was your favorite subject, and although he hadn’t gone out of his way to interact with you before, he actually had listened to everything you’ve said to him. It’s just dawned on him now how much he did.

The surprise still lingered on your face for a couple of seconds, but almost instinctively, a smile formed on your lips. “Of course.”, the warmth in your voice caught him off guard. “Let’s meet at the library after school”, you gave him a quick wink and then gently closed your locker before heading off to your Maths class. Ryan was left standing in the middle of the corridor with a wide smile plastered on his face and a sense of relief rushed through him, assuring him that everything would be all right.

And that was the day where your friendship with Ryan Atwood finally began.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was safe to say that Ryan and you became attached by the hip. You spent every chance you’d get together, but it wasn’t forced or anything like that – you simply gravitated towards each other naturally. No excuses or plans were needed.

Some afternoons when the weather was nicely warm, you’d go to the beach and share some sandwiches while you chatted about whatever came to your minds. You learned a lot about him, his life in Chino, his rough childhood, his early days in Newport, as well as his relationship with the Cohens and with Marissa. And, then, of course, he asked about you. You used to live in a town called Riverside with your mom but then she died in a car accident, and given that your dad has been MIA since you were born, your aunt Rachel became your legal guardian so you ended up moving to Newport with her. You also shared the story of Jake and you: long story short, at first you liked him because he was ‘a bit older and cooler’ but as you started hanging out with him, you realized he was bad news. Ryan gave you an apologetic smile, and you said it was ok, that you couldn’t really complain about your life here and that the quality of your friendships has clearly improved. He turned his head to the side and laughed but actually he wanted to hide the fact that his cheeks grew redder.

Some mornings, you’d join Ryan and his group of friends for breakfast at the Pier Diner. The first time oyu did so, you were worried that you were going to intrude, but Ryan assured you they were going to love you. Naturally, Seth did most of the talking, and that helped take some pressure off your shoulders. Watching him and Summer bickering was pretty amusing as well. You did receive some weird looks from Marissa but you decided to ignore her and keep enjoying the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted so far. Besides, Ryan had intertwined his hand with yours under the table to secretly show his support. You could say without a doubt that your heart stopped for a few seconds.

Some evenings, you’d wander aimlessly through the centric lanes, lost in your own little world. What seemed funny to you about your bond with Ryan was that although you shared really interesting conversations, you also found comfort in silence; you just simply enjoyed each other’s company. His presence soothed you in ways you could not explain – he made you feel peaceful and protected like you haven’t felt in a long time. One particular night, you were walking side by side while eating ice cream and you started feeling colder because the weather had dropped a few degrees compared to the warm afternoon so obviously you didn’t think it was necessary to bring a jacket but at that moment you cursed yourself mentally for not checking the forecast before going out. Ryan seemed to notice how you began to rub your arm with your free hand to get some warmth and how your lips adopted a purplish shade. (Not that he had already looked at your lips before. Or perhaps yes he did) So, he decided to take off his leather jacket and put it around your shoulders, causing you to sigh from relief. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt under it, so he would be fine. Without hesitation, you gave him a quick peck on his cheek to thank him and continued walking while you finished your ice cream cone. You probably did this without even realizing it, but Ryan had thought about that interaction for the days that followed and it never failed to make him smile.

The next day was a Saturday so you didn’t have school but you still had to run some errands for your aunt. You took advantage of the fact that you had to go out of your house and you stopped by at the Cohen’s house to return Ryan’s jacket. The previous night, you were so comfortable on it that you forgot to take it off when he walked you to your front door. And you figured he didn’t mind you having it either, but still. He wasn’t at home, but Seth was more than happy to pass the message along.

So, when Ryan came back, he was already waiting for him at the pool house.

“So, your new BFF dropped this off earlier”, Seth said, lifting the jacked with his index finger. “Care to explain what’s happening?”

“What’s happening with what?”, Ryan retorted, taking the jacket from Seth’s hand and putting it away in his wardrobe.

“Oh, come on, dude! What’s the deal with Y/N?”, he gestured widely, his movements too exaggerated.

“There is no deal. We’re just... hanging out”, Ryan sat on the armchair opposite the bed.

“Oh, yeah, sure”, he continued and rolled his eyes “Because ‘just hanging out' involves spending every minute together, eating meals together, holding hands under the table – yeah, I saw that at the Diner – and emotionally charged silences”, he made a dramatic short pause. “That, my brother, is dating in my books”, he opened his arms as if he had just dropped a microphone. “I’m sure Romeo and Juliet’s epic love story started just like that.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how it went”, Ryan muttered slowly and then shook his head. “And we’re not dating. We haven’t even kissed yet.

“Aha!”, Seth exclaimed and got up quickly, pointing at his friend. “So you admit you want a kiss to happen…”

“I didn’t say…”, Ryan started, but he stopped himself, letting out a heavy sigh. He realized there was no escaping this conversation “I don’t know, she’s just someone I like hanging out with, She’s... easy to be around.”

“Someone hand me a tissue please. This is the most heartfelt declaration of love I’ve heard”, Seth quipped, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. Ryan frowned and threw a pillow right on Seth’s forehead. “Easy there, Chino boy; no need to get violent… Look, I get it…”, he added, his tone softening, and sat right back on the bed. “She’s different from you-know-who.”

“And your point is?”, Ryan asked. Although he already knew who he was talking about, he just wasn’t following the connection between you and Marissa.

He earned another eye roll from the youngest Cohen.

“That you don’t have anything to prove around her. She’s not some test or some impossible standard you feel like you need to live up to. You can just be yourself freely around her."

Ryan would never say it out loud, but what Seth said made sense. When he dated Marissa, he truly loved her, but it felt like he was constantly walking a tightrope—proving he wasn’t the bad guy, trying to win over her family, playing with fire just to get her out of any kind of trouble. And in the end, where did that get him? Absolutely nowhere except Pain and Heartbreak city.

"And as unbelievable as this sounds, because, trust me, I’m just as shocked as anyone else, she likes you for you".

“And how exactly do you know she likes me? Were you bitten by a radioactive spider and developed psychic abilities when I wasn’t looking?”

"Okay, first off, if I had superpowers, I’d definitely use them to swing my way back into Summer’s good graces. Second, I don’t need any arachnid senses, Ryan. It’s called observation. Trust me, the signs are about as subtle as the flashing neon billboards in Times Square."

Ryan frowned. "Oh, yeah? Well, enlighten me, Sherlock."

Seth straightened up, clearly relishing the moment. "Exhibit A: the way she lights up like a Chrismukkah tree every time you walk into a room? Very telling. Exhibit B: she’ll find literally any excuse to touch you—like that time at the diner when she ‘accidentally’ brushed your arm while reaching for the salt. Like, come on, dude, that’s textbook flirting. And Exhibit C: the other day when we were all hanging out at the pier, you cracked a joke that wasn’t even remotely funny, no offense, but she laughed like it was straight out of a Seinfeld episode. Meanwhile, I’m out here delivering comedic gold on a daily basis, and do I get that kind of reaction from Summer? Of course not. That woman has the emotional range of a brick wall when it comes to humor."

“Ok, yeah, enough irrefutable evidence and references to you and Summer”, he lifted his eyebrows in a sarcastic manner.

"And don't even get me started about you. I never thought I'd live to see the day where the Ryan Atwood gave someone the puppy eyes every time said person entered his field of vision. Honestly, dude, it’s both adorable and mildly terrifying." Ryan scoffed and Seth laughed victoriously. "Accept it, Ryan. I can read you like a comic book. It's all over the place; you two are in loooooove."

“You’re impossible…”, The blond got up from the chair and exited the beach house, leaving Seth alone with his own rambling.

The youngest Cohen watched his friend leave and let out a laugh. “Ah, denial”, he muttered aloud to the empty room. “Stage one of the Ryan Atwood romantic process.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

One not-so-random Saturday, you found yourself at home, pacing the floors with restless energy. Your aunt Rachel, a doctor at the Newport Hospital, had been called to work for an emergency surgery, leaving you alone with the daunting task of keeping yourself occupied. As usual, you had woken up feeling anxious, so you threw yourself into activities to avoid overthinking what day it was.

First, you caught up on your latest homework, then finished the book you'd started a month ago. You even cooked dinner and baked a chocolate loaf cake, despite not having much of an appetite. For a while, it seemed to work. But as the sun set and your body longed for sleep, you lay wide awake in bed, unable to quiet your racing thoughts. No matter how hard you tried, your mind kept circling back to that night — the one when your mum had been taken away from you. The monthly anniversary loomed over you like a shadow, heavy and inescapable. But before letting your emotions drive you to do something you might regret later, you got up from the bed and reached for your phone to call the only person who could truly comfort you in a moment like this. Of course Ryan wasn’t surprised about you calling him; you would talk on the phone quite regularly (Seth would grill him over this as well), but when you invited him over with a hint of sadness in your voice, an alarm triggered inside of him, so he said he would be at your house in a heartbeat.

And as promised, not even 10 minutes after your call, you heard him park the car outside your house. You’d been waiting for him sitting on the sofa so you opened the front door pretty quickly. He took an extra second to take in your outfit. Were you wearing a sweatshirt of his? When have you taken it? And not to mention, the pair of pijama shorts that barely covered your legs. Something stirred inside of him. You brought him back to reality when you greeted him with a hug. It was some seconds longer than those you’d shared in the past. And he also noticed how your eyes lacked their usual spark. This confirmed something was off with you. However, he decided to wait for the right moment to pop the question, or maybe, to wait for you to mention it.

You led him to the living room and picked up the TV remote so you could turn it on and check if there was anything interesting to watch. You dropped onto the sofa and glanced up at him, patting the spot next to you in silent invitation. Ryan couldn’t help feeling thrown off by your strangely composed demeanor, especially after the odd tone of your earlier call. However, he brushed his doubts aside and sat down where you had indicated him. You took the opportunity to scoot closer against him so your side was fully pressed against his and your head rested on his shoulder. Ryan tensed for half a second, unsure of what to do. It’s not like you two haven’t shared hugs or fleeting touches, but this was different. Cuddling was unknown territory. He stole a quick glance at you and, seeing that you didn’t seem troubled by the closeness, he relaxed. A soft breath escaped him as he wrapped an arm around your back. You’d caught him off guard, but the moment felt strangely comforting—like something he hadn’t realized he’d been needing.

However, in that glance he also noticed your eyes were fixed on the TV, but your head was visibly elsewhere. He could practically see the thoughts race in and out of your mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?”, he asked softly, tapping on your leg with his free hand.

“Nothing really… I was just thinking”, you replied almost whispering, with the same expression.

“Yeah, I can see the thoughts race in and out of your mind”, he meant to say that as a joke, but when you turned your face in his direction, your eyes screamed with anxiety and sadness. “Y/N, are you ok?”

Your heart skipped a beat at his question. This was the moment you’ve been dreading – having to explain what was wrong. You had it coming, though. You weren’t doing an amazing job at being your usual cheerful self. You were just secretly hoping Ryan would mistake your behaviour for tiredness. But no, he read you like an open book.

“Uhm, yeah”, you bit the inside of your cheek hesitantly, unsure if you wanted to unload all the weight you’ve been carrying on your shoulders. Needless to say, he had become your person, your safe place. You knew you could trust him with whatever you wanted and he would still be there for you without judging.. But this… was not a happy conversation.. A knot tightened on your chest. You struggled with talking about your mom’s death because you felt that it made it feel more real… So, you put all the memories and feelings in a box and stored them in the basement of your brain.

Ryan knew you zoomed out again, so he decided to keep talking to you to keep you grounded. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me anything until you’re OK? Just know I’m here for you.”

You nodded at him, thanking him silently. But before doing anything else, you felt his hand wipe something off your cheek. A tear? You hadn’t even realized they were threatening to come out.

“Hey… come here”, he whispered softly and now he used his two arms to wrap you in a comforting hug. All the emotions you’d been suppressing the whole day came out to the surface and hit you like a trainwreck. “Shh, it’s ok”, he whispered repeatedly while gently stroking your back. Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his typical white shirt as he let you pour your heart out.

After some minutes in the same position and now with your cries having subsided, you broke the hug and quickly wiped the remaining tears. He frowned his eyebrows at you, implicitly asking if you were feeling better. You nodded softly.

“Thank you”, you finally spoke, your voice coming out hoarse. “I’m sorry for spoiling your favorite t-shirt”, he looked down and saw how your crying had taken a toll on this piece of clothing but then he made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Don’t worry. You know I have lots of these”, he joked and you couldn’t help but laugh. It was true. You rarely see him wear anything besides white sleeveless tank top and dark pants. If the weather was colder, he’d take a grey shirt or his signature leather jacket.

Ryan stayed there in front of you, studying your expression, and removed a loose strand of hair that had fallen before your face. He couldn’t ignore how beautiful you looked, even after crying your eyes out. His hand lingered on your face longer than it should, caressing your left cheek. You could feel your heartbeat quicken under his touch and the fears of showing him your vulnerability seemed to dissolve in the warmth of his gestures. He was about to open his mouth to say something, but hesitated, as nothing felt good enough.

Instead, he looked at you, searching in your eyes for permission he wasn’t sure he needed. The silence between you felt charged but it wasn’t uncomfortable at all. He saw how your eyes looked down at his lips and, unconsciously, you licked yours subtly. His breath hitched slightly.

His hand, near your face, grabbed your chin this time and he slowly leaned in, as if testing the waters. You gave him a small nod and didn’t take long for his mouth to meet yours in a tender slow kiss. The world around you seemed to stop and all the things that have been troubling you seemed to fade in the distance. Your hand instinctively reached up, threading softly through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. The kiss then deepened just slightly, enough for both of you to feel the unspoken emotions behind it. When it ended, his forehead lingered against yours, eyes still closed, as if cursing to himself that he had to stop to breathe. It seemed your lips were custom-made for his, fitting together in a way that felt both effortless and electric.

He gave you another quick peck before his thumb started to gently trace the curve of your cheek.

“I have to admit,” you said with a playful smirk, “I like this method of comforting.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you with nothing else but adoration.

“You really are something else, aren’t you?”

you made it to the end, congrats! 💜 I really hope you enjoyed it and that it wasn't too long for a one shot. I have to admit I had fun writing it and trying to replicate the characters' personalities, especially when seth appeared.

this maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay have a part 2, depending on if it flops, lol.

and as I usually say, i'd love to read some comments with your feedback :) and i'm also taking requests, so there's your chance to leave one 💗

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