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ââ§Â°đČÖŒđą ABOUT ME: Hi guys my name is Phoebe ! (as you probably gathered from the username..) I play the violin, draw, craft, and spend too much money on figures. I love music, art, and trapping unknowing, innocent citizens into long winded philosophical discussions. â§â âȘËâč
Jason Todd is both street smart and book smart. Saying he canât be book smart because he was homeless is CRAZY WORK. That man is smart, every Robin is smart actually. All of them. Theyâre all smart. Steph and Jason are the ones i see most often be watered down to just âreckless and dumbâ and itâs giving classism. AND MISOGYNY.
FirstViolin!Satoru, who you meet at the auditions for your collegeâs orchestra. Youâd spent so long preparing for this audition, meticulously drilling etudes and scales until your roommates nearly kicked you out, all so you could walk into the warm-up room with your head held high. Youâve played violin since you were extremely young, placing the majority of your life on improving. And here you are now, a music major, finally feeling the rewards of your labor come to fruition.Â
After an excellent audition, if you do say so yourself, you march out with an exhilarated smile plastered on your lips. Itâs the thrill, the emotion of playing that keeps you so hooked, the way your fingers dance along the instrument like theyâre siphoning your soul itself into the notes.
But before you can make it even a few feet, you get aggressively shoulder checked by someone too tall to register at first. You nearly fall over, and your head whips up to see who exactly is so rude to not watch where they're going!!Â
Thatâs when your eyes meet. Satoru Gojo, your future arch-nemesis.
He, like you, is clutching a violin in his hands, but he isn't holding a music book like the one clutched beneath your elbow. Immediately you realize heâs auditioning too, but from memory. You decide you already hate this guy, face scrunching up into a sneer as he barely tosses a âsorryâ over broad shoulders.
It's made even worse when you find out he was made concert master. But you aren't the type to give up, and you figure a guy who showed up late to the very first audition wouldn't last very long anyway, so you lay in wait to snatch up his position.Â
And so begins the saga of your hatred. You thought in the beginning you could just ignore him, but he proves to be much too infuriating. Heâs laid back, snarky, unappreciative, annoying, and worst of all, brilliant at his instrument. He puts everyone else to shame with his playing, even you, which only serves to anger you even more. Because of his skill, you can't blame his high position on his family's obscene amounts of money. And he doesn't even seem to care!
He arrives late to every rehearsal, openly admits to never practicing, never brings his music, pencils, rosin, anything, and he loves to piss off his wound-up second chair. Which so happens to be you.
So who can blame you if you hate his guts? Who can blame how you cheer inside every time he messes up (which is once in a blue moon), how you anxiously await the day when he eventually is so late that you are forced to move up to first chair (where you belong, but whatever).
From his perspective, he finds you fascinating. He only really joined music because of the challenge and stimulation on his brain, even though heâs practically mastered it already. Sometimes Satoru thinks it's a little unfair heâs even allowed in the program, as he outshines pretty much everyone else.
Everyone else but you, that is. Youâre the only one to (at least somewhat) keep up with his skill, to keep him even showing up to rehearsals at all, because youâve made it clear: Any mistakes and youâll swoop in to steal his spot faster than he can say violin.
And despite how worked up you seem to get about it, It excites Satoru. It excites him more than anything else has in a long time. As someone sporting an extremely active mind, always jumping from place to place, heâs never had someone so openly territorial and challenging towards him. And he canât even make himself be mad about it!
He finds himself smiling to himself after every rehearsal you snarkily corrected him on whatever you could find, nearly giggling after yet another scolding for forgetting his music. The only person who canât see his obvious enjoyment at the situation is you, it seems.Â
Nobody else in the orchestra dares to intervene when you and him start fighting. If anything, most of the sections find it funny. Suguru Geto, the first chair Violist and best friend to Satoru, finds it hilarious when high-and-mighty Satoru gets violently yanked back down to earth by his stand partner every single rehearsal. Shoko, first chair cellist, just wishes heâd shut up about you already.Â
However it all changes when the music program gets to go on a yearly orchestra group retreat. Since the Gojo family is so ecstatic that their famously uncaring Satoru has finally found something to commit to, albeit music, theyâve graciously funded the program lavishly. So the annual trip is to Greece.Â
To your soul crushing dismay, (and Satoruâs suspicious lack of surprise) the two of you get put in the same room. You aren't even sure how it happened, as you're pretty sure itâs against school policy, so youâre firmly convinced that the universe is out to get you. The one man you canât stand!!
He listens to you practicing just to give snarky, obnoxious advice just to rile you up, hides the towels so you have to bang on the door and demand for him to get you one, and collapses on your bed to butt into your space whenever he can. It drives you absolutely nuts.
You ignore him where possible, but living in such close quarters makes it extremely hard. Especially when the two of you accidentally get locked in the instrument storage closet at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki where your program was doing a workshop for the day.
He doesn't even try to pretend your dismayed reaction isn't hilarious to him, even snuggling up to your back just to make you hiss and struggle wildly.Â
But after around ten minutes of this, the energy starts to shift. The reality of how nobody's going to find you for at least another hour until the workshop is over starts to set in, making both of you still.
Thatâs when you start to notice how good he smells, like clean linens and citrus. His white hair is flopped over into his face, his annoyingly blue eyes wide and slightly hesitant in the dark of the closet. His lips are parted, and if you squint, you swear you can see a faint blush crawling up his neck.Â
The two of you are far too close, his minty breath puffing gently against your hair.Â
Its this moment where all his behavior starts to click, the way he seems to perk up after you yell at him, how he seeks you out just to piss you off, how he skips other priorities just for orchestra rehearsal that he spends half the time slouching through (when youâre not cursing at him).Â
Satoru Gojo likes you.
You, the single person who probably canât stand him the most.
So when you, dazed like someone possessed, finally lean in to kiss him, all your suspicions are confirmed. He instantly melts into it, long nimble fingers curling into your hair like heâs been waiting for this moment for too long.
Satoru, your infuriating concert master, is sighing into your mouth and leaning all his weight into your body. Something about it makes you almost giddy, giddy for finally conquering the unreachable Satoru, for finally putting yourself above him once and for all.Â
You would've tried this months ago if you knew it would shut him up so easily!!
Something new for the one time?? Getting back to DC after this...
âIt is not the rain that wanly
Sobs its tale across the bay,
Not the sobs of lone acacias
Trembling darkly in the gray,
Not the groans of harried breakers
Flinging tatters on the shore,
But the phantom of your voice that
Stays me dreaming at my door.â
Ermita in the Rain
Angela Manalang-Gloria
(Song linked below)
Rain falls over Gotham. Nothing revolutionary to its residents, the weatherman insists, gesturing his wide fingers over the softly glittering display of the days of the week. Little rainclouds, cartoonish and small, hover over nearly every day but Saturday. Todayâyou note as you check the coupon calendar hanging in the little space between the light-switch and the front doorâis Tuesday.
The glass candle youâre holding is cool in your palm, not yet alive with the glow of flame as your fingers press and flick at the lighter poised above. Your hair dips into your face, making your brow crease and lips purse, but eventually you decide it's not worth the time.Â
â-we urge Gothamites to not fret over these dreary spring showers as it seems the sun has decided to show her face this weekend! So plan on taking your family out to the park, maybe, or go out to your favorite diner-...â
The weatherman continues, his voice a background texture to the record you have on. Itâs something smooth and slinky, a little number you picked up on the way home from work today. Itâs surely cliche, but something about the smooth sax and the hushed chug-chug of the drums grounds you. Youâre walking through the little studio youâve made home in mismatched pajamas, hair wild and still a little damp from the bath you just took. The kitchen still smells like tea, with the empty mug and spoon resting on the coffee table to your right. It's setting up to be a sleepy night in Gotham City.
...
That is, until your window hitches. The old sill hiccups and whines with the force of being pulled, giving with a pathetic sputter of glass as a gloved hand secures it. Before the familiar figure can even maneuver inside, heâs already yanking the red helmet over his head. Brown, wet curls shake free, and a thick, low sigh leaves the lips of Jason Todd.
His boots thump gently on your carpet, his lashes casting thick shadows over sullen cheeks in the orange of your lamplight. Heâs rolling his shoulders, shrugging off his jacket to drape over one of the mis-matched chairs of your dining table. The weatherman drones on, and so do the trumpets, and so does the rain, rattling against the window he just closed. The air feels so full already, neither of you feel the need to speak.
Heâs stripped down to a white wifebeater and plaid boxers, corded muscles waning and shifting in the light. He downs a glass of water from your sink, shoves an entire brownie from the cooling rack into his mouth, and slouches back over to you. You watch him approach, before yelping a little as his forearm snags you alongside him to yank you both onto the couch. The sigh he lets out is something from a man twice his age, his blue eyes already barely open. The two of you are sprawled together, with his massive frame curved against you. Youâre facing the little TV, eyes unfocused on how the weatherman swings wildly at the days of the week and the little rainclouds.
You can hear the rain outside. You can hear the TV. You can hear the record filling the room like how your tongue fills the space between your teeth. You can hear Jasonâs pulse, steady and slow, thick against the back of your neck. You can hear how the breath expands his lungs, shuddering slightly against his ribs before exhaling right back out. You can feel the big, splayed hand on your stomach, tracing the patterns of the mismatched band tee youâd bought last year.Â
You can feel how your jaw works, eyes still slightly wide as you puzzle over the revelation that the world doesn't quite keep moving until heâs here, taking up mass amounts of space, eating all your brownies, worrying you half to death even though you pretend you don't even notice heâs gone.
The music swells. A gentle piano solo twinkles past the smooth thrum of the base, taking charge of the direction of the song. You turn.
He peers down at you, face slack, eyes barely open, hair wild and still damp.
You hold a hand up to cup his jaw. He lets you.
He huffs like an old dog finally finding an acceptable sunny spot, letting his eyes finally close right as the midnight night news comes back on. They speak about something insignificant, the host smiling with eyes filled with mirth, as if he can feel the deep, chocolatey love seeping like honey through the screen. He smiles knowingly, the grainy screen flicking to the reporter in the street. Sheâs saying something high and giddy, as if she, like all the world, can feel how Jason warms your palm, how you shift to press your forehead to his.
Jason doesn't open his eyes, letting his shoulders melt further into the cushion of the couch, into your skin.Â
And when you kiss him, you barely notice, the brush of lips and souls blending in with the soft texture of the record skipping, of the newsman shuffling the papers on his desk, of the rain hushing the world down to your studio apartment, holding back the insistence of life, of work, of how the world keeps spinning.Â
You barely remember falling asleep, only waking in the morning to Jasonâs forehead pressed to yours, lips a whisper apart.
The rain hasn't quite passed yet.
Calm luh Jason blurb !! i just love the idea of Gotham culture being very much like the vibes from the older films like ugh take me there (don't please holy fuck)
Bruce might not spend the most time with you, but your dynamic with him is much different than your siblings.Â
After all, youâre his first girl, his sweet, civilian princess. And he goes to GREAT lengths to keep it that way.
When you were young, you learned fast not to ask to be Robin next. Bruce would get this stiff look on his face and send you to your room.
Even now, if heâs working on a case involving something too intense, heâll keep you cooped up in the house. You revolt every time.Â
As the only Wayne kid not preoccupied with the double-life, the task of keeping appearances has often fallen to you. After so many years of practice, beautifying and maintaining comes second nature to you.Â
Your siblings know who to go to for fashion or makeup advice, and who will get them all dolled up in the most efficient amount of time.Â
As Bruceâs first baby girl, youâre spoiled rotten. Your bedroom is large and stuffed full with everything you could ever want, more than you even know what to do with. Gifting and worrying is definitely Bruceâs love language.Â
â
As Dick Graysonâs oldest-still-baby sister, you guys have a bond heâd like to think is special. You were around for his later teenage years, still young and impressionable and fragile.
And to him, you never changed. Youâre a teenager now, but he still laces your heels when they come undone (like you canâtâŠ) and holds your bags when you shop. You yell at him for acting like youâre still a kid, but he canât help it! Something about how you havenât been crushed by the weight of hero work warms him, in a way.Â
You knew him at his most versatile, his most unstable and moody. Something about that is really sentimental to him, so he has a lot of patience with your occasional teenage tantrums.
And yes, he will fight ANYONE for the title of favorite brother.Â
â
Jason Todd finds you conflicting. You confuse him terribly, and any time he sees you interacting with someone, it cements the idea that the two of you are much too different.Â
Before he died you guys were close. The two nearest in age in the manor, friendship was bound to happen.Â
The two of you would hide out during Bruceâs fancy business meets, beneath tables and behind plants, with your poofy dress and his mini-tux.Â
He would stand up to any bullies at school, and you would pamper him with affection to your heart's content. It worked, for a while. Until he died.Â
Jason isnât stupid, he knows you mourned him. You still mourn him, he thinks, the him that died in his younger self, before the rage and the pit and the blood. The small Jason with the braces and the crooked smile.Â
Now that heâs back, itâs hard. Seeing you have teenage outbursts, and normal people problems, it jars him. Admittedly, he distances himself on purpose, despite how you reach and reach for him.Â
The two of you are just in two very different worlds.
He tries to stay very far away from the manor, and all things Batman, even if they are technically on a truce now. Old memories die hard. But when he does see you, and how youâve flourished into a promising young woman, something warm knocks loose in his chest.Â
And you better believe heâll be loving you fiercely from the shadows, even if he himself doesnât know it.Â
â
Tim Drake has a lot of people relying on him. It comes with the whole Robin/RedRobin territory, alongside his duties for the family. Helping Batman has always been his dream, even before he joined the ranks.
But what he didnât expect was a hidden little blossom inside the manors' foreboding walls.
You took him in easily, despite your pressing grief over your late-adopted brother.Â
Youâre over the moon about having a baby brother to pamper, even though heâs barely a few years younger.Â
Tim was twelve when he came, making you 14 (and a half, youâd insist). You took him everywhere you went, to shopping and movies and anything else your little brains could think up.
Tim knows only this: He wouldnât trade it for the world.Â
You may be a civilian, and you may have your issues with Bruce, but when you wrap an arm around him, roughing up his perfectly combed hair with a snicker, he feels more at ease than anywhere else.Â
You always pay for him, driving him everywhere (Bruce still doesnât trust you on the roads, what about the reckless drivers??) and constantly sending him funny videos.Â
When heâs with you he doesnât feel like everyoneâs leaning on him. He can just be your baby brother for a minute. He can lean on someone else instead.Â
Your connection is extremely important to him, especially in the first years after Jasonâs death, when Bruce needed him more than ever.Â
He would go into your room before school and you would do his hair, hands all careful and warm. You didnât have callouses like him, skin smooth and soft against his scalp.Â
He didnât have difficult hair but he still pretended he needed help every morning, just to hear you rattle on about something unimportant while you smoothed your fingers through his hair.Â
He will fight Dick on the Favorite Brother Title.Â
â-
Cassandra Cain has had to learn a lot moving to the manor. Adapting has been a learning curve for sure, but sheâs nothing if not determined.
She fits in well there, considering how alike her and her father are. It gives her a place to express herself freely and grow.
She honestly didnât expect to be so captivated by a sister.Â
You two are the same age (perfect in her mind), but while sheâs out foiling traffic rings and thwarting mob bosses, youâre groaning about calculus homework and deciding your outfits for the school week.Â
The difference is stark, but she adores you. You were just as excited to have a sister when she moved in, and so you immediately took her under your wing.Â
She got the full works: makeup your brothers refused to let you test on them, hair accessories you thought would âlook cuteâ, and countless other girly things that make Cass feel a little less like a soldier sometimes.Â
You get so excited about these things: you give her so much of your makeup and clothes, claiming it âlooks better on herâ, leaving her with piles of things sheâd never use without you.Â
After all, you got your love of gifting from your papa.
But you make it sound so glamorous, the girly life, so sometimes she tries it.Â
She lets her usually-precise hand guide makeup over her skin, striking her now as clumsy and alarming.Â
She finds she likes it best when you do it, despite how you whine about how she makes anything look good.
Cass confidently and proudly takes the Favorite Sister Title.Â
â-
Damian Wayne is confused. He thought for sure his Father would raise all of his young to carry strength, for one. And for two: Another blood child??
This makes you his sister. A fact he solemnly accepts fairly quickly.Â
âLife can provide a hand that is less-than-optimal. You must simply force the odds.â
âWhat the fuck does that mean, Damian.â
He tries to force you into getting stronger by the only method he knows: tough love.
You donât stand for it, which pushes the two of you apart at first. Not to mention that Bruce refuses to allow the idea of you doing hero work. Not that you want toâŠ
But Damian is nothing if not stubborn. He basically harasses you for months, much to your dismay, intruding into your room and following you around at school.Â
After all, how can a child born of the blood of Batman be so ...dormant?
During this time, something startling happens inside him. You start growing on him.Â
In a way, he begins to like that youâre separate from all the action. Even though heâs still very insistent that training would do you some good, heâs begun to accept it.
What he absolutely CANNOT accept, however, is how unapologetically you try to corrupt him into your embarrassingly girly ways. He will simply try and observe you in your quarters, gathering information on his only blood sister, when he gets roped into testing some new âskin-careâ product, or clipping offensively sparkly clips in his hair.
Although, heâd never admit he loves when you whine about how clear his skin is, or how full his brows are. Heâll just give a haughty smile, making some smug comment about superior genes.
Eventually after the whole culture shock, Damian begins to accidentally like you. When youâre still awake when he gets back from patrol with Bruce, you make him some sort of difficult, sweet drink, and bustle him onto the nearest couch to talk his ear off about insignificant gossip. You like telling him because he, apparently, is the âmost trustworthyâ out of your family with such trivial matters.
(He wears this like a badge of honor).
Damian feels insulted by the notion that anyone other than he could be the âfavoriteâ. After all, he is the only blood sibling.Â
â
Alfred and you have a connection that is unlike any of the other batkids.
He raised you more than any of the others, with you being home the most without the superhero business. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
As a little girl he would help pick out beautiful little princess dresses for you, playing pretend and taking you out in the garden while he tended to it.
He sometimes, secretly, thinks of you as his own. You were the little pocket of normalness in the manor, the only rest from the otherwise tenseness of the double life.Â
He takes great pride in the normalcy of your life, of the way you complain to him about annoying teachers or parties your father would never allow you to attend.Â
Heâs the proudly uncontested Favorite Grandpa.
this is so lazy guys im a faliure (sobs pathetically looking through my fingers to see if you're going to comfort me)
My edgy x reader passion fic that I've had cooking for years...
Synopsis: You, a strange, broken girl who's only known suffering, escapes her prison and finds herself in the village of Konoha. There she finds friendships she never fathomed before, and the unexpected kinship borne from understanding.
âWho alone suffers, suffers most i' th' mind,
Leaving free things and happy shows behind.
But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip
When grief hath mates and bearing fellowship.â
William Shakespear, King Lear
Suffering is as familial to you as the act of breathing. It seeps through your veins with blood, embedded within your limbs like bones. You see the world through it like a second set of pupils, and it sits in your throat, heavy, like a tongue. You do not know a single day in your existence in which there was no suffering.Â
Life has not been kind to you.Â
Even in the very dawn of life, the world thieved from you. You were born to two insignificant, average farmers, who spent their days in the sweltering heat of the rice fields. Their village was small, sustained only by crops and fish. You were brought into this life quietly, and you were stolen just as such.
There had been rumors swirling in the village, whispered tales of little children being stolen away in the night, of cloaked figures haunting the woods that border them. Children would inexplicably go missing, disappearing cleanly from their homes. Many theories grew of who, or what, was taking the children, and what became of them. Some said it was a vengeful spirit, set on stealing and consuming youth they once lost. Some said it was a Shinobi Special Forces organization, taking the village children to train from infantry.Â
But the poor farmers could not see the rot lying just below the surface. The sick underbelly of the beast, the gaping maw drooling over their flesh.Â
The beast in which you were raised.
You think about all youâve done now. There isn't much to account for, as you have never left these woods. Your life until this point has been but a push and pull of will, despite the unnatural sort of power that brews just beneath your skin, and you toil over a new sort of feeling that emerged recently.Â
(You will eventually discover it to be âhelplessnessâ.)
The tile is cool beneath bare feet, not making a single sound.
Despite not knowing better, you canât help but think there must be more than this. There must be more to existence, more to this tragic march of meaningless nights. You are barely nine, and yet you already yearn for more.Â
There is only moonlight to illuminate your path, gliding along stone walls and intricate window sills. A large chamber emerges before you, appearing behind a winding corridor. After some childish hesitation, you continue.Â
Barely nine, and yet you know little more than the creak of old metal bedsprings and a straw mattress, one that provides measly support for sprained, sore limbs and broken bones. You know even less of the world outside, only of the best holes to hide in, and the trees that donât creak.
Waiting for you inside the chamber are two doors, as heavy and as tall as you ten times over. Carved upon them are intricate drawings of generations of cloaked lineage, of children like you. You advance.
You are small for a child. But you still carry a weight that would strain a thousand men. The grief and exhaustion will not strike you yet, but it will find you someday.Â
Beyond the doors, you see him. Cloaked, with his face covered, leaving only his eyes visible in the moonlight. A fear grips you. It crawls into your ribs, contracting through your lungs, inching its way up to ball up in your throat. He sees you and his shoulders twitch, as if startled,
He tells you that you should be back in your cell.
You stand there, a panicked resolve building somewhere vulnerable behind your skull. The tension translates to the power that takes up every unoccupied inch of your body, the foreign force that you have learned to wield.Â
And before you can run, or distract, or bind, just like youâd planned but hours ago, the man begins to advance. His movements are muffled by cloth, eyes almost vacant in how they stare, hands raising to deliver what would be harsh, swift punishment.Â
But youâre faster.Â
And the force inside you snaps like a whip, grabbing a hold of something fleshy and soft, pulsing, possessed with a heartbeat. When you open your eyes, he lay at your feet, dead with his arms still outreached as if to grasp you.
The sight loosens something dangerous and scary in your gut, something morbid, something that is a result of a life of pain. And when you get down on your knees, fingers dragging through the mess of blood where his head and right shoulder used to be, you finally understand something important about yourself:
They were right.
Death is what your hands were crafted for.
And when you get up, possessed by a sudden childish panic, you repeat those words to yourself. You repeat them as you turn and run through the forest, down the mountain, as far as you can get from the temple in which you lived the only life youâve ever known. The words echo cruelly, whispering over the heave of your lungs, the thud of your bare feet on the forest floor, of the wind whipping through your hair.
You run until you canât anymore.Â
Far from the forest, and the rice fields, and the small, sleepy village.Â
And when you can't run anymore, you call upon the force that still hums nervously just under your skin, forcing your limbs to move.Â
You run, and run, and run, until you almost forget what youâre running from.Â
You run for five days and four nights.Â
When you do eventually collapse, curled in a small crevasse in the wet earth, you sleep for another three days. When you wake to the soft blanket of the sun settling over your puffy eyelids, the only thing clouding your mind is thirst. Thirst and hunger. You feel carved out from the inside, legs throbbing in revolt and throat raw from panting. When you are older, you will wonder how you survived.
When you lift your heavy head, fuzzy and throbbing, you find your one and only miracle. The tall, imposing walls of Konohagure, The Village Hidden in the Leaves.
Wowie chapter one ! Thanks guys for reading and I hope it isn't too edgy for you guys lolll, trust she'll get silly
