#I THINK I SAID ... more than I should’ve but....

[promptedwordsmith]

I love your headcannons so I gotta put an ask in here. As we all know, MC can act a bit childish and is quick to push touch/affection away.

It makes me think of the quote, "If you touch me without violence, you'll be the first". Would love a writing about it.

Aw thank you! I hope this is what you meant <3

Caleb

The first time Caleb touched you, you flinched.

It was barely anything—a fleeting brush of his fingers against yours as he handed you something, an innocent, meaningless gesture—but your entire body stiffened, your breath hitched, and before you even realized it, you had yanked your hand back.

The warmth of his skin lingered, and you hated it.

Caleb noticed. Of course, he did. His sharp violet eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t say anything. Not then.

But he never stopped touching you.

Not in a way that was forceful or overwhelming. Never in a way that felt like he was trying to push you past your boundaries. But it was there—the careful way his shoulder would bump into yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d place his hand on your lower back as he guided you through a crowd, the way his fingers would brush against your wrist when he passed you something.

Each time, your reaction was the same. A flinch. A step back. A refusal.

At first, he gave you space. He didn’t push, didn’t question. Caleb wasn’t the type to force someone into anything they weren’t ready for. But he wasn’t blind either. He saw the way your guard never dropped, the way your muscles tensed at even the gentlest touch.

And then, one night, he finally asked.

You were both standing outside, the city lights stretching far into the distance, stars barely visible beyond the haze. It was quiet between you, peaceful, until he broke it with a simple question.

“Why do you hate being touched?”

You froze.

Your fingers curled into fists, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to ignore him, wanted to pretend you hadn’t heard, but Caleb wasn’t the kind of person who let things slide.

When you didn’t answer, he turned to face you fully, his voice steady but softer than usual. “It’s not just me, is it?” His eyes searched yours. “You don’t let anyone touch you.”

You swallowed hard.

And then you said it. The words that had been sitting on your tongue for years, unspoken, buried beneath layers of defense and survival.

“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The weight of those words crushed the space between you.

Caleb didn’t react right away. He didn’t wince, didn’t gasp, didn’t give you that pitying look you dreaded seeing. Instead, he just stood there, his violet gaze locked onto yours, taking in everything you weren’t saying.

You braced yourself for rejection, for discomfort, for him to leave—but he didn’t.

Instead, after a long pause, he let out a slow breath and said, “…Then I guess I’ll have to be first.”

Your stomach twisted. “Caleb—”

“I won’t push you.” His voice was firm but patient. “I won’t touch you until you let me.”

That should’ve been the end of it. It should’ve been the part where you turned away and let him go, where he accepted your boundaries and never tried again.

But the problem was Caleb never stopped caring about you.

And worse? You had let yourself care about him too.

Caleb never tried to force his way into your space, never laid a hand on you without permission. But he stayed.

He stayed through the silence, through the bad days, through the moments when you wanted to push everyone away but couldn’t bring yourself to do it with him.

He made himself a constant.

And that was dangerous.

Because the longer he stayed, the more you caught yourself wanting to reach for him.

The more you caught yourself watching his hands—the same hands that had held weapons, that had taken lives, that had commanded entire fleets—and wondering how they would feel if they touched you gently.

The more you caught yourself leaning in just a little when he stood beside you, like some part of you was trying to unlearn a lifetime of flinching.

You weren’t used to it.

You weren’t used to someone treating you like you were something precious instead of something hardened. You weren’t used to someone looking at you like you were worth waiting for.

And it scared you.

Because if you let yourself have this, if you let him in—what then?

It happened one night when you weren’t thinking.

You had both been caught in a battle, pushed to your limits, and despite everything—despite all the odds—you had both made it out alive.

Caleb was covered in cuts and bruises, exhaustion heavy in his limbs, but the moment he saw you stumble, he reached for you instinctively—just like he always did.

And this time, for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

His hands found your arms, steadying you, grounding you. You felt his warmth, his strength—and you let him hold you.

It was so small. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Just his hands on your arms, steady and reassuring. But to you, it felt like something shattered.

Caleb stilled, his grip light, as if he half-expected you to come to your senses and shove him away. His eyes searched yours, cautious, waiting.

But you didn’t move.

For the first time, you let yourself be touched without bracing for pain.

Without expecting violence.

Without fear.

And the look Caleb gave you in that moment—soft, careful, like he knew exactly how much this meant even if you hadn’t said a word—was enough to make something inside you break.

You swallowed hard, pulse racing.

“You’re the first.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but Caleb heard them.

He exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of your sleeve in the gentlest motion imaginable.

“Then I’ll make sure I’m never the last.”

And you believed him.

For the first time in your life, you actually believed someone.

Because Caleb had never broken a promise to you before.

And deep down, you knew he never would.

Rafayel

Rafayel had always been affectionate—too affectionate, if you were being honest. It wasn’t just the teasing smirks or the casual way he draped himself over you like a cat seeking warmth. It was the way his hands would linger, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way he spoke your name like it was something precious.

But you weren’t used to it.

So, when he leaned in too close, when his fingers brushed against yours absentmindedly, when his warmth wrapped around you in unspoken promises of safety, you pushed him away. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firm enough to make the message clear.

He didn’t take offense, at least not outwardly. Rafayel always bounced back with a lopsided grin, a lazy roll of his shoulders, as if to say, Fine, I’ll wait. But there was something in his eyes—something quieter, something more knowing.

And you hated that.

Because deep down, you knew what he saw.

He saw the way you flinched, even when his touch was gentle. He saw the way your shoulders tensed whenever he got too close, the way you shrank away from affection like it was a foreign language you never learned to speak.

Most people didn’t notice. Most people assumed you were just distant, that maybe you simply weren’t the affectionate type.

Rafayel knew better.

And that made him dangerous.

It started one evening, after one of his exhibitions. The gallery had emptied out, the patrons long gone, and yet he lingered, still basking in the afterglow of another successful night. You had stayed behind too, for reasons you weren’t entirely sure of. Maybe because he had asked. Maybe because it was easier than saying no to him.

He had pulled you into the back room where his latest painting was covered with a cloth. With a dramatic flourish, he yanked it away, revealing the canvas beneath.

It was you.

Not a perfect replica, not a stiff, lifeless portrait. It was you in motion, caught mid-laugh, the golden glow of light flickering behind you as if you were something divine.

It took your breath away.

You swallowed hard, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “You painted this?”

“No, it painted itself.” Rafayel smirked, stepping closer. “Of course I painted it.”

You didn’t have words. You didn’t know how to process something so raw, so intimate. It was one thing for someone to look at you, but it was another thing entirely for someone to see you. And Rafayel had always seen you.

That was the problem.

“I—” The words stuck to your throat. You weren’t good at this. At accepting things. At being loved without conditions, without expectations.

And then, just like always, Rafayel reached for you.

His fingers, long and paint-stained, brushed against your wrist—light, hesitant, careful. No force, no demand, just warmth.

And just like always, you flinched.

You stepped back so fast you almost knocked over the easel. “Don’t.” The word escaped before you could stop it, sharp and unsteady.

Rafayel’s hand froze midair before he slowly pulled it back. His expression didn’t falter, but there was something—something—in his eyes. He tilted his head, studying you with that same knowing look that had always unsettled you.

“Why?” His voice was soft. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just curious.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to tell him to drop it. You wanted him to go back to making jokes, to fill the silence with something light, something meaningless.

But he didn’t.

Because Rafayel never let things go.

You swallowed. “Because… if you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The words hung between you, heavy and raw.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Rafayel exhaled, slow and careful, as if he were afraid of shattering you. “Oh.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t apologize, didn’t pity you. He just stood there, watching you with those piercing blue-pink eyes of his, like he was unraveling all the pieces of you you’d kept hidden for so long.

It made you want to run.

And maybe he saw that too, because he took a step back. Gave you space.

“Okay,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Okay?”

He nodded. “I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to.”

The simplicity of it made something inside you ache.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

For the first time in your life, someone didn’t demand. Someone didn’t take.

Someone just waited.

Days passed, and true to his word, Rafayel never touched you. He still leaned into your space, still gave you that infuriatingly charming grin, but his hands never reached for you again. Not once.

And you hated that you noticed.

You noticed the absence of his touch. You noticed the way his fingers twitched when he was excited, the way his hands curled into fists like he had to remind himself not to reach for you. You noticed how much you wanted him to.

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

And one night, when he was sitting beside you, lazily sketching something while you both watched the waves crash against the shore, you made the first move.

It was small. Barely anything.

Just your pinky brushing against his.

But Rafayel noticed.

His breath hitched, and his gaze flickered to you, cautious, questioning.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt electric, buzzing with something unspoken, something fragile.

Then Rafayel, ever patient, ever waiting, turned his hand palm-up beneath yours.

An invitation.

Not a demand.

You hesitated, your heart pounding, before slowly—so slowly—you let your fingers slip into his.

Warmth. Solid, steady warmth.

No violence.

No pain.

Just him.

Rafayel said nothing, didn’t make a big deal of it. He just held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had been waiting lifetimes for it.

And maybe, just maybe, you had been waiting too.

Sylus

The first time Sylus touched you, you flinched.

It was subtle—just a stiffening of your shoulders, a flicker of tension in your stance. But for someone as dangerously observant as Sylus, it was enough. His fingers had barely brushed your wrist—light, almost teasing—as he leaned in to whisper something low in your ear.

And yet, you recoiled.

He didn’t comment on it then, only let a smirk curl at the corner of his lips as if he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

Of course, he had.

Sylus never missed anything.

Sylus was nothing if not patient.

He had seen resistance before. He had encountered people who feared him, people who worshipped him, people who wanted something from him. But you?

You were different.

You didn’t fear him—you feared being touched.

And that… was fascinating.

So, he tested it.

Little things, at first. A hand at the small of your back as he guided you through a door. A knuckle brushing over your cheek under the excuse of tucking away a stray strand of hair. A moment where he let his fingers graze yours when he passed you something.

Every time, your body tensed—just slightly—but you didn’t pull away.

Not right away.

You always let it happen for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if waiting for something.

And that was when he knew.

You weren’t just unused to affection.

You were waiting for it to turn into something else.

Something harsher. Something cruel.

Something violent.

And that realization—that truth about you—made his blood burn with something he couldn’t quite name.

The night it finally broke, Sylus hadn’t meant to push too far.

It had been a long evening, tension thrumming beneath the surface between you both like an electric current. You had been irritatingly stubborn during negotiations, as always, challenging him, testing him, making him bite back a smirk as you stood your ground.

But the moment that lingered with him was after, when the night had settled and you had found yourself alone in his office.

He approached you like he always did—without hesitation.

This time, he touched your face, his thumb grazing over your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. It wasn’t just teasing.

It wasn’t just a test.

It was real.

And you panicked.

You slapped his hand away, hard. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and startling, but Sylus didn’t react. He barely blinked, only watching as you took a step back, breath uneven, eyes wild.

His fingers flexed once before he let them drop to his side.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, quietly—

"If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first."

It wasn’t said with anger. It wasn’t a warning or a threat.

It was just… the truth.

And Sylus, for once in his life, didn’t have a response.

Something Unspoken

After that, he changed tactics.

He didn’t stop touching you entirely—no, never that. But he let you decide.

He let you approach him.

He gave you space but stayed close enough that you could always reach him if you wanted to.

And, for a while, you didn’t.

But then—

One night, after an exhausting mission, you sat beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his. You didn’t move away.

Another time, when exhaustion weighed on you, you let him take your wrist to check your pulse, your fingers trembling slightly—but not from fear.

And then, the night that changed everything—

You let him touch your face again.

This time, when his hand cradled your cheek, you leaned into it.

Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that he could feel the shift.

Just enough for him to know.

And that was all the permission he needed.

Slowly, deliberately, his thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his voice low when he finally spoke:

"I would never hurt you."

Your breath hitched.

He felt it.

He didn’t ask why it was so hard for you to believe him. He didn’t ask who had left you expecting pain from every touch, from every lingering moment.

He only let his hand remain where it was, grounding, steady—yours, if you wanted it.

And finally, you did.

You didn’t say anything that night. You didn’t have to.

But after that, something changed.

Sylus, perceptive as always, noticed immediately.

The way your body no longer tensed at his presence. The way you lingered just a little closer when you stood beside him. The way your fingers, hesitant at first, brushed against the sleeve of his coat as if testing a boundary you weren’t sure you were allowed to cross.

And the way, eventually, you did.

It happened late one evening, when the city outside was silent, the only sounds in the room the distant hum of a record player spinning on low and the soft shuffle of papers on his desk.

You had been sitting across from him, absentmindedly twirling a pen between your fingers when, out of nowhere—you reached for him.

Your hand, small but steady, settled against his.

No hesitation. No flinching. No fear.

Sylus, always composed, almost stopped breathing.

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

But his fingers curled over yours, slow, deliberate—a silent promise.

A promise that, for the first time in your life, someone’s touch wouldn’t bring pain.

And that was enough.

For now.

Xavier

The first time Xavier reached for you, you flinched.

It was instinct, sharp and immediate. His fingers had barely brushed your sleeve before you jerked away, stepping out of reach so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet. His hand hung in the air for a moment before he slowly lowered it, tilting his head as if trying to decipher something unsaid.

You weren’t looking at him, though. You were staring at your own hands, fingers curled into fists at your sides, knuckles tight. Get it together.

"You okay?" His voice was light, easy, like he hadn’t just watched you recoil from his touch as if it burned.

You forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Just—" You hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "You shouldn’t do that."

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with something colder than you really felt. "Touch me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before his expression shifted back to something more familiar—a smirk, teasing but careful. "Alright," he said, as if it didn’t matter. "No touching."

Except it did matter. Because Xavier wasn’t someone who kept his hands to himself—not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made him feel real. He was the kind of person who nudged you with his elbow when he made a joke, who ruffled your hair just to annoy you, who tugged at your sleeve when he wanted your attention.

But he listened.

For the next few weeks, he was careful. He kept his distance, kept his hands in his pockets, kept a respectable space between the two of you even when it was just the two of you on a mission, walking side by side.

And for some reason, it made your chest ache.

You wanted him close.

You just didn’t know how to let him be.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. If anything, that was the problem.

Xavier had wormed his way into your life in a way no one else had before. He was constant—too constant, maybe. There was no hesitation in the way he cared, no moment of doubt in his affection. He liked you, so he showed it. He wanted to be around you, so he was. There was no second-guessing, no caution.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Because affection had always come with conditions. Because touches had always been accompanied by something sharp—by expectation, by control, by violence.

So the idea of Xavier touching you with nothing but warmth?

It scared you more than any fight ever had.

"You ever gonna tell me why?"

You blinked up from where you sat at the edge of a rooftop, staring out at the cityscape below. Xavier was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

"Why what?"

"Why you don’t like me touching you." His voice wasn’t accusing, wasn’t pushing—it was just curious.

You swallowed. "I just don’t."

Xavier hummed, as if considering that. "You sure about that?"

You tensed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, stepping forward—not close, but closer. "I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes."

Your heart skipped. "I don’t—"

"You do," he interrupted, voice softer now. "Like you want me to reach for you, but you don’t know if you should let me."

You exhaled sharply. "It’s not that simple."

"Then explain it to me."

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeves, gripping tightly. You should have expected this—Xavier wasn’t the type to let things go so easily. He was patient, sure, but he wasn’t blind. He noticed things, noticed you.

And now, he was waiting.

You stared at your hands. "If you touch me without violence," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "you’ll be the first."

Silence.

For a moment, you thought he might not have heard you. But then, after a long pause, Xavier let out a quiet breath.

"That’s a damn shame," he said. His voice was soft, but not pitying. "Because you deserve better than that."

You didn’t look at him. "Maybe."

"You do," he said, firmer this time. "And I want to prove it to you."

Your breath hitched. "Xavier—"

"I won’t touch you until you want me to," he promised. "But when you do?" His gaze was steady, unwavering. "I’ll make sure you never have to doubt it."

It took time.

Xavier kept his promise. He didn’t touch you—not even accidentally. He was careful, patient in a way that made your chest ache. But he never pulled away emotionally. He was still there, still unwavering, still him.

And slowly, slowly, you started to realize something.

You wanted to close that distance.

You wanted him.

It started small—lingering closer when you walked together, sitting next to him instead of across the room, letting your shoulders brush just slightly before pulling away. And Xavier noticed. He always did.

But he didn’t push.

He let you take your time, let you move at your own pace.

Until one night, after a mission, when you were exhausted and sore and tired of your own fear, you turned to him and—hesitantly, carefully—reached for his hand.

His fingers twitched in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. He let you take his hand in yours, let you squeeze it lightly before letting go just as quickly.

You expected him to say something—maybe tease you, maybe push for more. But he didn’t. He just smiled, warm and real.

"Was that so bad?" he asked, amusement lacing his tone.

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Shut up."

Xavier chuckled, but there was something softer in his gaze. "Alright. No teasing. Not today, anyway."

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. "I hate you."

He grinned. "You love me."

You paused.

Then, quietly, you admitted, "Yeah."

Xavier stilled. His smile faltered—just for a second—before it softened into something genuine. Something real.

"Good," he murmured.

And for the first time, when he reached for you, you didn’t pull away.

Zayne

Zayne had always been patient. It was in his nature, woven into the fabric of his being just as much as his steady hands and level-headed presence. As a surgeon, patience was a necessity—an unwavering calm in the face of pressure, a stillness when chaos reigned.

But this was different.

This was you.

You, with your guarded eyes and the walls you built around yourself so high that even he, with all his skill, couldn’t navigate them easily. He had known from the start that you were different—not because you were difficult, not because you weren’t capable of love, but because the world had been cruel to you in ways it hadn’t been to him.

And still, he wanted you.

It started slow. The quiet companionship, the moments where neither of you needed to speak but simply existed together. A shared cup of tea in the morning. The warmth of his coat draped over your shoulders on a cold night. He never pushed, never asked for more than you could give, and yet…

Even he had limits to his patience.

Zayne had always been affectionate. Not in a way that was overwhelming, nor in grand declarations. No, his love was in the small things—in the way his fingers would brush against yours when passing you something, in the way his voice would soften when speaking your name, in the way he would lean in, close enough that you could feel his warmth but never quite touching.

And so, when he reached for you one evening—just a simple touch, the lightest brush of his fingertips against your wrist—he hadn’t expected you to recoil the way you did.

You flinched, your entire body going rigid, as if his touch had burned you.

Zayne froze. His hazel-green eyes flickered with something unreadable before he slowly withdrew his hand, watching you carefully. He wasn’t offended, nor was he hurt, but there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice quieter than you intended.

His brows furrowed slightly. “I—”

“If you touch me without violence, you’ll be the first.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and sharp. The room felt heavier in their wake, like the air had been sucked from it.

Zayne didn’t speak for a moment. He simply looked at you, studying you in that careful way he always did—like he was dissecting a puzzle, trying to understand without breaking it further.

You hated the silence. Hated the way it stretched between you like an open wound.

Then, finally, he exhaled softly.

“I see.”

And just like that, he shifted back, putting a comfortable distance between you. Not out of rejection, not out of frustration, but because he understood. He always understood.

You expected him to ask. To pry. To demand to know what had led you to this—why you had flinched, why you had spoken those words with such bitterness. But he didn’t.

He simply nodded, accepting it as fact, and changed the subject.

It should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

Because Zayne, for all his patience and for all his understanding, was not one to simply forget.

Days passed. Then weeks.

Zayne hadn’t touched you since.

Not in the way he used to. No fleeting brushes of his fingertips, no teasing nudges, no quiet, lingering moments where his warmth bled into yours. It was as if he had drawn a line in the sand and refused to cross it.

You told yourself it was for the best.

So why did it feel so much worse?

You had never needed touch. Never craved it, never longed for it. But now, in the absence of it, you felt its loss like a phantom pain. You missed it.

You missed him.

And so, when you found yourself standing outside his apartment one evening, your fingers curled into fists at your sides, you knew you had to do something.

The door opened before you could even knock.

Zayne blinked at you, surprised but not displeased. He stepped aside, wordlessly inviting you in.

You hesitated.

And then, taking a deep breath, you walked past him, into the familiar warmth of his home.

He didn’t ask why you were there.

He simply poured you tea, as he always did, and waited.

You stared at the cup in your hands, fingers tightening around the ceramic.

“I don’t…” You hesitated. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet patience. “Stop what?”

You swallowed. “Touching me.”

For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely surprised. Not in a dramatic way—Zayne was never dramatic—but in the way his fingers stilled against his cup, in the way his gaze softened ever so slightly.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said, his voice as steady as ever.

“I did.” Your throat felt tight. “I do. But I also… I don’t know.” You exhaled sharply. “I just… don’t want you to stop trying.”

Something in his expression shifted.

He set his cup down carefully before looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. Not with judgment, not with pity—just understanding.

“I never stopped,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

“I just adjusted,” he continued. “To what you needed.”

And you realized, with startling clarity, that he had been touching you. Just not in the way you had expected.

It was in the way he always made you tea, the way he listened so intently, the way he never pushed, never pried, but always made sure you knew he was there.

He had been touching you in the only way you would allow.

And now? Now, you wanted more.

Tentatively, hesitantly, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed against the back of his hand, and you felt him still beneath your touch.

It was light. Barely there. But it was enough.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t push for more.

He simply let you choose.

And, for the first time in your life, you did.

You let yourself be touched—gently, without violence, without fear.

Zayne, patient as ever, simply held still and let you set the pace.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid.

[cupidbedsy]

i would love a part two to the quinn neglecting you blurb :)

✿ CUPID'S FLORAL SHOP ✿

here's a freshly picked restless rose 🌹 !

warnings: quinn feeling like an ass, wrote on my phone so i don’t know how grammatically correct this is

word count: 740

florist cupid: the long awaited part two ! i’m so glad everyone liked this, i honestly didn’t think it would go crazy the way it did but im thankful it did.

it was about an hour that quinn was out of the apartment, thoughts racing through his head as he walked down the street. he’d shoot a weak smile and give a small wave to those who called out his name, even stopping to sign something once and a while.

but for the most part, he spent his time in his own headspace, thinking about the vents that had happened in the past couple hours. he’d been neglecting you for weeks. how could he not haven seen it?

at some point during his walk he stopped outside a flower stand, eyes trailing over each and every flower, finally settling on a small bouquet of one of your favorite flowers, making small talk with the older lady who was working the stand.

“special date tonight?”

quinn looked at her sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, “no i uh… kind of messed up.”

the lady gave him a knowing smile, finishing wrapping the flowers nicely. it was silent for the next few moments before she handed the bouquet to him. he went to take out his wallet but the woman just shook her head with a fond look on her face, “don’t worry about it.”

quinn fumbled, almost dropping his cash on the ground, “are you sure? i couldn’t just-“

“is she important?”

he nodded instantly, “yeah, most important person in the world. she um-“ he let a smile tug at his lips and tears prick his eyes, “she’s everything to me.”

“then it’s no big deal. you only get one of those girls, don’t lose her now.”

quinn thanked her again, walking away from the stand, but not before slipping money into the small jar.

━。゜✿ ゜。━

when he got back to your shared apartment, he played with the zipper of his jacket for a few moments before sliding the key in and unlocking the door.

you hadn’t moved from your spot on the couch the whole time he had been gone, you were too engrossed in your thoughts to move.

the sound of the lock unlocking stirred you from trance, snapping your head to look at the door.

quinn looked even more tired than when he had left, his hair messy as if he had been running his hands through it nonstop on his walk.

your eyes found the flowers in his hands, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you spoke softly, “quinny.”

he gave you a weak smile, slipping his shoes off and walking over to where you now stood. he handed you the flowers, the fingers on his free hand intertwining with yours.

he leaned down, letting your forehead rest against his. he played with your fingers, his and yours breathing being the only sound you could hear.

“they’re beautiful… thank you.”

“i’m sorry.”

you peered up at him through your eyelashes, taking in his guilty expression. you detangled your hand from his, reaching up to cup his face, rubbing your thumb across his cheek, “quinn-”

“i’m sorry.” he repeated, placing his hand on your hip to draw you closer to him, “i shouldn’t have pushed you aside, i shouldn’t have been so absorbed in the team and i should’ve been taking care of myself. you’re the most important person in my life and i wouldn’t have even been able to get through this past year without you, i shouldn’t have taken you for granted.”

you didn’t say anything, you couldn’t. tears welled in your eyes as you listened to him talk, hanging on every word he said. you knew he was sorry, you knew he didn’t mean to do this, but he did and it happened.

it was a rough patch in your relationship, but you would get through it, you knew you would.

he frowned when he saw the tears in your eyes, moving his hand to grasp yours again, “don’t cry, please. you know i hate when you do, especially if it’s because of me.”

he took the flowers from your hand, placing them down on the coffee table to bring you into a hug, cradling your head to his chest.

“i’ll make it up to you, i promise even if it’s the last thing i do.”

“don’t need to make it up to my quinn,” your fingers grasped at his sweater, clutching it like a lifeline. “you’re here now, and you apologized, not that you needed to, but that’s what matters. you’re here now.”

back to the shop ! ; navigation !

[jenosbliss]

pls write a smut where haechan looks extra pretty before performing and his makeup artist can’t help but want to fuck him before he goes on stage

pairing. afab!reader x idol!haechan | genre. smut | wc. 1k | mdni!

warnings. hard!dom haechan, unprotected sex (don’t try in real life), slight hair pulling and spanking, mirror, creampie? calls the reader princess but also a slut

a/n: it took me 3 weeks to write this as i had a lot of uni work. Please please pardon me this time if it’s not well written.

Maybe it was the blush that made his cheeks look impossibly soft and warm, or the tiny stickers under his eyes that added a playful touch to his sharp features. Maybe it was the way his dark hair fell perfectly in front of his eyes, or how his lips—full, red, and devastatingly distracting—seemed to curve into the kind of smirk that could undo you in seconds. Whatever it was, something about Haechan today had you undone.

You told yourself it was just your work. You’d perfected the art of making him look his best, every contour and color carefully applied, every detail deliberate. But today was different. Today, his presence alone made it impossible to stay steady, his every glance and smirk making your hands falter and your professional demeanor unravel. It was the way his eyes locked onto yours like he could see right through the flimsy wall you were trying to build, the way his fingers brushed too casually against your waist when the room was packed, his warmth seeping through the thin barrier of your shirt. It was the way he tilted his head just enough for you to lean in closer, as though daring you to close the space between you.

And you weren’t exactly innocent either. Your fingers lingered too long on his jaw as you blended the last touch of highlighter. Your breath ghosted over his skin when you worked on his eyeliner, your chest brushing against his shoulder in ways you knew weren’t entirely necessary. Then there was the lip tint—your thumb dragging over his bottom lip a fraction slower than you should’ve, your eyes dropping to his mouth, betraying just how much control you were losing.

“Careful,” he murmured when you pulled back, his voice low enough that no one else could hear over the bustle of the staff. His smirk deepened, a flicker of mischief lighting up his gaze. “You keep touching me like that, and I might think you’re trying to make me lose my job.”

Heat flared across your cheeks, but you refused to look at him as you turned away, busying yourself with cleaning up your station. You couldn’t let him get to you, not when the room was still crowded with staff and members. But when you bent down to grab a makeup sponge that had rolled off the counter, his voice came again, soft and teasing.

“Was that for me, or do you just like testing my patience?”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words—and the low rasp in his tone—sending a rush of adrenaline through your veins, as he looked right through your little game. Without thinking, you straightened and turned, locking eyes with him as you reached out, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “You smudged your lipstick,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

It was a lie. You both knew it.

His gaze lingered on your face for a beat longer than was appropriate, and for the first time, you saw something shift behind his playful exterior. Something darker. Hungrier. Something that made you feel you won in this game.

Moments later when everyone was leaving for the final mic test, he straightened in his chair, stretching his arms with a casualness that didn’t fool you for a second. “Think I need a touch-up,” he said suddenly, loud enough for the rest of the room to hear as the members emptied out the room. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Before you could process what was happening, he was already locking the door behind you, his smirk gone, replaced by something far more dangerous.

If you thought you won the game, you were wrong because in no time Haechan had you bent over the same vanity. Your shorts and underwear were pooled around your ankles and fingers gripping the edges of the wooden table tightly as he pounded into you from behind.

He had one of his hands wrapped around your throat putting just enough pressure on your veins which made you lightheaded while he delivered hard thrusts from behind pushing you more into the table. “Had fun teasing me princess?” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear as he bit down on the sensitive skin of your neck before sucking harshly.

You let out a low whimper, eyes rolling back to your head as he hit that spot again and again. If the pleasure of him moving inside in that brutal way was not enough to send you into an overdrive, the moment his free hand slid down to press against your clit did break you apart. “Fucking princess can’t go a minute without my dick shoved in her little pussy?”

He moved his hand from your throat to grab your cheeks harshly as he lifted your head to make you look in the mirror in front you, your nose almost brushing against it. “Look at yourself…” he groaned, feeling you tighten around him “...why do i always have to remind you not to behave like a slut at work?”

He thrusted deep with each word making your eyes roll back. “Look at yourself” he whispered, tilting your head up. Your eyes roamed over the smudged mascara and disheveled hair as you met Haechan’s dark ones in the mirror. He leaned down to whisper again “What do brats like you deserve?”

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, you knew what he meant and when he stopped his movements you almost cried out “Please… don’t stop.” He chuckled, running his thumb over your lower lip “Don’t worry Princess. I’ll take my time with you after this concert.”

If you weren’t crying before you did now. He moved relentlessly, holding your hips with both hands in a bruising grip as you fell flat on top of the vanity. The wooden frame shaking beneath you due to the intensity as he moved deeper and deeper.

Your orgasm left you trembling even more as he didn’t stop thrusting in you. “Haechan please” you cried and he yanked you up by a tight grip in your hair “Take it like the slut you are.” He groaned and your whimpers turned into the cries of his name pushing him closer to the edge.

And with one final hard push he came inside you, moaning as he pulled out before spanking your cheeks. “Stay like this. With my cum inside you, don’t you dare clean up.” He said pulling up your panties and shorts and zipping up his own pants.

“You know princess this isn’t over, is it?” you managed to mumble a small no as he ran his fingers through your hair. “So be ready when we get back home… I’m going to ruin you so well tonight.”

masterlist. nct dream | nct 127 | wayv

navigation.

[c4llezz]

11. disappearance

after daniela broke up with you, she shoved everything that reminded her of you in a box that she later hid in her closet thinking she would never see you again. years later she still reminisces about her time with you and thinks “i should’ve taken more pictures”.

after the play ended your cast mates decided to go out and celebrate at a local club you were really familiar with at this point. they said you could invite whoever you wanted and so you took the opportunity to invite sophia and manon so obviously the invitation extended to the other 3 girls, you wanted yoonchae to come but sophia refused since she was just 17.

you were dreading the moment you would be seeing daniela but you also wanted to see her, was that weird? it’s been almost 4 years since you last saw her in person and honestly after you blocked her on basically everything you didn’t know much about what was she up to. until 3 days ago when you found out she was part of sophia’s group, after that you made a BIG dive on her life this past years that you were not in the picture.

you watched every interview, every video they uploaded on their official youtube channel, every tiktok she was part of, you even watched the whole documentary series they had on netflix. you were intrigued by the new daniela and you wanted to know more.

arriving with olivia and conan to the club was faster than expected, new york traffic could be really unpleasant. when you entered the place some of your castmates were already there and instantly got you some food and drinks.

“you still think it was a good idea to invite them here?” conan asked you, referring to olivia’s label mates.

“a little, nothing a few drinks won’t solve”

the girl on your right laughed at that “now that you took your time to watch every single interview and performances, what are your thoughts on daniela?”

“she has changed, but i have too. i would like to know this new version of her.” you answered.

“even after how she broke up with you?” it was now conan’s turn to ask.

you stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. “i’ll see how things go” just after you said that, your phone vibrated in your pocket. “they are here, i’ll go get them” you got up from your chair to meet with them at the entrance of the club, meanwhile your friends shared a concerned glance. maybe it was not a good idea to invite them to the play.

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[gloomglimmer]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .  (  pt  3.  the  first  admission  )   Moments  of  hesitation,  breathless  confessions,  and  the  weight  of  words  finally  spoken    ✧  ˚₊  Themes:  vulnerability,  tension,  relief  &  the  fear  of  ruining  everything

✧      ›     𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒    &    𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓

My  muse  stumbles  over  their  words,  finally  managing  to  say,  “I…  I  think  I’ve  been  in  love  with  you  for  a  while.”

My  muse  fidgets  with  their  hands,  avoiding  your  muse’s  gaze  as  they  whisper,  “Do  you  ever  think  about  us?  Like…  more  than  just  friends?”

My  muse  lets  it  slip  without  thinking,  eyes  widening  as  they  murmur,  “God,  I  love  you—”  then  freeze.

My  muse  bites  their  lip,  hesitates,  then  finally  sighs,  “I  don’t  know  how  to  say  this,  but…  I  think  you  mean  more  to  me  than  you  should.”

My  muse  confesses  in  a  quiet  moment,  looking  down,  “I  don’t  need  you  to  say  anything  back,  I  just…  needed  you  to  know.”

My  muse  shakes  their  head  with  a  soft  laugh.  “It’s  ridiculous,  really.  I  was  scared  to  tell  you  because…  I  didn’t  want  to  lose  you.”

✧    ›     𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓     &     𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

My  muse  snaps  in  frustration,  “Do  you  really  not  see  it?  How  much  I—”  then  stops,  realizing  what  they  almost  said.

My  muse  confesses  in  a  moment  of  desperation,  gripping  your  muse’s  wrist  as  they  plead,  “Just…  tell  me  I  don’t  have  a�� chance,  and  I’ll  stop.”

My  muse  looks  away,  voice  barely  above  a  whisper.  “If  I  tell  you,  everything  changes.  And  I  don’t  know  if  I  can  handle  that.”

My  muse  confesses  in  a  reckless  moment,  pulling  your  muse  close.  “I  should’ve  said  it  sooner.  I  should’ve  told  you  before  it  was  too  late.”

My  muse  breaks  the  silence  with  a  strained  voice.  “I  don’t  want  to  pretend  anymore.  I  can’t  keep  acting  like  I  don’t—like  I  don’t  feel  this  way.”

My  muse  clenches  their  fists,  staring  at  the  ground.  “I’m  in  love  with  you.  I  have  been  for  years.  And  it’s  killing  me.”

✧    ›   𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃     &     𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆     𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

My  muse  blurts  out,  “I  think  I—”  then  immediately  shuts  their  mouth,  cheeks  burning.

My  muse  tries  to  play  it  off,  laughing  nervously.  “I  mean,  it’s  not  like  I—uh,  you  know,  like  you  like  you  or  anything—”

My  muse  nearly  confesses  but  quickly  backtracks.  “It’s  nothing.  Forget  I  said  anything.”

My  muse  starts  to  confess  but  gets  interrupted,  then  panics,  saying,  “Never  mind!  Nothing  important!”

My  muse  trips  over  their  words,  then  just  sighs  in  defeat.  “Screw  it.  Yeah.  I  like  you.”

✧    ›   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒     𝐈𝐍     𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄     𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

My  muse  whispers  it  against  your  muse’s  skin,  their  breath  warm.  “I’ve  wanted  to  say  this  for  so  long…”

My  muse  confesses  as  they  tend  to  your  muse’s  wounds,  their  hands  gentle.  “You  don’t  get  it,  do  you?  I’d  do  anything  for  you.”

My  muse  leans  in,  voice  barely  audible.  “Tell  me  I’m  wrong.  Tell  me  you  don’t  feel  it  too.”

My  muse  murmurs  it  in  the  dark,  thinking  your  muse  is  asleep.  “…I  love  you.”

My  muse  says  it  in  the  middle  of  laughter,  their  expression  softening  as  realization  dawns.  “God,  I  love  you.”

My  muse  admits  it  right  before  a  goodbye,  voice  breaking.  “I  didn’t  want  to  leave  without  telling  you.”

[marvelavengerspovs1]

Chapter 2- Ruinous

Pairing: Bucky x F!reader

Warnings: Lots and lots of angst (sorry but not sorry), toxic behaviors between Bucky and Reader, 18+ MDNI

Length: 1.8k

Summary: You and Bucky are going through a rough patch. Is it something worth fixing?

A/N: Did I write this when I should’ve been studying for an exam? Yes, but I couldn’t help it!

I do not give consent for my work to be translated, copied, or sold!

Bucky stares at the pieces of the whiskey glass on the floor. Little droplets of the whiskey mixed with the Asgardian liquor stained the wall and the floor. It was unfair, you lashing out at him. You knew his struggles, his demons. And he told you it wasn’t your fault.

But he knew, deep down, that you were being fair. You had to do what was good for you. And right now, that wasn’t him.

Bucky collapses on the couch, his head in his hands. He knows that he acted like an asshole. He knows that you deserve better than that. So why couldn’t he change? Why couldn’t he stop lashing out?

He doesn’t have the answer. He wants to, but it’s like he can’t control what he’s doing. So he gets up, grabs another glass and pours himself a hefty amount of Asgardian liquor and whiskey, and grabs the mostly untouched box of cigarettes from his secret cupboard.

-

You wake up cold. You felt the emptiness beside you and slowly opened your eyes. You’re not home, you realize. The explosive fight with Bucky happened. You leaving your shared apartment happened. You staying the night at Natasha's happened.

You stare up at the ceiling, trying to think. How can your relationship be saved? How could you leave the relationship? The decision is daunting to say the least.

To start off, Bucky and you have been together for years. You know each other inside and out. Well, you used to.

You shake your head and try to think more.

Bucky has a short temper, quick to anger. But it was never with you. When you fought, it typically wasn’t anger that made you scared. He always made sure that you were trying to understand his side.

You shake your head. You couldn’t stop contradicting yourself. If you thought about a good thing about Bucky, a negative would follow. The whole situation is confusing for you.

You decide that laying in bed isn’t helping your decision. You get up and make the bed, trying to be a good guest. You leave the room to find Natasha in the kitchen making breakfast.

She offers you a small smile. “Morning, want some?”

You look at the pan and see eggs. You scrunch your nose.

“No thanks, I can’t even think about eating right now.” You sigh and hop up on one of the counters.

Natasha places her spatula down and leans on the opposite counter to look at you. “I’m guessing you didn’t get much sleep.”

“Well I did sleep, it wasn’t very restful though.” You yawn and shrug.

Natasha nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just don’t know what more I can say, you know?” You feel your eyes begin to water again. “I knew about his baggage, his nightmares, who he is. And I fell for him hard and fast. And now he’s going backwards and refusing to get help. All of the bad doesn’t negate the good, but his recent actions are things I can’t overlook.”

Natasha hums and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Maybe this is something you need to talk to him about.”

You quickly wipe under your eyes with a sniff. “Is that a good idea?”

Natasha pushes herself off of the counter to stand in front of you. “Are you scared that he’s going to do anything irrational?”

You shake your head. Even though Bucky isn’t acting totally like himself, he’s not an idiot.

Natasha nods. “Then you need to have this conversation with him. Maybe he can tell you his side of things and maybe that’ll change things for you.”

You think about what she said. On one hand, you know that talking to Bucky would maybe clarify some things for you. On the other hand, it may cause another fight. But it was something you were willing to risk.

-

You unlock the front door, the stench of Asgardian liquor and smoke filling your nose. You see Bucky on the couch, a cigarette in his hand.

He takes a drag before turning to you. “Where were you?”

You frown at his hand. Bucky follows your gaze. He knows you hate it when he smokes. Smoking is one of the few things he picked up again when he felt stressed. But he told you that he stopped because of how much you hated it. Now you know he lied.

“Natasha’s.” You mutter.

Bucky scoffs at this and puts out the cigarette. “Of course you were.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stands up. “It means I’m tired of you always running to her when we fight.”

“How is that any different than you going to Steve?”

“Because Steve is Steve. He’s my best friend.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “You’re telling me that just because Steve is your best friend he’s better than Natasha? She’s not some stranger.”

“Well she’s basically one to me, you spend so much time with her.”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t if you weren’t an asshole!” You raise your voice.

Bucky clenches his jaw. “So it’s my fault that you always run to her?”

“Sorry I don’t feel like I can come home!” You yell at him sarcastically.

He furrows his brows. “What, you don’t feel safe?”

“Look at you now! You’re getting angry with me for wanting space and hanging out with Natasha. Why would I come home if this is what I’m coming home to?”

“All because of what happened yesterday? Is that why you don’t want to come home?”

“No, I don’t want to come home because I’m scared of you! I’m scared that you’re moving backwards and this isn’t something that I can help you with. And… I’m scared that this isn’t something that I want to be around.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to be around?” He takes a step towards you.

“Bucky, you’ve been going backwards for months. You’ve been quick to anger, you started to drink more often, you’ve been lying to me about smoking for who knows how long. You act like you don’t have friends or loved ones who want to help you, like you don’t have resources.”

Bucky swallows. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

You take a shaky breath. “Then I’m moving out.”

Bucky’s eyes widen and his heart drops. “You’re gonna move out because I started drinking more and smoking again?”

“No, I’m moving out because I cannot and will not watch you destroy yourself. I come home drained. Not from work but from guessing what you’re going to be like. I want to do anything but come home to you and it shouldn’t be like that.”

Bucky runs a hand over his face. “What happened to through thick and thin? You’re gonna abandon me because I’m trying to work through some things?” 

“Bucky I’ve been with you through thick, and I’ve been with you through thin. But you haven’t. I can’t be two people.”

“Well sorry that I can’t be the perfect boyfriend.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for you to do the bare minimum and I’m not even getting that.”

“So me sharing everything with you is not enough?”

“Bucky, you only share halfhearted things! You tell me what you had for lunch and then your upcoming missions. I don’t know much about who you were growing up or what your favorite color is. I want to know all of you and you only want to share a fraction of that.”

“Do you really think it’s easy for me to share the things Hydra did to me? The things I did?”

“I’m not saying it’s easy. And I’m grateful that you shared bits of that, but you are moving backwards. You won’t even go see your therapist!”

“I don’t need some shrink to tell me the fucked up things I’ve done. I don’t need someone who doesn’t understand what it was like to be a fucking science experiment try to ‘decode’ me. Therapy doesn’t work.” Bucky takes another step towards you and softens his voice. “And I don’t need you to see how truly broken I am.”

“Bucky, I only see you. I see a man who has overcome all of these terrible things and is trying to right his wrongs. But I can’t see all of him when he’s starting to pull away from me. And you can’t say therapy doesn’t work when you’ve only been to 3 sessions and haven’t been back in months.”

“Fine, I’ll share things with you. Is that what you want? I’m not going to see some shrink, bringing up the past is… it has too many memories.”

You sigh and shake your head. “I need space, you need time. I can’t keep living like this, seeing you deteriorate in front of my eyes.”

Bucky finally lets himself break, his eyes water and his voice cracks. “For how long?”

“Until you show me you’re trying to get better.”

Bucky swallows. “And if I don’t?”

You shake your head. “You’re going to try.”

Bucky nods. You take a deep breath and wipe the tears staining your cheeks. It bothers you how much you’ve been crying the past few days but it’s been a long time coming.

“I’m going to go get more of my things.” Bucky nods, not able to say anything to you.

As you move towards the bedroom, Bucky sits back down on the couch. How is this real? He thought to himself. He knows that his actions have consequences, but you are the best thing that has happened to him. Was it because he was too selfish? Should he have known that all good things come to an end?

But you were willing to come back to him. You wanted him to get better. And he knows that the selfish part of him isn’t going away when it comes to you.

You exit the bedroom with another big bag of your things. Bucky looks up and stands.

“I don’t know what to say.” You try to take in every feature of his. “I’m probably going to stay with Natasha for a few days, then I’m going to talk with Tony about a more permanent solution.”

Bucky nods, not being able to bring himself to talk. You feel a pang in your heart, not wanting to leave him but knowing that it’s what's best.

“I guess I’ll see you around.” You walk towards the door.

Bucky finally speaks up. “Stay safe.”

You turn around and give him a small broken smile. “You too.”

As the door closes behind you, Bucky can feel everything around him shake. He sits on the couch, his head in his hands. Bucky lets out a cry, gasping for breath.

His whole world had left.

[zyoumeval]

“Caleb is for the girls who are reluctant to show their true selves because they are afraid of losing their loved one after they show it.”

Caleb has known you for years to date, going through thick and thin, Caleb sees you as someone strong and unbreakable. He believes, whatever life throws you, you will still persevere fiercely on the path you choose. You will achieve greater things, you are going to reach the stars like what you’ve always told him.

Until one day, he couldn’t reach you through any form of communication. It’s like… you just vanished into a thin air after a certain situation that he knew it put you in a distress. He already consoled you, gave you company, and be by your side for days. But why were you not answering all of his messages and calls?

He knocks once, “Open the door, pip-squeak. It’s me.”

He knocks twice with more alert, “Pip-squeak, open the goddamn door. I need to see you right now.”

He groans in worry and knocks again, “Open the door or I’ll find a way to break this.”

After a while, he finally hears footsteps approaching the door of your apartment and a click echoed in his ears. With no time wasted, he turns the knob and enters your apartment hurriedly, closing the door behind him.

What Caleb doesn’t expecting to see is your disheveled state; bloodshot and swollen eyes, messy hair, and nose colored in red.

“Wha-” He shuts his mouth and pulls you gently by the wrist to your couch. He sits you down and kneels in front of you, his hands cradling yours carefully as if he’s afraid you’ll break the second he touches you.

Your eyes meet his, “Why are you here? Aren’t you already in Skyhaven?”

“You didn’t answer my calls or reply to my messages for the whole day. You expected me to not worry about a single thing?” He states. “Tell me. What happened?”

You shake your head and lean your head back to the headrest. You stare into the ceiling emptily, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You want me to believe that?” He says in a quiet voice. “Do better than that, I’m not taking any bullshit you say at this moment.”

You sigh softly and lift your head to look at him. Emotions still swirling hard inside you, honestly, you are unable to meet his sharp and demanding eyes. But this is Caleb that we are talking about, he will never stop and leave until he gets the answer he wanted.

“I think…” You pause, “What they said is true, me being irresponsible for my actions. If from the start I knew I couldn’t do it, I should’ve avoid taking the position. I should’ve just… chosen the usual position that I’m familiar with, not taking the risk like this. It supposed to go well, I supposed to be a person they always see, not like this.”

He scoffs softly and shakes his head, “Are you trying to impress them or what? Do they deserve your immense attention like this?” He replies firmly, “C’mon, college is a time to explore things that you haven’t done before and it’s a good thing. People made mistakes and you can’t always please them.”

He squeezes your hands and leans closer, “You’ve tried your best, you did your part well. There’s no expectation you need to fulfill at that part, so don’t lose yourself to matters like this.”

“How can I?! They talked about me and even spreading it to uninvolved people in this project! I was afraid, Caleb. I was afraid coming to college because of it!” You snap and tears run down freely over your cheeks.

“It’s them who can’t appreciate you, pip-squeak,” He refutes lowly. “You’ve reflected enough these past few days and you already knew the answer. They weren’t worth of your attention and care. There are many people who deserve it, find them. Don’t focus on them only, this world… doesn’t revolve around them. Take a step out of the bubble and you’ll see people who are worth it.”

Caleb lifts his body up and embraces you in his warmth, his hand rubs your back soothingly. Caleb shuts his eyes as he nuzzles the skin of your neck, you’re too good for this world, too naïve sometimes — and he wants to be the one who holds your hands to protect you from this cruel world.

“Don’t worry about a thing now, pip-squeak. I’m always here for you.”

[ecoterrorist-katara]

What do you think about the fact that Sokka became chief of the SWT in canon? Did Katara want the position? If she did, what did she think about Sokka getting it instead of her? And if she didn’t want the position, why?

hello!!! Great question. Oh man I am Not happy about Sokka becoming chief of the SWT…I think he should’ve gone to Ba Sing Se University and gotten an engineering degree and spent his life making cool inventions…

I do think Sokka is a leader, but there are many flavours of leadership and he strikes me more as a very competent bureaucrat more than somebody who makes decisions on the world stage. I think he actually could’ve made a terrific technocratic advisor to someone like Katara, who is not quite as detail-oriented when it comes to solving problems. Like if the Water Tribes ever had, idk, a supply chain or procurement problem, Sokka would be all over that. If we’re talking about who displays more traditional qualities of leadership (willingness to take initiative, comfort with public speaking, tact and diplomacy, willingness to hear out different perspectives, ability to inspire others), Katara has a natural inclination. They could’ve been cool co-rulers too, actually.

As for whether Katara wanted to be Chief: so! Great question! I think if anyone had ever asked Katara “hey do you want to be the Chief of the Southern Water Tribes,” she would’ve been shocked, then said YES. Unequivocally.

But: we don’t see adult women in any positions of power in ATLA, and I think that’s something that Katara subconsciously internalized. As much as she’s a feminist icon who’d fight Pakku, I’m not sure she ever thought about women in positions of political power. Remember that the reason Katara was so set on learning combat waterbending was because the South did have female waterbending fighters, so she knew it was a possibility, but she’s never heard even a hint of the idea that a woman could be a ruler. Even Kiyoshi Island, the girlboss utopia, is run by a man. The only time we see a woman potentially becoming a ruler of anything is when Azula was briefly made Fire Lord, and even then it was pretty clear that she was supposed to be a puppet. In the North, Yue was never going to be Chief and everyone seemed to have accepted that, and Katara doesn’t find it unfair. This sounds so stupid, but I think this is why it’s important to have role models, you know? Katara would 1000% want to be Chief if anyone ever told her that it was an option.

What I do find super weird is how Katara also never seemed interested in a seat on the United Republic Council, even though working with people and pursuing justice and peace is very much Katara’s thing, and we do know that the URC had at least one Councilwoman. I don’t have a Watsonian explanation for Katara’s comparative political irrelevance that isn’t extremely sad (i.e. she decided she’d rather spend energy on restoring Air Temple Island and raising her children instead of pursuing a career in politics even though Toph also did a whole Thing while being a single mom).

I think if the writers of the comics and TLOK had gotten their heads out of the “girl power = girls fight good” mentality, they would have realized that Katara would be an amazing world leader. But they didn’t (and to be fair they seemed to have also forgotten that Katara fights at all), and we must live with the dumpster fire that is Katara’s canon arc.

[comradekiwi]

mini bkdk fic inspired by this art! pls go show the artist some love!!

Katsuki finds him after patrol in his old spot. His very old spot, from decades ago.

Izuku is curled up in a plastic tunnel, hand on his chin and muttering to himself as he scribbles, completely tuned out to the happy sounds of children running around their old playground.

It’s a painfully familiar sight, and Katsuki closes his eyes briefly at the pang in his chest as he sees, for one vivid moment, a four year old Deku sitting in the same red circle, with so much more space for his limbs, yet still equally curled into himself and his notebook. Izuku had always been like that, before OFA, most comfortable in a space much smaller than what he actually occupied, and forever curling into it. It was cute, then concerning, then a thing of the past as Izuku settled into his own skin. Now a nostalgic comfort, evidently.

(He’d been chubbier, freckled limbs in shorts and baby cotton, a mess of curls because Izuku loved to stick his hand in his hair while he thought. And he thought a lot, child of wonder, precious to the stars, the son of fate. Future hero of their time.)

Katsuki set one hand above the opening and leaned in.

“Whatcha doin’, nerd?”

Izuku, to his credit, only startled a little. He flashed wide eyes up at Katsuki, and Katsuki got the pleasure of watching his face light up shamelessly.

“Hi, Kacchan,” Izuku said cheerfully, and maybe this was how it should’ve gone back then, too, when four-year-old Katsuki stomped up to this same alcove and asked what Izuku was doing, maybe it did despite little Katsuki’s biting tone, because Izuku was always, had always been happy to see him,n maybe the scene had only been ruined by the taunts that came after. Katsuki didn’t quite remember, but it didn’t matter anymore. All the Katsuki of Now cared about was the poorly hidden affection in the glint of this Izuku’s eyes, adoration made solid and safe and secure.

The playset is a familiar feeling under Katsuki’s now rough palms, soft and intermittently scratched in thin lines. Izuku shuffles over in the tunnel and Katsuki folds his body to fit in next to him, and— the smell rocks him back in time, too, rubber and the tang of dirt so unusually close to his head, dyed plastic and oft-rubbed metal. Izuku’s shoulder pressing against his is a rare sensation, but it feels just as nostalgic, especially in here, backs and limbs curved along the inner surface of the tunnel. Katsuki kicks his legs up and almost knees himself in the face. Izuku giggles, and Katsuki shoulder-shoves him, delighting in how Izuku half heartedly shoves back. Izuku’s legs stay down, protectively, like he’s still that little kid so at home in his own tiny cocoon. Katsuki stares at his boots along the tunnel wall, giant in here, especially with their reach.

He shuffles his shoulders down to match Izuku’s, and leans into his space further to peer at his notebook. Izuku lets him, pointing at the page.

“I’m just lesson planning,” he says, tapping his pen at random notes Katsuki can only barely decipher, “They’ll have a pop quiz a month from now, I thought I’d let them do something fun afterwards as a treat.”

“You’re too soft on them,” Katsuki informs him for the umpteenth time. Izuku laughs at him as always.

“Sure, Kacchan,” he says, and Katsuki will never, ever get over how his name sounds from Izuku’s mouth, melodious like Izuku cradles it on the way out, like he’s singing it. He’s so— enchanting, his boy. Katsuki tries to throw an arm around him but ends up smacking his knuckles on hard plastic, and it stings like a bitch. He does not make a noise, but Izuku coos at him anyway, taking his hand and rubbing it, and Katsuki’s perfectly fine with that. He’s still tracing his notes with his eyes, thinking, always thinking, even as he absentmindedly brushes his mouth over Katsuki’s knuckles in some of Auntie Inko’s Healing Kisses. Izuku rubs his soft lips back and forth over his fingers, fully distracted now, enjoying the sensory stimulation. Katsuki lets him, chest stupidly warm, for a full minute before dragging his knuckles up over Izuku’s cheek, up and down, the skin endearingly freckled and babysoft even in his twenties. Izuku leans into his hand, and finally closes his eyes.

The sun was beginning to tease at setting, and Katsuki watches Izuku turn his head to look out the far end of the tunnel. Sunlight kissed the tops of his cheeks, dragged down his eyelashes. Katsuki couldn’t see much besides the back of Izuku’s head, but even this was precious to him for some godforsaken reason, from his crown to the nape of his neck where green curled enticingly against bare skin.

He leans forward to press his cheek against Izuku’s and look out, too. Some tots stumble over each other in excited giggles, pick themselves up from rubber mulch like they’d already forgotten the fall.

Katsuki feels Izuku’s cheek pull with a smile against his own, and the feeling is so — Katsuki doesn’t have words for it, but he just has to kiss him, so he does, right there in the kiddie tunnel of their neighborhood playground. He kisses his sweet, soft cheek, and then his temple, close-mouthed and drawn-out. He loves him so much. Maybe they’d have their own kids to watch from here some day. Or to seat beside them, an addition to their spot.

Katsuki sat back against the tunnel wall and Izuku ducked his face into his neck, the skin suspiciously warm. The nerd was probably blushing, as if they didn’t kiss, often much more salaciously, all the time. Katsuki rubbed his head with his chin, lasting about ten seconds before digging it into Izuku’s scalp with his jaw a little just to be a dick. Izuku shook him off and pouted even as he leaned into Katsuki’s mouth with the ease of a soul-bound lover, even though they weren’t even engaged yet. Soon, though. Katsuki was just waiting for the right time to really knock his socks off. It was the least he could do, after everything Izuku offered him.

(Love and safety and forgiveness. Somewhere to keep his heart safe, outside of his own body. Atonement and adoration and victory and a home.)

They didn’t kiss for long, they were in public after all, and even if no one could really see much over Katsuki’s shoulders or with the angle from the other end of the tunnel, they were still on a kids playground, and Katsuki was a pro with a reputation to uphold. He was honestly fairly certain a sneaky photo of him gently kissing his lover in an old playset would do wonders for his ranking, but he was selfish anyway, and wanted to keep these moments with Izuku for himself. Wanted to keep this side of himself for Izuku.

“C’mon. I’ll make curry tonight,” Katsuki mumbled against Izuku’s lips, hoping that would be enough for Izuku to pull away, because gods know in this one situation Katsuki is never strong enough to do it himself. As predicted, Izuku slips away with a soft noise that digs into Katsuki’s soul, and starts mumbling about groceries they’ll need to get on the way home, then.

Katsuki knows all that already, that’s why he came here to get him after all, so they could go together, so he takes to watching the dusk sink into the green of Izuku’s eyes, paint a glow into his face and his lips. He shuffles out obediently when Izuku starts pushing him, drags him out with one hand just to see him blush and stutter. Katsuki brushes a hand over the box in his pocket and thinks, maybe here, maybe this time of day, maybe soon. Izuku takes his hand easily and they start the short walk to the grocery store.

Soon, soon. Katsuki can’t wait.

[cheynovak]

Fevered Confessions part4

Characters: Soldier boy x Y/N Female character     

Summary: Y/N got hurt during a mission with Soldier boy, Ben feels guilty and tries to take care of her. But the fever makes her believe she is imagining it.

Warnings: Mentioning of fever/wounds/ fighting/... -> 18+

English isn't my first language.

*Please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated*

**Y/N’s POV**

Lips, teeth, tongue—colliding.

I was drunk on the taste of him, dizzy from the way he devoured me, desperate like he needed this as much as I did.

None of this was an answer to my questions. But God, it was exactly what I needed.

His hands slid down over my ass, gripping tight as he lifted me effortlessly, my legs locking around his waist.

His mouth trailed to my neck, and my fingers dug into his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

A soft, breathless, "Oh, Ben," slipped past my lips—

And then, out of nowhere, he set me down. I stumbled slightly, my legs weak, my mind spinning. Utterly confused, I stared up at him.

"What—what did I do wrong?" I asked, my voice unsteady. "Nothing," he rasped, his voice thick with restraint. "You're perfect."

His forehead pressed against mine, his teeth clenched like he was in pain. "It's just…" His breath hitched. "She's not wrong. Annie's not wrong."

I flinched. "What?"

Ben's jaw tightened, his hands gripping my arms like he was holding himself back. "You hated me," he said through gritted teeth. "You would’ve rather died than let me touch you like this."

No. "No, I don't believe that." I refused to believe that. My hands shot up, grabbing his face, forcing him to look at me.

"I don't believe that," I said again, my voice fierce, my heart pounding. And I meant it.

**Ben's POV**

"Stop playing this game with me," she said, her nails digging into my skin. But lucky for me, I didn’t feel a thing. Her voice was desperate, but I couldn’t respond.

“I want you since the first moment I laid my eyes on you!” She screamed. She was angry, and she had every right to be.

But I couldn’t do this.

"I don't care about our past. I don’t care what we used to be, as long as I can have you now!" Her words were both a plea and an accusation, a mixture of need and anger.

I took a step back, but she followed me. Her hands reached out, desperate to touch, to feel something. Anything.

“I’m not sure I want you like this.” It was a lie. A God-awful lie. I saw her eyes, the hurt, the way her spirit cracked just a little more. "No," she whispered, her breath catching. “No, that’s not true."

It wasn’t true.

Her eyes pleaded with me, her body trembling as she tried to hold herself together. I wanted her. God, I wanted her. But I couldn’t let her think this was just about that.

But she wasn’t backing down. “What do you want me to do?” Her voice was low, broken. “Do I need to beg? Do you want me on my knees?” And then she did it. She actually got down on her knees.

I should’ve stopped her. Should’ve pulled her up, but instead, I just watched as she looked up at me. “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, Ben. Just stop pushing and pulling me.”

It was too much. I couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened, and I took a shaky step forward, torn between wanting her so badly, but knowing it wasn’t enough.

Instead of sinking to my knees for her, I started to walk away. I needed air. I needed space. My heart was a mess, and my mind was a war zone. Never in my life would I even consider kneeling down for a woman, but there she was— she was kneeling for me. The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.

I never let anyone have power over me, but here she was, holding my heart in her hands and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

I could hear her cry. The sound of her nails scraping against the wooden floor of the porch, desperate to reach me. It was killing me inside, but I had to be strong.

“Asshole.”

“Coward.”

Each word sliced into me, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My lip twitched in a half-sneer, half-smile. Some of the old Y/N was still there, and that thought both relieved and terrified me.

Maybe she’d hate me for this. Maybe she’d get back to her old self—the one who could look at me with nothing but disgust and distance. That would be easier.

But the part of me that wanted to see her whole again, that part kept me walking.

It was easier to keep her at arm’s length. It was safer. Because once I let her close again, I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull away. And I was afraid, terrified even, of what I would become. What we would become.

**Y/N’s POV**

I screamed. "Coward!" The words escaped my lips with a fury I couldn't control. My chest ached, the anger bubbling up so fast, I could hardly breathe. My nails scraped against the floor beneath me as I stood, trembling with the force of my emotions. The heat of the anger within me only made the chill grow stronger.

The cold... it spread through me, and I couldn’t understand why. My cheeks felt wet, and when I wiped them, I realized something was wrong. My tears—they were frozen. Ice clung to my skin like a bitter reminder that something was off. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

I looked down at the floor beneath me, and what I saw made my heart race. The wooden boards, where my fingers had touched, were covered in ice. It was like the cold was emanating from me, creeping along the floor, up to the railing, and down the steps outside.

What the hell was happening?

I turned and rushed inside, my heart pounding in my chest. I needed to understand, to make sense of this feeling, of this strange, overwhelming sensation I couldn't control.

I found myself in front of the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, but it was wrong. My eyes—they weren’t the same. They were a glowing, icy blue, unlike anything I had ever seen before.

"What is happening?" I whispered, my voice trembling as I struggled to make sense of the impossible reality around me. It felt like everything I knew, everything I thought was true, was slipping away from me.

My heart pounded as I touched the mirror, and it immediately covered in ice. I jumped back, my pulse racing. My breathing came in shallow gasps as I stared at the glass, now frosted over like a winter morning. The cold—it was seeping into me, like a part of me was breaking free, but I didn't know how to control it.

Panicking, I reached out and touched the wall, hoping it would be different, but the result was the same. The wall cracked with ice, spreading like a wild fire through the surface. I jerked my hand back, horrified. What was happening to me?

I looked at my hand, and my fingers—they were turning white, the frost creeping up my skin. But... it didn’t feel cold. No, it felt... oddly numb, as if the ice was part of me now. A part I couldn't stop.

A surge of panic hit me. I needed to get away. I needed to understand this, to find control before I destroyed everything around me.

I rushed outside, each step leaving a trail of frozen ground beneath my feet. Everything I touched, every surface I came near, it froze—faster than I could even process. The shed was my destination, the only place I thought I might be able to hide, to think, but the cold wasn’t stopping. It was growing, spreading like a wildfire I couldn’t contain.

The door to the shed was no different. The handle froze solid the moment my hand wrapped around it. I pulled away in horror, feeling the chill seep into my veins.

I was scared. Terrified. What was happening to me?

**Ben's POV**

I barely took a second to breathe before rushing inside. The moment I crossed the threshold, the cold hit me—an unnatural chill, like the house had been abandoned in the middle of winter. I stopped, eyes scanning, trying to find her.

“Y/N?” My voice echoed in the stillness. No response. But the air... the air was thick, charged. I was starting to realize what had happened.

I froze as I passed the bathroom. The mirror—shattered. Anger surged through me, mixing with guilt.

"Fuck!" I cursed under my breath. I had left her alone—alone at the worst possible time. Her powers. They had been dormant for so long, and I let her think she was safe. But they were back. They were always going to come back.

I grabbed the doorframe, unable to think clearly for a second. I shouldn't have let her stay here. I should've protected her more. But now, I had to fix this, whatever it was.

Running out of the house, I followed the trail of frost that marked her path. The cold had a strange, suffocating presence, like it was feeding off her fear. When I reached the shed, I burst the door open, desperate to find her.

“Y/N!”

The sight of her stopped me dead in my tracks. She was there, standing in the middle of the shed, the ice already creeping up her body, the entire shed frozen. Her breath came out in sharp, visible gasps. Her eyes—those icy blue eyes—glowed with panic and fear.

“Don’t come closer!” she shouted, her voice shaky, fragile. "I'll hurt you."

But I couldn't stay back. I couldn't stand seeing her like this, even if I knew how dangerous it could be. This was my fault. I had pushed her too far, forced her into a life she didn’t ask for. She was manifesting again because of me. I had broken her and now her powers were coming back with a vengeance.

“I did this,” I muttered, guilt weighing me down. “I hurt you. I—I made this happen.”

I took a tentative step forward, but her icy gaze froze me in place. The power emanating from her—wild and raw—was almost too much for me to bear.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” I said, my voice softening. “I’m here. I’ll fix this. I’ll help you. Just… just let me in.” But she didn’t move, didn’t let me come any closer. She was a storm inside, and I was the one who had lit the match.

I saw her panic, her hands trembling as ice shot out from her, freezing everything in its path. I flinched, a cold shard grazing my arm. The fabric of my shirt ripped.

“Y/N, stop!” I shouted, but she wasn’t listening. She was too scared, too caught up in her own fear. She didn’t know how to control it, didn’t know how to contain it. And I knew, deep down, she thought it was her fault. That all of this was because of her.

"Don’t come closer," she repeated, her voice full of desperation. I didn’t listen. I couldn't.

I took another step forward, and she screamed, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. Ice flew toward me, slicing through the air with a speed that would’ve hurt anyone else. I blocked one with my arm, but it tore through my shirt further.

“Y/N, I’m fine,” I said, holding my arm out to show her. “See? It can’t hurt me, sweetheart. I’m OK.”

I could see the confusion in her eyes, the flicker of doubt. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling with panic.

Then, without even thinking about it, I closed the distance between us. Before she could push me away, I pulled her into my arms.

She stiffened at first, but I didn’t let go. I just held her tighter, feeling her cold skin against mine.

“Listen to me,” I murmured into her hair, my hands resting gently on her back. “You’ve been through this before. You can control it. I know you can. You’re stronger than this, Y/N. You just need to breathe. Just breathe.”

Her body was shaking in my arms, but I didn’t let go. I wouldn’t.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” I said softly, my voice rough with emotion. “I’m here. We’re going to figure this out together. You’re not alone. Tomorrow i call Annie she'll help you control it,ok? ”

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She just clung to me, her body still trembling. But slowly, the ice stopped. It didn’t stop completely, but it receded, like the tide pulling back from the shore.

--

Taglist:

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[maskedbyghost]

When Angels Fall

Hello, my lovely people! Ready for some soul-crushing angst? No? Too bad—send your tears via mail. Love you! Also, all blame should be directed to the anon who requested this. Okay, thanks, bye!

Simon never believed in angels.

The world was too cruel, too ugly for something as pure as that. Wings were clipped, halos were tarnished, and heaven felt like a myth told to children who hadn't yet seen the things he had. He knew better than to believe in fairytales.

And then he met you.

You were 141’s guardian in the sky, an airman with a reputation that preceded you. Your callsign was Halo. It fit, he supposed, given how you watched over them, weaving through the air with a precision that impessed him since the very beginning he met you.

Your voice, crackled through his comms during every mission, would guide them out of hell and back home. You kept them safe, and God, if you weren’t the calmest person he’d ever known.

But it wasn’t just the security you brought that got under his skin. It was you—your voice, your laugh, the way you could turn a routine check-in into something that made him feel less like a ghost and more like a man.

“Wheels up in ten, boys,” you’d say, and Simon would find himself smiling under his mask, comforted by just the sound of you.

He didn’t know how it happened—how you managed to slip past the walls he had spent years building. Maybe it was the way you read him like an open book, saw through his hard exterior, or how you never once pushed him for more than he could give. Maybe it was because you still spoke to him like he was worth saving despite all the blood on his hands.

He didn’t know how, but he fell. Hard.

And the most terrifying part? You caught him.

It started small. You’d read off mission briefings in that smooth, calm voice of yours, and he’d listen like it was scripture. Then, you’d tease him about his accent and call him ‘big guy’ over the radio just to hear his exasperated huff. He didn’t even mind—not really. He’d never admit it, but he liked it. He liked you.

And at some point, it wasn’t enough to hear you only on missions.

One night, after a brutal mission, he found himself restless, the heavy burden of the battlefield clinging to him. He didn’t think—just grabbed his radio and switched to your private frequency.

“You up?” His voice was rough, and you immediately knew that he wasn’t okay.

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle could be heard coming from your side. “Simon Riley, calling me just to talk? I must be dreaming.”

He should’ve played it off and made some excuse about mission reports or logistics, but instead, he said, “Can’t sleep.”

A moment of silence passed, and then you said, “Want me to read to you?”

He frowned. “What, like a bedtime story?”

“Exactly like a bedtime story.”

He should’ve said no. Should’ve shut off his radio and suffered through another sleepless night like he always did. But he didn’t.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, alright.”

And so you did. Some book you had lying around, something about stars and the vast, endless sky. He barely remembered the words—just the sound of your voice, soft and lulling—until sleep finally took him.

After that, it became a habit. Whenever the weight of the world became too much, he’d reach for his radio, and you’d be there, voice soft in his ear, pulling him back from the darkness in a way nothing else could.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.

But, he should’ve known happiness like this wouldn’t last.

The mission was supposed to be routine. Get in, retrieve intel, and get out. Simple. Clean.

It wasn’t.

Everything went to hell fast. Some kind of ambush, a miscalculation on their part, and the enemy waiting for them like they knew they were coming. The ground team was pinned and cut off from their extraction point, and Ghost could hear the tension in your voice as you called for support.

“Hang tight, I’m coming in,” you promised, your aircraft screaming through the sky.

He had no doubt you would. You always did.

You swooped in, raining fire from above, giving them enough cover to push forward. For a moment, it worked. For a moment, he thought they might actually make it.

Then the missile hit.

The explosion was deafening—a violent burst of flame and metal as your aircraft took a direct hit. Ghost felt it like a punch to the gut, his heart lurching into his throat as your voice crackled through his comms.

“Mayday, mayday! I’m hit—controls are—fuck—”

The world slowed.

He could hear Gaz yelling, could see Soap moving, but all he could focus on was your voice, filled with panic and your breathing ragged as you tried—tried so hard—to stabilize.

“Ghost—”

And he knew. He fucking knew.

“Eject,” he ordered, his voice steady despite his whole body shaking from the shock. “Now.”

“I—”

A choked sound. Static.

And then—

Silence.

They found the wreckage hours later.

What was left of it actually.

The ground was scorched, metal twisted and blackened, and the smell of burning fuel filled the air around them. There was no body, just fragments of what had once been your aircraft, pieces of you scattered like shattered glass.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just stared at the wreckage, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.

Price placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something meant to comfort. He barely heard it.

All he could hear was your last transmission, looping in his mind like a broken record. Your voice—his anchor, his safe place—reduced to a desperate cry for help he couldn’t answer.

That night, for the first time in years, he reached for his radio and switched to your private frequency.

Static.

He closed his eyes, gripping the radio so tightly it trembled in his hands. He waited, hoping—praying—that somehow, against all logic, you’d answer.

But you didn’t.

You never would again.

And Simon never believed in angels.

Not until he lost one.

-------------------------------------------

gonna go hide now.

@daydreamerwoah

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

I agree with what you’ve said about the bigger problem with all this.

I think club and the social admin need to have a serious discussion with a person outside of Barça about the irresponsibility on their part. The club should’ve issued a statement at least acknowledging the incident sooner than waiting for mapi’s statement to be released. The social admin should’ve canceled the scheduled posted yesterday. They also should’ve just not posted today, not Mapi nor the team. Definitely should not have posted Mapi laughing and smiling, it comes off as if they are disregarding what’s going on.

the team needs to have a discussion either with just the players or with the staff included about what’s happening on the pitch. The frustration hasn’t been in one game, it’s multiple games. Where the frustration just seems to be oozing out of them. Not saying different matches can’t be frustrating but this season just feels like the frustration is coming from a different place. That is what should be discussed within the team.

the feeling is boiling to where players are doing things we haven’t seen before, example caro shoving a player after the ball went out of play. 

you totally echo my thoughts. while the focus on mapi, we also need to be looking at what is going on at the club, and to me, it's a symptom of a larger problem. even relevo did an article about the “elephant in the room.”

in the same match we had:

mapi's incident with daniela

caro pushing a player after a play

pina crying on the bench

that's not normal. that's not anything approaching normal for this club. and you can't just blame it on the crowd. we have played in hostile crowds before. we have played against espanyol many, many times in our history.

so again, i go back to this being a symptom of something bigger that is going on at the club. like the seemingly unserious manner by which they are handling mapi's incident, press releases, and social media, the casual way pere brushed off pina's behaviour, and little to no acknowledgement of what happened with caro that leaves me wondering, what is going on with my club? 🤔

and you are right. this has been building up for a while now and it's finally come to a boil! 😤

yeah, it's an unsettling trend for me about the women's team. when you look at things holistically and over the course of the year, it's clear that there are a lot more issues that are coming to the surface. it's not simply a pere issue anymore. it's multiple levels. 😐

it just shows an overall lack of focus and attention on the women’s side like there has been in the past. 🤷‍♀️

[bitchinbarzal]

4 Nations | B Faber

summary: you told brock you couldn’t make it to Montreal to see him play for team USA and he was less than impressed

-

You hate fighting with Brock. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it sticks with you like a weight on your chest.

This time, it started with a conversation that should’ve been simple.

“I just don’t think I can swing it” you had told him, regret heavy in your voice “Work is crazy right now, and I can’t just drop everything to go to Montreal”

Brock had nodded, lips pressing together in a way that told you he was disappointed but trying not to push. You thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

Over the next few days, the tension grew. It was in the way he was quieter than usual, how he hesitated before kissing you goodbye, how he’d text you but leave your messages on read more often than not. By the time he left for the 4 Nations tournament, you weren’t really speaking.

And that hurt.

You knew Brock. You knew how much this tournament meant to him. Getting the chance to represent Team USA on a big stage wasn’t something that came around often. And you knew that, deep down, he’d wanted you there.

So when the opportunity arose with your workload shifting, a few deadlines moving you found yourself booking a last-minute flight to Montreal.

The energy in the arena is electric. The roar of the crowd, the sound of skates carving across the ice — it’s all overwhelming in the best way. You’ve watched Brock play countless times before, but this feels different.

You spot him during warmups, his expression focused. He looks good, so at home on the ice, wearing red, white, and blue instead of his usual Wild jersey. But there’s something in his posture that feels a little off.

Like he’s carrying something heavy.

And you know what it is.

You watch as he glances up into the stands for a brief second, scanning the crowd, before shaking his head slightly and refocusing. Like he’d been hoping to see you but already knew you wouldn’t be there.

Your heart clenches.

You wish you could run down there right now, tell him you made it. But you wait, nerves buzzing in your chest as the game begins.

It’s a close one. Brock plays hard, throwing his body into every shift, and you can tell he wants this win.

And he gets it.

When the final buzzer sounds, signaling a USA victory, the crowd erupts. You cheer along with them, watching as the team piles onto the ice, celebrating. Brock is in the middle of it all, grinning as he embraces his teammates, but there’s still that flicker of something missing in his expression.

And you’re about to fix that.

You make your way down toward the tunnel, slipping past clusters of fans. Your heart pounds as the players start filtering out, laughter and conversation echoing through the hallway.

Then Brock appears.

He’s still in his gear, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed. His gaze is downcast as he walks toward the locker room, exhaustion and adrenaline mixing in his expression.

And then he looks up.

He stops dead in his tracks.

For a second, he just stares, like his brain hasn’t caught up with his eyes. Then his brows furrow, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s not seeing things.

You swallow, suddenly nervous. “Surprise”

His lips part slightly, his breath hitching “What—?” He takes a step closer, blinking like he’s trying to make sure you’re real “You said you couldn’t come”

“I know” You shift on your feet “Things changed. I didn’t want to miss this.”

Brock exhales sharply, shaking his head, his expression flickering between disbelief and something softer, something that makes your throat tighten.

“You-” He doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s closing the distance between you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight, and you barely have time to react before you’re pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his body, the way he exhales shakily against your hair.

“You have no idea how much I wanted you here” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

“I know” you whisper back, clutching onto him just as tightly “I’m sorry.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching yours “You’re really here?”

You smile, reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead “I’m really here”

Brock lets out a breathless laugh, then, unable to help himself, kisses you. It’s not careful or slow—it’s desperate, like he’s been holding it in for days. Like he needs to feel you, to remind himself that this is real.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours “I’m really glad you came.”

You smile, your hands still resting on his chest “Me too.”

And just like that, the weight between you disappears.

Because you’re here.

And that’s all that matters.

[aspenmissing]

Hi friend!

Firstly I want to thank you for your works I’m obsessed! Secondly could you do arcane characters reacting to hitting on male!reader thinking that he’s a girl and maybe they become friends after

ᴡʀᴏɴɢꜰᴜʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴜᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 3116 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʜᴀʀᴀꜱꜱᴍᴇɴᴛ (ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛᴇʀʀɪʙʟʏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ, ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ! ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴛᴇʀʀɪʙʟʏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

It was a grand affair—a celebration of one of Jayce’s latest and most impressive inventions. The grand hall of Piltover’s prestigious Academy was decorated with opulent chandeliers that reflected the shimmering lights across the room. The air was filled with the hum of excited conversations and the clinking of glasses. Scholars, dignitaries, and innovators mingled, all eager to congratulate Jayce on his latest achievement.

Y/N was there because his parents had been invited, their names etched in the invitation as prominent figures in the academic world. Though he wasn’t particularly fond of such events, he had learned over the years to attend them out of respect. Standing by the edge of the ballroom, Y/N observed the lively atmosphere, his figure blending seamlessly with the well-dressed crowd. His soft curls framed his face, and a polite smile played on his lips as he quietly watched the spectacle unfold.

From across the room, Jayce’s eyes caught a figure standing alone, the way they held themselves—confident, poised—drawing him in. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he excused himself from a group of professors, making his way toward the mysterious person.

"Well, well," Jayce thought to himself. "Looks like I’ll be having a pleasant conversation tonight."

As he approached, Jayce noticed the elegant posture and the way their attire shimmered under the chandelier lights. The mystery person turned slightly, and Jayce, ever the confident and charming inventor, couldn’t resist making the first move.

"Excuse me, miss," he said with a grin, his voice smooth and confident. "I couldn’t help but notice you standing here alone. Might I have the honor of your company for a dance?"

Y/N froze, caught off guard by the sudden address. He turned to face Jayce, eyes wide in surprise. The movement caused his hair to flutter, and Jayce’s grin faltered for a split second as he took in the face before him—more specifically, the lack of makeup, the sharpness of his features, and the unmistakable depth of his voice.

"Wait… You’re not—" Jayce’s words trailed off, realization dawning on him. His face flushed a deep red as he stammered, "Oh, I... I’m so sorry, I assumed—"

Y/N blinked, a surprised chuckle escaping him. "Uh… no. I’m not a ‘miss.’" He ran a hand through his hair awkwardly. "I’m actually a guy, Jayce."

Jayce’s expression shifted from embarrassment to laughter, his face turning even redder. "Oh, well… Guess I need to stop assuming things based on appearances, huh?" He chuckled, shrugging. "In my defense, you had that… graceful, almost ethereal vibe going for you. I thought for sure you were—" He stopped himself, realizing how silly he must have sounded.

Y/N grinned, finding Jayce’s flustered reaction more amusing than awkward. "It’s alright. You’re not the first to make that mistake, honestly."

Jayce, now a little more at ease, let out a hearty laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess I’m just too used to being surrounded by women at these events." He glanced around at the gathering crowd. "I really should’ve known better."

Y/N gave him an easygoing smile, the earlier tension slipping away. "No harm done. Honestly, it’s kind of funny."

Jayce smiled, his embarrassment turning into amusement. "Well, it seems we’ve got off on the wrong foot. I’m Jayce, by the way," he said, offering a hand.

Y/N raised an eyebrow but shook his hand with a playful smile. "Nice to meet you, Jayce. I’m Y/N."

"Y/N, huh?" Jayce repeated, as if trying the name on for size. "It’s a pleasure. What brings you to such a fancy event? Are you a scholar here too?"

Y/N shrugged, the corners of his lips lifting into a small grin. "My parents were invited. They’re well-known in academic circles, so I kind of had to come along." He glanced around at the crowd. "Not exactly my scene, but here I am."

"Ah, the ever-growing responsibilities of the ‘academic elite,’" Jayce joked with a smile. "I can relate. I spend most of my time in the lab, so these things always feel a bit overwhelming to me too."

Y/N chuckled, the tension between them now completely gone. "Yeah, it’s definitely a bit much. But hey, I can at least appreciate the view."

=

As they continued to chat, the two quickly found their rhythm, both enjoying the ease with which their conversation flowed. What had started as an awkward misunderstanding had transformed into an unexpected connection.

"So, if you don’t mind me asking," Jayce said after a moment, "what do you do when you’re not at fancy events like this?"

Y/N leaned against the railing, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Mostly I just help my parents out with their work, some research here and there. But I like to take time for myself too—get away from the books when I can."

"Sounds like a good balance," Jayce said, his eyes lighting up. "I could use a little more of that in my life, honestly."

Y/N grinned. "I’m sure you could. You look like the type who never stops working."

Jayce laughed, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. "Guilty as charged. But, you know, there’s something nice about having someone to talk to in these kinds of events. I don’t get a lot of that."

Y/N smiled. "Well, I’m glad I could be that person tonight."

Later in the evening, as the event wound down and the last of the guests began to filter out, Jayce raised his glass toward Y/N, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"To new friends," he said with a grin. "And to not judging books by their covers."

Y/N laughed, raising his own glass in return. "I’ll drink to that."

VIKTOR

The quiet hum of machinery and the sharp click of tools filled the air of the Academy’s engineering lab. Y/N stood with his back facing the door, his long hair neatly tied in a bun, a few strands loose and framing his focused face. He was bent over a project, eyes narrowed in concentration as he fine-tuned the intricate gears in front of him.

Viktor, walking down the hallway, was excited to meet the new engineering professor he had heard so much about. His curiosity piqued, he knocked lightly on the door before stepping inside. He hadn’t been prepared for the figure he saw—his first impression was that of a skilled engineer, but what caught his attention more was the delicate, soft silhouette of the person before him.

“Well, well, I must admit I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” Viktor said, his voice smooth and warm. “I’ve seen your work, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Y/N, hearing the voice, stood up and turned around, surprised by the sudden presence. Viktor’s gaze flickered briefly before he smiled, genuinely impressed by Y/N's appearance—there was something elegant in his features. He noticed the long hair, the graceful poise, and the soft demeanour. He didn’t immediately register that the new professor was male. After all, he didn’t often meet young female engineers, especially in a field as demanding as this one.

“Thank you,” Y/N responded with a polite smile. “I’ve been trying to settle in here.”

Viktor, still unaware, continued to approach with a confident stride. He leaned casually against one of the workbenches, his eyes scanning Y/N’s workspace, appreciating the dedication. “Well, I must say you have quite the reputation. Not only are you skilled, but I’ve heard you’re also quite... captivating in the classroom.”

Y/N blinked, a little confused. “Captivating?”

Viktor's smile widened, clearly assuming Y/N was flattered. “Yes, I imagine the students must be rather taken with you, no? A brilliant mind like yours... surely you could charm anyone with just a smile.”

A brief moment of silence hung in the air as Y/N processed Viktor’s words. Then, realizing the mix-up, Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Viktor looked at him, brow furrowing slightly. “Oh?”

Y/N paused for a beat, then gave a sheepish smile. “I’m flattered, but I’m actually a man.”

Viktor’s face flushed a little, eyes widening in realization. “Ah! I... I see. I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea—”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and warm. “It’s alright. It happens more often than you’d think, especially with my hair in a bun.”

Viktor’s embarrassment quickly faded, replaced with a chuckle of his own. “Well, I suppose I should be more careful in my assumptions. But... it’s a relief. I’ve always believed that people should be admired for their brilliance, regardless of gender.”

Y/N smiled, appreciating Viktor’s words. “I agree. It’s all about the work we do, not who we are.”

Viktor, now feeling at ease, nodded. “Indeed. Well, it’s still a pleasure to meet you, regardless of my mistake. I can see why people hold you in such high regard. Perhaps we can collaborate on a few projects in the future?”

Y/N’s expression softened, and he extended his hand. “I’d like that. It would be interesting to combine our ideas.”

Viktor shook his hand firmly, smiling warmly as they shared a moment of mutual respect. “Then it’s settled. Let’s create something extraordinary.”

And though the initial confusion had been a little awkward, both Viktor and Y/N knew that their paths had crossed for a reason. The two were not just colleagues; they had the makings of a great partnership—a balance of intellect, wit, and a shared passion for engineering that would see them working together for years to come.

JAYVIK

It was a calm afternoon in the Academy, with the usual hum of activity filling the hallways. Viktor and Jayce stood near the balcony, sipping on tea and discussing various academic matters. Their latest topic was the new professor that had recently joined the team.

Jayce leaned on the railing, looking thoughtful. "You know, I haven't had much chance to really speak with her yet, but I’ve seen her walking around the halls a few times. She’s… stunning."

Viktor raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze meeting Jayce’s. "Stunning? How so?"

Jayce smiled lightly, his eyes lingering on the thought. "Well, she has that... graceful air about her, you know? Her hair always up in that messy bun, her features—so soft, so delicate. There's this elegance in how she carries herself. You’ve seen her, right?"

Viktor nodded slowly, his expression softening as he thought back to the brief glimpses he’d caught of the new professor. "I have. She seems... rather quiet, reserved, but there's something about her presence. I can see why you'd think her... beautiful."

Jayce chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know. She’s definitely the type who could make a room feel lighter just by walking into it."

Viktor turned his gaze back toward the horizon, thoughtfully tapping the edge of his cup. "Hm. It’s a rarity, to see someone with such... understated beauty." He paused for a moment before adding with a hint of curiosity, "I wonder what her story is."

Just as they spoke, a voice came from behind them, catching both of their attention.

"Excuse me."

They both turned around to find the very person they had been discussing—Y/N—standing just a few feet away. Y/N’s long hair was tied up in a messy bun, their features still soft and youthful, but now more striking up close. They looked down at the two of them, slightly startled to be overheard.

Jayce’s eyes widened as he realized what had happened. "Oh! Uh—Y/N, I—" He stammered, clearly caught off guard.

Viktor, usually more composed, blinked a couple of times. His usual calm demeanor faltered for a moment, but then he recovered, a faint blush creeping across his face. "I... apologize if we made you uncomfortable."

Y/N’s lips curled into a soft smile, the tension in the air dissipating as they spoke. "It’s alright. I just… overheard something interesting," they said, their voice calm yet warm. The look on their face was unreadable, though there was a certain amusement dancing in their eyes. "So, you think I’m beautiful?"

Both men froze for a moment, realizing the mix-up. Jayce, his face turning a deeper shade of red, sputtered, "I—uh, we didn’t—"

Before either of them could explain, Y/N leaned in slightly, raising an eyebrow playfully. "And here I was, wondering why you two thought I was a woman."

The two men blinked in confusion, their minds racing.

Viktor was the first to speak up, his voice a little more hesitant. "Wait... you’re... not—"

Y/N’s laugh was light, carrying an edge of amusement. "I’m a man, Viktor."

Jayce looked absolutely mortified, but Y/N’s warm, easygoing smile helped ease the tension. "I know I have more feminine features," Y/N said with a chuckle, their voice tinged with self-assuredness. "No harm done though. But… thanks for the compliments."

The two men were still in shock, trying to process everything, but after a moment, Viktor offered a sheepish grin. "Well, then, it seems I owe you an apology as well. It seems our perception of beauty might have led us astray."

Y/N's grin widened, and they gave a slight shrug. "No need for apologies. It’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for a woman."

Jayce gave a sheepish smile, his awkwardness now replaced by genuine curiosity. "Well, I guess this is one way to get to know the new professor. We should—uh—sit down sometime and chat?"

"Sounds like a good idea," Y/N replied, their smile warm and inviting. "I’d enjoy that."

VANDER

The moonlight cast a soft glow over the dimly lit alleyway, the sounds of the undercity muffled by the thick smoke that lingered in the air. Y/N had always been able to navigate Zaun's rougher streets with relative ease, but tonight, the weight of the day’s troubles pressed on them harder than usual. They tried to keep their head down, walking briskly, but a sudden chuckle caught their attention.

A group of men were leaning against the alley wall, their laughter rising into the cool night air. They eyed Y/N, leering as they exchanged words Y/N couldn’t ignore.

"Hey there, sweet thing," one of the men called, stepping forward with a grin. "Where do you think you're going all alone?"

Y/N stiffened, knowing exactly what kind of trouble this group was looking for. They moved to pass them, but the men stepped into their path, blocking the way.

“Let the lady through, boys,” another man slurred, clearly enjoying the power he thought he had over the situation.

Before Y/N could react, the sound of heavy boots approached from behind. Vander, the towering figure who had built his reputation in Zaun through strength and an unwavering sense of justice, appeared at the other end of the alley. His eyes narrowed when he saw the scene unfold.

“Oi,” Vander’s voice cut through the air, commanding attention. “I suggest you leave the lady alone. It’s not nice to harass people in the streets, is it?”

The men looked up at him, clearly not recognizing the giant figure who’d walked toward them. But Vander’s presence, his powerful build and imposing glare, was enough to make them hesitate.

“Who do you think you are, old man?” one of the men sneered, puffing out his chest.

Vander didn’t flinch. In an instant, he had one of the men by the collar, lifting him off his feet with ease. “I’m the one telling you to get lost.”

With a swift motion, Vander threw the man aside. The others, seeing the display of strength, decided it wasn’t worth sticking around. With grumbled curses and muttered insults, they quickly scattered into the shadows, leaving Y/N standing there, heart racing.

Vander turned to Y/N, offering a warm smile. “Are you alright, miss? These scoundrels don’t know how to treat people properly.”

Y/N, still catching their breath, straightened up. “Yeah… I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

Vander chuckled and gestured toward a nearby tavern, the flickering sign barely visible in the dark. “Come, have a drink with me. I could use the company, and you look like you could use a drink.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, but the thought of some quiet time sounded good. Besides, this was the first time anyone had actually stood up for them like that. "Alright, I’ll take you up on that," they said, following him toward the door.

=

The warmth from the hearth mixed with the buzz of conversation in The Last Drop, the familiar sounds of the tavern offering a strange comfort after the tension of the alley. Vander led Y/N to a table near the fire, his massive frame cutting a path through the patrons. He waved over the barkeep, ordering a couple of drinks as he settled into the chair opposite Y/N.

“So, what brings you down these streets, miss?” Vander asked, his voice kind but laced with concern. He thought Y/N was a woman, and there was no mistaking the protectiveness he felt, especially in a place like Zaun. “Zaun’s a dangerous place, especially for someone like you.”

Y/N smiled faintly, taking a deep breath before leaning in a little, feeling the heat of the fire on their face. "Actually… I should probably tell you something."

Vander raised an eyebrow, the gentle concern never leaving his eyes. “Oh?”

Y/N’s grin was sheepish, and they shifted slightly in their seat, gathering the courage to correct him. “I’m not a lady," they said, a quiet laugh escaping their lips. "I’m a guy.”

The room seemed to still for a moment, as Vander blinked in surprise. His brows furrowed as he studied Y/N for a long second, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding, then to amusement. “Wait… what?” His voice carried a mix of surprise and genuine curiosity. “You’re not?”

“Yeah,” Y/N chuckled, their shoulders relaxing as they finally said it. “I know I don’t exactly look the part, but I’m definitely not a lady.”

Vander sat back in his chair, laughing heartily. The sound was a deep rumble that shook the table slightly. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Never thought I’d be the one misjudging someone in the streets.” He winked, his tone teasing but still warm. “Guess that means I owe you a second round on the house.”

Y/N chuckled, the earlier tension dissipating as they met Vander’s easy-going gaze. The kindness in his eyes, even after the mix-up, was a stark contrast to the harsh world outside.

“Well," Y/N raised their glass, "here’s to not judging a book by its cover.”

“To not judging a book by its cover,” Vander agreed, clinking his glass against Y/N’s.

[zorria]

Thanks to an amazing conversation I had with @librathefangirl all I can think about is Meliodas and zeldris learning how to navigate their relationship as brothers and healing through it LIKE GAHHHHHHHHHH

Like Meliodas learning how to be a good big brother to zeldris and understand that zeldris doesn’t hate him and loves him and zeldris having to learn how to trust Mel again and learn that Mel won’t leave him again ITS CRAZY

I definitely think Mel was a little bit clingy at first when they first started hanging out because he was so scared he would lose zel again and he didn’t want that and he’s also of doing something that would make zeldris hate him

I could just imagine like one time Mel just kept talking zels ear off like a loving but annoying older brother would and zel just gets annoyed and snaps back “god you’re so annoying I wish you would just stop talking to me” and thinking that Meliodas would clap back jokingly like he usually would zeldris just kept walking and waiting for Mel’s response but he doesn’t hear anything and he realizes Mel isn’t behind him anymore so he turns around and sees Mel just standing there mumbling

He can’t quite hear what he’s saying but it does worry him especially with the lifeless look in Mel’s eyes so he quickly walks back towards Mel. When he gets closer he can actually hear what Mel is mumbling and all her hears is “he hates me he hates me he hates me” it takes a moment for zel to realize why Mel was saying that and when he does he instantly feels horrible not realizing what he said hurt his big brother.

So he gently wraps his darkness around Mel not in a tight way that he feels trapped but in a way that’s comforting and gets Mel’s attention which it does. Because as soon as he does Mel’s head instantly pops up

He just stares blankly at zel for a good minute which worries zel even more but he doesn’t say anything cause as soon as Mel processes who it is he lets out a quiet “z-zel…” and zeldris just smiles sadly at him before saying “hi”

And Meliodas just looks around confused because he swore he thought he saw zeldris walking away. “You didn’t leave?” Which instantly shatters zels hearts making him feel even worse because he didn’t realize how much that affected Meliodas.

“No I didn’t leave I promise” “you’re not mad at me??” “No I’m sorry I didn’t mean to say it like that I just meant you were annoying me but that doesn’t mean I hate you. I promise I still love you and you’re still my older brother.” And carefully leans in to hug Meliodas who takes a min to process what zeldris said before slowly hugging him back.

“I’m sorry” Zeldris whispered back into his brothers ear making sure he knew he actually was being genuine. “It’s okay I’m sorry for doubting you.” The older demon whispered back as he wrapped his arms around his younger brother happy to feel his presence and heart beats against him.

“It’s my fault I should’ve been more careful about what I said I’ll try and be more clear next time okay?” “Okay” and the two just sit there holding each other for a little bit longer until they are ready to move

And as for zeldris he definitely doesn’t open up to Mel right away because he’s so scared he’ll see those cold uncaring eyes again and he worries Mel will just leave him again if he finally does open up to him.

But Meliodas can tell when something is wrong but he doesn’t push zeldris to talk if he doesn’t want to. They usually just sit next to each other with zeldris kinda leaning against him but not fully worried if he fully commits it will all just be a dream and Mel will walk away from him.

Mel definitely notices but doesn’t comment as much a he wants to have zeldris lean against him and tell him what’s wrong he won’t push him for fear he’ll drive Zeldris away so he just waits.

It doesn’t happen right away and often than not they just sit next to each other in silence but it’s a comfortable silence. But Zeldris still worries so he doesn’t say anything.

It takes a bit for him to come out of his shell and even than he doesn’t fully open up right away it’s slowly more just letting himself be held by Mel and Mel will ask if he wants to talk about whatever’s wrong but Zeldris usually says no but still leans into Mel but doesn’t look him in the eyes still anxious and scared he’ll see his old “old” brother who left him. But he doesn’t say anything and Mel doesn’t ask just sits and waits.

Until eventually Zeldris does start to open up fully open and slowly starts to make eye contact with Mel but never for long. But it’s a start and Mel’s happy about it. He’ll always waitUntil zeldris is finished before giving his opinion or chooses to say nothing. Which Zeldris accepts.

It’s a start and it’s not perfect but it works for them. And that’s enough

[sealbee101]

quizmas…a little treat…gift to everyone and me……

dividers r by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more!!! theyre so cool!!!!!

merry christmas!!! i hope your extra holly and jolly!!!! and I hope the big red guy gives you awesome presents!!