#but he rarely if ever does the same for her

[616ioi]

❛ #XXX! SAKAMOTO DAYS.

────────── twt links with sakadays characters .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤿ pairings. various x gn (afab?) reader

⤿ contents. sub characters, twt links, you must have an x acc to access, lu and haruma mainly center around a fem.reader. this contains mature content, proceed at your own discretion.

⤿ thoughts. osaragi, my woman.

Tenkyu is not someone who can control himself very well, even when he knows he's not allowed to feel good when you help him shave.

Kumanomi is such a sweet girl for you. She could be dripping with arousal, desperation filled in her eyes, face red with raw need, and she'll only move when you order her to.

Threesome with Rion, who holds back an overstimulated Uzuki no matter how much he squirms at your touch — "You're our doll, aren't you, kei? So, just take it all until you pass out."

Also uzuki w a mommy kink.

Gaku tends to soak the blanket with his own cum when he desperately jerks off to the thought of you watching him.

"Please me," there's no way service sub!haruma can deny your order. Especially with the way you suck him in so nicely. He might even cry from being granted a moment such as this.

It's soo rare for kashima to misbehave. He's always, always been the best boy, but he can accidentally set you off without realizing it.

Only when shishiba is alone can he let himself go, he'll cover his mouth because he can get quite embarrassed but at some point / after the inches of his favorite toy being ripped out from deep inside him / does he scream.

After you've been away from your wife for so long, osaragi touches herself to the thought of you, muffled whimpers escaping her pouty lips as she tries to stuff her fingers in the way you've done before.

Depriving nagumo, neglecting him, leaving him after a tough day to deal with his own problem with nothing but a silly toy. He'll whine and beg for attention, may even send you a video to get your attention again.

It's his first time ever taking anything so deep inside. Sure, kamihate can get quite fidgety, and that doesn't mean you should stop.

Teaching taro how to take care of himself properly, completely ignoring the embarrassed pleas for you to stop such a scene but he just seems sooo happy to comply to your every word.

It's sleepover time. There must be scary stories, yummy snacks, and, of course, fem.reader teaching an innocent bff!Lu how to make out is a big must!

Your favorite student, natsuki, loves having a cigar blown in his face and a collar wrapped tightly around his throat all to get a B- :(

Ex boyfriend!Shin, who is only sending you proof that he's working on himself, his fingers working himself open in the same manner you've done before with the whimpers of a frustrated man. His prostate was feeling extremely swollen and weak, he couldn't resist the temptation to check it out. He totally doesn't want your praise and guidance again.

"Nice shot," you've told him once, and now heisuke can't stop thinking about it. He gets so hard that he has to hump away at anything available even when it isn't enough.

[scariffs]

tina triangle and tony (date everything) with gender neutral reader. nsfw (afab & amab) and sfw headcanons. being in a throuple with tina & tony because god... i need it.

being in a throuple with tony & tina would include. . .

tony always working on something for you or tina. he likes to feel useful and loves to be needed, so don’t hesitate to ask him to help carry groceries or fix something. tony loves you both to the point of invention; it’s not rare for him to make small improvements around the house that make life easier, like adding shelves where you need it or custom cabinets. he’d build a whole art studio or gym if either of you asked for it.

tina and tony snoring next to you each night. tony is louder than tina by leagues. he sounds vaguely like a freight train. still, tina snores. she’ll claim not to snore at all, but you’ll hear her snoring softly in an almost sweet harmony with tony.

tony taking kisses as payment for his work around the house. “i take cash or credit, but i think you’ll find kisses a lot cheaper, baby,” he says as he leans in. tina rarely ever humors him but that doesn’t mean you can’t. she just enjoys the tension of a little chase, even though you’re all dating.

tina putting you both to work because the only one getting a free ride around here is her. you’re doing something, even if it’s light labor. she just likes watching you and tony work up a sweat — when you two handle the lawn together, she watches from the porch. she even makes lemonade, grinning as you and tony gulp it down and softly pant from exhaustion.

tony hugging you and tina from behind. he loves holding you guys by the waist, letting his fingers roam just a bit further than they should, testing the waters of your reactions. he especially loves hugging tina after a long day of work, knowing he smells and knowing she’ll complain about it (she’s smiling to herself as she complains).

both of them giving you lots of sugar. in the mornings, it’s tina kissing your forehead good morning only for tony to kiss your cheek as soon as he wakes up a few moments later. in the evenings, it’s tony reaching for your waist, then kissing your lips and cheeks before asking how your day was. tina comes by shortly afterwards, doing more or less the same thing with equal amounts of enthusiasm. for all the kisses they give you, you better give some sugar back.

tina cooking dinner and side eyeing you both as you try to eat a little before it’s all finished. as soon as you try to stroll into the kitchen, you hear a sharp “you can wait”. if you’re lucky and tony’s busy, she may give you a sample of whatever she’s making. tina can’t ever offer tony any; he always asks for a second or third sample bite. she does pack those blue collar lunches for him, though. if you like, you two can trade off making his lunch.

it would also include. . . (nsfw ahead)

tony playing the good cop to tina’s bad cop — especially in bed. while tina teases relentlessly, sometimes edging and other times overstimulating you, tony coos in your ear about how hot you look, how horny he is for you, and how perfect you are. they love to have you in the middle, both of them murmuring different things as they touch you all over.

both of them saying some variation of “c’mere, sweetness” when they’re trying to initiate intimacy with you. tina coos it when she’s beckoning you over to the bed or the couch, while tony murmurs it when you’re already in his grasp, squirming from his touches.

if you’re afab. . . tony eats pussy like he’s starved for it. tina is a little more refined and a lot meaner, enjoying the way you squirm as she abuses your swollen clit. tony and tina both enjoy fucking you, too, tina with her strap and tony with his dick (which is just as big as you’re thinking). both of them are good with their fingers, though i’d wager tina is just a tad bit better at fingering.

if you’re amab . . . tony lets his tongue swirl around your tip before he takes you all the way in. the tip is the best part a dick, in tony’s eyes. cum down his throat but don’t cum on his face if you can help it. tina likes to kiss your cock more than suck it. when she does suck you, it’s on her terms; you’re definitely in charge when you’ve got her bent over, however. they both give damn good handjobs, often making out with you while they give you one.

both of them being very vocal, offering plenty of feedback whenever you’re fucking. they’re both loud, especially whenever they’re cumming. tina can at least speak, usually. tony’s just a mess of grunts, groans, swears, whines, and moans.

tina taking your clothes off with her teeth, carefully unzipping or sliding things off before pressing kisses to any new skin she’s revealed. it’s sensual, slow, and taunting. she wants you to beg for her to go faster. tony, on the other hand, quickly takes your clothes off. sometimes he won’t even bother getting you both fully nude, depending on what you’re doing.

both of them praising you after you’ve cum too many times to count. tina grips your chin lightly, pressing kisses to your lips and cheeks while tony goes to prep the bath. they both admire your fucked out expression, murmuring sweet nothings about how well you did, how precious you are.

oh to be tina & tony’s third.. to be in between them </3 they’re like… the second coming of challengers to me LOL. tony is patrick, tina is tashi… i can be art, i’m pathetic enough.

[darkest-night-in-deepspace]

Hey bb! I saw that your request box was open and I decided to take a leap and ask for something that's been on my mind for a awhile. I'm a zayne main so.you can do him but I'd you want to do the others, that's up to you. My request is...that mc tells hc zayne that he's bad at sex (as a prank) and she TOTALLY regrets it 🤭 (if ykyk). You can include whatever you feel should be in it, I don't mind. If you decide to do this..tysm 😊.

here's a small gift

aha thank you for the gift !! i really enjoyed this prompt although struggled as it's my first long smut piece. since so many people requested zayne (based + true) i combined a few requests into one! this is the product of asks from yourself (@dawnbreakerbrokeme), @azure-nevermore and a reply from @lucien-calore !

i also wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who replied to my request for inspo. you guys really came through and i will absolutely be doing smut-adjacent fics for xav, sylus and caleb soon (look out for the poll for those)

that said, enjoy my lovelies <3333

｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Cabin fever ! ｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

｡ﾟ☁︎｡tags: zayne x mc, temperature play, safewords, honeymoon, your honour i am FERAL, nsfw, smut.

｡ﾟ☁︎｡words: 2.6k

｡ﾟ☁︎｡MINORS DNI - this is an nsfw work.

Eira sighed as she fell back onto the plush bed. Just outside the large window that stood just beside it, winter raged. The weather had worsened significantly since her and Zayne’s arrival to the cabin three days ago, but she wasn’t complaining in the slightest. Limited travel just meant she just got more time with her new husband.

And the time she had experienced so far had been, frankly, spectacular. The two of them had barely left the bedroom, let alone the bed. Only when Zayne snapped out of the sex-addled haze that had engulfed them both to ensure she ate and drank properly did their…exertions cease.

Now, he was in the shower. It was only about ten in the morning, but they’d already fucked three times: first in bed, then in the kitchen, then in bed again. Eira had run marathons that had been less punishing on her thighs. She stretched her legs out and basked in the warm glow of the fire that observed her from the wall opposite to the double bed. Of course Zayne couldn’t have chosen somewhere better than this place for their honeymoon; it was perfectly secluded but also luxurious. A perfect location to enjoy one another during a rare reprieve from work.

‘Eira?’

She perked up at the sound of her name. The bathroom door swung open ever so slightly, revealing her husband sauntering out with only a towel slung low on his hips. Transfixed, Eira watched as rivulets of water from the shower rolled down the chiselled contour of Zayne’s muscular torso, from his honed pectorals down to the v-line she could just bite into. His inky black hair was tousled and damp – it cut sharp lines across the acute lines of his pale face, making him look like something from a vision.

‘Eira? Did you not hear my question?’

Snapping out of her reverie, Eira’s amber eyes flicked up to meet the lush hazel ones of Zayne. It occurred to her that he had already asked her the same thing twice but she had been too brain dead (and hormone-addled) to muster a cogent response.

‘I—uh. Yes. Yes, of course, the one about…’ she cast a desperate glance towards the window, ‘The snow?’

Zayne gave a deep sigh, before pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose.

‘I will put your response down to fatigue from the last few days. I asked if you were feeling alright, as I worry this amount of sexual intercourse is too hard on your heart.’ Zayne explained.

Eira blinked owlishly, before snickering, ‘Sexual intercourse? Really, Zayne?’

‘It’s a perfectly reasonable way of referring to it,’ Zayne replied archly, folding his arms over his naked chest, ‘What do you say, then?’

‘Oh, so it’s ‘it’ now?’ Eira giggled as she sat up on the bed, ‘I don’t’ know, it just seems a bit formal.’

‘That does not answer either of my original questions, love.’

All of a sudden, an idea struck Eira. A chance to get back at Zayne after how he ate her blueberry muffin yesterday and proceeded to pretend it was the mice. It had been fucking EXPENSIVE too, and she was fairly sure he’d had about four. He was so going to end up with cavities.

Anyway. The plan that had formed in her mind was a risky one, but she knew she’d be the one winning either way. Having decided, Eira stretched her legs out on the bed and slowly twirled a lock of her long black hair around her finger. The silk of her night-slip slid up her toned thigh, and she caught his gaze flickering there.

‘My heart is just fine, thank you Dr. Li,’ she gave a faux long-suffering sigh, ‘I think it would only actually suffer if it was like, genuinely challenged.’

Zayne raised a dark brow, his lips thinning. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing much,’ Eira shrugged, ‘It can’t really be helped. It’s just…I don’t think you really know what you’re doing, honestly.’

He said nothing, and despite the fire, the room’s temperature seemed to plummet. A flicker of uncertainty tickled her chest as she continued despite his silence:

‘I mean, I love you and all, but I just thought a surgeon would be a but more skilled? Like with your hands, and knowing what to do and…uh…Zayne? What’re yo—!’

He had been quick to move, and was now braced over her. Despite her prank, Eira couldn’t help but glance at his forearms, which were bracketing her prone form. Zayne was strong, she knew that, but seeing that lithe muscle in his arms flex undeniably turned her on. To make matters worse, she had spotted the reason for the loss of temperature in the room.

Ice crystals had latticed up Zayne’s pale skin. Eira knew that meant her joke had worked, perhaps a little too well.

‘Eira, my love,’ Zayne’s voice was low, dangerous as his hazel eyes burned with a fire she rarely saw, ‘I thought we had talked about manners?’

‘Manners are only for doctors that know how to properly tend to a patient,’ Eira replied, although her voice lacked its previous confidence. As she spoke, she trailed a hand down his chest; his heart was predictably slow and gave nothing away.

‘You’re so pretty, too. What a waste, Zaynie.’

Before she could even blink, the hand that had been snaking up his torso had been pinned to the headboard. A cuff of ice bit her wrist, which had been warmed by the fire earlier. The contrast made her shiver.

But she had bigger problems right now. Namely, the very pissed cardiac surgeon that was about to shred her night-slip.

‘Zayne, don’t ruin this dres—!’

‘I’ll buy you another one, if you’re good for me,’ he growled as the slip froze, and splintered into shards of ice, ‘And to start off, good girls do not insult people.’

‘I—,’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

Eira gasped as the temperature of the room returned to normal and her naked flesh pricked with the sensation. The sharp sound of splintering frost cleaved the air, and a cold hand enveloped her breast. Zayne’s fingers, chilly enough to sting, grazed the curve of her breast. Her skin peaked instantly, every nerve shrieking like a live wire They travelled smoothly up towards her hard nipple, which ached for contact. A moan escaped her lips as her back arched.

‘For someone that was complaining a moment ago, you seem very satisfied,’ Zayne rumbled, ‘This always happens. You run your mouth with things you don’t mean, just to rile me up.’

Then, his warm mouth enveloped her nipple, and Eira cried out at the drastic temperature change. Now, his other hand was toying with her other breast whilst his mouth devoured the other one. Already she could feel that dangerous pressure curling low in her gut as another ice cuff secured her free wrist.

He had her at his mercy.

Just as her hips had begun to roll into his, desperately rutting against the fabric of the towel that separated them, Zayne rose from where he had stationed himself over her tits. She could feel that he was hard, but she also knew all too well that she would be waiting a while for him be fully inside her tonight.

With cold hands, he hoisted her thighs to bracket his hips, and clutched them with frozen hands. Eira whined at the chill against the warm flesh of her thighs, and writhed in his grip. It felt like it was too much; she had pushed him too far. Now, she was going to have to deal with the frozen fury of Zayne Li.

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ Zayne tutted, holding her still in her attempts to free herself, ‘You are going to let me do what I want. For as long as I want, Eira. If my skills are really as poor as you claim, then I want to improve them with someone who can endure.’

His hands soon reached her slick entrance, and he circled it with frozen fingers coated with small ice crystals. They were ice-cold, precise — and her hips jerked like he’d shocked her with lightning. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t beg. Couldn’t complain as he filled her pussy with two of them.

‘So wet,’ he murmured, plunging them deeper into her wetness and curling them towards her navel, ‘In your words, a waste. Such a shame that girls who talk shit don’t get to come.’

She gasped at his use of expletives – it was a rare occurrence that only stoked the white-hot feeling of arousal that lanced through her flushed body. Inside her now-twitching pussy, his fingers had reached a nearly sub-zero climate. The contrast was delicious, and only elicited a gush of wetness from her.

‘Z-Zayne— I want y-your mouth—,’ she begged breathlessly, hips bucking against where he held her open for him.

A smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he lifted her thighs higher to bracket his head. Pressing a kiss to her twitching clit, he began to devour her soaked pussy like it was the last dessert he would ever eat. Eira’s cries soon turned to mewls as Zayne’s tongue laved over her  entrance, prodding inwards to tease the spongy spot that always made her see fucking stars. Soon his fingers joined his tongue, pumping in and out of her cunt with an intensity that notified Eira that he was absolutely holding a grudge.

‘’M gonna cum— Zayne—!’ Eira whined, thrusting her hips closer to his face.

‘No you’re not,’ he pulled away, and she gave another cry of frustration, ‘You’re going to watch as I remind this pretty pussy exactly who she belongs to. If you come or look away, I am not touching you for the rest of the honeymoon.’

‘You wouldn’t…’s unfair!’ She countered in a voice slurred with pleasure.

‘I am not known for my judicial tendencies, Eira.’

He held out one palm, and the air around them dropped again. Crystals bloomed in his hand, slow and deliberate, until they shaped into something sleek and cruel — a gleaming, blunt rod of solid ice, smooth and glistening.

Eira’s breath caught.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly, brushing her thigh. ‘I’ll warm you back up after.’

The blunt head of the ice prodded against her soaked pussy, and she gave a sharp shout of surprise at the stimulation. It was freezing against her warm entrance, but Zayne didn’t seem to care as he slid it further inside her whilst his other hand rubbed tight circles on her puffy clit.

The first inch made her hips arch off the bed. Her breath stuttered. He pushed slower, watching her face the whole time. The cold was unbearable. Exquisite. Her walls fluttered around it, desperate to force it out — or pull it deeper.

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Mmh— hm?’

‘Are you sorry for what you said?’

‘Y-yes—!’

‘I don’t believe you, love,’ Zayne’s voice was silk as he leaned closer towards you, and pressed a freezing kiss to the soft flesh of your neck, ‘Why don’t you prove it to me?’

‘I just want to come, please Zayne, please, please—!’

‘Very well. You’re going to fuck yourself on the ice, and beg the whole time. Can you handle that, Eira?’

‘Yes, god, yes!’

‘Good girl,’ Zayne crooned, his fingers still rubbing her swollen clit, ‘What’s your safeword?’

‘Autumn!’

Eira whimpered as Zayne pressed another kiss to the hollow of her throat. Emboldened by the  promise of an orgasm, she pressed herself forwards on the sharp cold that was nestled inside her slick cunt.  As it inched further inside of her, the freezing pressure sent jolts of cold down to her belly. Her thighs shook with the effort of the motion, or the shame of it. Heat flooded her cheeks, but her cunt was soaked, greedily clenching around the frozen shape that sent prickles down her spine.

Soon, she could feel an orgasm cresting over her, the tension coiling low in her belly. Her pussy gripped the ice harder, and Zayne could feel it for at the last moment, the ice vanished.

Eira could have cried with frustration, but instead she settled for a bratty groan.

His hand was still drawing slow circles on her clit as he mumbled, ‘What did you say earlier? You’re not coming until you tell me word for word.’

She sobbed. ‘I said— I said you were bad at sex, Zayne, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was—,’

‘Finish the sentence.’

‘I was lying! I just— I just wanted to tease you!’

There. There it was.

She could feel her husband grin against her neck. Leaving a delicious bite there, he unhooked her thighs from his broad shoulders and lowered her gently back onto the bed. The sound of the towel coming off of him hit her before the sight did, and soon Zayne was just as naked as she had been for the last ten minutes.

Dragging her shaking thighs open, Eira suddenly felt the nudge of his heavy cock against her entrance. In one swift movement, he thrust all the way into the hilt, resting deep, deep inside of her.

She screamed.

After the shocking cold of the ice, the heat of him felt inhuman, overwhelming. He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping into hers with a precision that fractured Eira’s senses. The world shrunk to where they were joined, to the perverse delight of Zayne fucking her as deeply as she was capable of.

Her eyes stayed on his the whole time, as he had demanded earlier. Heat flickered in them as she raked her nails down his back, chasing an orgasm that she had been denied thrice now.

‘You’re so wet, and so tight for me, Eira,’ Zayne groaned into her as he moved faster, ‘Is this why? Is this why you said that? Because you knew—,’

He paused, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her.

‘That you would be punished.’

Eira was semi delirious by now. The only sensations that existed to her were his fingers circling her clit as his cock drilled into her swollen pussy. A thin white ring had formed where they were joined and it contributed to the obscene sounds that filled the air.

‘Z-Zayne, I can’t— I can’t—'

‘You can. You will.’

The ice cuffs dissolved into wisps of frost and were instead replaced by his large hand covering her wrists. Her pulse went haywire at the change, dragging her closer to the precipice she was absolutely teetering on.

‘You want to come, Eira?’

‘Yes, yes— please—'

‘Then come. And I want to hear you—’

She shattered like glass. The orgasm ripped through her harder than the first denial, soaking her body in white-hot heat that melted her muscles into soup. Her pussy fluttered uselessly against Zayne’s cock.

And still — he didn’t stop.

Zayne chased his own climax desperately, fucking despite her cries and the slick mess soaking her thighs. Until finally, with a groan torn from deep in his chest, he came hard inside her in long, hot spurts.

The air was still and silent for a moment as Zayne’s forearms finally conceded and he lowered himself to lay beside her, pulling her with him so he could remain inside of her pulsing cunt. After about two minutes of a silent comedown, he stroked back her hair and kissed her gently on her forehead.

‘Are you alright? You did so well for me, Eira. You were perfect, as usual,’ Zayne mumbled softly. His gaze was now much kinder, and the concern for his wife was heartbreakingly evident as he scanned her for any signs of injury of overexertion.

‘’M fine, thank you Zaynie. A bit sore, but fine.’

‘Come and take a warm shower with me. It will relax your muscles and your mind, as well as reducing the risk of cramps.’

Eira giggled, kissing him on the cheek, ‘Angling for a second round, Dr. Li?’

‘Never, Mrs. Li.’

hope y'all enjoyed and i did a decent job! my asks are open but will close soon if i get more as you guys have sent me so much AND I LOVE IT AHHHHHHHHHHH <333333

[it-was-dead-when-i-found-it]

Ok I'm sorry but you just hit me with the double whammy of Re-animator AND Crane Wives so I've GOT to do a bit of analysis about this edit...

On the first watch through, the obvious narrative voice seems to be Herbert: he's the one we assume to be "selfish, broken, and cruel". In contrast to Dan's affable demeanor and skill with small talk, it's a given that the audience assumes the song is being applied to Herbert. In fact, the first three shots really are directly applying to Herbert: especially with the focus of the hands in the "do you ever think of me and my two hands" shot.

However, after that, there is a swift twist. The main chunk of the edit focuses on Herbert *fulfilling* each aspect of the song. He soothes Dan's "fever" (stab wound) and tells him he's going to be alright, he ties his *own* shoes as Dan walks away, he wraps Dan in a blanket and holds him oh so gently as Dan lies on the floor. The final shots, focusing on "and wonder why they never had the chance to lose you" even focuses on Dan losing *Herbert,* leaving him behind in the morgue.

Under this light, there's a new reading to the original text, that has highlighted through the edit. The Reanimator movies can be read as an exploration of what is presented, and what is *there.* Dr. Hill presents himself as a respected and trusted professor and scientist. In reality, he is a manipulative predator and plagiarist, willing to make Dan "disappear" to get his way. Meg is presented as the loyal daughter, when her actions show she's willing to go against all her father's actions in order to do with her life what she likes.

So how does all of this fit into the edit? Well, it perfectly showcases this juxtaposition between presentation and underlying action. Herbert and Dan are usually presented as the uncaring and compassionate respectively, but their actions tell a different story. Throughout the movies, any touch Dan initiates is often violent: shaking Herbert, pushing him, pulling him off the dead cop... It's true that Dan has this draw towards Herbert, but he's not kind about it. Perhaps you could say he has something internalised, he can't let himself touch Herbert softly- he can't soothe Herbert's fevers, or tie his shoes, he certainly can't hold him gently. In contrast, Herbert never has something good to say: it's all about the work, it's all little antagonisms to Dan to make him do what he wants. One might make an assumption that Herbert only sees Dan as a tool to be used. However, if Dan can't bring himself to initiate kind touch, Herbert seems to have the same block with voice- with his true intentions spilling out elsewhere. Throughout the two movies, Herbert often finds himself reaching out to Dan. He holds on to him, gets in his personal space, places hands on shoulders, tends his wounds, cradles Dan... And reaches out to Dan at the eleventh hour in hopes of salvation. This seems to be the true tragedy, as the only time we truly see Dan reach out for Herbert in this edit (and one of the few times in the movies) is when he can't succeed. Herbert is pulled back, and Dan is left hanging. Too little, too late.

This edit perfectly highlights the push and pull between Herbert and Dan we so rarely discuss. Underneath his bluster, Herbert is desperately reaching out to someone- and Dan, despite his warmth, so often turns away. They really are two sides of the same coin, forever bound to their polar opposite, Herbert always reaching out, and Dan always pulling away.

Hello Re-Animator nation

[third-time-charmed]

Okay, I have a question that’s been driving me crazy for a few days now: how would Aventurine fare in a rigged game of chance? Like, rigged for him to lose? Would some super unlikely series of events happen that would cause him to win the game, Rube Goldberg style? Actually, honestly, if we back up a tick…I’ve been kind of confused about his luck forever. 😅 what does it actually mean? I truly feel like I’m missing a lot of layers of important details wrt his luck + faith + religion + fatalism (? maybe?) just! I feel like I’m missing pieces and I want to understand himmmmm and you were the first person I thought of to pose this question to! ❤️ a real Aventurine connoisseur 👏

Ohhhhhhh you've activated the Ultimate yap card, okay. (Also can I just say that Aventurine connoisseur is 100% what I'm going for, thank you for that!)

KEEPING IN MIND that anything I may have to say on this (or any other topic re: characterization, for anybody) is purely my own subjective view, so your mileage may vary. I never claim myself an expert on anything because I'm just not, but Aventurine as a character is extremely dear to me and a definite hyperfixation.

Now that that's out of the way, to answer your first question, a game that was rigged for him to lose -- in other words, not luck-based in the least and completely unreliant on odds -- would still play out as expected. He would lose. However, particularly depending on what the stakes are, I think he would absolutely do something incredibly smart and sophisticated to slip himself out of danger, and that might rely on a bit of luck to pull off. Keep in mind, this is a man who Dr. Veritas Ratio, Mr. I-can't-stand-to-look-at-idiots, never wears his bust around. A man who I have no doubt could have made it into the Genius Society had his circumstances been drastically different. Aventurine is scary smart, even if he didn't figure out that the game was rigged, he's enough of a pessimist I think he'd expect it and have a backup plan in place.

Which I think is a good point to transition to your other question: What is his luck? And I'll start by pointing out, he doesn't rely on his luck if he can help it. He doesn't trust it. He hates it when it seems to come through for him and prove once again that it's still there. And the reason for that is, it's not just blind luck, it's not some cosmic "I always win" factor. It's a survival mechanic.

(I'm putting a cut in here because holy shit this is getting long LMAO)

It's simplifying it quite a bit, I think, to just call it "luck" tbh. In reality, Kakavasha was "blessed by Gaiathra Triclops". Which naturally begs the question: What does that mean? Well, Gaiathra Triclops was the Avgin goddess of prosperity, travel, fertility, and fortune. Kakavasha was so named because he was born not only during a rare rainfall (a sign of prosperity and fortune for a desert-dwelling tribe) but also on the day that their tribe celebrated their goddess' renewal and rebirth, as well as the renewal of the land itself. On top of that, he was born with multi-color eyes, which the tribe considered an auspicious sign of good fortune (I know most people headcanon that Avgin all have the same eye color, but from this which we hear mentioned a couple times in game, I take it to mean that it actually doesn't happen terribly often and that his eye color is rather rare but still pretty much only ever seen in Avgin people).

So he's got the triple dip of his birth being what the Avgin would consider an incredibly good omen. Per their religious views, he is of course seen as being blessed by their goddess, that She will watch over him and grant him protection and blessing for his entire life. This is why he was given this name, why his people saw him as a savior and a source of prosperity and fortune. He might as well have been an embodiment of the goddess' will and blessing, given as a gift to her beloved people.

The problem is, of course, that he's... not actually that lucky? Think about it: He's lost everyone and everything he's ever cared about. His father died before he was even born. His mother died when he was very young. His sister -- his last remaining blood family, as far as we know -- and his entire tribe were all murdered when he was still very young. THEN he was sold into slavery, abused, treated as property, like an object that had no worth. He wasn't even a person for a long time, as far as anyone else was concerned, and this was so prevalent in his formative years that he internalized it. None of this sounds like good luck to me.

But he did survive where no one else from his tribe did, as far as what we know. And he survived in an environment where few if anyone else did as well, if the implications of the murder maze are what they seem. The circumstances of that in almost every instance were probably highly unlikely, and in some cases should have been outright impossible if not for an extremely rare stroke of excellent luck. In this way, I think the blessing of the goddess is probably more closely tied to "prosperity" and "protection" than just outright luck, which is why he's so inclined to gamble with his life than anything else: on top of not viewing his life as all that valuable, it's the one thing he knows he can gamble on and somehow trigger this strange phenomenon that will inevitably keep him out of danger in the end if his intelligence and his plans fail.

And again, he is incredibly, incredibly intelligent. The Egyhazo case, I fully believe, was nothing more than his own smarts, bravado, charisma, and some very skillful bluffing. The luck, the actual gamble, was in whether or not he would be executed for it. The Penacony job he performed an intensely captivating sleight-of-hand act, accurately gauging Sunday's proclivities and personality, expertly maneuvering Ratio's disposition and reputation, and managing to read the other factions and properly antagonizing the most likely group to give him the outcome he was looking for. The luck was in stumbling across an Emanator that was capable of doing the job, in the protection of the Harmony being genuine (although that wasn't as much luck as him just not bothering to follow the logic through to conclusion as Ratio already had), and in being rescued from the Nihility by a circumstantially lost Knight of Beauty.

In other words, Protection and Prosperity, not Luck.

We see a little glimpse of this in his professional life, too, if you do the hotel check-out quest from 2.3(?) because Topaz makes a comment about him giving out stock market tips that absolutely bombed and lost a lot of people a lot of money because they assumed that if he was giving out information that it was divinely fortunate and they would get to profit from it. Now, could this have been intentional? Maybe. Possibly even very likely. But I still feel like this is more evidence that it's not just pure, blind luck because if it was, wouldn't that mean it would have interfered in this case? Giving him incredibly excellent and irrefutable luck entirely out of his control no matter the circumstances?

No, the blessing of Gaiathra is to "Keep you blood eternally pulsing, the journey forever peaceful, and schemes forever concealed." Protection, prosperity, and good fortune. In every one of his bad circumstances, he absolutely could have had it worse. He could have not survived. But he did, and his way was smoothed by luck and by his own determination and intelligence.

(Honestly, this kinda feels like it could be the basis for another bit of Avgin proverb mistranslation, so I will need to chew on this some more I think...)

This touches a bit on why I feel like Ratio is such a good match for him tbh, because he sees all the smarts and intelligence and resilience that it took for Aven to actually get where he is now. When all Aven can see is the so-called luck that his people touted as their deliverance. Where Ratio sees effort and accomplishment, Aven sees a trail of blood and misfortune.

Now, what do I think this would have translated to, had the genocide not occurred? The ability to locate various valuable resources like water, food, and shelter with relative ease and astounding reliability. An uncanny knack for avoiding disasters and predators. Probably a large family to swell the numbers of the tribe. I fully believe that the intention was to groom him for some kind of significant leadership role within the clan once he was old enough, considering all the talk about "leading the clan to happiness" (which obviously never happened since right until the very end he's still asking what any of this means and why everyone is doing this to him).

Instead, what his blessing looks like in reality is a man with a death wish, more wealth than he has any use or desire for, and a flimsy facade that everyone believes him to be the luckiest man alive when in reality he has possibly the worst luck in the universe, objectively speaking.

And he just wants it all to end. The curse specifically. Because he absolutely views his luck as a curse and not a blessing at all. In his eyes, it has continually and reliably cost him every time he has benefited from it, actively consuming the lives of those dear to him in order to power his ridiculous good fortune. This is, of course, inaccurate, but it's how he sees it. It's why he continues to throw his life into all of these ridiculous gambles while all the while being extremely careful never to involve anyone else and never to get close to anyone, hoping that the luck will eventually run out and the curse will break.

That's the nature of the death wish as well. It's not that he's actively suicidal, I truly don't believe that. Because if he was, he easily could have before now. He could have just given up. But he hasn't, he's a survivor, and his own sister made him swear to preserve his own life. So it's not that he wants to die, it's not that simple. He just wants proof that the curse is gone, and because it has preserved him so far, the only proof he could possibly accept is that it failed to protect him.

It's a truly complicated motivation.

Anyway, that's my thoughts on Aventurine's blessing of luck. It's been made clear throughout the game, in the side events and all, that it's not all-encompassing. He can and does still lose in games of chance, but only when the stakes are low or when losing would net him a better gain in the end. That was also what made the Penacony bet so appealing to him personally. If he won, he did his job for the IPC. If he lost, he got his wish and that meant the curse of luck was broken. And he specifically rigged it that way. It would have been so easy to go a different route to get the same results, especially because, as we find out later, his life was never in any actual danger until he specifically put it there (challenging an Emanator of Nihility) to make the biggest spectacle possible.

"If you could do it all again, would you still want to be the child who was blessed by Gaiathra?"

We never get an answer to this question, and I think that's pretty telling tbh. He doesn't know. I think after the events of Penacony, he has a lot more appreciation for his position and circumstances. His self-worth certainly seems to have improved a bit. But he still has a ways to go in reconciling this gift that he has been struggling with his entire life. I think his life experience and worldview are still incredibly narrow in this respect, but he's been given the opportunity to try to broaden it now. To put his luck in a new perspective and move past the fear and the guilt that has plagued him, honestly, since birth.

All because somebody told him to stay alive. Not because they were benefiting from his blessing, but because they wanted him as a person to survive and continue living. Because he has value to someone beyond the material, and beyond the sixty goddamn coins he was sold for.

Romantic subtext or not, Ratio's impact on this man cannot be denied...

[lesbianologist]

Something that’s been rattling in my noggin during the Hacks hiatus:

In s4e2, Deborah is still so fiercely protective of Ava even when she absolutely loathes her for besting her at her own game.

“You only get one glass of wine, and why aren’t you wearing makeup? You’re not going to a library for fuck’s sake!”

She’s so worried that Ava will approach the meeting with a carefree attitude which will cost her the job, even though Deborah was DELIBERATELY trying to get Ava fired through her pranks. Then when Winnie pointed out that Ava was in the public eye now:

“I know… she’s not used to it.”

Almost like she was trying to get Winnie off her back when she could’ve used Winnie as a gambit to get Ava fired.

Like Deborah’s behavior during the dinner scene makes NO SENSE if you don’t believe she doesn’t fiercely love Ava like how do you justify this if that’s not canon.

you’re correct—it only makes sense through the lens of deborah loving ava back just as fiercely. and when you frame it within deborah’s long-standing hunger to be challenged, the entire dynamic refracts. it redefines her protectiveness, her anger, her attraction. because for deborah, being challenged is rare. it’s uncomfortable, destabilizing, but it’s also the most alive she ever feels.

the creators have been explicit about this:

Interviewer: It recalled the Season 2 finale of “Succession,” when Kendall blows his father up on live TV and his father watches with a smile. It’s like he has a newfound respect for his son — and the same felt true of Deborah.  Downs: We definitely will take “Succession.” But we’ve been trying to bake that in. They are mirror images of each other. They found the other half of the coin in each other. While it is infuriating and really scary — because what will this do to the foundation of the relationship? — Deborah is lit up by it.  Jen Statsky: She didn’t know Ava had it in her until that very moment. It’s a shock, and for lack of a better term, it’s a turn-on for Deborah. Aniello: I was going to say — it’s arousing!  Statsky: It’s arousing that she has a worthy opponent. I don’t think Deborah ever feels like she has a worthy opponent. 

so when ava does what she does, what we see in 4.02 is deborah still high from it—still reeling, still angry, still thrilled. because ava surprised her. and for someone like deborah, surprise is rare.

in s2, ava rarely would’ve pushed back like this. but the separation sharpened ava, pushed her into her own power, and deborah can see that. it's part of why she let ava go in s2. she knew if ava stayed, she’d fold herself around deborah forever. and if deborah let herself want her back, she wouldn’t be able to stop. she'd reach a point where she wouldn't be able to live without ava.

and that dependence on someone only led to earthshattering betrayal (frank sleeping with kathy, marrying her, custody battle over DJ, frank lying about deb burning down his house, deb's awful therapy with the creep, deb losing late night, and ultimately deb having to fight to rebuild her image.) so it's terrifying.

but now ava has edge. clarity. she’s not afraid to go head-to-head. and deborah, for all her fury, loves that. always has. their worst fights are the same moments where deborah sees ava most clearly—where the balance of power finally evens out. she doesn’t want docility. she wants friction. and ava gives her that—intellectually, emotionally, creatively. but she also sees, now, that it's not ava doing it for ava. it's much like the salt and pepper shakers. ava didn't have to do that. and deborah found her perfect match in both ava and those salt shakers.

so of course she defends her at dinner. of course she cuts off winnie before she can press in. she can’t help it. her protection over ava is instinctual. the line—“i know… she’s not used to it”—isn’t just strategic. it’s intimate. affectionate. mentorship, yes, but more.

honestly, i’m a little shocked winnie didn’t outright ask if they were sleeping together—because the energy between them at that dinner is ridiculous. they’re both overcorrecting, pretending nothing’s wrong, leaning into this exaggerated casualness, all forced grins and offhand jokes. the whole thing plays like a sketch they’re barely holding together. it’s the kind of strained levity people perform when they’re trying to pretend they’re not still wrecked over each other. if you’ve ever sat between two exes who think they’re fooling everyone—you know that vibe. so for winnie, who is observant and blunt, to not just come out and ask? serious restraint, imo.

anyway, for deborah, the entire thing with ava is a game of tension and release. she’s indulging in the flirtation of it—the chase, the bickering, the push and pull of two people who know exactly how to get under each other’s skin. the spark isn’t dulled by the betrayal; it’s heightened by it. and that rhythm—snide remark, hostility, soft correction—it's how they’ve always spoken. it’s the cadence of something more than rivalry. it’s the language of closeness neither of them can name without risking everything. it's their language—the one deborah spoke of in 1.09 (after ava's first betrayal):

“when you share a sense of humor with someone, it’s like finding someone who speaks your own private little language, and you make each other better. but his ambition got in the way, and he left me, and i was so scared—because i thought i needed somebody else, and that i would never find anybody like him ever again. and then i found standup, thank god. you know, everyone thinks that stand-up is so scary because you're up there all alone, but it is the least scary thing in the world—'cause no one can disappoint you.

but under all of it, there’s a line deborah won’t cross, now.

she can mock. she can snap. she can be cruel in moments. but she can’t truly hurt ava. not in a way that lasts. because this isn’t just a creative partnership. it isn’t just the thrill of being matched. it’s love. unspoken, still unclaimed—but there, saturating everything.

and deborah won’t let anyone else touch it. not winnie. not the studio. not even ava, when she does something stupid and/or accidentally self-sabotages.

because that’s her girl.

the only one who ever stood across from her and didn’t back down. the only one who matched her not just in talent, but in fire. and for all her anger, that’s what anchors her. that’s what she defends. even when she’s furious. even when she’s brokenhearted. even when she hasn’t figured out how to say it aloud. her actions already have.

[steelxwounds]

her fingers stilled against the glass like the weight of his words had rooted them there. she didn’t look up right away — didn’t need to. the truth in what he said settled between them like ash, quiet and soft and undeniable. you don’t ever mean for it to happen, but that’s what it does to you. yeah. that was it. a breath slipped from her lungs — not quite a sigh, not quite relief. just release. “losing little parts of yourself,” she echoed, low, more to herself than to him. her eyes finally lifted, meeting his with a steadiness that didn’t try to mask how much it meant to hear someone say it out loud. “that’s the part no one warns you about. the slow kind of grief. the kind that doesn’t come all at once but chips away when you’re not looking.” she sat back a little, not retreating — just settling, grounding. leon’s smile wasn’t performative. it wasn’t pity, either. it was rare — someone who understood without trying to make it poetic or palatable. delaney could count the number of people like that on one hand. most of them weren’t around anymore. “maybe stubbornness gets a bad rap,” she said after a beat, a flicker of wryness in her voice. “maybe that’s what keeps people like us going when grace runs out.” her mouth quirked, something between a smile and a grimace. “noble was nice. but stubborn… stubborn gets you through the nights where you lose sleep over someone’s what-ifs.” he didn’t flinch when it got heavier — didn’t look away when the words turned into something too close to the truth. and that mattered more than she could say. so instead, she just gave a small nod — like she was filing this away, tucking it somewhere safe. “you’re right,” she said, and it wasn’t something she said often. “it was the right decision. even on the days it feels like a mistake. even when you wonder who the hell you’re becoming in the process.” the clink from earlier still echoed somewhere in the back of her mind — not ceremonial, not obligatory, but real. like a trench pact in a bar that smelled like whiskey and regret. “i don’t always talk like this,” she admitted, softer now, thumb brushing across the damp ring left on the table. “not because i can’t. just… i got used to being around people who wanted you fixed before you even finished the sentence.” her gaze cut back to him, sharper now but not unkind. “you didn’t do that. and that’s rare.” a long pause. then, a near-whisper — honest in the way only late nights and shared weight can be. “you don’t seem like the kind of person who talks much either. but if you ever need someone who doesn’t ask for a polished version of the story… i’ll be here. same bar. same ghosts.” she raised her glass again, but this time didn’t drink. just held it between them like a reminder — of the people they’d been, the ones they’d lost, and the unspoken understanding that some things weren’t meant to be fixed. “cheers.”

leon  waited  patiently,  allowed  delaney  the  time  that  she  needed  to  collect  her  thoughts.  he  wasn't  in  any  sort  of  rush  to  get  out  of  there  or  hear  her  answer.  he  was  content  with  sitting  there  at  the  bar.  it  allowed  him  the  time  and  space  to  decompress  in  an  environment  that  had  just  enough  noise  to  drown  out  the  thoughts  that  plagued  his  mind.  he  liked  stopping  by  every  so  often,  it  gave  him  exactly  what  he  needed.  he  was  surrounded  by  people  who  likely  shared  that  sentiment,  and  it  was  comforting  to  know,  even  if  he  didn't  typically  strike  up  conversations  with  them.  he  tended  to  keep  to  himself,  but  he  wasn't  entirely  opposed  to  small  talk.  he  nodded  in  response  to  her  statement,  easily�� understanding  where  she  was  coming  from.  ❝  it  can  sneak  up  on  you  like  that.  you  don't  ever  mean  for  it  to  happen,  but  that's  what  it  does  to  you.  sometimes,  it  just  gets  to  be  a  lot,  and  before  you  know  it  …  you're  losing  little  parts  of  yourself.  ❞  he  recalled  his  first  loss.  he  also  remembered  every  single  one  that  came  after.  he  wasn't  numb  to  it,  he  just  knew  how  to  carry  himself  in  a  public  setting.  to  some,  he  might've  seemed  cold  and  distant,  but  in  reality,  he  was  just  putting  on  a  facade.  he  couldn't  let  it  show  that  his  career  did  get  to  him  on  occasion.  ❝  perhaps  it's  a  mixture  of  both,  ❞  he  suggested,  offering  her  a  warm  smile.  ❝  i  suppose  that  in  a  way,  yeah.  that's  exactly  what  we  did  agree  to  do.  however,  i  think  it's  important  to  remember  that  we  made  it  this  far,  and  clearly,  despite  the  bad  days  .  .  .  it  means  the  right  decision  was  made.  even  on  the  days  where  you  find  yourself  doubting  it.  ❞  even  he'd  fallen  victim  to  those  days.  he  just  didn't  like  to  talk  about  it.  he  preferred  to  just  carry  on.  leon  wasn't  the  type  to  want  to  get  sentimental,  didn't  enjoy  putting  himself  out  there  where  he  could  easily  be  perceived  by  an  observant  individual.  ❝  exactly,  ❞  he  agreed,  a  firm  nod  following  the  statement.  ❝  to  those  lives,  ❞  he  replied.  leon  furrowed  his  brows  at  her  words,  head  canting  slightly.  ❝  you  don't  need  to  thank  me  for  that,  ❞  he  assured  the  woman.  he  knew  what  it  was  like  to  have  people  try  and  fix  things.  they  just  didn't  understand  that  some  things  couldn't  be  fixed.  or,  rather,  that  not  everyone  was  always  seeking  out  a  way  to  have  things  fixed.  ❝  some  things  don't  require  fixing.  sometimes  …  all  you  really  need  is  someone  who's  been  where  you've  been  and  can  understand  where  you're  coming  from.  i  know  what  it  feels  like  to  just  …  want  someone  to  listen  to  you  and  be  there.  y'know  ?  ❞

[235uranium]

"loki is akechi's hate" "loki is destroying akechi's psyche" you're all cowards. loki is akechi's anger and outrage at being trapped and abused. and that is NOT a bad thing

[numinovsly]

if  he  were  to  be  completely  honest  with  her  —  with  himself...  he  was  glad  to  have  cameron  around,  even  if  they  did  get  on  each  other's  nerves  more  often  than  not.  especially  when  it  came  to  talking  about  grayson  and  his  colorful  past.  but  it  was  nice  to  have  family  in  portum,  even  if  that  meant  knowing  they  were  stuck  in  the  same  boat  as  he  was.  "eh.  maybe  you  can  convince  cam  to  get  a  job  somewhere  else.  bad  enough  the  shithead  is  here  —  works  at  envy  too."  he  says  with  an  over  exaggerated  sigh.  "that's  a  question  i  don't  know  if  i  will  ever  have  the  answer  to."  grayson's  tone  drops  with  that,  so  do  his  eyes  —  adverting  his  gaze  away  from  adelaide's. once  he'd  taken  a  step  back  to  respect  her  personal  space  after  the  hug,  his  fingers  twitched  at  his  sides  —  impulse  wanting  nothing  more  than  to  yank  her  into  another  embrace.  to  bury  his  face  into  the  crook  of  ade's  neck  and  just  let  the  world  go  on  around  them.  but  he  holds  back,  mind  racing  as  he  fights  back  the  want  (  need  )  to  be  closer.  he  can't  be  that  impulsive,  not  now  ...  can  he?  of  course  he  can't,  she'd  push  him  away  &  rightfully  so. he  takes  a  deep  breath  as  she  starts  to  explain,  self  control  crumbling  the  instant  he  sees  adelaide  fighting  back  tears,  his  hands  coming  up  to  gently  &  tentatively  hold  the  sides  of  her  face.  "breathe."  the  werewolf  says,  voice  so  quiet  he's  not  even  sure  she'd  hear  him.  "if  you  ever  need  me  for  anything,  even  if  it's  just  to  help  take  your  mind  off  of  things  -  my  phone  will  always  be  turned  on  and  in  my  pocket."  grayson  continues,  making  one  more  impulse  decision  as  he  bends  his  head  down  to  place  a  fleeting  kiss  to  the  top  of  her  head  —  quickly  removing  his  hands  from  her  face  &  taking  a  step  back,  a  small  step,  but  a  step  nonetheless.  "that  happens  very  seldom  for  me  now.  i'm  not  sure  if  it's  from  being  in  portum  or  having  a  little  bit  better  of  a  grip  on  things."  the  male  explains  with  a  nod  of  his  head.  "i  don't  think  you'd  want  to  see  me  in  that  state,  ade.  it's  not  pretty." the  next  words,  angry  &  pointed  feel  worse  than  a  physical  blow  to  him  (  god  knows  he'd  taken  enough  of  those  in  his  lifetime  to  know  the  pain  they  caused.  )  though  the  hurt  on  his  face  is  quickly  schooled  back  into  that  of  regret.  "neither  one  of  us  told  each  other  the  truth  when  it  came  to  that  kind  of  thing.  i  had  no  idea  you  were  hiding  that  part  of  you  ...  i  thought  that  the  truth  would  just  make  you  think  i  was  insane  or  think  i  was  going  to  hurt  you."  grayson  responds,  eyelids  closing  for  a  moment  as  he  takes  another  deep  breath  -  this  time  it's  to  keep  himself  from  fracturing  into  a  million  pieces. grayson  is  honestly  shocked  when  adelaide  doesn't  pull  away,  allows  herself  to  be  pulled  closer  to  him  though  he  does  not  mention  it,  for  fear  of  if  he  did  then  she  would  change  her  mind.  "hundreds  of  years,  apparently.  maybe  even  longer."  he  says  with  a  nod  of  his  head,  a  small  exhale  of  breath  coming  out  of  his  nose.  "i  know..  i  know  i  will  have  to  prove  it  to  you  and  i  am  more  than  willing  to  do  so."  his  words  are  almost  too  soft  for  them  to  be  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  yet  they  hold  a  sincerity  he  rarely  ever  has  when  he  speaks.

her smile grows, grayson's little sarcastic moment as her words did their job make her fight a more natural laugh that probably would have happened under different circumstances. but she can't help holding herself back a little with so much time lapsed. ❝ i'm glad she is, ❞ said a bit defensively. did he realize cam held on because she cared? ❝ so, what's it gonna take? ❞ no amount of drilling seemed to penetrate that thick skull. but he was still in portum so maybe there was some wiggle room now. maybe she could make a believer out of him. their hug is too short — purposely. adelaide always held on tight, too tight. and she held onto grayson long after he was gone from her life. but he was written into her, becoming a melody she'd never forget how to play, like a sense memory. there were so many things she didn't get before he left and a little part of her could feel herself start to want all those lasts back when he's in her arms again so it needs to end. she can't let the fact that she feels too much and remembers too vividly ( at times ), cloud her mind and judgement. ❝ i know, but — , ❞ her head shakes and she fights tears as she begins to explain. ❝ sometimes things get ... mixed up for me. i'll see pieces of life out of order, forget things. days ... weeks. it's terrifying. ❞ her eyes fall, letting him in on some of the downside of her oracle side. ❝ thinking of you scared and alone ... vulnerable. how would you feel if it were me?, ❞ she looks up at him again, lids stained but still refraining from letting droplets fall. if it was anything like her, his chest would ache the way hers did for him. ❝ do you — does it still happen? you can always ... , ❞ what could she possibly do? her brows furrow, looking up at him. ❝ i would come get you. any time. anywhere. i promise. ❞ even with all the tenderness and empathy she has for him. there's room for anger. it might be rare for her, but it happens. grayson could always get her there — just like now. ❝ and when nothing worked, you just gave up? the only thing left for you to try was telling me the truth. ❞ adelaide would put everything on the line for someone she loved. how could he try everything except returning to her? this time the tears that fall are ones brought on by this frustration. meaning to pull away when he grabs hold of her, she swears she told her brain to, ade let's the tug guide her toward him. ❝ the rest of your life is a long time. ❞ a softening in her voice, wishing she could look into his future and see it — know if he'd be true to his word. was he capable? did she even want him to? ❝ you'd have to stay in my life to make that true. ❞ still as soft, but a challenge. one with resentment woven in, needing to come out after all this time, beyond that of the pages of lyric filled notebooks.

[sayangrafayel]

LADS react to you asking them to set you up with someone else

This was a fun request. I might slip some dynamic duo rivalry here.. hmm.. maybe this is the same universe as loft talk. This is pre relationship prank!

Sylus, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Caleb.

Sylus (Rafayel)

"Hey, Sy. Can you set me up with one of your roommates?" "I don't have roommates." "? What do you mean. You have four roommates. I want the artist!" "No I absolutely do not. What artist?"

Would NEVER let you meet Rafayel, no matter what it takes. Rarely ever bring you back to the loft anymore.

Considered moving out of the loft and everything but stopped once you tell him it's a prank.

Xavier (Jeremiah)

"Xavie, is Jeremiah seeing anyone?" "I don't know a Jerry." "Jeremiah." "I don't know who that is either."

He gets SOOOO jealous (that's why we like him)

Why would you ask him to set you up with someone else. He's right there. He's perfect for you in every way. 🥺🥺🥺 - Xavier, probably

Rafayel (Sylus)

"Can you set me up with one of your friends?" "I don't have friends." "Yes you do! That fruit guy is breathtaking!" "You know what else is breathtaking? If I were to hold his head underwater." "Sorry?" "I said I am also breathtaking!"

He fish. Fish forgor stuff. Roommate? Who? Sylus? Thomas? Who???? What are you talking about?

Becomes extra mean to Sylus the next day and Sylus was so confused as to why is his bestfriend who is not his bestfriend seems to hate him more than usual!?

Zayne (Greyson)

"Dr. Zayne, can you set me up with Greyson?" "Why?" "Because.. I want to?" "His name is Doctor Greyson, and do you really want to..?" "Yes please! Set me up with Dr. Greyson!" "...." "Zayne?" "If that's what you want."

I don't think he's gonna try to stop you nor does he realize you're testing the waters to see how he feels about you, defeatedly gives Greyson your number, but Greyson was so confused because why would he hit up Zayne's girlfriend???

"She's your girl, Zayne." "She is not." "Yes she is, she's just testing to see how you'd react, dummy. Now go and actually ask her out."

Caleb (Gideon)

Before you start pranking him, you prayed for Gideon's safety.

"Caleb, can you set me up with-" "He's gay." "I haven't even said a name!" "Yeah, everybody around me is gay. I'm their ally." "Caleb!!!"

He'd frown and keep telling you why would you need anybody else when you can have HIM. He's the one who knows you the best! He knows how to make you smile! He's 100% your boyfriend material! 😤

[maskedbyghost]

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

Heeeyyyyyy can you do one with all the batboys but the scenario is that your making out with them and then all of a sudden someone walks in and it’s like a funny awkward moment P.S I absolutely LOVE ❤️ your writing ✍️

“We’re kissing in the bathroom,Girl.I hope nobody catch us,But i kinda hope they catch us.”

Batboys x reader : getting caught making out

Request by @jakiicomics,My first ask ever!!! Thank you 💛💛my asks/requests are open

Bruce Wayne

Bruce is not the kind of guy who’s careless in public… or private.

But when he lets himself go — really go — it’s intense. He kisses like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. And he rarely lets anyone see that side.

So when the door swings open (probably Alfred, Lucius, or a poor intern), you both freeze.

He does not scramble. Just slowly pulls away from your lips, adjusts his cufflinks, and calmly says:

“Do you mind?”

The same way he’d say “You’re bleeding on my rug.”

If it’s one of the boys walking in?

“This is a private moment. Learn to knock.”

Straight-up dad mode, but deadly.

You’re flustered. Bruce is steely calm. But the second the door shuts?

Back against the wall.

“Now where were we?”

⸻

Dick Grayson

Dick is hands in your hair, lips on your neck, pulling you into his lap—zero restraint. The second someone walks in? He yelps. Actually lets out a full panic noise and yanks a blanket over both of you.

“HELLO?! EVER HEARD OF KNOCKING?!”

If it’s a sibling (Tim or Damian):

“Get out. Out. OUT. Don’t look at her—stop looking at her!”

You’re laughing. He’s red from his ears to his collarbone.

Tries to salvage his cool later:

“Honestly though, we looked good. Like hot. You know? Right?”

Refuses to go near that room for at least a week.

⸻

Jason Todd

It’s steamy. It’s heavy. He’s groaning your name against your mouth.

And then—

“Hey, has anyone seen my—OH COME ON.”

Jason whips around, shields you with his body, and goes full older-brother rage mode.

If it’s Tim:

“TIM. GOD. LEARN TO READ A ROOM.”

Throws a pillow at whoever it is. Possibly a shoe.

“You’re lucky she’s too sweet to kill you. I’m not.”

You try to calm him down but he’s grumbling for 20 minutes.

Makes up for it later. Thoroughly.

⸻

Tim Drake

Tim is already a mess when kissing you. His hands shake a little, he forgets to breathe, and you’re sure he short-circuits every time your lips part.

So when the door swings open mid-makeout?

He jumps three feet, falls off the couch, and takes you with him.

“AHH—SHUT THE DOOR! SHUT THE—DON’T LOOK AT HER!”

Apologizes profusely even though you did nothing wrong.

“I swear I locked the door. I double-checked! I think. Maybe I hallucinated locking it—”

Goes into hiding afterward. Probably under a hoodie. Possibly in a tech lab.

You have to reassure him you’re not mortified.

“It’s okay, Tim. They barely saw anything.”

“They saw my soul leave my body.”

⸻

Damian Wayne

Damian kisses with precision. Control. He doesn’t do messy makeouts often, but when he does — it’s serious business.

If someone walks in? He glares over his shoulder like he’s about to ruin their lineage.

If it’s Dick or Alfred:

“If your eyeballs have finished malfunctioning, kindly exit.”

If it’s Jon Kent or someone young: he throws a cape or jacket over your head and physically removes the intruder.

Absolutely refuses to act embarrassed. But later?

Quietly asks,

“Did it… upset you? Being seen?”

And when you shake your head, he leans back in like it never happened.

[tender-rosiey]

What about sukuna with his shy babygirl when reader goes away for a week and hes left alone to take care of her?

I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOUR SUKUNA WITH HIS SHY BABYY

silence speaks — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: my favorite duo ever and this is really centered around them cuz they so cute but you do make multiple appearances also BIGGGGGG thanks to @bluebell33 for beta-reading <33

sukuna rarely concerns himself with trifles. the great and feared king of curses has no patience for the mundane.

yet, when it comes to his daughter—his little, bashful shadow—he finds himself tackling challenges he never imagined, especially now that you’ve gone to visit your ill mother for the week.

and left him alone with her.

you had reassured him it would be fine, and he had sneered at the implication that he couldn’t manage a child for a mere seven days.

but now he finds himself cursing you as he stares down the wide-eyed girl standing in the middle of the courtyard.

she’s clutching her favorite stuffed fox, her tiny fingers squeezing the fabric tightly as if it’s her only anchor in the world.

her big eyes flit up to him and then dart away just as quickly, cheeks pinkening as she retreats into herself, the same way she always does when the world feels too big.

sukuna huffs, scratching the back of his head. “what?” he grumbles, his voice rough, but she doesn’t flinch.

not anymore. she’s long since grown used to his tone, his presence, his towering frame. still, she doesn’t answer, only fiddles with the hem of her little kimono.

he exhales sharply through his nose. “if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

her lips purse into a small pout, and her voice comes out barely above a whisper. “...hungry.”

of course.

sukuna crosses his arms, his four hands resting against his broad chest as he glances toward the kitchen.

he knows how to prepare a meal in theory—he’s watched you do it countless times—but actually doing it? for her?

“fine. sit,” he commands, gesturing toward the veranda.

she shuffles over without a word, sitting cross-legged with her fox in her lap, her gaze following his every movement like he’s some kind of unapproachable deity—which, to most, he is.

the kitchen is uncomfortably quiet without you bustling about in it.

sukuna’s hands work awkwardly, chopping vegetables with precision but lacking the rhythm you make it look so easy to achieve.

he scowls as he tastes the broth, finding it bland despite his efforts. still, he’s not about to admit defeat.

when he finally places the bowl in front of her, she looks up at him with wide, unsure eyes. “you made it?”

“who else, brat?” he snaps, though there’s no real bite to his words. he sits down beside her, his knee brushing against her tiny one as he watches her cautiously take a sip.

her lips curve into a small smile, and her voice is soft but earnest. “it’s good.”

he grunts, looking away to hide the faint twitch of his own mouth. “damn right it is.”

the next day, sukuna finds himself in the garden, sitting on the terrace with his arms crossed, watching his daughter as she toddles around, her fox clutched tightly to her chest.

she sticks close to him, circling the area but never straying far, her wariness of the world evident in her every hesitant step.

she pauses by the small patch of wildflowers, her tiny hand reaching out to pluck a bloom.

with the flower in her grasp, she shuffles over to him, her gaze flickering between the flower and her father’s intimidating figure.

“what’s that?” he asks flatly, raising a brow as she stops just short of his shadow.

“for...you,” she mumbles, her voice so soft he almost misses it.

sukuna narrows his eyes, leaning back against the wooden pillar as he watches her extend the flower toward him with trembling hands.

“what the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he scoffs, though his voice carries no malice.

her lips press into a nervous line, and she steps closer, holding it out insistently.

her little brow furrows in determination, and for a moment, she looks so much like you that it pulls a rare flicker of amusement from him.

he grunts, snatching the flower between two of his massive fingers as if it’s an inconvenience.

he twirls it once before tossing it onto the porch beside him, his crimson eyes meeting hers. “now what?”

she fidgets, her gaze darting to the ground. “it’s...pretty,” she whispers.

he leans back further, waving her off. “get out of here before you start thinking I’ll entertain you all day.”

she scurries off, her fox in one hand and her quiet laughter trailing behind her. sukuna glances at the discarded flower, its petals soft and vibrant against the wooden boards.

with a grunt, he flicks it off the edge with his finger, muttering under his breath. “ridiculous.”

the days that follow are...strange.

sukuna quickly realizes that his daughter is quiet by nature—content to play alone, to sit with her little fox and hum softly to herself.

she doesn’t demand his attention often, which leaves him both relieved and unsettled.

he’s used to people begging for his time, his favor, his mercy.

but she? she seems perfectly content with the simplest gestures—a pat on the head, a rare smile, his presence alone.

it’s on the third day, however, that she tests his patience.

the rain starts in the afternoon, a light drizzle that quickly turns into a downpour. sukuna is inside, reviewing a scroll, when he hears it—a soft, hiccuping sob from the other room.

he’s on his feet instantly, his massive frame filling the doorway as he finds her curled up in the corner, her fox clutched to her chest, her face buried in its fur.

“what the hell are you crying about?” he asks.

she sniffles, peeking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks. “it’s...loud,” she mumbles, her voice trembling.

it takes him a moment to realize she means the thunder.

he sighs, running a hand down his face before crouching down in front of her. “you’re afraid of a little noise?”

she nods hesitantly, her bottom lip quivering.

“pathetic.”

but instead of leaving her to deal with it alone, he picks her up, her tiny body fitting easily against his broad chest as he carries her to the main room.

he sits down on the tatami mat, cradling her against him as the storm rages outside.

she buries her face in his chest, her small hands clutching at his robes, and for once, he doesn’t push her away.

“you’re fine,” he mutters, his hand smoothing over her hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “it’s just noise. nothing can hurt you while I’m here.”

and somehow, she believes him.

by the time the week is up, sukuna is more than ready for you to return.

he won’t admit it, of course, but the sight of you walking through the gate fills him with an odd sense of relief.

your daughter, however, is the one who reacts most visibly.

“mama!” she cries, scrambling out of sukuna’s lap and running to you.

you scoop her up, laughing as she babbles about everything that’s happened in your absence, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement.

sukuna watches from the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame.

“well?” you tease, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “how’d it go?”

“she’s alive, isn’t she?”

you laugh, stepping closer as you shift your daughter in your arms. your free hand brushes against his arm, a small, fleeting gesture that he doesn’t pull away from.

“she is,” you reply softly, tilting your head as you study his expression.

he’s looking past you now, crimson eyes sharp but distant, his gaze lingering on the garden beyond the estate gates.

it’s quiet for a beat too long, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

“did you miss me?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, but there’s a genuine curiosity beneath it.

he scoffs, his lips curling into something that’s not quite a smirk.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, but he turns his back to you, and you can’t help but feel it’s to hide a specific thing.

you smile knowingly, shifting your daughter higher on your hip as she snuggles into you, her fox tucked safely in her arms. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will make you drink pure ginger

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[fallingskiesandrisingseas]

But what was most baffling to all that met the Pevensies after they came back was that they were kind.

Really. Not pretending, not because they were insecure. True, empathic. Far too understanding for children their age. They all have music in them.

Peter’s hands feel too small for him, but he shakes hands all the same. Gentle pressure. There is nobility behind those eyes. Eyes that always border on the supernatural sort of blue, especially in the dark.

He plays the guitar, gently coaxing otherworldly sounds out of an instrument that did not know it could be played like that. He helps his siblings with their homework, is taller much faster than his peers. Seems to take up more space, even though no one understands how a teenage boy manages that.

He doesn’t like doing nothing, ever. He instructs his classmates in grammar, gives away figures he cuts from wood with a knife that seems too sharp for a boy that small. He never hurts himself, though.

As the years pass, Peter grows strong. But he is gentle. He does not seem to be brash, even when many of his friends are. Peter keeps his emotions in check. Noble. Not undangerous, but not belligerent. Peter only ends fights, and only with people that deserve it.

He offers advice, a pat on the back. Teachers wanna dislike him, some do not like the look behind those eyes. Most find they cannot. Peter is popular with both adults and children, speaks sense and laughs often.

Peter is kind. Pious, devout. His faith is unmovable like rock. Did the kids meet God on the estate of their uncle?

Edmund plays the violin. A sad Edmund is a rare sight, but when he plays sad he can keep his whole floor awake. Somehow, Peter always finds h him quickly, effortlessly attuned to his brother’s moods. They play chess, then. Their chess master must have been a champion, Ed beats people with ease. He’s usually not smug about it.

Ed speaks politics and war in earnest, accepts critique graciously, is elegant in a way Peter never manages. Peter speaks frankly, but Edmund can wrap words up real nice. He doesn’t mince words, but his classmates grow into liking the sound of his voice. They appreciate that Edmund does not lie, even when speaking tactfully. Edmund can dial the temperature in a room, change it to suit himself.

He, too, laughs often, but Edmund is known to smirk. He likes being right and he often is. He’ll entertain anyone with a good story, always seems to have the right information to help you out. Remedies to illness, connections, job openings, how to sneak out of PE.

He’s a spider in a web. A bit reserved for a 11 year old, and oddly well-connected. A real ghost when he wants to be, but he never scares people with it.

Aslan would not approve of that. He believes in God as well, but much more intellectually. He’s got the intelligence to back it up and wit to match. A scholarly belief, but not lacking conviction.

Teachers like his enthousiasm, remember a moody nagging child when he left and see a secure young man come back.

Edmund will stand up for what is right. He gets into some trouble like that, but his verbal agility saves him always. Edmund has strong principles and will not bend them for anyone. No matter the trouble he gets in.

The bond with his brother is unbreakable. They even walk the same, chest out, left hand on their belt. They seem most at ease when fencing.

Susan was always warm and tenderhearted, but when she comes back there is a difference.

She seems to have gained authority. It’s real strange watching a 13-year old use her beauty like a grown woman, but Susan has learned to wield it, to stun people so she can creep under their skin. People LISTEN to her now.

Her wit is like a knife, but she avoids cutting deep. Susan is reasonable, and strong, and principled. The little drama others get involved in does not bother her, and she seems immune to petty insults. She has killed before, with her hands.

She will do it with kindness now. She is not very approachable ( that would be Lucy ), but she is kind. She used to mother over her brothers and sisters, but now that they have raised each other in a court full of magic she has gotten more relaxed. They listen to her on important issues, trust in her judgement. Her brothers does not deem himself more important, she is both well-spoken and well-respected by her siblings. Equal. It baffles the old men that teach her. Irritates them, too.

There is an air of mystery around her. Half a look is enough to get what she wants, Susan’s friends laud her security in herself, her Mona Lisa smile. She seems to temper moods easily, makes people feel at ease.

She most of everyone exudes royalty. It’s the grace. Susan plays the harp, her long fingers dancing across the strings like she’s had a lifetime of practice. She’s elegant, never caught off guard. Jamais faux pas.

She does not get angry. She knows who she will be. She is anxious to become an adult, yes, but she only wishes to look how she feels. Not to look differently. Yet the wish to be taken seriously, to have someone see you as an adult, it makes her surprisingly similar to her peers.

Her friends have not been old yet, is all. But Susan is calm and collected. People see her as someone you can tell a secret to. She never hurts someone, is usually a neutral party, speaks sense to adult and kids alike. She is not ignorant, however, will use every trick in the book to keep the peace. She knows when to go nuclear. Vis pacem para bellum.

Lucy is a sun in human form. She has a joie de vivre that is unmatched, is gay and golden-haired and never in a bad mood.

Lucy is kind by default, does not turn it off, does not turn it down. She’s witty and funny and quick on her feet. She has been grown before, yes, but enjoys being young for a few years more. She dances, sings old tunes. Her voice is her favorite instrument, you can usually hear Lucy coming.

Whistling a tune in the halls is known to improve the moods of everyone who hears it immensely. Young girls need to figure out who they are, but Lucy knows, knows what she’ll be and who she likes and what kind of people she wants to be around. She is not pretending, never moody. She can get sad, of course, but her older brothers and sisters are always nearby when that happens.

Lucy is genuine and fierce and convinced, immovable at times. Admired for her drive, but respected for her empathy. She speaks to everyone, often distributes flowers. There’s no naivite in her at all, she simply wishes to be like this so that the world may imitate her. She likes to see people prosper, is the first with praise.

She will go far, is the consensus. There’s steel beneath the soft exterior, Lucy has fire below the flowers. She’s well-liked and well-loved. She has love in spades, it seems, animals and stragglers and misfits and outcasts. She’s popular, her room is a good place to get a cup of tea and someone who will listen to you for some time. After a while she no longer bothers with the door.

That a heart that size fits in a girl that small is a mystery to many. Lucy does not think it is a mystery at all. It is the heart of a lion.

Her faith is as vocal as the rest of her, she sees it confirmed in all that is beautiful, all that is kind. She never tries to convert anyone but there are several people who have told her that version of God is someone they would like to know.

The Pevensies often see each other at parties, where they like to stand together. Edmund knows about everyone, everyone knows Peter, everyone likes Susan, but it is Lucy who knows everyone.

They are kind, but not weak. Peter gets his knuckles bloody sometimes, Edmund does not abide by the rules of unjust teachers. Susan and Lucy solve their problems differently but no less effective. Kindness is their usual way of operating, but they are still kings and queens. They will not allow cruelty, will not let bullies go unpunished.

They are sure of what they are and sure of what comes after death and this makes them kind. Kind , not harmless. Kind, not spineless. Kind, not ignorant. Kind, not naive.

Kind despite. Maybe kind because. The kings and queens of Narnia are proud of what they are, honour the teachings of their lion friend. Kind.

When the crash happens and three siblings die, everyone they know mourns deeply. Without them, the world is less kind.

[jijournal]

"Jealous Much?" | D.M

Potter!reader x Draco Malfoy

Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.

Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.

The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:

“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[shaiyasstuff]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

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