#hurts in my fragile tiny heart

[secriden]

Absolutely heartrending because it just hit me that before Bison's phone call, Fadel was actually began to believe that he'd been wrong to suspect Style. Because despite the evidence stacked against Style -- and remember, it was Fadel that spells out the reasons they have to be suspicious of Kant and Style -- Style is so incredibly genuine here and Fadel, in truth, wanted to believe in him.

I think it's possible that Fadel actually saw Style through the window here, but pretended not to because he had to take a moment to prepare himself. But if you see where Style is standing and the way the patio is lit up, there's no reason why Fadel shouldn't have seen him from where he was by the tables before he turns to go behind the counter.

Fadel: I was thinking of going to your place. But you were more impatient than me, huh?

This would also explain how Fadel is able to say this before Style even has the chance to make a sound. I had expected Fadel to wait and see what Style would say, to play it safe and observe; but no, Fadel immediately sets their dynamic back to the assumption of familiarity that their relationship was on before he disappeared for a week. The assumption that he could show up at Style's house unannounced and Style would welcome him.

This feels incredibly intentional. Fadel wants to see how Style is going to react to Fadel acting as if nothing strange happened. If Style was an informant, he should be confused and Fadel may catch him out in a lie.

But Style's performance is flawless:

Style: Where have you been? You didn't reply any of my texts! (punctuation added for emphasis and to mimic Style's tone)

He says this and the whine in his tone is a clear affirmation of that same assumption of familiarity. This is the tone used by someone who is secure in the knowledge that they are owed an explanation; this is the tone of someone in an established relationship who feels justifiably wronged at being left out of the loop.

And I cry a little bit more at the thought of Fadel reading those texts -- Style by turns frantic and confused and worried -- and refusing to respond. Or worse, receiving them and refusing to even read them because Fadel doesn't trust himself to tell the lies from the truth anymore.

At this point, Fadel seems to waver a little bit in his resolve to "test" Style. I think he was a little taken aback that Style didn't seem to be even a little bit weird about his abrupt disappearance for a week. His reply takes on a quality of gentle pleading and the way he's speaking is exactly like a boyfriend who knows he messed up. But because these lines are a lie, Fadel cannot meet Style's eyes as he says them. It's only when he says "I was busy, too" (not a lie) that he's finally able to squarely meet Style's gaze again.

And Style continues to be so convincingly NORMAL because all of this is real for him. This is just genuinely Style, the boyfriend, who actually wants to know where his boyfriend disappeared to without notice for a whole week. Nothing about his body language or tone has even a hint of inauthenticity because there is none. Style means every single word and meets Fadel's gaze squarely as he says them.

It genuinely looks to me like Fadel thaws significantly at this point. He suddenly looks less stiff and the way he delivers this line contains so much more inflection, it becomes cajoling. He even begins to more consistently meet Style's eyes as Fadel begins to allow himself some honesty. Fadel's logical brain knows that the circumstances surrounding Style coming into his life are riddled with inconsistencies, but he both senses and WANTS to see Style's sincerity. The shields that Fadel had up are melting in the face of Style being present and unchanged from what Fadel remembers.

Stay, Fadel all but says, let me make it up to you. Fadel offering to make food for Style (@braceletofteeth please hold me as I cry about this!!) is also significant because the last time Fadel made food for Style (the burger) is when he was softening towards Style after Style helped out at the diner during the rush crowd. Fadel is a creature of habit and all that he's learned of late are the ways Style is easy to love.

They begin to fall back into their usual, playful banter and teasing dynamic. Style leans back against the table (and the way he's all unspoken surrender and submission -- throat arched up and bare and vulnerable -- truly makes me feral), turns up the flirt and Fadel responds in kind. And yes, Fadel means his question on some level but you don't get the sense that his heart is in the interrogation. Fadel may be going through the motions, but this is just Style being himself, exactly as Fadel has come to know (and love), so nothing is pinging as wrong to Fadel.

I mean, just LOOK AT FADEL'S EYES!! His expression is so so soft and tender and wistful. He wants this. He wants so desperately to believe that this is why Style was texting him throughout the week. He wants to have Style in all the ways that include and go beyond the physical; like Style offering his affection is everything Fadel didn't think he could wish for.

It's almost cruel the way Style's touch so utterly disarms Fadel. Because, while it is part of the games they've been playing, so much of their interactions have also been grounded in genuine feelings and moments of intense vulnerability on both sides (although neither of them know this for sure!! T_T). Style's hands on Fadel's body literally removes the last stretch of distance between them and that odd unease lingered over the way Fadel spoke and held himself at the start of the scene finally disappears.

If we compare their expressions and the way they are holding themselves and, most importantly, touching each other by the end of the scene to what we see when Style first walks into the diner, it becomes apparent just how much ground Fadel has given in the span of those few minutes.

It's the way Fadel keeps holding onto Style's hand even as he's turning to leave, maintaining that point of contact until the very last second.

Because with Style in front of him -- warm and familiar and carelessly affectionate -- Fadel allows himself to slip back to the version of himself that woke up in Style's bed at the start of the episode, the version of himself that called Style's name for the first time and wanted to wake him up with the softest of touches. The version of himself that literally, physically couldn't let Style go.

Which is why, when the call comes and Fadel's heart gets broken anew, Fadel remains devastatingly empty of anger towards Style.

Because it was Fadel's own fault for choosing to believe the lie.

Because it was a decision he made to allow his heart to rule over his head.

Because Fadel understands that Style only succeeded in "fooling" him once again because Fadel let him.

So Fadel gives himself this truth, allows himself to finally take that step to bare his heart to Style, the way he promised himself he never would, but the way he so desperately wanted.

And Style kisses Fadel because he doesn't realise that this confession is not a reward, but a judgement.

For Fadel is paying penance for giving in to his own foolish heart, and in so doing renders Style's love to devastation.

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[mactavishsgfandwife]

Dad!Simon Helps Your Daughter When She Falls Over :((

inspired by this ADORABLE instagram reel 💞💞💞

Your 3 year-old lets out a little gasp as she slips over on the ice and after a moment of shock, she starts to cry out. No words, just a stream of tears and wails of pain, frozen on her hands and knees, bare palms against freezing, snowy ground.

"Daddy!" she cries out, by which time her father is already knelt down at her side, "Dada!"

"Hey, baby," his usually gruff voice sounds soft and low as he gently strokes his daughter’s hair away from her tear-stained cheek, trying not to show how much it affects him to see her with big, sad eyes and so clearly in pain.

“Tell Daddy where you’re hurt.”

"M- m- my knees!" your little girl sobs, leaning into her father’s chest as he picks her up and cradles her in his arms, just as he did when she was younger.

Her bottom lip trembles, and she whimpers softly into Simon’s shirt, sniffling and covering him in tears. Her little hands are sore from the fall, and your husband takes both of them in one of his much bigger, stronger, rougher hands, his thumb gently caressing her knuckles.

"Let me see…" he gently rolls her trouser legs up to see her knees, which aren’t bloody but just a little sore and grazed from her fall. Taking care not to hurt her fragile skin, he leans closer and gently kisses her chubby toddler legs better. It looks funny, this big, scary man being so gentle and loving with a little girl in her pink raincoat, but he doesn’t care. Anything for his daughter.

"Need plaster, daddy!"

"You don’t need one, love, you’re not blee-" he looks down only to be met with her big, teary eyes and sad little pout, her tiny heart so sad not to be getting a plaster.

"Alright, y’get a plaster," he chuckles softly, giving her a tender kiss on the forehead, "you’re such a brave girl."

thanks for reading :P

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia (Here) | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: I'm part of the 'everyone underestimates Kalim Al Asim , the layers of his character and upbringing' club. Sweet does not equal being a dum dum my dudes.

Habits You Steal:

Theatrics (Inherited): Kalim talks with more than his mouth. There's body language. Watch out when this guy gets excited because he might knock over a lamp amidst a rant. Hands are flying with each embellishment. He's pacing. Jumping. Energy is seemingly endless with this one. When Kalim laughs, he does so with his entire body without reservation. Head flying back, grin wide, shoulder shaking, etc. Not that he can't replace what gets broken but - y'know. Be careful else you might get bitch slapped on accident. Which normally wouldn't hurt too much but Kalim's decked out in gold. The last thing you want is a ring imprint on your left cheek because Kalim got too excited after a card game. On that note - someone get Jamil some aspirin because that excitement is infectious. You can be the most stone-hearted edge-lord on the face of Twisted Wonderland, but eventually his infectious sunshine attitude takes hold.

"A-Ah! It's okay! We can replace the lamp, so don't worry. Are you hurt? No, no. It's really aright. I'm fine, see? You missed me - can I see your hands for a second? OIII! Can someone please bring a med-kit! Thank you!" <- Jamil's already grabbing the broom before you can say sorry. This is the last time he lets you sit anywhere near fragile objects during a game of charades - or any game. Kalim was bad enough...but at least with him fretting over the tiny cut on your palm, Jamil could clean the mess in peace. At least until you offer to pay for the lamp. Kalim's got enough tact to lie about the price, and everyone's thankful. No one wants to see the Ramshackle Prefect have a heart attack for shattering a real crystal lamp. 'cause then Kalim will cry too and it'll just be dominos from there.

Personal Space (Inherited): Kalim tears away any sense of dignity, self-preservation, and privacy that might exist. In a good way, of course. It's not that Kalim is an open person. Quite the contrary. He needs to keep a calculated distance between himself and others due to his position as an Asim. Regardless of his happy exterior, never forget that Kalim is far from an airhead. Kindness doesn't equate connection - as much as Kalim would love for everyone to be his friend. Yet for those who are in that trusted circle? He treats them like an extension of the self. His lack of shame bleeds into your own perception.

Training and Resistance (Inherited and Developed): Kalim hates that you need to do this. He rarely 'hates' anything, but he despises that you need to worry about being poisoned. What’s worse is that you refuse to have a tester, or a guard, or anything of the sort. It all started with discussing the future with Jamil, who logically brought up the complications that come with Kalim taking a partner. You couldn’t be shadowed, were in a difficult position with the headmaster, and it would only become difficult once the duo moves back to the scalding sands. Even more once you join them (as NRC is merely teaming with prideful youths, while the Scalding Sands is a free for all).

Point summary? You need to build resistance to drugs and learn what to do in a hostage situation. The former is handled by Professor Crewel, and the process was explained in excruciating detail. Jamil, who’s undergone training, was unphased but Kalim desperately wanted you to back out. Yet it would mean needing a guard - which would be hard to arrange - and so…yeah. Many weekends in the nurse’s office. You also have to complete the hostage drills all Asims and their spouses are put through. How to escape bondage, how to last an interrogation, how to navigate without magic (which you could, duh, so basically without a map when stranded), negotiate, etc.

"Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want to do? I can still hire a body guard - there are many options available back home! You can spend our next vacation at the main villa and meet with them. We can - oh. y-you're sure?... alright. If this is what you want then I'll be there through every step. Just remember to ask if you need anything. I'll come running, no matter what."

Charisma (Inherited): Everyone underestimates just how dangerous Kalim is. Seriously. Nothing is more risky in a school like Night Raven College than dropping your guard. It can cost you your life - or at the very least leave you indebted to someone you do not want having dirt over your head (*cough*ACertianCephalopod*cough*)The gossip grapevine is a menace. Everyone has their pride. Everyone has their secrets. Everyone holds each other at arm’s length, even if you’re cordial or friendly. Everyone except Kalim, who has this innate ability to pry the most dirty secrets out of you simply through his nonchalant attitude. Nothing drops another’s guard quicker than a sense of security and superiority. People often mistake his genuine heart for nativity. They fail to recognize that it’s a choice, and deep down he is aware that the Al Asim name places him high above the people he sees as friends.

"Hm? Isn't that the alchemic lab on potionomics meant for second years? You're so smart! I didn't get to do that lab until just a few months ago! - it's not yours? Then why are you working on it?" <- game. set. match. You think he doesn't know what your handwriting looks like? He saw you lingering outside Crewel's classroom earlier and wanted to know why. Saw an opening. Took it. Is happy you’re helping out one of your other friends, but just had to make sure no one was bullying you into doing their work.

Since he truly believes that despite this gap, friendships can transcend - his ability to get information is uncanny. A power he can wield intentionally if need be, in getting you to name drop any person or problem posed. It’s a great quality to have! This way he can help and support you :) Why is this an inherited trait, you might be asking? Because as the next head of Al Asim, Kalim’s been studying how to do business since he was young. He’s going to teach you. Pray tell what is born once the Ramshackle Beast Tamer learns the ways of Scarabia’s master of charisma and resident sunshine child?…Night Raven’s downfall. Power couple. Dead serious right now.

Jewelry (Developed): Worth your weight in gold takes a new meaning. This isn’t in reference to being spoiled, mind you. This is about status and the meaning behind the jewels Kalim is imparting. The cultural significance. Considering that you’re not from twisted wonderland, you technically are a blank slate to all countries. Who better to learn from than someone who’s spent his childhood studying to become an expert in international trade? Kalim has enough tact to bite his tongue about the deep meaning behind the gifts. You may not understand just yet, but his excitement can’t be contained. Each bangle and piece from the family treasury has a small story. While he has no problem using his wealth to help people who need it, there’s a joy that comes from decorating his treasure’ in treasure. Y’know?

"Do you like it? This necklace was my mother's at our age. My father gifted it to her during a business trip to the Queendom of Roses. Ah - you can have it! Really! She has many others, and when I told her about you this was what she chose to have sent over. It's already yours! You can wear it to the next banquet, please?" <- Being the next head of House Asim, Kalim can't be with just anyone. Yet he seemed so happy in his letters, and Jamil vouched on your behalf - so this is your time to shine. Also, sending the necklace back would be like slighting his family's good will. You quite literally need to accept it.

Music (Inherited): Can you play an instrument? Sing? It starts out as wanting to be near him more - so you join the pop music club. Kalim, Cater, and Lilia are very convincing. So they push you to pick up something. Anything. It doesn't matter what, so long as you have fun with them. Even in the earliest stages where the notes come grated and your friends (Grim) make fun - Kalim is supportive without fault. His encouragement leads to proficiency and an appreciation for music. He'd love if you sing with him. Even if it's just a lullaby - no, especially so.

Habits He Steals:

Naming inanimate objects (Inherited): Your effort at making Kalim more money-conscious. The decite of sentimental attachment, if you will. It’s honestly a risky move to make considering the sheer amount of things that he owns, so naming everything is off the table. Yet it’s the silly things. Like seeing a face in the paintwork on one of his tapestries, and then deciding to dub it Artie. Oh no, Kalim we don’t need to get new artwork for the bathroom! What about Artie? It’s already pretty enough so lets just leave him there. No - no, that ring’s super pretty but the matching set from our anniversary is enough. We wouldn’t want Garnet and Pearl to think we were replacing them, right?

"I think Vinnie would work best on display, don't you? Purple and yellow are sure to catch people's attention from far away! Or maybe should we hang up Paolo? There are so many tapestries in Scarabia’s vault, I feel guilty only putting one up on display at our festival stall. Do you think they’d let us hang more?”<- It works. Kalim defiantly thinks twice. He's a bit like a kid refusing to give up their action figures after watching Toy Story, ya feel me?

Cooking (Inherited): Kalim is learning how to cook for himself as one step to being more self-sufficient. He only eats food that Jamil prepares, but with Viper’s seal of approval you’ve earned a pass. Essentially anything you both make with pre-approved ingredients is fair game. You pick a recipe every week, give Jamil the grocery list, and he makes sure to have the stuff in the dorm. Jamil is only okay with this so long as you supervise. Teaching Kalim is on your shoulders - and in all honesty? It’s an amazing bonding experience. Jamil can rest easy for a few hours and Kalim isn’t being thrown straight into the deep end. Obviously it’s only a small reprieve, and temporary since back at the Scalding Sands there are regulations in place. Kalim loves wearing matching aprons, humming little tunes while reading recipe books, watching cooking videos, learning about all the nutritional benefits in food, and really gets an appreciation after seeing how much work goes into his favorite dishes. There’s also that spark of joy when you sit down to eat, and it’s somehow one-hundred times better than eating with his family back home. Not that Kailm doesn’t love his siblings, but family really takes a new meaning when you see it coming together right before your eyes.

"Mph th-ish is sho gud! - how do you like it? Should we invite our friends to try some? It tastes almost like Jamil's! I bet if we keep at it, then we can cook up a banquet all on our own. That'll surely put everyone in a good mood!"

Skinship (Developed): Kalim is the type to initiate touch. Not receive it. If you look at his interactions with the others, he’s always the one throwing himself at them or being a vibrant glow-stick. Very few people give that back - and in truth? Like, honest to Seven truth? Kalim’s got no problem with it. Many people have bad intentions. Not everyone wants to be his friend, and that’s fine. They come to him looking to get in his good graces. It’s unnecessary…he’ll happily help without them twisting his feelings. All they need to do is ask. Do you know how easy it is for someone to prick him with a drugged needle? He’s not comfortable with physical contact that he does not initiate, unless it’s from someone he trusts. Like Jamil, Silver, Cater, his siblings, etc. Even they have a limit (which he’s confident will never be crossed, since again, Kalim is almost always the initiator). This list is subject to change…what, you think a family of 30+ kids can exist without animosity? He dreads the day he has to think of one of his little siblings becoming untrustworthy.

Anyways. Trust is a choice for Kalim. His happiness and extroverted optimism is all a choice. Sometimes on an unconscious level (*cough* his awareness of the divide between himself and Jamil, yet pushing the knowledge down until it inevitably hurt them both *cough*). So imagine reaching the point where he trusts you. It could be something small, like the first time you hug him from behind or lace your fingers together. Intimate. Not like Cater’s half sling over the shoulder, not like his little siblings hanging on his legs, or Jamil pushing him ahead while they walk. When he’s not initiating, and Kalim might hesitate for a moment. Hard to picture, I know, but by letting it be he’s choosing to trust you wholeheartedly. All in the span of like 5 seconds, and he might not even realize it until later on. Those of us who shine the brightest, usually have walls that are hard to see. Just some food for thought.

"Really? Really, really?? Really, really really??? Really - Ah! Sorry, I just can't believe it! There's so much I still don't know about them...but they're paying attention to me, huh? That's it! I need to work harder to be a worthy boyfriend! Starting right now, I'll become a better man!" <- Kalim. Sweetie. No. You're already the brightest boy. Your dormmates only brought the prefect's changes up to make you happy! I mean - mission successful? The goal was to motivate him and they technically succeeded. Just not for studying. He's 100% fired up with enough energy to run laps around the dorm now. He doesn't know what to do first, should he get Cater to help make you a playlist? Or have some flowers sent over? Would you prefer red roses or a mix of violets with chrysanthemums. Wait. Grim's 'technically' a cat, right? He should make sure not to send anything harmful to kitties. Maybe some tuna for him with chocolates for you? But this gift should be something you can keep. Ohhhh he is vibrating from excitement. He needs to show how much he loves you. Your attention and care truly means the world to him.

Habits You Steal:

Bug Spray (Developed): Jamil can and will throw you under the bus when faced with insects. Big hit to his pride, not his best moments, but he is NOT dealing with the absolute infestation at Ramshackle. You are spraying that place with heavy duty RAID if you want him over longer than ten seconds. If he so much as catches a GLIMPSE of a roach - nah. Just nah. He will shove that dustpan in your hands and send you to war. Don’t call him until it’s dead, the carcass has been disposed of, and you’ve wiped down. Grim’s a cat. Teach his ass to hunt. He needs to pay rent. You think he’s letting the flame-ball follow to the Scalding Sands after NRC? Jamil wants him on hinting duty for scarabs or else it’s time to prep hobo box.

“Burn it….Did you not hear me? I said. Burn. It. Better yet? Burn this whole damn building!” <-First night he decides to let Kalim handle Scarabia and humor you with a sleepover - and a giant spider decided to invade the shower. We’re talking big spider, maybe pregnant. Please keep in mind that during the VDC prep, Vil had Ramshackle deep cleaned. So the worst Jamil saw was a few ants. Now, the science club does meet in the Ramshackle garden often since you’ve cleaned it up, and Trey may grow plants that make the place insect central. Jamil was unaware of this. The gut wrenching scream that echoed through every room in the house. You’d think one of the ghosts pulled a cruel prank - but no. You didn’t even get a moment to investigate. The bathroom door flew open, Jamil running out still wet and drenching his pajamas. The death glare and spew of curses was the most genuine you’d ever seen him. Well, it could have been appreciated if not directed at you. Fix it or he will never set foot in this place ever again.

Spice Tolerance (Inherited): Not much to say here. He likes his food spicy. Sure, Jamil isn’t great with his words so his main love-language is bringing over tubbaware filled with food, and he does cater to your preferences more often than not. Except you undoubtedly will be eating what himself and Kalim eat most days. Which is packed with flavor. Grim isn’t complaining, food’s food. You? It’s funny to take a chomp out of ghost pepper like it’s a roma tomato, only for Ace to try and then start wheezing. Work them tastebuds, ya scrawny magic man. Heh.

"Can't handle the heat? Curry's a versatile dish. I could make something mild next time...you still want it? Why? Just because it's my favorite, doesn't mean you have to like it. Still not going to give it back? Alright. Lets see you clean that plate then." <- Flattered that you want to experience his favorite foods prepared to his tastes. For the record - Jamil likes it spicy spicy. Hotter than fiery vindaloo. Its an acquired taste and he really can alter the recipe if its too much. Won't unless you ask, because it's funny and oddly romantic seeing you sweat just trying to make him happy (Will hit the breaks in if you are getting sick from it. Does not play around).

Braids (Inherited): Paired with Jamil’s developed trait. Braids or hair beads - take your pick. Maybe both? Or a headscarf. His little sister - Najima, do you remember her? She’s the first Viper you get to spend time with during a trip to the Scalding Sands and gifts you either some hair beads or a headscarf as her unspoken blessing. Nothing fancy, and Jamil forced the coin in her hand for it, but she did take you through the markets while he was busy tending to other needs. It’s honestly really sweet, and Jamil will braid the beads or scarf in one of your side pieces of hair every morning (or wrap the scarf around your head. Not fancy like Kalim’s but still a knot he ‘insists’ will look better if he does it since you’re inexperienced. He could teach you. He won’t.)

Silence (Inherited): Shit just does not phase you anymore. Ever heard of the inability to keep calm until there's someone more panicked nearby? Jamil embodies this, being surrounded by emotive people all the time, and his perpetual state of indifference physically does not allow you to feel unsettled. If Jamil isn't bothered, then neither are you. It's that simple. Resting bitch face is contagious. Jamil's ability to handle Kalim comes in handy for raising Grim. You can now ignore his baby face and daily begging for premium tuna. Little kitty needs to expand his arsenal of tricks, because your will is stone.

"Bad day? Grab a cup. The dorm's usually quiet for the next hour. I'll be there in a moment." <- Queen never cry. If anything actually does phase either one of you, it normally ends the same way. Plopped on the floor of his bedroom, sipping hot tea and staring at the wall in comfortable silence while stewing in mutual suffering. Eventually you give him one of those starry sky projectors, and y'all ill stare at that instead. If it's a problem that has a tangible solution then it gets solved. Easy. This is for the 'yeah, life sucks' moments where all you can do is let it be before getting back up again. At least you have each other.

Habits He Steals:

Braids (Developed): Jamil can easily do his own hair. A flick of the wrist and it magically braids itself. Ebony locks carry memories of pain, growth - and change. Small change. Yet change nonetheless, which seemed impossible years ago. There’s something very intimate that comes with fixing another person’s hair. You’re not proficient enough to handle his cornrows (or are you? To his standard? As fast as magic?) but Jamil’s fine with changing his hair style to a simple triple braid, or a braid-band using the framing pieces that can crown around his head. So long as you do it for him every morning.

Fix-It-Felix (Developed): You know that one type of dad? The one who visits your home and looks for imperfections. He comes over, puts fresh produce in the fridge, mends the nail holes in the wall and fixes that one loose board on the steps that you made a habit to avoid. Barely says two words during his visit but seemingly solves half the problems you were procrastinating? This is Jamil. 100% Jamil when he comes to Ramshackle. He needs to make himself useful. And to scold someone. Grim more often than not, but you’re not safe. He really goes ‘bitch you live like this?’ at least once a week. Then proceeds to take preventative measures like a textbook tsundere.

“I put tangerines in the fridge since winter is coming. You need to be getting enough vitamin c and - where’s Grim? Don’t let him eat them all and make sure he knows not to light the fireplace tonight. There’s some cleaner on the bricks that needs to sit for a few hours…you know what? I’ll go with you to get him. Grab your heavy coat, it looks ready to rain.”

Dancing (Developed): Jamil participates in solo-dance during his downtime. It’s not like he had a partner to do duos with. Jamil also was not interesting in cozying up to a stranger just to learn a dance he would rarely have a moment to indulge in. Kalim’s the one who mentioned this in passing to you. His intentions were pure, of course. Just as they always are. He signed you both up for a ballroom dance class as a present for officially becoming a couple! Jamil finally had a partner and time to try, so why wait?! The vice in question wanted to deny since (1) who has time for that, (2) it was off campus, would take three hours out of every weekend for a month and (3) The chance of embarrassing himself was higher than he would like. Yet Kalim is smarter than most think, and purposefully handed the gift to you. Not Jamil. Along with the excited embellishment that Jamil could now do this ‘long desired’ class that really wasn’t high on his radar.

"If it makes you happy...then I don't mind. Just try to avoid stepping on my toes. Otherwise I'll demand compensation. What do I want? Wouldn't you like to know, prefect." <- Five seconds in and he yields. You weren't going to let him out of it - no matter what excuse Jamil came up with. He'll put up with it and get back at Kalim later. The chance to spend time with you for that long is rare, and Jamil isn't the type to squander opportunities. No matter his personal feelings on the 'gift' in question.

Except Jamil finds the entire experience pleasant and hates that it’s all thanks to Kalim. Dancing with you is entirely different than dancing alone. It’s clumsy, new, and honestly tiring since he needs to lead. Especially in anything fast pace like a quickstep or to swing. It’s also three hours out of the week that Jamil isn’t maintaining his composure. Just you, him, and the instructor since Kalim splurged on private lessons. It’s liberating and Jamil wants to keep with it far beyond after the class ends. Even if it’s just slow-dancing in the common room to one of those vintage records stowed at Ramshackle. Seven, let him have this.

‘We’ instead of ‘Me’ (Inherited AND Developed): Automatically assumes that any invites are for you too. Jamil is used to thinking this way. Except the ‘we’ applied to Kalim, with Jamil as a plus one. Jamil did not want to be part of that ‘we’. Hence why he would only refer to Kalim when laying plans out. ‘Kalim has dance lessons at six, then dinner at seven, then study until 10 and then bed. Tomorrow, Kalim’s going to a banquet head by the treasure’s family and then returning to campus.’ The unspoken truth being that Jamil’s schedule matched. He followed, but was never on board with being Kalim’s ‘we’. He has always been a ‘me’ and made an active effort to preserve all his ‘me’ moments. For someone so self-aware…Jamil isn’t sure when he began to view you as his ‘we’. Only that when you auto-included him in everything…it was less strenuous than with Kalim. Far less. Easy to adapt. In the past, Jamil believed a partnership to be another chain. Perhaps being a ‘we’ was never supposed to hurt.

“Thanks for the invitation, but we’re staying in tonight…. No, not Kalim. The Prefect. What? I’m not speaking for them. If my word’s not good enough, just go ask the prefect yourself.” <- Other people might look at him and think he’s treating you like Kalim. Oh, how wrong they are.

Texting (Inherited): Jamil’s not used to someone keeping tabs on him. You’re going to see him within the hour, why does he need to call before going to wake up Kalim? Why do you need a text that he’s back in his dorm before you’re able to sleep? Why do you show up in Scarabia at one in the morning, throwing rocks at his window, if he forgets? (Jamil never forgets. He just had to reign in some rowdy first years and couldn’t catch a break. It was on his mind. Really.) It’s not the worst demand. A five minute call while he’s prepping breakfast and a few messages to know he’s going to rest are a small price to pay. Turns out a little rundown of his day before bed makes sleeping a ‘little’ bit easier. Huh.

“I don’t see it.” <- A lie spoken with the most monotone tone possible. Jamil rolls his eyes over the rim of his mug, taking a sip before turning the page in his book. Najima scoffs before returning to her magazine. She can say he’s softened up all she wants. He won’t admit to it. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong in the slightest. Jamil’s well aware that hopes and wants denied to him from birth have begun to stir within him. No matter how small the changes may be, Jamil isn’t foolish enough to give those emotions his attention. Not if he wants to keep them. Good things always escape his grasp…his wounds are too fresh to get comfortable just yet.

[fear-less]

harry + first time for both of them + set during dh 1 when ron leaves (in this scenario hermione goes with him) + they have kinda experimented before but this is their actual first time

tysm ❤️❤️

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 Your fingers in my hair

pairing: harry potter x f!reader

➥ In which, you and harry are left alone, stressed but glad to still have each other.

warnings: smut, first time, dom!harry, pretend the tent is big and not tiny…lol, y/n used once, pet name (baby), unprotected sex

1.3k words

divider creds: i-mmaculatus & dollywons

The night was unnervingly still, the kind of silence that amplified every crackle of the campfire and the faint whisper of the wind threading through the trees. Harry sat alone outside the tent, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. He tried to push away thoughts of Ron’s sudden departure and Hermione’s decision to follow him.

He wasn’t sure what to feel. Betrayed? Hurt? Maybe relieved? The tangle of emotions knotted in his chest, making it impossible to settle on any one.

The soft sound of a zipper being pulled back snapped him from his thoughts. He turned to see you stepping out of the tent, your hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the night’s chill, pulling your coat tighter as you stepped into the cool air.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently, your voice a comforting murmur in the silence.

Harry shook his head. “Too much on my mind.”

You nodded, then sat down beside him. Your shoulder brushed his lightly as you settled into the space between him and the fire. For a while, you sat in quiet companionship, the flames casting shifting shadows around you. Finally, it was you who broke the stillness.

“Ron and Hermione... they’ll come back, you know.” The words came out softly, but there was an underlying doubt that couldn’t be hidden.

Harry didn’t respond right away, his eyes locked on the fire as it danced between you. "I don't know," he said finally, his voice low. "And even if they do… things won’t be the same."

Your hand hesitated for a moment before it reached out to rest on his. There was warmth in your touch, steady and unwavering. Harry didn’t pull away, but he didn’t know how to respond either. The truth was, for so long, he’d been wrapped up in the fight against Voldemort, in the weight of their mission, that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about what he wanted. Not about this. Not about you.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely carrying through the cold air. "I—"

Before he could finish, you leaned in. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, but there was an intensity to it, an unspoken understanding that Harry’s heart stuttered at the touch of your lips. It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, but it felt like it was—different, more real, more... inevitable. When you pulled away, your eyes searched his, asking for something he wasn’t sure how to put into words.

But Harry nodded, the unspoken weight between you two finally breaking through. Everything had been building toward this moment—the stolen glances, the unacknowledged longing, the shared silence in the face of everything falling apart.

Your movements were slow, tentative at first, as if unsure whether the fragile spell between you could withstand more. But the hesitation quickly gave way to something deeper, more certain. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, your touch sending a warmth spreading through his chest, and Harry’s breath caught. His hands found their way to your waist, trembling slightly as he pulled you closer, feeling the urgency of a connection that couldn’t be ignored any longer.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, his voice rough with a mixture of uncertainty and longing.

You smiled softly, your eyes glistening with tenderness, with something stronger. "I’m sure."

Harry, his heart racing and now with your certainty, didn’t waste a moment. Without hesitation, he closed the distance between you, his lips finding yours once more. This time, there was no uncertainty—only a quiet urgency.

You guys had never gone too far, only ever making out and subtle grinding on each other. Harry was determined to change that. So to no surprise, with trembling hands, Harry pulled off your jacket. Minutes later, both yours and his shirts were discarded in the dim glow of the campfire, forgotten on the ground.

He took a moment to look at you, you weren't wearing a bra so your full chest was on display. You were beautiful—breathtaking. Your body, your eyes, your smile. All of you. His heart raced again, though this time it was for a different reason. You, too, had been watching him, your eyes tracing the lines of his chest and the muscles beneath his skin. The intensity of your gaze was enough to make him forget everything except the way you made him feel.

Before he knew it, he was guiding you gently down to the couch, lowering you with a tenderness that contrasted the urgency of his actions. He hovered above you, eyes locking with yours, both of you breathing heavily. 

“Please,” you said breathlessly. 

Harry wastes no time in taking off your pants, now leaving you in just your underwear. 

“Fuck baby, you’re soaked, all for me, yeah?” 

You nodded, too hazy in the head to form any words. Harry Now catching onto your neediness, he wastes no time in taking off his boxers and your panties. The only pieces of clothing that were separating you from one another were now  gone. 

He looks down at you, his gaze intense, a silent question hanging in the air as his eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation. The warmth between you both thickens, and you lock eyes, your heart racing. With a breath that feels too heavy to release, you nod, your body tingling with anticipation and desire, impatience igniting the air around you.

So with no warning, his cock was pressed against your slit and slowly went deep inside you. You cried out in pain and pleasure as he was still against you.

"Shhh, I’m right here," he whispered, his voice low and soothing. "I won’t move until you’re ready, got it?" He leaned down, his lips gently kissing away the small tears that had escaped down your cheeks, his touch tender, grounding you in the moment.

You were a mess beneath him, struggling to take him fully but to Harry, he felt like he was on top of the world–like nothing else could compare. Harry dreamed about him wanting to desperately fill you up and he reckons he's damn near doing that.You grasp onto his back, your fingers digging into his skin, nails pressing deeply into his flesh, a mix of urgency and need coursing through you. He couldn’t help but move forward slightly into you from the sensation, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as the intensity of your touch sent a rush of heat through his body. The connection between you deepened, both of you caught in the rawness of the moment. You let out a soft moan, instinctively tightening around him, the sensation causing him to groan deeply, his lips brushing against your neck as he succumbed to the overwhelming wave of pleasure.

“Harry, you can move now,” you breathed out.You didn’t have to ask him twice; his hips surged forward with a sudden urgency, a raw intensity in his movement that even took him by surprise, the heat between you both building with every passing second.  His hands gripped your waist hard, unknowingly leaving marks that would darken into bruises by morning. You barely noticed in the moment—distracted by the way his breath quickened against your neck, the urgency of his touch, as if every second mattered. 

“Fuck you feel so good around me, youre sucking me in so deep.” He said through a whimper. His words made you clench hard around him, making him let out another moan.

His fingers drew closer down and found their way to your clit. Your moans filled his ears like music, each sound more desperate than the last. It was as though he was the only one who could make you feel this way, pulling you deeper into something neither of you had fully prepared for.  Begging for a release that you were desperately in need of.

"Harry, I-I’m so close..." The words escaped you in a breathless gasp, your face instinctively finding its way to his shoulder as you cried out, trembling with the anticipation of release.

“Does my baby want to come for me? Have you been a good girl? Should I allow you to?” His voice dropped even lower, dripping with a mix of authority and indulgence, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Please… I need it. I can’t take it anymore,” you cried out, your voice trembling with the urgency of your need. Every inch of you burned, desperate for release.

“Shit, cum on my cock, baby.” Harry spoke, his voice full of intensity, but softer now, as if the moment demanded it. His fingers now circling faster around your clit, you could feel yourself on the edge, so close to that sweet release, every nerve in your body on fire with anticipation. WWith one final, powerful snap of his hips, you lost all control, your body trembling as you came undone around his cock. 

When he felt you coming undone, he nearly lost it, your moans, the way you clenched onto him. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he cursed, his thrusts now becoming sloppy, he was nearing his release while you whined, still high off your release. 

“Fuck, take it, take my cum, fuck!” He shot load after load of his hot cum deep into you. Groaning and whimpering like a mad man as he reached his much needed climax. 

As if he couldn't take his weight any longer, he laid on top of you, your fingers subconsciously finding their way to his hair while he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

enjoyed? check out my navigation

[revelboo]

Do you mind writing an Optimus Prime part 2? Whenever 😄 inspiration finds you.

Sure! Also, I just accidentally found out that a single post can’t have over 100 links in it by accident with my Masterlist... Guess I get to par that down to the first chapters of everything and add actual previous/next links to the individual posts to navigate within a storyline.

And I’ve had a few people speculating about it and tried to make it a bit clearer now on the masterlist: the IDW stuff is all one big continuity with Lost Light and the random kink snippets clearly separated as alternate takes/AUs now.

Gravity pt 2

Optimus x Reader

• “You’re going to give them a heart attack when they come to if you don’t stop looming like that,” Ratchet mutters and Optimus looks up trying to decide if his old friend is joking. Given the frown, Ratchet’s serious and he’s not sure what to make of that. He’d known humans were fragile, but your heart can just stop? From fear? “They’re a little banged up, but fine,” Ratchet adds as Optimus stretches out a servo to touch your still form and then hesitates. You’re just so tiny, he’s not sure he can touch you without breaking you. “Who are you giving this one to?”

• Like it’s a forgone conclusion he’ll pawn watching over you on someone else. Someone less busy, less weighed down with duty. “It’s my responsibility,” he says, watching your chest rise and fall. You’ve been out since he caught you and so very still. He keeps his optics on you so he doesn’t have to see Ratchet’s expression. Because this is his responsibility and his guilt. He knows it’s not fair to trap you on the Ark, but keeping the surviving Autobots safe is his priority. And the other humans seem fine. Mostly.

• “Bumblebee would take them,” Ratchet offers, a hand touching his arm. “I think he’d be glad of the company.” Shaking his head, Optimus carefully curls his servos around your limp form and lifts you. Hears Ratchet venting tiredly behind him as he walks out and carries you through the halls to his quarters. Trailbreaker and Hound both turning to look when he walks by, curious. Maybe it’s been a mistake to try to keep his people far from humans. Maybe not. Sideswipe probably won’t be the last to abuse his rules, but he’s not ready to trust the humans to not betray them yet. He can’t.

• Your head is ringing, sinuses burning as you stiffly shift and your body complains about it. Why do you feel like one big bruise? There’s a blanket wrapped around you, but whatever you’re laying on isn’t that soft. Something presses so gently between your shoulder blades that it’s a ghost of a touch then slides down your spine. Repeats the stroke. Lifting your head, you squint up at a huge face staring down at you and everything slams back into focus. The Jeep that wasn’t a Jeep. The wreck. Giant, alien robots. One of which is holding you in one hand while it runs a huge finger down your spine again and again. You start shaking. That petting stopping when it notices.

• You’re awake. And not screaming. That has to be good thing, but remembering Ratchet’s warning, he rumbles and presses a servo carefully over your heart. It’s not stopped, but it is racing. A little, warm hand lands on his servo, your eyes wide in fear as you just tremble. And he understands, you have to realize how tiny you are compared to him, how easily you can be hurt. “You’re going to be okay, little one. I have you,” he says, optics snared on that tiny hand on his. And he knows he’ll protect you just like his Autobots. Be sword or shield for you, whatever you need. You’re his to care for now, that trembling fear hurting him to see.

• That rumbly, deep voice sings in your bones where you’re touching him, because that voice erased any doubts. Blue eyes is definitely a he. And as crazy as it is, you believe him despite the fear. There’s an earnestness in that voice that’s almost a promise of safety. Wonder mingles with the fear still thrumming through you as you stare at those pretty glowing eyes and think that they look unbelievably kind. The thought almost immediately followed with the certainty that you probably have a concussion.

Previous

Next

[stvolanis]

Your lover, Lestat, was sickening in every way possible. Sickeningly charming. Sickeningly cunning. Sickeningly handsome. He was the master of manipulation, with his charismatic tendencies aiding him. Lestat, controlling in every sense of the word, seemed to control everything and everyone around him—except for you. And God, did it drive him absolutely mad.

Lestat was so used to getting his way. Torturing peoples bones till they bended to his liking, before meeting their inevitable doom and snapping. Rubble at his feet. He had a way with words, that was no surprise and was well known by those who knew him and lived. He was a greedy, narcissistic man, but you—you were his remedy. The right to his wrongs.

Lestat bowed for no one, yet he’d fall to his knees in your presence if you’d ask. He was an evil man, yes, he knew this to be a fact. But that didn’t matter to him, when little ol’ you peered up at him through those bashful lashes of yours like he was nothing but a saint. How could someone so devastatingly beautiful be the devil himself?

Lestat was madly in love, madly obsessed, and madly captivated all in one. An ambush of tiny angels plucking at the dead strings of his unbeating heart in a chilling melody only you knew the chords to.

Sex was an otherworldly experience. He was your first everything, including your first time. He was gentle, loving, and tender with each thrust he’d give you. Strings of praise slipping past his lips in his native tongue, accent thick and heavy as sweat dripped down his forehead. He was holding himself back, afraid his power would hurt you. He’d laid with mortals, uncaring of their comfort—but even as you were a vampire, he treated you like you would accidentally break at any moment. More fragile than human.

“Our beings as we know them are tied for eternity now, mon cher. I am yours as you are mine.”

don’t be shy, ask to be a part of the tag list and request things!!

TAG LIST: @elvisalltheway101 @epthedream69 @claire-elvisgirl @elvisrealgf @littlehoneyposts @luxuriouslokistan-3 @sapriao @xiyingly @jazminsjaz @likeits2002 @www-interludeshadow-com @khxna @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @floredaqueen @peterpan-neverfails-blog @lemonadygirl @newavenger @bloobewy @vogueprincess @theoraeken @scintilla-morningstar

[pandapetals]

Love Poem

You dig around in Logan's desk to find a history textbook but end up finding a poem he wrote yet never showed you.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

"I’ll just be a minute," you called over your shoulder, your voice echoing in the hallway as your students shuffled papers and murmured amongst themselves. 

You slipped into Logan’s classroom, the familiar smell of chalk dust and aged wood welcoming you like an old habit. The space felt odd still without him here, the lingering warmth of his presence yet obvious in the organized chaos that cluttered his desk—a pile of essays half-graded, a forgotten coffee cup with a fading ring on the edge.

Your eyes flicked over the bookshelves, seeking the history textbook you needed to weave a little more context into your next lesson. You couldn’t remember which one Logan used, but you were sure he had mentioned it.

Your class was dissecting the complexities of literature, but you’d thought adding historical context might breathe new life into the lesson.

You moved to Logan’s desk which was, like him, layered—precise, yet spontaneous; structured, but with hidden corners of unpredictability. You tugged open the top drawer, the scent of old paper meeting your nose as you spotted the thick textbook nestled atop a jumble of pens and stray notes. You reached for it, the weight of it solid in your hand, but the sudden thunk as it hit the desk startled you. A crumpled piece of paper fluttered to the floor like an afterthought.

You hesitated, your fingers already reaching for it. Something about the way it had been tucked so carefully away made your pulse quicken, a tiny ripple of curiosity stirring in your chest. You crouched and picked it up, smoothing the edges between your fingers. The paper felt worn as if handled too many times, folded and unfolded in moments of private contemplation.

You weren’t one to snoop, not intentionally, but there was something about this slip of paper that pulled you in before your better judgment could intervene. It wasn’t a random note, not a stray grading rubric, or a scribbled reminder. The handwriting—Logan’s unmistakable looping scrawl—was deliberate, careful. Then you saw it, a phrase that caught the breath in your throat before you even realized what it said.

My love, in the quietest hours, you are the melody I hum, the verse I can never finish, the breath between my thoughts.

Your heart stuttered. This wasn’t a note for work. This was poetry. And it was unmistakably his.

You sank into Logan’s chair, eyes tracing the rest of the lines, each word unfurling like petals of a flower you never knew existed in your marriage. Logan had written you poetry. Intimate, raw, overflowing with emotion he rarely expressed in words, at least not like this. But he’d never shown this to you.

A strange mixture of warmth and hurt settled in your chest. Why hadn’t he? Had it been written in the early days, when love was still new and full of wonder? Or was it more recent, penned during some quiet moment when you were too busy grading papers or attending faculty meetings to notice him scribbling away in his office?

The bell rang in the distance, a sharp reminder that the world outside this room still existed, but you couldn’t move. The paper was still in your hand, a fragile secret that somehow felt heavier than the textbook beside it. You stood slowly, your mind whirling with questions you didn’t even know how to ask yet.

The door creaked open behind you. Logan’s voice, familiar and warm, filled the room. "Did you find what you needed?"

You turned to face him, the poem tucked neatly back into the folds of the paper, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. He tilted his head, a hint of concern creasing his brow. "Everything okay?"

For a moment, you considered confronting him right there, holding up the poem like a tangible piece of his heart that he’d unknowingly handed over. But something stopped you. Maybe it was the vulnerability in his eyes or the weight of this new discovery that needed time to settle before you could give it words.

"Yeah," you said softly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I got what I needed."

Even as you left the room, Logan’s quiet footsteps behind you, the poem whispered in the back of your mind—unfinished, like the love it spoke of, waiting for the right moment to be fully realized.

Later that evening, as the mansion settled into its usual evening quiet, you found yourself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board echoed in the stillness, but your mind kept drifting back to the poem. The words lingered in your thoughts, hovering over you like a melody you couldn’t shake. 

You stole a glance at Logan, who was sitting on a bar stool at the counter, flipping through a book with an absentminded expression.

He looked so relaxed, his brow smooth, his posture comfortable—the complete opposite of the man who had poured his heart onto that crumpled piece of paper. You wondered how long it had been since he'd last written something like that, or if he'd even thought about showing it to you. The question buzzed at the back of your mind, but you were in no rush to ask. Not yet. You wanted the right moment, one that felt like the softness of the poem itself.

As you stirred the pot on the stove, you caught Logan’s eye from across the room. A small smile tugged at your lips. There it was—the moment.

"So," you started, drawing out the word in a teasing lilt, "I found something interesting today… in your desk."

Logan blinked, lowering the book slightly as his eyebrows furrowed. "In my desk?" His voice had the cautious, playful suspicion of someone who already knew they were in for it but wasn’t quite sure how.

"Mhmm." You turned off the stove, wiping your hands on a dish towel, savoring the small flicker of nervousness in his eyes. You could see the gears turning in his mind, searching for what you might’ve stumbled upon. His face didn’t betray much yet, but the subtle shift in his posture told you he was anticipating something.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms, letting the pause stretch just long enough. "A poem."

Logan froze, the book slipping closed in his lap. His lips parted, but no words came out immediately. The embarrassment washed over his face in slow motion—a soft flush creeping up his neck, his fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of his jeans. He sat up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could brush away the heat rising in his cheeks. "Ah, that," he muttered, his voice quieter, almost sheepish.

"Yeah, that." You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening as you watched him squirm just a little. "Logan, I didn’t know you had such a way with words. It was… beautiful."

He chuckled, the sound awkward and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at his hands. "I’m not great with words, not really," he said, his voice low but sincere. "I never know how to say things out loud, you know? Writing… I guess it’s easier that way. It’s just—" He paused, struggling to find the right words, his fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest.

You took a few steps closer, softening your tone as you reached for him, placing a hand gently on his knee. "Logan, you don’t have to downplay it. The poem—it was you. Every line. Every word." You tilted your head, catching his gaze, your voice teasing but tender. "How long have you been holding out on me, huh? Keeping all these love poems hidden away?"

Logan’s eyes met yours, a quiet vulnerability there that he rarely showed. He let out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. "Honestly? I wrote it ages ago. It just… never felt like the right time to give it to you, I guess."

You nodded, understanding settling between you like a shared secret. "But why not? I mean, it’s… it’s lovely. It’s us."

Logan exhaled slowly, his hand reaching up to cover yours. "I don’t know. I guess part of me thought it wasn’t enough. Like, I can never quite say what I want to say. You deserve more than half-finished poems on crumpled paper."

You squeezed his hand, feeling the tension in his grip, and leaned in just a bit closer, your voice softening to a near whisper. "Logan, I don’t need anything more. That poem—it’s enough. It’s more than enough." You paused, letting your fingers brush gently over the back of his hand. "In fact… I want more."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and something warmer beneath it. "More?"

You nodded, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah. I want more of you—on paper, in words, in poems. Write them for me. Even if they’re unfinished. Even if they’re messy. I don’t care." You leaned in closer, your voice barely more than a murmur now. "I want to see more of what’s in here." You tapped gently against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

Logan’s expression softened, the embarrassment fading away as something else took its place—relief, maybe, or something akin to it. He smiled, the kind of smile that was just for you, full of that quiet, understated affection he had always carried. "I’ll try," he said softly, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you. My poetry gets very cheesy."

You laughed, the sound warm and light, and pulled him into a kiss, the poem forgotten in the best possible way as you sank into the moment with him, the quiet hum of affection settling comfortably between you.

When you finally pulled away, you whispered, "Cheesy’s my favorite."

Logan grinned, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Well then, I better start scribbling some more love notes," he teased, but his eyes were sincere, a new promise between the two of you.

As you turned back to finish dinner, your heart felt lighter and fuller, knowing that somewhere, in a drawer or a notebook or maybe even on the back of a napkin, more of Logan’s words were waiting for you—tangled, imperfect, but always from the heart.

[wishing-for-deathx]

Rejection. It’s all I’ve ever faced my life. From lovers, from family, from friends, from opportunities to success. I kept going. Kept thinking maybe it just wasn’t right. But I’ve reached that threshold where my fragile heart can’t take it anymore. Each time I get rejected now, it’s like some squeezing my heart and shattering it into uncountable pieces. It makes me feel small, worthless. Like every cell of me was created to be hated. To be looked at with resentment and disgust. Who could love you, my brain says. Look at you, you sorry being. So peculiar. So unlovable but so desperate for love. Wish I’d realize the only solution is to be alone. It’ll be lonely, it’ll hurt but I promise you it won’t burn like when you are rejected. If only I could kill that tiny ray of hope and give up. It would save my life.

[tsumuus]

monoma,, please,,, for your #2 prompt. the quote one. I like the quote you had as an example,, the first one. you can choose whos who (:

₊✩‧₊˚ neito monoma + prompt 2 ˚₊✩‧₊

₊✩‧₊˚ “im not in love with you anymore” “i never knew you were” ˚₊✩‧₊

Late nights at U.A. always had a certain stillness to them. Most students had long gone to bed, the quiet halls lit only by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows. But for you, these late-night conversations with Neito Monoma were a routine. They often started with playful banter, little arguments that no one else understood, but somehow always ended in meaningful talks that stretched into the early morning.

You were perched on the edge of his dorm bed, cross-legged and twirling a loose thread from your jacket. Monoma was lying beside you, his arms behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling, his usually sharp and teasing tone softened by the late hour.

"I'm glad I never lost you," Monoma said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You looked over at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"Why would you ever lose me?" you asked, half-joking.

"Because of my feelings," he replied quietly, and your heart gave a tiny skip at the unexpected seriousness in his voice. You shifted slightly, leaning closer.

"Your feelings?"

Monoma sighed, sitting up slightly so that he could face you. His eyes, usually brimming with mischief, were focused on you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. "I'm not in love with you anymore."

The words hung in the air, sinking into the quiet room, and you felt your breath catch. "I didn’t know you ever were," you whispered, your confusion clear in your voice.

Monoma blinked, clearly taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice softer now, almost afraid to break whatever fragile thing was hanging between you. "You're not in love with me anymore? You were in love with me?"

His brows furrowed. "Yes, we've talked about this. You always turned me down, so I decided it was best to get over it before I ruined everything."

Your head spun, struggling to grasp what he was saying. "We talked about this?"

Monoma nodded, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration. "Yes, multiple times."

You stared at him, your mind racing back through all the conversations you’d had, trying to remember any moment that even hinted at a confession. "We’ve never once discussed this, Neito."

His confusion mirrored your own, and suddenly it felt like you were on two different planes of understanding. You never noticed. You had never realized he was trying to tell you how he felt all those times. And now, the weight of what you hadn't known crushed your chest.

Silence fell between you, thick and uncomfortable.

"I didn't know," you whispered, feeling a dull ache form in your chest. Over the last few months, you had started seeing him differently. He was your best friend, but the longer you spent with him, the more you realized that your feelings had changed. And now, hearing that he had moved on while you were only just catching up—it hurt.

"I didn’t know you were in love with me." You forced a small laugh, but it was hollow. "And now it doesn’t even matter anymore."

Monoma’s face shifted into confusion again. "What? What do you mean?"

You swallowed hard, pushing yourself up off his bed. "It's late. I should go." Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it, but the reality of the situation was too overwhelming. You needed to be alone to process it.

Monoma sat up quickly, his eyes wide with concern. "Wait-"

"I'll see you tomorrow," you cut him off, forcing a small smile before slipping out of his room. Your heart pounded in your chest as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway, trying to sort through everything that had just unfolded. He wasn’t in love with you anymore. But the ache in your chest was because you had fallen for him, and now it was too late.

Over the next few days, you couldn’t help but pull away from Monoma. It wasn’t intentional at first, but every time you saw him, a sinking feeling dragged you down, reminding you that whatever chance you might’ve had was gone. Conversations were shorter, and you didn’t stay for your usual late-night talks.

It didn’t take long for Monoma to notice. On the fifth day, your phone buzzed with a message from him.

Monoma: Come over, we need to talk.

Your heart skipped a beat, but you brushed it off. This was normal, right? The two of you talked all the time. There was nothing unusual about him asking you over. Still, as you made your way to his dorm, you couldn’t help the knot that twisted tighter in your stomach.

When you arrived, Monoma wasted no time. As soon as the door clicked shut, he turned to face you, his expression serious. "You've been avoiding me."

"I haven’t-"

"Yes, you have." His voice was firm, but there was something softer underneath, something that felt like worry. "What's going on?"

You swallowed hard, unable to look him in the eyes. "I didn’t know," you whispered.

"Didn’t know what?"

"About your feelings," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "And when I finally realized I..." You trailed off, biting your lip. "I didn’t know you had moved on. It just... it hurt. Because I started to realize I have feelings for you too."

Monoma froze, his breath catching as your words sank in.

"But then you told me you weren’t in love with me anymore, so I thought-" You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look at him, your heart aching as you saw the shock in his eyes. "I thought I’d just get out of your way."

The silence was deafening, and for a moment, you regretted saying anything at all. But then Monoma stepped forward, closing the gap between you in two strides. Before you could say anything else, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you.

It was sudden, and yet it felt like something that had been waiting to happen for a long time. When he pulled away, his voice was a soft murmur. "I never moved on."

You blinked up at him, your heart racing. "But you said-"

"I tried," Monoma admitted, his thumb brushing your cheek. "I tried to get over it because I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. But I never could. You’re too important to me."

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you kissed him again. When you pulled back, you saw the soft look in his eyes, the same one you had always been too blind to notice.

"I guess we’re both pretty terrible at talking about feelings," you teased, your voice light.

Monoma chuckled softly, pulling you closer. "Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time."

a/n longer then expected but legit could not leave it angsty, just had to end it with sme fluff

₊✩‧₊˚ 555 follower event ! ˚₊✩‧₊

main masterlist

[a-ikuoliver]

w/c: 1.8k tw: blood, bloody makeout, don't look at me notes: this is my first time writing toga i want her so bad tagging ml @papersirens <3

too much. too much. too much. too much. too much. too much.

friends, teachers, parents, that's all they'd ever say — every school report, every play date, every fight some variation, always too something.

"himiko," her friends would sniffle, pouting at the edge of the playgrounds, rubbing palms into their watery eyes, tossing himiko's doll at her feet, "mama says you play too rough."

too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough.

"himiko. let go." older know, she knows to obey, to loosen her grip on her best friends hand, not to argue, not to pout. "you're hurting me."

a painful pang hits her heart as miu's hand slips from her grasp, her hand flopping uselessly to her side; why didn't miu want to hold her hand? keep her close? hold her so hard she won't slip between the gaps?

too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard.

"himiko," miu's voice is soft, like feathers, like cotton, like her lips.

"please, himiko? i need to practice, yumiko said naruhito is going to ask me out friday." her voice is sweet, like sugar, like peaches, like her tongue.

practice. that's all it was. her first kiss already not really her own, it belonged to naruhito. like miu did.

"toga!" her shout is sharp, like a knife, like a razor, like glass, shattered into tiny shards at her feet.

"why would you do that!" the back of her hand comes away red when she glares at the blonde, himiko's pointed canines grazing against her bottom lip, she just wanted her, wanted her love, wanted all of her.

"you're too rough, boys don't want to kiss like that."

too much. too hard. too rough. too overwhelming. too suffocating. too much.

miu was right. no one wanted to kiss her. no one wanted to walk hand in hand. no one wanted to love her. no one wanted her affection.

"himiko," your voice is soft, like cotton, like feathers. "please, angel."

your voice is different than miu's. lower. hungrier. your grip is bruising, clutching her hips like your life depended on holding her in your hands, painted nails raking over her burning skin beneath the knitted dress.

you're breathless when you say her name, like being in her gravity sucks the oxygen from your lungs, like miu sounded talking about naruhito before she kissed toga.

your lips are less than an inch away from hers, glittering, citrine eyes staring into yours, finding nothing but the same insatiable desperation mirrored from her own; nothing like the eyes that came before you, no apprehension, none of the disappointment, the fear.

you slot between two plush thighs, pushing her dress higher on her hips with your movement, one hand sliding down past her belly button, ghosting over her hips to move to the back of her thighs, squeezing the pillowy fat there hard in your hands, gripping her like you're worried she'll disappear, slipping through your grasp.

"kiss me, please, kiss me."

himiko wants to speak, to wield a sharp tongue before you can cut her with yours, to tell you your affection meant nothing, that she was indifferent, nonchalant, unaffected, just like miu had been. another swift squeeze to her ass has her head falling back onto plush pillows instead, a low, drawn out sigh from her parted lips.

your bed is squishy, like miu's, the scent of clean cotton and your perfume filling her nose, muskier than miu's had been, the scent clouding her mind the more she sunk into the comfortable cushions.

soft.

aren't you worried she'll slice and stab and rip the softness apart? claw and cut and tear through the sweet-smelling fabric until she was surrounded by fragile feathers, floating down around her as she lies in the centre of her destruction?

you can feel her heart pounding in her chest, practically hear it in the silent room (save for your panting as you kiss her cheek and jaw) when her thighs slip apart absentmindedly, the short woven dress sliding higher on her hips at the movement, exposing just a sliver of cotton panties, already wet at the centre.

"you want me to say it again, angel? i'll say it as many times as you want to hear it." you're panting against her skin, smiling lips planting another kiss beneath her jaw, hot breath tickling the hair at the nape of her neck the more you begged. she's certain you can taste her erratic heartbeat when you lick at her pulse point, smell her desperation, her fear. like a fawn cowering beneath a wolf, your canines bearing with every word you spoke, "please, please, please."

sliding one hand up her chest, you rest it on her pulsing ribcage, just beneath her tits, your other travelling lower, easing between her thighs, feeling her heart race the closer you inched up her thigh, closing in towards her cunt.

her pupils have almost swallowed her entire amber iris, full and dark with an insatiable need, thick eyelashes fluttering when the tip of your finger ghosts over the crease of her thigh, only a breath away from her pussy. she jumps, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath your fingers.

"i-i can't," it's the murmur of a church mouse, of tiny, wild prey, trapped beneath a murderous predator. her voice soft, like your pillows, like your hands.

"can't kiss me?" your voice is light, teasing, drawing another blissed sigh from her when you kiss the column of her throat with a grin, "or don't want to kiss me?"

god, if you knew how much she wants you. if you knew how all-consuming her appetite was. himiko sinks her claws into you, sharp plum nails digging into the meat of your upper arm, tugging you closer, closer, closer, your hips pressed to hers so hard she jerks again, hungrily searching for you. you let her, allow her to pull you where she wants you, to tug you above her, to bruise you. to mark you. have you as her own.

she waits for your yelp, your cry, 'himiko, stop, too much. too hard. too rough.'

she aches for more as she stares up at you, for your touch, your tongue, your lips, your teeth, your fingers. she can't let go of you, sinking her claws deeper into your skin, even as a bruise begins to bloom beneath painted fingertips. she feels her heart might explode beneath your hand, that your fingers will be stained with her desperation for more, her ache to make you hers.

you don't wince. you don't pull away. you don't pout. you don't tell her she's too much. you don't say anything. you only grin, biting your bottom lip before you finally dip your head to meet her lips.

your kiss is nothing like miu's, apprehension replaced with a hunger, a desperation no one's ever felt for himiko before, your tongue searching for hers, not avoiding her kiss. sighing into your lips, her spine arches into you, chest pressing to yours, rib cage to rib cage, your heart pressing to her heart. there's not an atom keeping you apart.

her hand travels down your arm, over your waist, resting on your hip where she pulls you closer again, her hips jumping to meet yours, desperate for any stimulation, for your body heat.

she thinks she hears you mumble again, a breathless plea from your mouth into hers, your sigh breathing life directly into her lungs.

pressing your hips into hers, you take advantage of her soft moan, sliding your tongue into her mouth, tasting her lips, her teeth, sucking her tongue into your own mouth. himiko all but whimpers against you, the sound high, needy.

she is needy, needs your touch, needs you to need her.

too much. too much. too much. too much.

like a mantra, she reminds herself, glass heart fracturing at the idea of your kiss laced with trepidation, of your mind racing with excuses to leave her, of you sniffling when soft skin tears beneath her razor-sharp touch.

a needle-sharp incisor catches on the plump of your bottom lip, blood already pooling to the surface, spilling into her mouth. glimmering golden eyes roll back, you taste so good, breath taking, so fucking addictive. she wants to savour your taste before you pull away, before you tell her she's too much for you, before you storm out and leave her barren of your heat, of your adoration.

"fuck, himiko," you sound… different than miu did. she spoke sharply, angry. you were… hungry, needy, desperate.

your hand slips out from beneath her dress, flying to her jaw to slam your lips into hers again, spreading blood and saliva over your lips and chin as you sloppily kissed her, your metallic tongue tracing over hers. himiko's hands follow, one forming a bruise on your ass, the other tangling at the back of your neck. she can't get close enough to you. tugging you closer, closer, closer, kissing you deeper, deeper, deeper.

her moans sound angelic, even more so when her head falls back, unabashedly loud in her pleasure when you suck on her throat, bringing blood to the surface with your tongue until you sink your teeth into her neck, at the join of her shoulder, her chest, leaving deep, purpling indents in your wake, a memory of you cemented in her epidermis for the days to come.

crimson runs down the centre of your chest, a deep vermillion trail travelling down between your tits, her tongue relentlessly chasing the taste until her face is pressed to your sternum, licking and sucking hungrily at your skin, neither of you caring about the mess of blood and saliva between you. not when her tongue was swirling between your tits, when your fingers are twitching against her plush cunt.

"himiko, himiko, himi-ko," her cat-like eyes are fogged over with lust, staring up at you, no thought in her mind other than the taste of your skin, of your blood, of your lips, teeth, tongue, of you.

blood rushes in her ears, pumping through her arteries and gathering at the base of her throat, spilling from the shallow wound on her chest, smearing between your bodies. himiko's dizzy, her head swimming when you lick at her tongue again, the taste of coppery blood spreading between your mouths; she doesn't know what's yours anymore, your saliva and blood mixing with hers between your mouths, you both becoming one.

her hand settles at your jaw, pulling your gory lips back to hers hungrily, eagerly parting your lips with her tongue, licking at the wound in your lip, your blood-stained teeth. dark red spreads between you both, from your veins to her tongue, from her tongue to your mouth, from your mouth back to hers, a terribly erotic mix of blood and saliva that had her heart racing like it wanted to jump from her rib cage into your hold, for you to hold and kiss like it was her.

"fuck, himiko," you pant, breaking the kiss to press your forehead to hers, planting kisses between every word,, between every breath, leaving pretty red marks along her jaw, "you're perfect."

she's perfect. perfect. perfect. perfect.

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[walpu]

hii, first of all, sorry for my bad english

this may sound weird, but lately i've been thinking of aventurine turning in a cat. like, for some strange reason (maybe during a mission), he turned in a cute little cat. and since reader doesn't know he's a cat, he feels free to enjoy all reader's affection, and maybe to let his emotions win and cry while being caressed. and then he turns human and he's crying enough to fill a swimming pool. idk if i explained well :(

tysm, i love love love your works!! ❤︎

AWWW THIS IS SUCH A CUTE REQUEST and don't worry your English is perfectly fine! It's not my native language as well so I get the struggle tho

I love making my faves cry so there's a possibility that I've got a bit carried away lol

taking care of cat!Aventurine

edits by @keisieudeptry on twitter

characters - Aventurine notes - gn!reader, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, a lot of cuddles, n̷̳͙͊͛õ̵̩͓ ̸̧͉̓b̶̳́̎e̵̖͋͊ṭ̴̩̔ȧ̵̪͚̕

Aventurine

Listen, he's always on alert okay. This man rarely allows himself to relax, especially when he's on another one of his business trips.

And he knows what to expect. Lies, attempts on his life, threats etc. He has seen it all.

But this. This. This is something new. Of course anything can happen when you're dealing with The Masked fools but this? Being turned into a cat? In what place this is even funny? It is kinda funny tho just not for Aven

He knows better than to panic. Yes, being turned into a tiny orange cat was not a part of his plans. Yes, this is probably the most defenseless and vulnerable state he's been in since his childhood. Yes, this sucks. But hey not like panicking will change anything.

Instead he just sits in the corner, feeling incredibly anxious and dreadful. His only hope is that this shapeshifting trick won't last for long.

A huge wave of relief washes over him when he sees a familiar person. And not just any person but you. The only person who can put his restless mind at ease, at least for a short time. He wouldn't mind seeing Topaz or Ratio too but it's much better when it's you.

He quickly realizes, however, that his joy was premature. He can't communicate with you! And you don't know that this is him! So the only thing poor Aven can do is follow you around and... meow. It's almost humiliating. Too bad he doesn't have time to care.

Soon enough you give up at finally pick up the oddly familiar cat. Every time you try to put the cat down it starts meowing and running after you so the only thing you can do is pick it up and carry around like a potato.

And you know how it is with cats, once you put your hands on one you can't stop petting it. You run your fingers through the cat's fur absently, while checking you phone for any messages from Aventurine. Hugging the cat, pressing your face to it's soft fur. Something about it surely reminds you of Aven. The thought, no matter how childish it is, brings a small smile on your face.

And poor, poor Aven. For so long he's been longing for your touch while laying awake at night, his poor heart flattered every time your fingers brushed against his. He wants wants wants to melt into your embrace yet this is not allowed for him.

How can he ask for it without exposing the deepest and darkest parts of his soul. How can he open his heart to you without reveling all the ugly, fragile parts.

He wants to be open with you, he really does. Yet it's so unreasonably hard. Would you kiss his head like you do now if you would know how empty he is inside? Would he be able to press his forehead into you palm, asking for more more more without feeling exposed?

In a way, it's good that right now he's in this form. He doesn't really have to think about anything, doesn't have to feel anxious about revealing too much. He can just enjoy in.

You two fall asleep just like that and he doesn't have to overthink, he can just crawl to you side, nuzzling up to you.

You can't help but notice that the kitten in your arms is trembling slightly. And when you pull it closer in order to provide some warmth and comfort it just purrs and meows pitifully. Almost like it's… crying.

Now listen. I'm 100% sure Aven is a light sleeper. So there's no way he won't wake up from a loud gasp and a lot of movements near him.

Well. Seems like the shapeshifting trick the masked fool pulled on him lasted only for 12 hours. And now he lays on the couch in his human form while you look at him with the wide eyes.

Awkward.

His initial reaction is to laugh it off. "Surprised, dear? It's a shame you can't see your own face right now ha ha". Would explain the whole situation, trying to make it seem like it was not a big deal. No mention of you cuddling session tho. Max he would say is "my, my, didn't know you where such a cat person".

However, his smile freezes immediately when you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. Well. Here goes all of his feigned confidence.

Here is this feeling again. Your warmth, you scent, the comfort your touch brings. You telling how you started to get worried and how relieved you are that he didn't get hurt. It cuts so deep, makes him feel so exposed yet so needed. Loved even.

At first he doesn't even get it why your eyes get even wider, why a look so lost and worried all of the sudden. Only when your hands hesitantly cup his cheeks and you ask him what's wrong he realizes that there are tears in his eyes.

You know those tears when they just drop from your eyes and it's not like you're hysterical or crying uncontrollably but the tears just keep coming and coming and the more you try to calm down , the worse it gets? Yeah, him.

Would almost automatically tell you that everything is fine. When you confront him, pointing out that he's literally crying, will get even more confused than you. "Hah, seems like you're right, dear" he says with a small smile, giving up on the idea of hiding it from you. After all, it's too late for that anyway.

It feels... not even humiliating, no. It's weird, scary even, to be so open around someone. To be stripped of his mask so suddenly.

And yet he doesn't have time to care when your hands hold him oh so tenderly, when you cup his face and ask him what's wrong.

"Nothing, nothing, really. Just getting a bit sentimental here. Just... hold me like that for a bit more, 'kay?" he manages to whisper with a faint smile before pressing his face in the crook of your neck.

God feeling his tears on your skin feels so surreal. And heartbreaking too.

With each tender touch he gets even more emotional, to the point when he literally chokes on his own tears. Please hold him, run your fingers through his hair, kiss the top of his head.

He just doesn't get it, it feels so good to be held by you, why does his stupid heart hurts so much then?

Honestly he didn't cry for so long and there are so many repressed feelings, just let him let it all out.

He'll probably fall asleep in your arms, feeling very exhausted after the sudden emotional outburst. In the morning would act like nothing has happened, making some dismissing comments about him being a bit overdramatic last night. Don't let him withdraw into himself but don't push him to open up too much as well.

Just touch him more often from now on, especially when he looks like he had a bad day. And eventually he'll turn into your lap cat, reaching out for your warmth himself with or without reason.

"You're being clingy again" "Am not <З" all while sitting on your lap.

You've domesticated him so good luck.

[aikaterini-drag]

Fragile Embrace

Summary: Bucky is afraid to hug you tightly because of the serum in his system. You sweetly convince him otherwise.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: established relationship, implied smut, fluff, intimacy.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp casting shadows across the walls in your bedroom. Bucky sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense, his hands clasped. He stayed silence, every inch of him hating his strength—the damned serum that felt like a curse.

Across the room, you watched him with concern and understanding. You had seen this struggle in him before, the internal battle he waged against his own abilities. He was afraid to let his true strength show, afraid to be anything other than super gentle with you.

You approached him slowly, your footsteps barely making a sound on the carpeted floor. Still, he could hear you. He was a super soldier, he knew the rhythm of your heartbeats inside out, knew the pattern of your breaths. He could also tell that you longed for his hugs—not just simple tender hugs, but the kind that squeezed you tightly, conveying the depth of your love. But every time you had reached out, he had pulled away, a look of agony in his eyes.

He couldn’t allow himself to let his guard down with you. He knew better than anyone what his strength could do, the damage it could cause… A small mishap and he could hurt you, and the mere thought of that broke his heart.

“James,” you said softly, your voice like a gentle breeze, “you don’t have to be afraid. I know you can’t always control your strength, but I trust you, and I trust your love for me.”

He turned to look at you, his beautiful blue eyes tormented. “Sweetheart, you don’t understand. You don’t understand how serious this is.”

You knelt in front of him, you hands reaching out to cup his face. “Baby, love isn’t about holding back. It’s about trusting each other, even when things are tough. I’d rather take the risk with you than live without your touch.”

“You feel my touch,” he said, his flesh hand slowly caressing your face.

“Yes. You are so very gentle with me.” You smiled and held his metal one. “I’m grateful but there are times when I want you to let go of your restrains and truly feel our love.”

He kissed your hair and closed his eyes. “I cannot let go of my restrains.”

Smiling gently, you rose to straddle his hips, your hands looping around his shoulders. “Not even a tiny little bit? Please? For me?”

He tensed but carefully embraced you, his hands encompassing your waist. “You are a little menace.”

“And don’t you love that?”

He chuckled. “I do love that. I love everything about you.”

“If you love me that much, then hold me tighter, Sergeant.”

“Like this?” His hands moved to cup your ass, squeezing the soft mounds and squeezing you against his hard body.

You hummed pleasantly. “More.”

With a low growl, he embraced your frame with his strong hands and squeezed just a little tighter. His face pained but when he watched you smile and writhe pleasantly on top of him, he relaxed and maintained his grip on you. You leaned down and brushed your lips together in a deep and wet caress. He responded immediately and coaxed your mouth open with a gentle nudge of his tongue, deepening the kiss.

“More,” you whispered against his mouth, your breaths mingling.

“No… sweets, I’m afraid—”

You framed his face, eyes locking onto his. "James Bucky Barnes," you whispered, your voice soothing yet decisive, "you could never hurt me. Your strength is a part of who you are, but it doesn't define our love.” You smiled, your thumb brushing against his unshaven cheek. "With me, you can always let go. I trust you completely."

“How can you be mine?” His breath ghosted over your lips. “How can this perfect softness be mine?”

“The same way you’re mine. You are mine, Barnes.” You traced his hard chest with your fingers. “This perfect man is mine. All mine.”

He looked at you with misty blue eyes. “You’ve quite undone me, sweets.”

“Make love to me,” you whispered, your mouth trailing a path of warmth along his jawline, stopping just shy of his lips. “Not slow and tender. But hard and emotional. I want to feel you. Every part of you.”

You sensed his apprehension at your words, the lingering doubts. But you crashed them with the loving press of your lips against his. With a trembling sigh, he succumbed, rolling you over, his big frame hovering above you on the bed. He wrapped his arms around you and pressed you down on the mattress.

You keened and he made love to you, holding you strongly, more tightly that he had ever done. It was a start. It was the beginning of your love’s resilience and eagerness to overcome any obstacle together. You found solace in each other's warmth, Bucky’s fear disappearing as he realized that your love was a force more potent than any serum or bionic arm and that he could hold you as close and as tightly as he desired, without ever causing you harm.

[xoxochb]

hii!! I've searched for percy jackson fics for so long and I just stumbled upon you!! I adore the way you write him. Can I request a clingy percy with an oral fixation who, almost, always asks you to nibble and suck on your fingers? Thank you!! <33

I fear this may be one of my favorite fics I’ve ever written, like, ever…

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“gimme your hand.” demands percy. he takes your hand off your sheet-covered chest and holds it up to his mouth. “can I?”

you purse your lips and sigh. “go ahead, angel.”

happily, he takes your pointer finger in between his lips and begins to nibble gently on it. to allow him more access to you turn on your side facing him and pull the sheets further up your bare skin to provide at least some modesty (though the you proximately five minutes ago hadn’t cared in the least bit what percy had seen of you). suddenly, he bites down roughly on your finger making you yelp and pout.

“percy, sweetheart, don’t bite. I’m a fragile woman.”

he nods understandingly and pops your middle finger into his mouth also, nibbling gently to assure he won’t hurt you again. with your free hand, you place it underneath your head as you watch lovingly as percy practically eats your fingers right off the bone. you sigh contently as your eyes grow heavy. damn percy always wearing you out. you’ll scold him for this when you wake up, for now, you tiredly continue watching him as he now begins sucking them. accidentally, he shoves them too far back and begins coughing violently.

“dumbass,” you remark. he shoots you an unamused glare and sticks your fingers back into his mouth, clearly not learning a lesson from his previous predicament. you take this serene moment and his unchanging actions as a simple chance to admire him. with the lack of light in cabin three, his once bright sea green eyes resorted to a darker, more forest green kind of look, his raven hair tousled from your hands relentlessly tugging and running through it, his cheeks adorned with a light pink hue, and his still ragged breaths, the rise and fall of his chest. you blush feverishly and nuzzle your nose into his shoulder.

he takes your fingers out of his mouth at your action. “you doin’ okay, angel?”

“yeah, ‘m fine. jus’ sleepy.”

“oh…” he holds your hand lower, frowning. presumably, thinking he had been preventing you from sleeping. “sorry.”

“no, continue,” you beckon.

“are you sure?”

percy lets his eyes bore into yours, searching for any signs of discomfort and anger. he finds none, but instead of pupils you have tiny hearts. he smiles.

“mhm. go on.”

and once again, he takes your soft fingers back into his mouth, soon, the nibbling feeling lulling you to sleep

[rose24207]

Dad!lado scared to hold his first baby because she’s so tiny

Tiny

Summary: Lando overcomes his fear of holding his tiny newborn daughter, discovering an overwhelming love and sense of responsibility that changes him forever.

Genre: Dad!Lando, fluff

TW: None!

A/N: another one done :) English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The hospital room was quiet except for the gentle hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of nurses passing by. The air felt thick with anticipation and exhaustion, the kind that settles after hours of labor.

You were lying back against the pillows, your face glowing despite the weariness etched into your features. In your arms was the tiniest human Lando Norris had ever seen.

His daughter.

Lando stood a few steps away, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his hoodie, rocking back and forth on his heels like he couldn’t figure out whether to step closer or retreat.

His eyes hadn’t left the baby since the nurse had swaddled her and handed her to you. The sight of her, all pink cheeks and downy hair, had knocked the wind out of him. She looked impossibly fragile, like a breath of wind might blow her away.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

Lando’s head jerked up, his wide eyes meeting yours. “What?” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Oh, uh, I don’t—I mean, I do, but—she’s so tiny. What if I...”

You smiled gently, your exhaustion melting into warmth. “You won’t hurt her, Lando. I promise.”

But he didn’t move.

His gaze flicked back to the baby, her tiny chest rising and falling with each soft breath. She was so new, so delicate. How could anyone expect him to hold her when he couldn’t even wrap his mind around the fact that she existed?

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “What if I drop her? Or hold her wrong? I don’t want to hurt her.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone. Lando was always so confident—on the track, in front of the cameras, even when life threw curveballs his way. But here, faced with this tiny, perfect person who depended entirely on him, he was terrified.

“She’s your daughter,” you said softly. “She already knows you, Lando. She’s been hearing your voice for months. And I know she’ll feel safe with you.”

Lando hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides.

He wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

But the fear of doing something wrong kept him rooted in place.

You saw the hesitation in his eyes and decided to meet him halfway. “Come here,” you whispered, shifting slightly to make room for him on the edge of the bed. “Sit with me.”

Lando moved cautiously, like he was afraid even his footsteps might disturb the baby. He perched on the edge of the bed, his hands still buried in his pockets.

You gently reached out and took one of his hands, guiding it toward the baby.

“See?” you said as his fingers brushed against her tiny hand. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

As if on cue, the baby stirred, her impossibly small fingers curling instinctively around Lando’s. His breath hitched, and he froze, staring at the connection like it was something out of a dream.

“She’s holding me,” he whispered, his voice thick with wonder.

“She knows her dad,” you said, smiling through tears.

Lando swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. He let his other hand come up, cradling the baby’s head as you carefully transferred her into his arms. His movements were slow, almost agonizingly so, but eventually, he was holding her.

And just like that, the world seemed to stop.

She was so small, her entire body fitting easily into the curve of his arms. Her face was scrunched up, her lips slightly parted as she let out a tiny sigh. Lando stared at her like she held the secrets of the universe, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“She’s... perfect,” he said, his voice trembling.

“She is,” you agreed, resting your head against his shoulder.

Lando’s heart felt like it might burst. He’d experienced incredible moments before—winning races, standing on podiums, hearing crowds chant his name—but none of it compared to this. None of it came close to the weight of his daughter in his arms, the realization that she was his to protect, to love, to cherish.

“I can feel her heartbeat,” he murmured, awestruck. “It’s so fast. Is that normal?”

You chuckled softly. “It’s normal. Babies’ hearts beat faster than ours.”

He nodded, though he barely registered your response. He was too busy memorizing every detail of her face—the curve of her tiny nose, the way her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, the faint tufts of hair on her head.

“What if I mess this up?” he asked after a long silence. His voice cracked on the last word, and you could hear the raw emotion behind it.

“You won’t,” you said firmly. “You already love her so much. That’s what matters.”

Lando blinked rapidly, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He didn’t bother wiping it away. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared,” he admitted. “Or this happy. It’s like my chest can’t hold it all.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek and turning his face toward you. “You’re going to be an amazing dad, Lando. She’s lucky to have you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closing as he let the weight of your words settle over him. For the first time since entering the hospital, he felt a small sense of calm. The fear was still there, but it was tempered by something stronger—love.

The baby let out a tiny whimper, and Lando instinctively rocked her, his movements gentle and unsure. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice soft and soothing. “Daddy’s got you.”

And in that moment, he realized it was true. He did have her. She might be tiny, and the responsibility might feel overwhelming, but she was his. And he would do everything in his power to make sure she was safe, happy, and loved.

You watched the two of them, your heart swelling with love for the man who had stepped so beautifully into this new role.

Lando might have been scared, but as you looked at him cradling your daughter, you knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Lando never forgot that moment—the first time he held his daughter, the overwhelming mix of fear and love that consumed him. And as the years passed, as she grew from a tiny baby into a curious toddler and beyond, he carried that feeling with him: the knowledge that no matter what, she had him—and he had her.

Thank you for reading!

[taintedcigs]

— hardest of hearts

“darling heart, I loved you from the start. but you'll never know what a fool I've been.” ‹‹ — florence + the machine, hardest of hearts.

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

summary: jealousy has never been your strongest suit. you realize that even better when you see steve and nancy in close proximity. based on this prompt by @dumplingsjinson (wc: 1.6k+)

warnings: just absolute fluff, maybe tiny angst, and making out, they kinda go hard at it for no reason, this is just an excuse for me to ramble abt how pretty steve is bye.

author's note: ohh if u want pls listen to hardest of hearts by florence + the machine when u r reading!! luv that song <3 and again. ignore the corny summary and i didnt proof-read and wrote this shitty thing in 30 mins yada yada!!! based on this amazing request i got from my lolo bean angel @lofaewrites i hope u like it MWAHHHHH!!!!

pleaseeee reblog to support me. ty!! mwah.

Jealousy.

That ugly feeling clawed at your insides, consuming you whole, bringing out the worst in you and you knew it, yet you couldn't help it. Finding yourself powerless against its caging grip.

The venomous glare you threw at the two of them surely had to burn off Steve's back, but they remained rooted to their spot, talking about whatever the fuck, while Nancy lingered far too close to him for your liking.

Her curls danced in the dim light, swaying with each infectious giggle that escaped her lips at his jokes. The sight of her head thrown back in mirth only made your blood boil more with it.

You wondered what the fuck was so funny that he felt compelled to whisper to her, the sight of them so close to each other had your entire body feeling hot, an ugly feeling consuming you whole. The fragile porcelain filled with alcohol threatened to break under your harsh grip.

And of course, you couldn't help the way you act entirely unreasonable when he comes back to the booth.

Cold, a total raging bitch, your mouth feeling hot the more you snapped at him. And he knew, he knew the exact reason for your attitude. Yet, he couldn't help but find it adorable. How your lips downturn as you scoff at him, just because you're jealous.

You storm out to catch your breath and get some cold air, his footsteps fall into sync behind you, because he can see right through the facade you desperately clung to, see the way your doe eyes flash hurt, thick lashes hiding your disappointment behind the anger.

You lean against the brick wall of the bar, the chilly Hawkins air seeping through the fabric of your coat, almost enough to calm you down before you can hear Steve's hesitant footsteps as he closes the distance between you.

He's making you so pathetic.

The concern in his eyes mirrors the ache in your chest, gaze searching yours for answers you were reluctant to give.

"Is something wrong?" He asked, tone merely honey-glazed.

He didn't let you answer, instead following up with a, "Or are you just... jealous?" That stupid smirk lingers on his lips, making your insides gooey, while you wore that scowl as your mask.

"What?" You scoffed, playing dumb, as you crossed your arms against your chest, almost to protect your feelings.

"Oh my god, you so are," he teases, that damned smirk stretching his mouth into a full grin, reaching all the way to his eyes, causing them to crinkle, so pretty that you are melting all over.

"Shut up, Harrington," you murmur, heat spreading across your cheeks, gaze unable to avoid him. Pools of warm honey-toned brown eyes drawing you in so effortlessly.

"God, do you still not believe me?" He shakes his head with a slight huff, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You know exactly what he's talking about, with the way his brows quirk up, and he tugs at his silky hair in frustration.

Steve told you he liked you. A couple of days ago. But you just scoffed and huffed, rolling your eyes in his face.

You couldn't—more so—you just didn't want to believe it. You thought it was too good to be true.

Couldn't believe that he would want you when he used to be so hung up on Nancy. Blame it on your insecurities, or your attachment issues. Or blame it on the fact that you were scared. So fucking scared.

And you'd rather avoid all of it than have him break your heart. It's unreasonable, but to your idiotic brain, you're being logical.

"H—how do you expect me to when you end up doing shit like this?" Your tone is barely above a whisper, suddenly insecure like you're exposing yourself bare to him. You just need him to convince you. And he knows. He finally knows.

"Like what? Talking to Nancy?" He scoffs, like it's ridiculous. To him it is. That you even can believe the idea that he still thinks about her, when all that invades his mind is you.

"Like talking to your ex, the same ex you were hung up on," you reply back bitterly, words burning your tongue as they barely roll off your lips.

He leans in closer to you, almost to make a point. "Were, like you said." He spits in frustration, "past fucking tense. I moved on, so long ago. You know that."

"And she just said hi, as a friend. Nothing more," he enunciates it carefully and would explain that to you all goddamn night, if it meant it would wash your worries away, he meant every word he said to you. He didn't care about Nancy. It was you. And from now on, it was only going to be you.

You were desperate, so desperate to not show him your true feelings, but of course he could see right through you. "Maybe, maybe she did, but-"

He groans, not even caring that he's interrupting you. "There's no fucking buts, sweetheart, I told you, told you that I fucking liked you, that I wanted you, why do you insist on trying to push me away?"

You gulp when you notice how he has you caged against the textured walls, your back hitting the bricks with a soft thud, his breath flushing your already heated cheeks. "I don't—"

"What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” His words are harsh, not in a rude way, only to get it through your thick skull. Show you how much you actually mean to him.

Rough hands end at your side, that annoying strand of hair falling to his thick lashes, making him look so pretty that you just want his hot mouth on yours. "There is no one else for me but you, and even you can't fucking change my mind, yeah?"

"I don't give a fuck about any other girl unless they're you." Words fall like silk from his lips, and they are heavenly to your ears, blinking quickly to process all of it.

And he enjoys it, sees the way your gaze glimmers, cheeks adorned with a sudden warmth as you give him those doe-eyes that make him want to crumble into you, fully.

You nod dumbfoundedly, almost to let him know that you finally believe him, and he gives you a soft chuckle, raising his brows "Are you going to let me take you out on that date?"

His caramel hues swirl hypnotizingly as they gaze into you, so alluring paired with the striking moles all over his cheek and neck, making you wanna kiss him all over. "Mhmm," you hardly mumble, too focused on taking all of him in.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, fingers brushing against your skin like feather, soft but making you flustered nonetheless, the faint scent of his woodsy perfume invading your senses. "Come on, use your words, honey," he coaxes, fingers leaving goosebumps in its wake as you can feel him all over.

"Y-yeah," you faintly mumble, not so confident in your voice when he looks at you all hungrily.

His mouth slightly curves into a bigger grin, leaning in as he whispers "Atta girl," almost making you whimper at his low tone.

You lean closer, urging his mouth to yours. He groans when you sweep your thumb over his jaw, knees giving out at the sound. Soft candy lips brush against yours, so agonizingly slow that the heat unfurls all over your body.

He takes your slight shock as a moment to slide his tongue inside, a sigh of relief escaping your velvety lips. He tastes like beer, and something sweet, kissing you with so much heat that you can't help the way you melt into him, his touch burning everywhere it makes contact with.

He brings you closer, as if that's even possible, bodies pressed against each other, your breasts flush against his hard chest, and you can almost feel his heart hammering inside, rhythm matching yours.

His cherry-pout mouth suckles at your bottom lip, slight stubble brushes against your chin, and fuck, you want him, so much so that you let out a low whine.

You want to continue. Desire runs through your body like wildfire, burning him with you, but once you hear the honks of the busy street, the realization of where the fuck the two of you are hits you, and only then you break the kiss.

Standing outside of a bar, kissing like two horny idiots, a pretty giggle escapes your lips when you meet his dreamy gaze again, his hues resembling mostly black now, both sets of pupils blown wide. Passion radiates from both of you.

"Was that enough to prove to you that I really, really, really like you, sweetheart?" He asks with a pretty grin, lips all puffy and smudged with your gloss, earning more hearty giggles and a nod from you.

"Or do you need to kiss me in front of her? Get all territorial?" He asks with a slight tilt of his head, brows raised all teasingly, that smirk returning like it ever left, making you huff.

You elbow him playfully before you fist his shirt, bringing him in much more close proximity, again. "Shut up and kiss me again, Harrington."