#if there's someone who deserves it it's him

[heartyluv]

I love your writings of Zayne and Sylus! Can you do one of Zayne and Sylus (separately) where reader tells them that she thinks they should break up because she feels like she isn’t good enough for him so she needs to focus on herself, plus he’s been so busy, and they haven’t had time to be with each other for a while. Which leads up to this moment. Zayne and Sylus ofc get angry because they love reader so much and deny her request. No matter what they will always chose her and who is she to tell him how to feel. Kind of angsty, passionate, and deep yearning if you get what I’m saying. Thank you.🙇🏻‍♀️

Note: You guys are getting all the angst today LOLL. I had some extra time to actually get this done, especially since it didn’t need to be too long. I hope you enjoy, luvly! Thank you so much for being here.

Warning: You talk badly about yourself in this, but I’m here to tell you that all of you luvlys deserve nothing but the absolute best and nothing less. I luv you. 😚

Zayne

Zayne was worried when he got a text from you while he was at work during another one of his late night shifts. He hasn’t been able to be around you for long for the last couple of weeks because of being on call so often lately, so when you messaged him on your own accord for the first time in a while at almost one in the morning, all his focus was out the window. It was a good thing he was due to go home soon.

“Hey, Z. Sorry if you’re busy. Nothing’s wrong, but if you had time tomorrow, could I come by and we talk for a little bit? Love you.”

He wasn’t waiting until tomorrow. Especially when he tried to text and call you and you didn’t answer any attempt. And not when you texted him like that. No emojis, no babe, no lovebug, not even an I in saying that you love him. So when he finally was able to get out of the hospital, the first thing he did was drive to your home.

He doesn’t know about the mental turmoil you’ve been dealing with. He doesn’t know that it’s been going on long before he started getting really busy.

You’ve been feeling insecure about, well, everything. About you not feeling like you’re good enough for someone as talented, intelligent, and handsome as your boyfriend, feeling like he deserves someone who can match him in ways you believe you’re incapable of doing. The distance hasn’t helped, and all you could think of was all the pretty doctors and nurses that he’s around everyday, all the women he encounters on the daily who are undoubtedly just as enamored by him as you were when you first laid your eyes on him.

You tried to convince yourself that this was just you having a moment of weakness, that you simply missed him so much that your brain couldn’t help but try and pin something on you since you haven’t seen him in what feels like forever. It got so bad that you genuinely wondered if he was working overtime, longer than usual, just to get away from you.

Because you knew Zayne was never that cruel, you came to the conclusion that it was time to talk, to tell him that perhaps breaking up is good for the both of you so he doesn’t have to deal with you.

You were rehearsing all of what you hoped you could properly communicate in your bed, when you got a text.

“I’m outside. Please open the door.”

Your whole body froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here now. But you couldn’t just leave him out there, so you dragged yourself out of bed to get ready to tell him something you’d never be prepared enough to say.

His eyes were full of curiosity, confusion, and concern when you stood face to face. He was so worried that he didn’t even bother removing his coat or making himself comfortable. Instead, he just turned your light on so that he could see you properly.

“I got your text, yet you didn’t respond to me when I tried to message and call you back. You’ve worried me. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, feeling the tears in your eyes burn as you tried to get yourself right to say what you needed to. But every time you looked into his worrying eyes, your heart cracked. For yourself and for the fact that even with the love in them, you couldn’t help but feel like you were undeserving of it.

“I think we need to break up, Zayne,” you rush out, shutting your eyes and breathing out as if you were being held underwater. No amount of tugging on your pajama sleeve was going to ease your nerves, so you resorted to your fingers, picking at the skin until it hurt.

Zayne hated that. He placed a large palm on both of your hands, looking down at them before he looked up at you.

“Is it something I’ve done wrong? Because of my recent increase in absence?” he studies you, trying to look for any of your ticks to try and see if you’ll lie.

“I just—” the tears fall loosely, rushing down your cheeks. Instead of piecing your thoughts together, they just start spilling out uncontrollably. “I just believe you deserve so much more than me, than what I offer you. I could never be what you need, what you deserve. You’re one of the youngest and most successful surgeons in the world, Zayne. You are so perfect that it makes me wonder how I was so lucky to be given someone like you. And because of that it’s best for me to just let you go so that you—“

“Stop,” he interrupts you. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve when everything and all I’ve ever wanted, needed, is standing right in front of me, trying to leave.”

Your heart beats rapidly from the intense emotions and heavy stress you’ve weighed upon yourself.

“I could lose my job, lose everything I’ve ever earned in this life, and the only thing that would keep me going is you, do you understand that?” He reaches his hand up to cup your face. “But because you’ve come to me with this, it’s obvious that I’ve failed in making sure you know and understand how special you are to me. And it is my responsibility to instill that security in you and us, again.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. He shut all of that down before you had the chance to dig an unnecessary hole deeper, even if that uncertainly is still in the back of your mind.

“I will listen to your concerns and I will mend your heart, but I will not let you discredit or talk down on the only person I’ll only and will ever, love. Is that fair?”

You nod, unable to speak due to embarrassment, relief, and even because of that tinge of fear in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you only mumble.

“There’s no need to apologize to me. It’s my fault for letting these thoughts have the chance to stew in your pretty mind when I know that reassurance is one of the things that keeps us strong. We’re okay, my love. We always will be.”

Sylus

When you started ignoring Sylus’ text messages today, he tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. You had times where you forgot to even look at your phone, so he couldn’t fault you. His kitten, funnily enough, was still human. He was bothered that you had only spoken with him once this morning and it was almost five in the evening now.

Even then, he figured that since he’ll see you later, you can tell him what was so much more important than him while he teased you about it. But when you ignored his phone calls, he knew there was a problem.

You never missed a call from him because his ringtone was the song he had playing when he asked to be your boyfriend. It was a beautiful night on a luxurious rooftop restaurant that he rented for the night as a special way to romance you. It was unique and the song always had you smiling, floating to your phone when you went to pick up as that same dreamy memory replayed in your mind. So now that you’re not answering, his anger and concern began to mend together.

“She’s home?” Luke says with confusion when he gives Sylus your location. He had him find you after his first and only attempt to call you went to voicemail.

“Boss, did you do something?” Kieran asks, his tone laced with shock. You never got like this and the only thing he could think was that after almost three years together, you must’ve had your first real big fight that they were unaware of.

Prepared to debunk that theory, he suddenly got the text message that had him in front of your house faster than anything or anyone could comprehend.

“I’m breaking up with you, Sylus. I’m so sorry.”

Sylus angry was scary—because he didn’t look angry. He had the face that you could compare to a sleeping baby; calm, peaceful unbothered. But under the surface, he was one wrong sentence away from losing his shit.

Your door was thrown open, broken off the hinges when you ran into your living room. His head quirked to the side when he saw you. Puffy and eyes, runny nose, oversized clothing in a relatively warm house. He didn’t know what was wrong, but running from him? He wasn’t allowing it.

“It seems you’ve gotten my attention as you anticipated, sweetie.” He steps toward you, feeling his heart twist with concern as you look at everything but his eyes. “You ignore me, and I allow it all day. Yet to repay me for my generosity, my sweet kitten decides to push her luck and sends me nonsense.”

His playful attempt to control himself drops when he thinks of how prepared you were to just send him that message as if he would ever just accept such a thing. “There is nothing above me that I an incapable of fixing when it comes to keeping you happy. Talk to me. Tell me what needs to be done so that we can resolve it together like we’re supposed to.”

You taught Sylus what real communication was. In this moment, he’s thankful for it because he’s determined to use it to get rid of all your worries and concerns. He tilts your chin up when you refuse to look at him and that sends the waterworks rushing again.

Sylus has been so busy that this was the first night you would’ve seen him face to face in over a month. A part of the reason as to why you were driven to send him that message is because you felt like he was only ready to see you since you nagged him so much.

Even if you didn’t seem to understand that, it couldn’t be further away from the truth for the man looking down at you with determination. Being away from you was hard, but your safety meant more to him than anything. Being apart from you was necessary to ensure nothing ever touched a hair on your head while he handled things you didn’t need to concern yourself with.

Between him being gone and the type of charismatic man he is, you firmly believed that Sylus would inevitably find someone better. You became so dependent on him in a way that made you feel desperate. You felt that maybe you were way in over your head, that this separation was needed so that you could accurately reflect.

You believe that he should have someone secure in themselves, someone who could keep up with him. Someone that was better than you, someone more than you’d ever be.

“I’ve been thinking… And I believe that it’s good for the both us to separate. I didn’t intend to drop this on you, not like this. I just feel like I’m not worthy of you—that you’re a man that women would give nothing but the best to. All I want is for you to get the things that make you happy, not have you settling for something like me.”

You’re surprised that he actually let you finish.

He breathes out, shaking his head slightly. “For someone so smart, your mind must’ve worked tirelessly to convince you to believe something so ridiculous.”

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, staring at them before he looks into your eyes. “It insults me that you don’t think that I know what I want, that I know what I deserve. It insults me that you would belittle the only real thing I’ve ever had in my life, so boldly. It angers me, that I’ve not done my part to properly ensure that you know that you are the only person alive that I would destroy this planet and myself for.”

Your breath hitches when he pulls you closer. “If you ever believed for a second, that I’d let you simmer in this darkness, that I’d let you leave me, I need to do a better job in showing you the kind of man whose children you’ll carry.” He kisses your nose. “Whose ring you’ll bear.” Another kiss to your lips. “Whose heart you will always own.” A final one to your forehead.

“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling the emotions bubble inside you again, threatening to spillover. You want to believe that what you sent was a spark of simple insecurity. But you know it’s been inside you long enough for it to erupt the way it did.

It’s the fact that he would never even allow you to deal with any of this on your own that makes your tears spill.

“You don’t need to say anything, pretty.” He rubs the tears away, one by one as they come. “The only thing you need to tell me are ways we can make sure that this belief never plagues your mind again and how I can keep you confident in my love for you.”

He simply takes your hand, walking out of your apartment and makes a phone call to have your door repaired tonight because you’ll be staying with him until further notice.

“You’re stuck with me for life, kitten. Not even death could keep me from you. And I’m going to make sure that you always understand that.”

[nionom-art]

Oke... I don't want to make you designe stuff just because, I'm sure you work a lot, and you deserve a break. But after your recent Re-verse art, I can't forget the ide of the girls having their "Lovebug" outfit too... 🖤Lovenoir🐈‍⬛ and ❤️Passionelle🐞or something... I imagine in that au both of them have an eye on Adrien (in civil, as Marinette has the cat Miraculous), and kinda bet on who can integrate him to the team, so they offer him different Miraculous... Like Aspic in Desperada, but 100x...😅

Even if you don't do it, I love both your Lovebug and Re-verse designe, they are crazy cool 😁

Dude, honestly I was secretly hoping someone would ask for this (cuz I love LoveyBug)

Here they are:

They still hate each other (but more discreetly this time).

[multific]

The Letters He Never Burned

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Through quiet letters and unspoken truths, something bloomed.

It began as a favour.

You never thought a single letter could reach anyone, let alone someone like him.

You wrote about your garden, the books you read, and your cat who sat on the kitchen table like a king.

You kept it light. Hopeful.

You figured, whoever got it, if they even bothered to read, would need something that felt normal.

Not pity. Not a reminder of where they were.

You didn’t expect a reply.

So when an envelope arrived weeks later, sealed tight with careful, blocky handwriting and a military return address, your fingers trembled.

Not much to say. But I got your letter. It helped.

Don’t stop writing.

-Ghost

And so, you didn’t.

Over the months, the letters grew longer and more personal.

He never gave much away.

But he started asking questions. About your day. About the people in your life.

He asked what your favourite season was. If you believed people could change.

I don’t sleep well. That’s not new.

But I read your letter twice last night. Thought I’d dream of something better.

I didn’t. But the thought helped.

-Ghost

There was no photo of him. No voice. Just his scrawl, always signed Ghost until, one day, it was just Simon.

And then it stopped.

No more letters. No word from the front.

You checked the News, and they said a team had gone dark in the field, no names released. You checked your mailbox every day for weeks. Every knock at the door made your heart stumble.

You tried to move on.

You failed.

Weeks turned into months.

And then one evening, a knock at your door.

When you open the door, there’s a man on your porch.

Tall. Broad. Worn leather gloves. Civilian clothes, but you know instantly that he doesn’t belong to this kind of quiet.

He removes his hood.

His face is pale, gaunt. Haunted.

“Simon?” you whisper.

He nods once. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

“I didn’t know if you were”

“Didn’t know if I was coming back either.”

You don’t wait. You close the distance and wrap your arms around him.

His are stiff at first, unsure, but then his whole body sinks into yours like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“I read your letters,” he murmurs into your hair. “Every bloody one. Even the one about the cat knocking your tea over.”

You laugh through your tears. “I thought you’d stopped writing because…”

“I didn’t know if I deserved to keep them.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. “But I never stopped thinking about you. And when I made it back, you were the only place I wanted to go.”

You place your hand against his cheek, rough with stubble.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” you whisper.

“I do,” he replies hoarsely. “Because I didn’t think I could feel anything again. But I felt you. Every damn letter. And now that I’m here… I’m not going anywhere, love.”

And when he kisses you, it tastes like salt, and everything he never thought he’d have.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[untitlzd]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[meraki-sunset]

I felt like this one deserved it's own post

Mage of Blood = Understand (with/through) Blood (bonds)

To me Harry is a leader like his father, but he can be very self centered. Blood is related to bonds and i feel like that's something Harry needs to learn about. To comprehend the stakes of being on the center of the stage with everyone depending on you to save the play. Also, him being a mage comes from his mother and all her wizardy vibes.

Maid of Light = Heals, creates and (re)generates (with/through) Light (Knowledge)

Light is knowledge. I see fit for Vriska's descendant to be a healer born and raised in a peacefull world, being kind of an oposite to her, mirroring what she could've been had the world not required her to be ruthless to survive. It can also be a learning oportunity for Vrissy, who wants to be cool and badass like Vriska, but her power is centered on creating and helping instead of stealing and destroying like her

Having the same class as Aradia, who killed Vriska, and The Dolorosa/Porrim who Mindfanf/Aranea, her ancestor got killed, also reflects this. Serkets and maids don't go well. But this one does, this one will brake the cycle

I also really like keeping the aspects as a family thing that get's passed on with trolls

Thief of Time = Redistributes (with/through) Time for Own benefit

This girl is done. She was made in secret, has been hidden, pushed away like an inconvenience, sent to live far from everything, used as a hostage at a war made by all this people who are suposed to be important and are suposed to be her family but that she doesn't know. She doesn't care. She'd ask for her life back but who knows how much of it she can consider hers. She just wan't her time back. The time this gods took from her. And she's going to take it one way or another.

I also love the pattern of time players being always red(ish) and space players always being green

Heir of Rage = Invites change, control and manipulation of/in/with/through Rage.

If someone deserves to explode is Tavros Crocker. Like a joke from the universe, the off brand John is a heir like his brother, but not a heir of freedom, no, the total oposite actually. He inherited something worst and he's about to use it to full buldose everything in front of him.

I think it's also cool that Hope and Rage are oposite aspects and he has Gamzee's aspect, and oposite to his dad's. Kinda reflecting all the messed up dinamig going on at his home

So basically, Harry and Vrissy will learn about responsability and help others and Ruby and Tavros will fucking obliterate the planet

[dolceaspidenera]

Saw this and had to reblog to spread some love and appreciation for all the fics I stumbled upon that brought me some kind of comfort.

@surlydragon you already know it, but your series "In which Sylus..." is for me THE comfort fic. I never felt more seen and emotionally validated in my life. The way you voiced MC and the way you write Sylus taking care of her is incredibly comforting. Their dynamic and the way they love each other is beautiful. Seeing someone who is willing to put the work in, who is gentle and patient and loves you despite the hurt, despite the unlovable parts of yourself that still need healing is one of the most comforting things about your story. You have really written something important, I hope you know it and remember it every time you have doubts about whether or not you should share your stories (ultimately it will always be your decision but I wanted to let you know without a doubt that your writing is very appreciated and also I'm happy it made me "meet" a wonderful person, our conversations always bring me a smile).

@senualothbrok your stories about Aurora's healing journey (Progress and Promise) really left an impression. I still find myself thinking about them, and I really appreciate you for putting such vulnerable work out there. Plus, I think it was thanks to those stories that we really started talking, so one more reason to think back fondly on them.

@iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia your headcanons have brought me so much comfort and so many smiles. Thank you for everything you've written over the years. I have my personal favourites but I enjoyed seeing each and every one of your posts (Julian will always have a special place in my heart).

@linkons-most-wanted I think What The Cat Dragged In is by defenition the most comfort fic that could be made, and it found me on a day I really needed it. Also Double the Birthday, Double the Fun is another one of your works that somehow I find very comforting, and seeing the twins happy and being spoiled is always fantastic, they deserve it. Also, I have no idea what is wrong with my brain chemistry, but this line right here, "Sylus steps up quietly behind me, looping a hand around my waist and running a thumb softly over my ribs" makes me melt every time I read it. It's just those little gestures and body language that convey reassurance and closeness, a silent way of showing affection, of saying "I'm here," you know? Ugh, my heart.

@shenanigans-and-imagines, I Want It All was my very first BG3 fan fic I ever read so it definitely has a special place. Also, the ace!Tav x Astarion pairing was a breath of fresh air in the fandom climate at the time. Thank you for the positive and very empathetic ace rep.

@senseandaccountability, Blaze Me A Sun is one of my favourite fics ever. I just love the way you write, it inspired me to try writing something for myself, and I wish I had even 10% of your talent. You perfectly captured so many of the themes that are so important to me in bg3, especially when it comes to Astarion's story, what it means to live with trauma and scars, knowing that you didn't deserved it but it happened anyway, and the years you lost you’ll never get back, and yet life is still full of beauty and hope and you should still be kind to others. And then there are the developing feelings between him and Elnys, and what it feels like to find someone who actually sees you. Thank you for your incredibly touching prose and for addressing difficult themes with the care they deserve.

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

[endofthelinegang]

the things we don't say

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompts "don't go on that date." "why?" "you know why." "say it." 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  cursing

use this magical link to pick your favorite marvel character and send in a request :)

The zipper trembles slightly between your fingers as you pull it up. Not because your hands are shaking—at least not much—but because you’re second-guessing the decision you made twenty minutes ago. The jacket is soft, tan suede, something you haven’t worn since before the Thunderbolts—back when “casual” didn’t feel like an act of rebellion. Underneath is a black camisole that clings just enough to make you feel alive again. Real. 

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

But in the mirror, you can’t ignore the way you check your profile—your hair tucked just right, your collarbones exposed, the gloss on your lips just a touch shinier than usual. Your fingers linger at your throat for a second too long, brushing against the delicate chain necklace you threw on without thinking. A gift to yourself. A piece of the old you.

The door creaks behind you. The energy shifts instantly. You don’t need to look. You already know who it is. That same low, smoldering pressure that always coils at the base of your spine when he’s near.

John Walker.

You can see him in the mirror before he speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns it—broad shoulders tense, one hand gripping the frame just tight enough for the knuckles to go white. He’s in black tactical gear, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he was either coming from training or looking for an excuse to fight. His hair is a mess, you knew he had been messing with it. His eyes are already on you. Not just watching—reading.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, voice casual—but the kind of casual that cuts, his shoulder was pressed into the doorframe, his body completely blocked up the space. 

You smooth your hands down the front of your jacket, mostly to keep yourself busy or at least to look busy. If you didn’t there was just the smallest chance you wouldn’t go anywhere. “Yeah. Civvies. Off base. Crazy, I know.”

He moves closer landing his feet on the ground from where one leg had been crossed over the other, a slow step that echoes across the floor. “With who?”

You shrug, not turning yet. You want to make him wait and you do not wanna give him the idea that his presence would affect anything. “Someone who asked.”

In the mirror, you catch the flicker in his jaw. That’s where it always starts with him—just a little tension that spreads like cracks through ice. He blinked and looked to the window before looking back at you. He knew you were making a dig, and man was he happy you did because it was giving him a reason to dig back. 

“Right,” he mutters, his tone shifting. “Let me guess—one of the new handlers? The guy who can't even clear a sidearm properly?” 

You turn now, slowly, facing him with your arms folded. A casual stance, but defensive. You catch the way his eyes drop—not to be disrespectful, but because he’s scanning. Reading your body, your outfit, the way the light hits your collarbone. His gaze lingers at your neckline a second too long before he tears it away. All that did was anger him more, not even he deserved to have you dress up to go do something with him let alone some other idiot. 

“You been spying on me now, Walker?” you ask, your voice cool, laced with something sharper. You knew he was, he had been for a while. At first it was to figure out what you liked and what he could be doing for you that would be considered little gestures. The biggest issue was that John had a hard time making up his mind on what to do about you. So he would go back and forth between bringing you lunch and organizing your laundry in its basket to not talking to you at all. Which is one of the biggest things that led you to this situation. 

He shrugs. That signature Walker arrogance, but there’s no real heat in it. Only frustration. “Just observant.”

You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth twitching. What hurt you was that you knew that he knew how you felt about him in some way. If he didn’t he would’ve never done any of the nice things he had been doing.  “No, you’re being a dick.”

He stiffens. The smirk disappears like you flipped a switch.  “I’m just wondering when you started going for guys who talk big and fall apart the second they’re in the field.”

You step closer, boots scuffing against the tile. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” he bites back. “What—he bought you a drink and suddenly he’s worth your time?”

You flare at that. Your fingers tighten around your arms, gripping your own skin like it’ll keep you from lunging. “What’s your problem, John?”

He’s silent, but his eyes are screaming. That unreadable expression cracks at the edges—his jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. He takes a step forward, then another. The air between you grows thick, electric. You can smell the faint scent of cedar from his cologne, cucumber from shampoo, and mint from where he must have brushed he teeth , something grounded. 

“My problem is you’re going out with some paper-pusher while we’re still knee-deep in this Thunderbolts circus and pretending like it’s normal.” He was sounding meaner and meaner the more he talked, his tone was rough and his volume was rising. 

You hold your ground, you knew that he could be mean it was no shocker. “You’re right. It’s not normal. None of this is. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit around waiting for someone who doesn’t say what he means.”

That hits harder than you mean it to. You see it in his eyes. The wounded flash behind the blue. His hands flex at his sides—twitching, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and grab you or punch the wall behind you. His chest is heaving and he is tapping his left foot slowly on and off like he can’t stand to be in his own skin.  He steps closer quickly, if you didn’t know any better you would think you were about to be attacked. He was now close enough that the fabric of your sleeves brushes with every breath. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch forward, you’d be touching.

And at that moment, he hated himself a little.

Not for wanting you—but for waiting this long. For letting mission after mission bury whatever this thing between you was. He told himself it was about professionalism, about keeping a clear head. But really, it was fear. Because the second he let himself want you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And guys like him? They don’t get the girl. They get grief, and consequences, and orders they don’t question. But watching you walk out that door tonight—for someone else—feels worse than any battlefield he's crawled off of.

The amount of control he was using was insane, his skin was turning red from being so angry and he was using his left hand to fidget just a bit. He doesn’t let himself touch you. So he speaks instead.

And then—

“Don’t go on that date.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they punch the air out of your lungs. You are completely still, you are the deer in front of the car. You saw the sadness in his eyes, the desperation that sat there. This was not his forte, it never really was. The only girls he had dated before his ex-wife were just with him because of his physique or just to brag that they were with someone clean cut. At first he minded and really wished he could find something, anyone to be real. But eventually he fell into the game of who gives a fuck lets just have some fun. But when he looked at you he felt like that teenager again, the one who really did want something, anything real. 

You just blink. “What?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. His voice doesn't shake, but there's a quiet desperation laced through every word. He was above crying, at least he told himself that but he was not above begging at this moment. “Don’t go.”

You should walk past him. You should be the one who doesn’t break. He had done this to himself, you did nothing but show him kindness back when he graced you with his. In fact you had been the one who was constantly trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you. But the crack is already spreading. That part of you that had been trying to put the pieces together was still very curious. 

“Why?”

His lips part. His brows pull together just slightly. He looks at you like a man who’s spent weeks on the edge of a cliff, finally realizing the fall might be worth it. He moves his hands from his sides to put them on your waist but before he can he puts them right back. 

“You know why.”

That’s not enough. Not anymore. You need to hear him say it. He was not going to get away with just leaving things so broad that it could be taken as anything, this was all or nothing. 

“Say it,” you whisper.

The tension breaks like a snapped wire. His shoulders sag an inch, just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. The eye contact was unbearable. He hoped you could not see what he was feeling, but if you could he was hoping that nervousness was not one of those things. 

“Because he’s not me.” John was looking down at you, his eyes practically begging you to say something. But you had to see that he was being honest, that what he said was not some mean joke. 

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, unsure whether to reach for him or shove him away. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike. The corner of your kip was now underneath the weight of your teeth. All of a sudden your clothes felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds and were hot as hell. And still, neither of you moves because the ball is in your court. Normally he would not care nor would he respect that but this was different. This was not the same shit he could usually pull. 

“John—”

It comes out quieter than you meant. Like the sound got stuck in your throat on the way out. Barely a breath, just enough to reach him. He flinches. You would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely—the way his shoulders twitch, the way the line of his jaw tightens under the weight of that one syllable. Your voice, soft and uncertain, wrapped around his name like it means something. Like it still means something.

His eyes close for half a heartbeat. You catch the flash of restraint in his face like a wave crashing through him and barely receding. He exhales through his nose, slow and rough, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re burning. Not angry. Not wild. Wounded.

He’s standing there like a man carved out of stone—but you see the cracks. In his silence. In his knuckles, where his fingers twitch against the fabric of his pants like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. In the way he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek, hard, like he’s punishing himself for letting the words out at all.

You know what this is costing him.

You know what it takes for John Walker to admit that he feels anything.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches as you stand there, heat crawling up your neck like shame and hope are fighting for space beneath your skin. You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your boots scuff on the tile, the way your jacket feels too tight across your chest now, the way your lip is still caught between your teeth.

You want to ask him why now. Why not two weeks ago, when you sat next to him on that rooftop and the air between you had been just as electric, just as close, and he said nothing. Why not that night in the common area, when your knees brushed and he looked at you like he might say something real, then didn’t?

But you don’t ask.

Because you’re afraid of the answer.

And because right now, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re a decision he’s been avoiding for too long—it feels like he’s trying to make up for all of it in this one impossible moment.

He shifts his stance again, but he still doesn’t reach for you. His hands twitch at his sides—useless, hesitant, undone. He’s never looked more dangerous. And he’s never looked more unsure.

The silence after is louder than the words.He waits. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like he’s on a wire, waiting to be pushed. And you don’t know what you’re going to do next. You don’t know if you’re going to take a step forward or tear the door open and leave. Because there’s something in your chest clawing its way out. A scream. A sob. A kiss.

And then—

There’s a knock.

Sharp. Urgent.

Your head snaps toward the door.

His eyes follow.

Neither of you moves.

A voice calls your name from the other side. Too familiar. Too timed.

John’s jaw sets. You see the walls go back up behind his eyes—fast, brutal, practiced. His fists clench, and for the first time in the whole damn conversation, he looks away.

You take a breath, ready to say something—

But the door handle starts to turn.

And you’re both still standing there.

Too close.

Too quiet. Too late.

[daryldove]

Break Up With Your Girlfriend (I'm Bored)

daryl x fem!reader

nsfw, no use of y/n, jealousy, cheating, under the table teasing, public sex, 2.5k

You barely contain a grimace as Daryl's obnoxious, bimbo-bitch of a girlfriend whines dramatically across the table. Honestly, if you have to listen to her rambling any longer you're going to stab yourself in the eye with your fork. It's a dramatic and petty thought, but definitely not the first time tonight you've entertained it. You don't know what he sees in her. (And it's more than being jealous and bitter, as jealous and bitter as you are). You've seen how she treats him, like she hates him more than anything. It makes your blood boil and your chest tighten.

When you first heard that Daryl had started seeing one of the new residents from Woodbury, you couldn't believe it. It was hard to picture Daryl with anyone, and only harder to accept after seeing how little she cares for his boundaries. Whether it's how she shamelessly flirts with other men or belittles everything he does, it makes you feel ill to just sit by and watch. Never would you accept that Daryl, of all people, would put up with someone like her. At first, you concluded that he's just as lonely and desperate for companionship as the rest of you, but Merle's return made some things click. Daryl was used to this, used to following someone around like a stray animal, lost without guidance. Their dynamic was strained and strange, not unsimilar to how his girlfriend treats him now. You realise, with a heavy heart and wet eyes, that Daryl simply doesn't believe he deserves better.

You try to bring it up a few times, hopeful he'd open up, even if not to you. Yet each time he only offers a noncommittal grunt, and that would be the end of it. Eventually, you bite your tongue and leave it be. You can lead a horse to water, or something. Who knows? Maybe he'll grow and learn from it. You try not to lose sleep over the fact you're powerless to pull him from the cycle of abuse, and life goes on.

The prison falls, and for a while, things aren't easy. It feels like an eternity of pain and suffering, so Alexandria is a much welcomed fresh start, for some. You watch, expression empty, as Daryl follows his girlfriend into a home just for them. Their rocky relationship persists, much to your dismay. Like a cockroach surviving nuclear fallout—annoyingly stubbornly.

The group continues to chatter around you as you push some dubious vegetable mash around your plate. The idea was nice, gather everyone up for a social weekend lunch and distract yourself from how uncomfortable things feel in Alexandria. But the constant buzz of conversation and the scrape of cutlery against ceramic makes your skin feel two sizes too small. You feel itchy, agitated, and you're not entirely confident you won't snap at the next person who touches you. Daryl's girlfriend leans against his shoulder as she cackles at something someone says. They're sitting directly across from you, which certainly isn't helping your predicament, and you spend all dinner wondering when you became so pathetic.

Eventually, it becomes too much. Your head and ears feel stuffed with cotton, muffled and heavy, and you barely manage to mutter out a low excuse no one listens to before shoving out of your chair and rushing out the room. The rest of the house is quiet, thankfully, and you rub your arms to try and shoo away the sensation of insects crawling under your skin. Wine bottles catch your eye as you find yourself roaming into the kitchen. The distant chatter still feels too close, and something impulsive urges you to grab a bottle by the neck and take a swig. Whatever fancy shit it is, it's disgusting, but as you try to focus on the taste, the overwhelming hum starts to feel more drowned out with each sip. You remain in the kitchen to let yourself breathe, and drink, for what feels like hours. Although the clock above the fridge tells otherwise. Expectantly, your thoughts drift to Daryl.

By the time you return to the table, dinner is mostly finished as people focus on drinking and letting conversation flow, Daryl looks up as you sit down, the look in his eye has your stomach doing flips. Curiosity, perhaps? Concern? You try not to think about it too much. Daryl's girlfriend makes some snarky remark towards the person next to her, and your prior annoyance is relit. It mixes with your bitterness until you're conjuring up all sorts of bad ideas. You feel like being bold tonight, reckless. To act out and make a mistake. Your eyes flick up to Daryl's face, but he's already staring.

His foot lightly taps the side of yours. It's a small, almost shy action, as if he's asking ‘you okay?’ You give him a small nod in return, empty reassurance. Someone down the table mentions something about dessert, but your mind is elsewhere; the warmth of his leg near yours is painfully distracting. At this point, you're not sure if Daryl being seated across from you is a blessing or a curse. The wine that was once your escape, your sanctuary, now swirls with those bad ideas. Your gaze hovers on the hunter while he's not looking, your body feeling increasingly hotter as you admire his broad shoulders and tanned skin. Your fingers curl against the table cloth, all you want is to get his attention, pull it away from his cruel girlfriend. Thinking about them triggers something in you.

Fuck it.

Daryl's gaze snaps back to yours as he feels the ball of your foot running over his leg. At first, he innocently thinks you just need something, but his expression morphs into confusion as you make a show of ignoring him. Biting back an amused smile, you continue moving your foot up the side of his calf. His eyes flick to his girlfriend, who's not even close to paying attention, as if he's wary she'll suddenly be able to see under the table and know exactly what you're up to. When you slide your foot up higher again, he almost knocks the cutlery off his plate. After finally building the courage to look over, you're enamoured at how he's both glaring back and subtly blushing in a way you've never seen on him. The look in his eye is more like disbelief than irritation, and there's a nervous edge to his posture, like he's not quite sure whether to snap at you, or how to even do so without drawing unwanted attention from everyone.

Still, he doesn't push you away as your foot finally reaches his lap. In fact, the tips of his ears turn red, and his thighs part subconsciously, allowing your foot to instead rest on the seat between. It's such a subtle, submissive action. Now, you definitely can't contain your smirk. Dessert is brought out, although neither of you care. The urge to see how far you can push him grows. Daryl is a stoic man with an amazing poker face, and you're tempted to test it. He glances at you suspiciously through his lashes as your foot remains completely still between his thighs as you turn your attention instead to your plate. You can practically see his mind swirling, and you wouldn't be surprised if he manages to gaslight himself into believing he read everything wrong, that somehow, your intentions are entirely innocent.

Just as he looks like he's relaxing, his shoulders finally untensing and gaze falling to his own dessert, you lightly press your foot against his crotch. this time, he does knock over something, barely catching his wine in time as he chokes in surprise. His girlfriend makes a mocking comment about Daryl being clumsy, and he has the audacity to look frazzled—visibly tensing as if just now remembering that she's sitting next to him, completely oblivious to your little game under the table. But he doesn't even attempt to seem regretful, just bites his lip to swallow back choked grunts as you continue to rub your foot against his growing bulge.

You can't take your eyes off him. Unmasked lust flickers in your gaze as he shivers beneath your foot, shooting you occasional glares that only makes it harder to suppress a wicked grin. This was even more satisfying than you anticipated. His whole reaction, the underlying hints of submission in his eye, the way his jaw clenches and biceps stiffen, it's driving you crazier by the minute. The table full of what has come to be your family remains forgotten around you, and all you can think about is getting him alone.

Reluctantly, you slide your foot away from his hard on, purposefully catching his eye when he looks up. He looks curious yet wary, unsure of what you're plotting. You murmur something about needing the bathroom and rise to your feet, making sure to shoot Daryl a look that tells him exactly what to do.

Upstairs, in the bathroom, you try to focus on counting as your heart hammers in your chest. One minutes… forty seconds…

The door clicks open. Daryl's expression is unreadable as he steps inside and locks the door behind him. You've spent almost 2 minutes imagining all the things you want to do to him, you're beyond being patient. Without hesitation, you pull him into a kiss. The sensation of his lips against yours sends waves of shivers rippling down your shine. Neither of you are thinking about Daryl's clueless girlfriend downstairs as your fingers drift lower, seeking the old leather of his belt. You try not to let your actions seem frantically eager until suddenly he pushes you back against the sink, stealing your focus. While you're momentarily distracted, and without breaking the kiss, he starts sliding your jacket off your shoulders.

You feel warm all over. Mind racing yet somehow empty at the same time. All you can think is him. His scent, his touch. The firmness of his bulge that's pressing against you in an agonisingly teasing way. When you finally pull away to catch your breath, his lips continue downwards, placing tantalising kisses along your jaw, then down your neck, until you feel utterly dizzy.

“You're a fucking tease, ya know that?” He mutters roughly. It's the first thing he's said to you all night, and god, does it send heat to your core in a way that's borderline humiliating. (Everything this man does is sexy, it's not like you can help it).

You want to reply with something witty, equally rile him up, but your brain short circuits as he shoves down your top and takes a nipple into his mouth before you can respond.

“Shit, Daryl–” Clearly, he's not one for wasting time, kissing and biting at your breast like a man starved. You hiss in tender pleasure as his teeth graze over your sensitive skin. It only adds to the heat pooling in your gut. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles, practically thinking aloud. He runs his thumb over your hardened nipples, slow and deliberate, before his hand finds your neck, and he forces you to look up at him. “Gonna fuck ya right here…” His voice is low and raspy, accent slurring the words together more than usual. “That what you want, girl?” It is. God, it is. But you're too mesmerised and overwhelmed and desperate to answer. You just stare up at him with a hypnotised expression.

He seems to catch on to your silent struggle, a small smirk makes its way onto his lips before he spins you around fast enough to make you gasp. Now you're facing the mirror, fully on display, with Daryl's warm body pressing against yours. The contrast between you, and the heat in both your eyes, makes your head swim. He's so broad in comparison. “Gonna let the whole damn group hear ya?” He holds your jaw steady, forcing you to take in the reflection as his free hand starts to work your pants down.

You wanna tell him to hurry, partially because surely someone has noticed how long the two of you have been gone, but mostly because you're achingly desperate for him to finally be inside you. To fill you up like you've secretly been fantasising. Once he discards your pants, he wastes no time sliding his thick fingers through your slick folds, earning a relieved moan from you. He grunts against your ear, “such a dirty little thing...” And the roughness of his voice sends another wave of heat south.

You whimper shamelessly as he pulls away to finally undo his own pants “I know girl, I know.” His reassurance does little to quell your impatience. Finally sliding his hip against yours, the head of his cock catches deliciously against your entrance. At this point, if he doesn't fuck you already–

He interrupts your train of thought by nudging you further against the sink. You're too preoccupied to care about how the edge of the bench digs into your skin. Thankfully, he seems just as needy as you as he doesn’t waste a second, a soft grunt leaving him as he drags your hips down. The stretch is intense, heavenly, you've never felt so full. You bite your bottom lip to stifle a loud moan. Inch by inch, he pushes deeper into your tight heat, savouring the way you clench around him. You can practically feel every vein, every throb, it’s overwhelmingly good. And judging by the way his breath shudders, he thinks so too.

You're addictive, he's beginning to realise. And fuck, if he isn't in trouble…

The reflection in the mirror catches your eye, and you can't help but admire how good you look tangled together under the dim, almost romantic bathroom light. Daryl's hand slides up to rest just under your breast as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against yours. For someone with a girlfriend, his reaction is like he hasn't had pussy in years.

Even as he continues to thrust and pull euphoric gasps from your lips, you can't quite pull your attention away from Daryl's reflection. The dim light accentuates the way his muscles tense and dimple, it catches your breath more than the feeling of him inside you does. He thrusts particularly rough, as if telling you to pay attention, and it shoots an intense, distinct shiver of pure ecstasy up your spine that makes your eyes flutter shut.

Shit. You love him so much. You love him. And it's probably not the best time to realise it, but as you reopen your eyes, all you can focus on is how perfect you look under him.

You place a hand against Daryl's hip, alerting him to stop, and he does, with a small frown. You know what he must be thinking—that you'd changed your mind halfway through. You feel him pull back gently, the absence leaving you feeling empty in more ways than one. But before he can say anything, you spin around and throw your arms around his neck to pull him into a searing kiss. It's a little needy and messy, but full of everything you can't say. And as he melts into your arms, you realise that maybe he loves you too.

[vaginalvr]

I saw how many works you have and actually screamed btw. I know I’ll be reading (and rereading) all of them tonight.

Can I request something like sub!spencer AND sub!reader together? Like maybe it’s their first time having sex with eachother and one of them, I don’t mind who, tries to be the dom at first but they just end up slipping into being submissive. Whiny needy sex is my soft spot‼️

this is so pathetic I love it

cw: mutual shyness, first time, sub x sub dynamic, praise kink, soft dom moments (from both), lots of asking and consent, mutual oral (m. & f. receiving), slow and tender, cuddly sex, emotional intimacy, very gentle smut

REQUESTS OPEN!

You weren’t sure how it started.

A brush of his hand on your knee during movie night. The way he looked at you when you laughed at something stupid. How close he leaned when he asked you a question, eyes searching yours like you might disappear if he blinked too fast.

You’d been dancing around each other for months — gentle touches, too-long hugs, soft confessions over wine and dim lighting — but tonight, something was different. You could feel it. The way Spencer’s eyes lingered on your mouth. How his voice kept catching, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

And when your fingers brushed his on the couch, and you didn’t pull away?

He laced them with yours.

You both just… sat there, staring at each other, hearts thudding, faces warm.

“Spence,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“…Have you ever…?” You trailed off, chewing your lip.

He flushed. “Not with someone I—care about. Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me either.”

There was a pause.

And then: “Do you want to?”

Spencer’s breath hitched. He nodded. “But I don’t really—know what to do. Or, I mean—I do, anatomically, but not like—how to… start.”

You laughed gently. “Me either.”

His smile was small, nervous, utterly precious. “Okay. Then maybe we… just figure it out? Together?”

You nodded.

He kissed you slow. Sweet.

Careful, like he was afraid to break you.

Your hands trembled as they curled into his shirt. His touched your face like you were made of glass.

By the time you reached the bed, you were both breathless, wide-eyed, and so clearly out of your depth — but so ready to fall into each other anyway.

“Can I—can I take your shirt off?” he asked, voice soft, hands hovering.

You nodded, lifting your arms. “Can I… see you too?”

He flushed. “Y-yeah.”

Layer by layer, you undressed each other like unwrapping a gift you weren’t sure you deserved. When he saw you fully naked, Spencer made a sound — soft and reverent, like awe.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re so beautiful.”

You smiled, cupping his jaw. “You are too.”

His laugh was self-conscious. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to.”

Spencer laid you down gently, trembling hands gliding over your bare thighs. His eyes flicked to your face with every movement, asking silent permission again and again. You nodded every time.

When his mouth lowered between your legs, he asked first.

“Can I taste you?”

Your breath caught. “Yes. Please.”

And God — he was so careful.

Spencer kissed your thighs first, nosed at your skin, then flattened his tongue against you with a soft hum that nearly made your back arch. He moaned when he felt how wet you already were, like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re… fuck, you’re soaked already,” he whispered, flushed and shy. “Am I doing okay?”

You nodded frantically. “More than okay.”

He kept going — slowly, gently, just like you needed — and only stopped when your thighs were shaking around his ears and your moans turned to soft cries of his name.

After, he looked up at you, his lips wet and pink. “Did that feel good?”

You giggled and pulled him up to kiss you. “Come here and find out.”

You wanted to make him feel just as good — so you kissed your way down his stomach, hands trembling, cheeks warm.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you murmured.

“I won’t want you to,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I will.”

He gasped when you took him into your mouth — not deep, not fast, just enough to let him feel your warmth, your care. His fingers tangled in the sheets, not daring to touch you unless you asked.

You pulled off with a soft pop, kissing the inside of his thigh. “Ready for more?”

His whole body shook as he nodded.

When you finally slid onto him, inch by inch, your foreheads pressed together, mouths gasping against each other’s skin — neither of you moved at first.

Just breathing. Shaking. Getting used to the closeness.

“Okay?” you asked, brushing his hair from his face.

He nodded, eyes glossy. “I think I’ve wanted this forever.”

You rocked your hips. He moaned. His hands gripped your waist, like he didn’t know what else to do.

You moved together like a shared heartbeat — slow, nervous, reverent. Every thrust was a whispered promise. Every kiss a reassurance.

He kept mumbling praise — “So good, so warm, you feel amazing” — and when you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes.

Spencer followed with a soft, broken cry, burying his face in your shoulder like the world might fall apart if he didn’t hold on to you.

After, you curled together under the blankets, legs tangled, breaths finally slowing.

“Was that… okay?” he whispered.

You laughed, snuggling into his chest. “It was perfect.”

He kissed your temple. “Let’s never be scared to ask for what we want again.”

You smiled.

“Deal.”

[fandomlit]

gif cred belongs to @my-fandom-imagine

imagine catching the eyes of the marauders

“your friends seem like fun, remus,” you smiled at the brunette boy, looking over from where you two stood talking to see sirius and james entertaining a group of students in the courtyard with a series of flashy spells and tricks.

“they’re not,” he sighed sarcastically but cracked a smile when you laughed. “i’ll see you later, y/n. thanks for the notes.”

“anytime!” you chuckled as you headed to where your friends awaited you by the lake.

by the time remus reached his own people, the small crowd had dispersed and james was flipping his wand in his hand. “what business d’you have with y/n l/n, moony?”

“why do you ask?” remus coughed, ducking his head as he took his usual spot against the beech tree trunk.

sirius slid next to him, laying out with his head propped in his hand and staring at remus. “because she’s the hottest girl in the castle.” remus rolled his eyes. “oh, come on, you know it! she’s bloody stunning! think you can set me up?”

remus finally turned his gaze to sirius’s hopeful one. “no.”

the boy’s jaw dropped. “what! why?”

“has she got a boyfriend?” james inquired as he popped a chocolate frog into his mouth, sitting on remus’s other side. remus shrugged. “then what’s the problem?”

remus sighed, feeling as though his friends weren’t going to give up easily. he turned a serious gaze to sirius. “she doesn’t deserve to be just another one of your flings.”

as sirius stuttered to find a response, james nodded, “cool. can you send her my way, then?”

remus turned his glare to him. “same goes for you. y/n is much more than just her looks—she deserves someone who recognizes that.” he took out a piece of parchment and his quill. “you two are only looking for a laugh and a shag.”

james held out his hands as sirius continued to sputter for a response. “what if that wasn’t the goal? what if i see that y/n has a right sense of humor and confidence?”

“or that she’s smart beyond any of our class!” sirius finally managed to get out. “and bloody passionate about the things she likes..”

remus spared a glance up after scratching down the start to his potions essay. the two boys were still staring at him expectantly. “i’m sorry, but if you really want a chance with y/n, talk to her yourself.”

james huffed, falling back against the cool spring grass. “you just want her for yourself, moons. you can’t fool me.” remus said nothing, but the two watched a blush creeped up the neck he was determinedly keeping hunched.

“right,” sirius sighed, seeming to resign something internally. “good luck getting her before me, boys.”

“good luck getting her alone at all,” remus snorted. the two relaxed boys snapped their gazes back. “i know that you two struggle to be attentive, so i’m sure you haven’t noticed, but you’re not the only ones pining after y/n.”

sirius propped himself onto his elbows and looked around until he caught sight of you h/c hair shining in the spring sun across the lake. you were laughing, and if he strained he could almost hear that heavenly sound drifting toward him, but unfortunately it was caused by a group of slytherins that had walked up to her and her friends.

“is that snivellus?” james sneered with disgust. “i don’t know this was the new inter-house competition!”

“aw, regulus?” sirius seethed. “my own brother?!”

[anothertimdrakestan]

Iconic Romantic Quotes - Batboys & YJ Headcanons

TW for brief allusions to SH and general depression

p.s. the third one will tug your heart strings

~

Jason Todd - "It's a shame that he can't see you the way I do"

- This man lets jealousy boil him alive

- Watching you make excuses for a man who doesn't deserve you truly makes him sick to the stomach

- There's a permanent scab on the inside of his cheek from him chewing on it instead of knocking your current "boyfriend"s lights out

- Jace doesn't think the chump even deserves the title. He doesn't protect you, dote on your, worship you, or let alone appreciate you

- How sad that the first time that awful man laid hands on you he was suddenly put in a body bag and overnighted to the other side of the country? How strange...

- Giving you space and a (giant hunky) shoulder to cry on Jason bided his time

- He never considered himself soft in any way, before he found himself aching to push your fallen hair behind your ears. he never condemned his rough nature until he realized his calloused hands couldn't be careful enough to wipe the tears from your eyes

- When you were at your lowest, horrified to think that you only deserve the awful hand you'd been dealt, Jason had to speak up. His eyes glassy at the thought of your self hatred and his fist furled at the fact that he left that chump breathing, he said-

- "You might mean nothing to yourself right now, but god you mean everything to me"

Wally West - "It’s like she’s the sun, and I have to orbit around her."

- What a broken cliche to say that finding your soulmates slows your life down

- When Wally sped his way into your heart, you gave him a center, a home base to return to, a spot to always feel pulled towards

- He gets addicted to you quite easily, constantly rushing to your location, just yearning to be around you even if he's only allowed to be silently basking in your warmth

- He swears once you smile at him he runs 8x faster, like the butterflies in his stomach are beating their wings while he runs

- This man could travel the entire world in a day, but he always finds you by the end, though he often has some bizarre gift in hand

- He often gets made fun of, he fell for you so deeply and so young that while his friends want him to spend whole nights out partying or trying to drink until it hits his quick metabolism, he's always adamant that he wants to be home with you, that even when he's out late, his sixth sense tells him when to flash home to give you a kiss goodnight

- You always tell him you're fine, that you never want to be controlling or take him away from his friends, but he always just says his place is with you. that he has plans with friends too, but there's always a piece of him excited to run home to you

- "What can I say babe? It's like gravitational the way you pull me in. Why would I ever want to be away from your warmth?"

Dick Grayson - "And I will kiss every single scar on your body and soul, to remind you that love doesn't have to hurt."

- Dick couldn't fathom that you didn't see yourself the way he did

- As he worshipped the ground you walked on, you spent the stroll checking yourself in reflective windows and trying not to say the wrong thing

- When Dick noticed you flinching at harsh words he felt like he was having a heart attack, the squeezing of his chest almost suffocating him as he tried to process what it meant

- He leaned in to loving you, so much so that he cared for and treasured you enough for the both of you

- Always the insecure you chided him, saying you didn't need the attention and that you were just fine

- What a blessing that a man loved you enough to see through your self deprecating jokes and promises that you were okay

- He never scolded or lectured, just always had two arms open and an unending list of compliments. tiny gifts were always waiting for you, and finally, there was someone in your corner no matter what

- Progress always sneaks up on you, and a few years down the line you were almost as bubbly and fun-loving as your boy wonder. when you asked him why he spent so much time bringing you out of your shell, he just said

- "I saw you the first day I met you. Not the fake version you put on, not the sad soul who felt undeserving. I just have always seen you, my love"

Jaime Reyes - "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did. And let me love you anyway."

- Heroes don't really talk about the mistakes they made on the path to doing good

- Jaime had watched you crumble time and time again at the thought of accidentally or even purposefully hurting people

- He knew better than anyone what it meant to be out of control, and equipped with powers that make dangerous weapons when your emotions are out of whack

- He always made room for you, in stressful situations his eyes fell naturally on yours, asking silently if you needed a hand to hold. No longer would you be left out of conversations or (god forbid) ignored. Jaime's gaze was always on you, whether you meant to be his focus or not

- You both got in the habit of cooling the other off, locking eyes and reminding each other 'it's just you and me my love' until the dark skies faded

- There is no better reaffirmation that you are safe than his hand resting on the small of your back, no better way to bond than the hundreds of late nights you both spent laughing and crying

- Looking back, it was hard to fathom how he'd put up with your darkness, and difficult to put into words what his support meant to you

- Softly wiping a rogue tear that had fallen and letting his hand fall to your chin, he tilted it up meeting your thankful and sorrowful eyes with a smile,

- "Cloudy or not I will be here for you, mi cielo. Whatever happens you will always have me"

Tim Drake - "I notice everything about you. Not in a creepy way—in a way I can’t turn off."

- Was is the graph he'd made of the number of freckles you had or the fact that there was always a little extra money in your wallet whenever you went grocery shopping that clued you in?

- He really did try to be nonchalant, but all the books he'd read about the subject suggested you only found a soulmate once, why would he not give you everything?

- He just liked patterns, like how you like to try something new at your local coffee shop every fourth visit or how moving his lips from your your temple to your neck made you shiver just a tiny bit

- And those little 'thinking of you' gifts were too easy, because there was always a little part of his mind with you at the forefront

- It's the type of relationship where after watching the two of you interact like a well oiled machine (you got the coffee mugs while he comes around to open the car door, you hand him a mug to take a sip while you fumble for you keys until he reminds you which pocket you put them in) ... that type of homely synergy, that makes your friends tell you they want to sleep on a highway

- Not actually, but they are deeply jealous at almost all times.

- You both could get a little too wrapped up in the relationship, your fifth anniversary almost got you arrested trying to remove a brick from the wall where you had your first kiss. Tim was three blocks away getting the penny you'd given him for good luck after you'd met him polished and engraved. It's not his fault he had to threaten the gemstone professional to get them to clean the penny, not everyone was as sentimental as the two of you

- "I had this made, as a sign of our luck. I've looked at a lot of numbers and they all suggest this kind of love can happen just once in a lifetime. How lucky I am that that my once gets to be with you"

Conner Kent - "Nothing scares me. Except losing you."

- When you saw the look on his face, you wondered for a moment if he had been shot too

- When in the blink of an eye he had scooped you into his arms you realized 'nope, just me!' wincing at the realization of the pain

- The Super Boy suddenly had faltered, forgetting about the battle and the stakes, because he'd suffered his greatest weakness - the fear of losing you

- You waved a hand in front of his face, his wet eyes focusing on you- 'hey dingbat it's just my shoulder so lock in' and the color returned to his face

- The next greeting in the hospital you weren't letting him live down his raw display of emotions

- He realized the only way forward was through, he kneeled at the side of your bed, explaining how he'd fell for you over the last months, and that the realization he might never tell you had torn through him

- Now you both were a blushing mess

- Over the next few months you'd become strong allies with none other than Tim Drake, who would use you feigning damsel in distress to get your blubbering lover to sail head first into a number of hilarious pranks

- As you gave your glitter-covered hunk a peck on the cheek you chided him about learning his lesson and trusting your ability to take care of yourself

- "Darlin' I trust you completely [at this point he'd pulled you into his glittery chest and peppered shiny kisses across your face] but I'll never risk losing you, joke or not I will be soaring toward you for the rest of our lives"

Damian Wayne - "You’re the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires."

- It started as good fun. trip up the kid batman who hadn't quite filled out his dad's suit. it had taken clark and barry 15 months to convince bruce to let the kids take care of the world for a week

- And so you'd been sent to Gotham to assist the baby dark knight, who'd been rolling his emerald eyes everytime they met yours

- Suddenly, it had been 6 months. Dames (a newly established pet name) decided not to return to the league, and bruce finally got a well deserved pause from playing the big bat. somehow in all this mess, you'd stuck around

- In a moment of weakness post-battle you'd told him if he ever wanted you gone, he'd only need to pack your handful of things from the mansion up, you'd take the sign and get out of gotham

- Though he teased about grabbing boxes for you weekly, they never appeared.

- Somewhere around 8 months you both were busting a local crime syndicate when your grapple gun broke. in a rush, you pressed yourself against Damian before you could explain the situation

- You forgot about explaining the moment you realized there was a pink tint under the cowl, and that his heart was beating out of his chest

- You arrived home and he hadn't spoken a word, after replacing the gun and stitching yourself up a bit, you found him in your room with boxes

- To say you crashed out was an understatement, manically shouting it wasn't your fault the gun didn't work, pointing accusatory fingers at him saying he couldn't keep it in his pants and that it was so sick of him to toy with your emotions like that after he knew you had a crush on him when you first started

- Damian froze. Closed the distance, and gave you a begging look to explain. But your feathers were always ruffled, assuming only the worst saying you'd pack yourself if he was hell bent on pretending he didn't know just to play game with your head

- "With your head? Do you not know how agonizing these months have been for me? Burning for you and stifling my flame to be professional? Had I known you'd - you'd cared for me to I would've- well I would've-" Damian was a man of action, not of words. His lips crashing into yours were all he could do to convey his honest emotions.

~

~

This was a long one! I do hope you enjoyed. I read all comments & reblog notes btw so let me which was your fav (i'm partial to damian's i think?)

also let me know if it's worth hunting more quotes on pinterest. i do have some ideas for bart, steph, duke, and even bruce cooking

<3

[stellar-haikyuu]

hear you out ☆ iwaizumi hajime x reader

synopsis: you deserve to have someone listen to you nerd out about your interests. unexpectedly, you meet the person who's more than happy to listen (and perhaps learn more about you in the future). details: fluff | first meeting | strangers to lovers | ~1.3k words | speech-language pathologist gn! reader | timeskip! iwaizumi (a little flirty too lol) | dedicated to @sahrberrii

“Iwaizumi-san, your vocal cords are muscles,” you explain, showing him a video of the anatomical structure. “They contract and slam against each other whenever you shout or use a harsh tone.”

The athletic trainer nods, eyebrows drawn together as he observes the laryngoscopy video you use as an example for your clients.

“But I think you, out of all people, know what happens when you overuse muscles.”

“They get injured,” Iwaizumi whispers in response. He chuckles a little, but the action makes him wince.

“Take it easy,” you smile, almost reaching out to pat his back before stopping yourself.

“Thankfully, you don’t have any nodules, like this person.” You swipe through a few videos before landing on the one you’re looking for. “Nodules are a result of repeated trauma between the vocal cords. Kinda like the finger calluses guitar players get from pressing down on the strings all the time.”

He nods, grimacing as he listens to the person with vocal nodules attempting to produce higher pitches. You understand it perfectly; even after all the voice clients you’ve seen, you never get used to how painful it sounds.

“So, if you continue to overuse your voice, especially in this state, you can get nodules. Or, something worse that would require surgery. Think of a strain or a sprain, compared to a complete tear.”

The video ends, but a part of you still wants to show him more—just enough to keep him around a little longer. However, you still need to be mindful of your time, so you close the tablet and place it on your desk. “So, it-”

When you look at Iwaizumi again, he meets your gaze. Your face grows hot at his attention, and you can’t help but dart your eyes to the side.

“Uh, I meant to say that you should focus on resting your voice for the next week. And I mean full vocal rest. No whispering. You can write on a whiteboard, type, use text-to-speech, gestures, whatever you want.”

He gives you an eager thumbs-up. Cute.

“Okay,” you giggle. “That tells me you understand. I’ll give you a list of other exercises you can do to help with vocal strain. But for now, let’s focus on getting rid of the inflammation. Whenever you feel like your throat is tense or a little painful, you can massage it…”

You gesture at his Adam’s apple, but you happen to glance at it just as he swallows. 

“Uh.” You blank out for a moment, your hands freezing midair. 

Oh, man. Get a grip.

Snapping yourself out of it, you reach for your throat with your middle finger and thumb, demonstrating what you were talking about. “Just go in circular motions, up and down the neck. It’s up to you for how long.”

Suddenly, Iwaizumi raises his hand a little. He unlocks his phone, typing something on the notes app before showing it to you.

“Ah…” You hand his phone back to him. “That’s also up to you.”

“Oh. Me? Uh…” 

Does this mean I’ll have to touch him?

“Usually, I apply this much pressure…” Your fingers hesitantly hover near his throat. “Can I, uh-”

You don’t even complete your question before he consents with a nod. 

“Okay, um.” Your gloved fingers make contact with his skin, and you pray that he doesn’t feel your hand shaking.

Holding your breath, you press down. “This much, usually. Does it hurt?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head and gestures at you to continue.

“Okay, so you just keep doing this. How does-” You glance at his face, which no longer holds any tension. Relief floods over you at the immediate effect.

“How does it feel?”

You grin at the little smiley he leaves. “You’re welcome, Iwaizumi-san. Why don't you give it a try in the meantime?"

As Iwaizumi attempts to replicate what you’ve done, you grab a notepad from your desk, jotting down a few reminders.

“Anyway, I’ll send an evaluation report later for occupational or medical purposes. I know some insane bosses who seem hell-bent on making my clients’ lives harder. Hopefully that’s not the case for you?”

“Oh, goodness, poor you.” You can’t help but laugh as you imagine it. “Well, if you need someone to talk some sense into them, I’m here.”

A quick exhale leaves his mouth in amusement. You remind yourself to look up his team later.

“Okay, if you’re free next week, you can come back here so we can check on your progress. A call would be alright too, if that’s more convenient.”

Normally, you don’t even think twice when giving your clients your contact details; sometimes they keep in touch, sometimes they don't. But secretly, you hope Iwaizumi worms his way into your schedule.

“Anyway, sorry if most of this felt like a one-sided conversation. I hope I didn’t bore you too much or make it too technical-”

Iwaizumi shakes his head frantically, waving his hand. Then, he fumbles a little as he tries to enter his phone’s password.

Ah. He wants to say something?

“I…” You feel your heart swell at his sincerity. “Thanks, Iwaizumi-san. That means a lot.”

And for the first time in the last hour, you get a glimpse of the crow’s feet around his eyes as he grins.

Oh, dear.

Truthfully, you were a little nervous when he entered your office an hour ago. Nervous is an understatement—you were intimidated. He looked like he could just knock you out with a punch if you managed to upset him.

(Okay, he probably wouldn’t punch you, but you've had your fair share of dismissive, aggressive, and moody clients before.)

But now, Iwaizumi’s expression is washed over with a gentleness you didn’t think was possible with his sharp features.

You can’t find it in you to end the interaction, even though you have to.

As you muster the courage to finally send him off, he sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. He takes out his device again, typing something down. It takes a much longer time; he presses the backspace button repeatedly.

“Um, Iwaizumi-san, do you have a concern?” You fiddle with the hem of your scrub shirt. The silence was starting to have more weight to it.

He meets your eyes for a moment before he resumes writing his message.

What is it that has him hesitating so much?

When he shows you his phone screen, you almost gasp.

"Oh!" You don't need a mirror to tell that your face is flushed. "I- That means a lot. Thanks. Um..."

You scramble for a response as he prepares to type something again.

"But, uh, sure! Just let me know if there's something you want me to talk about. Hopefully, you don't get sick of my voice, Iwaizumi-san."

Then and there, you're pretty sure you short-circuit.

"Oh? No one's ever told me that before." You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. However, when you catch the earnest smile on his face, you feel your heart set alight.

"Anyway, thank you for giving me your time today, Iwaizumi-san."

A/N (or Iwaizumi's case history):

Hey, it's Stellar, your soon-to-be speech-language pathologist. I wanted to share my love for the profession through my fics, and decided to start with dear Iwa-chan.

To explain what's happening here, Iwa has a case of traumatic laryngitis, caused by vocal overuse and abuse (constantly screaming at the JNT to stop fooling around during training). Thus, his voice is very hoarse and breathy (sometimes, he can't even make a sound), and speaking hurts. Iwa would have tried remedies like throat sprays and hot tea, but they're not the key to recovery. Vocal rest is!

However, with how busy he is, he still needs to talk to multiple people and resorts to whispering. But, I must emphasize that whispering does NOT aid recovery, because you are still putting stress on the vocal folds.

In these cases, most people will wait for the problem to go away. If it's taking too long, they'll go to an ENT (ears, nose, and throat doctor; otorhinolaryngologist is the fancy word). Sometimes, it stops there, and patients are sent home; but in more severe cases, patients are referred to a speech-language pathologist (reader).

Anyway, since Iwa's case is caused by unhealthy vocal habits, it would help to have the voice specialist handle the case, especially during the recovery phase (dealing with any potential problems in pitch, loudness, and quality). This would increase the chances of a better prognosis/outcome! :)

The laryngeal massage that reader did on Iwa is recommended to most voice patients, especially if their vocal complaints are pain and tension. However, other things can be recommended to promote vocal relaxation, such as straw-blowing exercises (I'm not kidding! They're called semi-occluded vocal tract exercises). I just didn't talk about them in the scene because it felt like info overload, hahaha!

But Iwa's case is relatively mild (assuming he follows home instructions). There are other situations where vocal cords can be paralyzed, weakened, or spastic. Besides nodules, polyps and other growths can form and require surgical removal. Sometimes, one's voice may not be able to return to normal, so the focus of rehabilitation is to restore the most functional voice possible.

[Sidenote: Since this fic leans in a romantic direction, I should clarify that reader will follow professional ethics/rules. They both wait until Iwa is no longer a client at the reader's clinic/hospital before getting together.]

I hope you guys found the fic and A/N interesting in some way! :) Please take care of your voice; don't take it for granted! If you happen to have any questions about the voice, feel free to leave a reply, come to my inbox, or send a dm! <3

This video does a good job explaining AND showing stuff about vocal nodules (I like to think that this is what the reader shows Iwaizumi, hahaha). A fair bit of warning if you're sensitive to internal body imaging, but it's not that gross or graphic.

masterlist

[xmpsrrr]

The Way You Set My World on Fire

inspired by the song “in my head” by ariana grande

(bakugo x reader)

Summary:

You’ve always seen more in him than he shows the world. And he’s always seen you as someone too good to be tainted by his mess. But love has never cared for timing, and fantasies only hold out so long before they crash into reality.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You didn’t mean to fall for Bakugou.

You were supposed to keep it professional — work as fellow pro-heroes, lean on each other in battle, and walk away unscathed every time. That was the plan.

But then came the long nights. The quiet check-ins after missions. The small things: the way he remembered your coffee order, the way he never let you walk home alone, the way he always stood just a little too close.

And you? You let yourself believe he felt the same way. Not because he said it — but because it was there, in the way his gaze lingered, how his hands trembled when you got hurt, the way his voice cracked when he called your name in a fight.

But tonight, under the hum of city lights and the quiet of the rooftop, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I think I built something up in my head,” you said softly, your arms wrapped around yourself as the wind bit through your jacket. “Something that wasn’t real.”

Bakugou stood beside you, silent. His jaw was tense, fists clenched like he was fighting something invisible.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, trying not to let hope take root again. “Then say something else.”

He turned, eyes burning. “You think I don’t feel this?” he snapped. “You think I don’t want to grab you and kiss you like I’ve been dying to for months?”

You blinked.

“But I’m not the guy in your head,” he said, voice raw. “I’m not soft. I’m not good at this. And I sure as hell don’t deserve you.”

Silence stretched. You stepped closer.

“I never asked for perfect,” you whispered. “I just wanted you. The one who stays up with me when I can’t sleep. The one who walks three blocks out of his way just to make sure I’m okay. The one who pretends he doesn’t care when it’s written all over his face.”

He looked at you like he was drowning — and for the first time, wanted to be saved.

“You set my world on fire,” you said, reaching for his hand, “and then act like you don’t know it.”

He didn’t speak.

He kissed you instead.

Like a man who finally let go of the war inside him.

hope u guys enjoyed!:)

[i-think-too-loud]

hey friendly reminder that exy is just a coping mechanism for kevin. the same way neil goes on runs so he doesn’t ACTUALLY run away. the same way jean distracts himself with a million different hobbies so he doesn’t have to think about his past.

i’m sick of seeing people talk about “the only thing kevin loved is exy”…untrue. he plays constantly because it’s the only thing he knows HOW to do. playing well was the reason he survived the nest, and it’s the only thing he had left when he finally ran away. he’s strict with neil’s training because for him, it was be great or don’t play at all. the same thing as helping your partner play well so you both succeed. for him, teaching exy is something intimate, almost.

so does he love it? sure, maybe. his mom created it after all. but you can’t look at his relationship with andrew—someone he trusted to keep him safe even though the people he trusted before only ended up hurting him. with neil—who he taught to play well so they could succeed together, even though he knew neil couldn’t stay. with wymack—who’s team he joined and made great so everyone would start giving wymack the appreciation he deserves instead of saying his team is a publicity stunt. with abby—the first (parental?) figure to treat him kindly since his mother died. you can’t look at his relationship with all of them and try to convince me he doesn’t care. not when he stayed and built all of those bonds.

[gaybabeyjailbreak]

My post was a response to someone claiming the hate Stolas gets is because he's neuro-divergent, And I severely oppose that. Idk why or how you missed that but sure.

Anyway, since you want to argue let's do it.

Yes what Stolas did is cheating, and how Stella is written is part of the poor excuse of vindication made to exonerate him of wrongdoing. And you're falling for it. Stella being written as irredeemably cruel, evil, controlling, manipulative, abusive, and a bit daft are all purposeful decisions made solely to excuse Stolas' infidelity. She does not have a positive trait, she's solely made to garner audience antipathy to be clearly discarded and labelled as not a hitch or obstacle in Stolas' story.

You don't have to worry about Stolas being unfaithful, because his wife is a cunt, and the marriage is loveless, and arranged, and yadi yadi yada, buy merch of the say gex already.

And because Medrano isn't good at writing women in helluva boss, focusing on her demon Yaoi instead, making people very perceptive of the women she does write, (Which are lacking, this isn't new information or critique), it makes this blatant set up to control your opinion distasteful to people consuming her shows.

I want to like Stella, I think she deserves more than just being an evil bitch who's mandated by the universe to be morally virtuous to cheat on. I find the fact that one of the only major fem characters in the main cast being this flat and a sinkhole to absorb flaws of a man is a problem in the writing.

And I think that if Medrano wasn't a coward, she'd commit to Stolas actually seriously fucking up by not excusing him through Stella's character.

It's clear that Medrano wanted to portray someone leaving a loveless marriage, decided to put say gex in it, did it too early, realised it made Stolas look absolutely awful and compensated by making Stella a bitch because the shipping was more important than potentially making nuanced characters go through a divorce.

Would you exonerate Stolas of his infidelity if Stella was an actual character and not a prop? Think about it.

I watched the show yes. Thus i know that Via calling her father out didn't just happen in the season finale, it happened 3 times total across the series, each time with a dedicated episode actually.

And the fact that it never matters is telling. Both of the fact Medrano doesn't know how to write women, as Via seemingly forgets the previous "Your father is trying and he loves you" denouement of the previous episodes, and seems to only have the one arc of "my father doesn't love me" that constantly resets. As well as the fact that Stolas never follows through on actually being better.

All these actually being valid reasons to hate him as a character, not his neurodivergent traits.

As i repeat, again this was a response and a reblog to someone claiming the hate he gets is because he's not a neurotypical character.

Side note, don't make assumptions about what I'd call or not call fine. I haven't seen the original titanic movie, but the fact that all its adaptations don't make the main pair engaged or married to someone else speaks for itself. Also the fact that Jack dies in the og and technically fulfills the moral obligation of the womanizer dying as punishment for his transgression. But that's a trope I don't want to dive in here.

Autism Acceptance Month: Autistic Headcanons

"Prince, all alone, upon your throne. Your power is so frail. You raise your voice, you have no choice. Inside your gilded jail." ↳ Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia (Helluva Boss)

[straows]

Love me kindly; Sukuna R.

Request: @sejel

—In which, Sukuna wants to deserve you and your love, but he can't help but be a little bitch sometimes.

A/n: High asf rn, I struggled like a mf on salvia tryna right ts. Hope you like it anyway, got lost in the sauce n forgot what the request was like halfway thru

Sukuna tries. He tries hard, but for someone as old and something emotionally stupid as him, he fucks up.

Like now.

“Baby can I have a hug? My-“ You’d just gotten out of an argument with him. But you just wanted to be held, feel his affection love close to you and your heart.

“No.” It was blunt, and sharp. Fuck man he didn’t even look at you. Just kept doing whatever the hell he was trying to keep busy with.

You could only look at him. Your bottom lip quivering slightly and your throat feeling tight as you try not to cry. With a sigh, you just walk away.

Because you don’t know what he’s thinking,

You don’t know that he’s mentally strangling himself because why the fuck would he say that to you? He knew he messed up. Fuck he did, but he just didn’t feel like he deserved your love, your touch. He’d just got done hollering at you for trying to get in the garden again and help, because why do you keep doing servant work when you are basically his queen?

He could feel your soul quiver.

“Fuck.” Running a heavy hand over his face, he sat down on the bed. Thinking about a way to approach this, approach you.

You, who despite him being a dick 24/7, love and cherish him. You, the woman of his literal dreams.

But Sukuna didn’t apologize. No matter what. Not even when it’s time for bed, and you don’t crawl into his arms like you usually do. You cling to the other side of the albeit massive bed.

He doesn’t reach for you either.

But he can feel it, he can feel how it’s effecting you, and regardless, he doesn’t apologize. He won’t lower himself to that.

Not yet at least.

It was cold that night, but despite everything in you that just wanted to crawl into literal monsters arms beside you, you stay glued to the edge, curled into a little ball as you shiver yourself to sleep. All pitiful, pissed and precious.

It carried on.

And on…

…and on.

You wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t eat with him, wouldn’t be near him. Because of course you thought he was tired of you. He didn’t try to reach for you either, he didn’t approach you. Fuck, at one point you even thought he was entertaining new concubines.

The distance was wide enough that you even started sleeping in the chamber with the servants again.

But after a night or so of that, of you not even sleeping in the same room with him? No no. Something had to change.

Your silence, your absence, your stubborn attitude had broken him down, even his pride couldn’t handle you ignoring him. Even though he really wasn’t any better.

Sukuna had tracked you down the second night you tried to sleep in the servants chambers. He easily pulled you out of there, ignoring your demands to let you go and to go away.

He dragged you literally all the way back up to your shared chambers. Sat you down on that bed and glared at you. Arms crossed and a pissed off look on his face.

“Woman, you have tested my patience and I am at my limit.” His tone was sharp, but it had an almost pleading edge to it.

“What are you even talking about Sukuna?” And there it was. Using his full name and not some loving nickname like you used that really broke the camels back.

“You will cease this. Whatever this is.” Sukuna demanded.

“I’m not doing anything! You clearly don’t want me anymore so I’m making it easier on you and me.” You snapped. It was dangerous talking to him like that, even you knew, but despite his ignoring you, you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. At least not physically.

“What made you think that?” Sukuna was emotionally stupid. A fucking idiot.

“YOU! You deny me the littlest affections! You ignore me, you don’t even question it when I stop being near you as a whole!” You were loud now, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

Sukuna blinked down at you. Stared actually. Like some weird ass lizard.

“Woman, it wasn’t like that.” Sukuna felt a headache start to come on. He couldn’t handle this without getting mad. But he was trying really hard.

“Then what’s it like?” Crossing your arms, looked up at like he just pissed in your cereal.

“I didn’t feel like I-… I didn’t want to hug you because I’d just— brat you know what I mean.” Sukuna huffed.

“No I don’t. Explain it to me. Like I’m five.”

“I didn’t think I deserved your affections so soon after making you so upset. I was trying to be gentle with you.” Sukuna glared down at you, feeling unbearably awkward after saying shit like that.

You just stared up at him. Before softening, “are you being serious?”

“I do not joke.”

“Just hold me damnit.”

“Fine.”

You spent that night wrapped in each others arms. And as punishment, at least as much as you can punish a man as big as Sukuna, you braid tight as shit braids into his scalp.